Suddenly the decreased throb of the engines told me that we were slowing down. We must be near the entrance. I rushed to the deck above to see what, if anything, had happened, in time to hear the gong below stop the engines completely. We slowly came to rest, and the only sound was the gentle lapping of the fog-laden waves against the sides of the vessel, and the rhythmic push-push of the water pouring from the engine-room vent into the lake. I could see the Old Man with his quartermaster up on the canvas-covered deck above the wheelhouse. Trinder’s hair was standing on end. He had taken off his white collar, put on for the benefit of passenger traffic, and now looked like the skipper of any ore or freight carrier. His attitude was one of excitement. He was listening for something, and I thought it was for the foghorn at the entrance to the river. Within a minute or two the lazy rasp of the horn floated in on the fog from a point or two off the starboard bow. It seemed to me that once we had heard the horn we ought to know where we were, but still the _Chippewa_ did not move. Then the horn’s rasp came again, this time from a wider angle to the starboard, and the next rasp came from astern. Clearly the fog was varying the direction from which the sound came to us. We could not rely on it. It was a fact, however, that we were within a few thousand feet of the shore. The Old Man did not care to risk the second ship he had taken to the mouth of the Portage Lake Canal, let alone the three hundred pleasure seekers who lined the rail and commented idly on the situation. They were mildly amused at the disheveled appearance of the man who held their lives and a million dollars’ worth of ship and cargo in his hand. Finally he signalled the engine room, and we pushed ahead slowly. Almost immediately, however, the engine-room gong clanged for stop, and then reverse. Dead ahead I could see the lighthouse at the channel end of the south breakwater slowly come into view and approach us as the steamer pressed forward. But as I watched, the lighthouse receded from us as quietly and stealthily as though it had come up to take a look at us, the intruders. For a few minutes we lay motionless outside in the fog. Then I heard the horn again, now from our port quarter. It was eerie how that foghorn followed us around. Then I heard the bell in the radio room jangle, and I hurried below. It was the skipper calling. “Keep sharp lookout for word now,” he said. “Who from, sir?” I asked. “From her,” he answered curtly, and hung up. I hoped fervently that he would either find the entrance by himself without dashing us all on the breakwater to follow his wife to the bottom, or that the fog would suddenly lift and reveal to us the heavily wooded shores paralleling the narrow, sandy beach. There was nothing I could do but listen in, but I got nothing. Then I sneaked out for another look into the fog.