Thus far they had uttered no cry for help, nor had they heard any call of any human voice that might indicate the neighborhood of any human sympathy. They had passed under the suspension bridge. They had swept past shores that were crowded on either side with wharves, houses, and steam saw-mills, but as yet had seen no efforts to assist them. In fact, as it afterwards proved, no one had noticed them. Whether it was that every one was busy, or that they had been carelessly regarded as an ordinary boat in its ordinary position, could not be known; certain it was that no one offered to assist them. Thus, then, they swept along, until at length they reached the place where the river enters the harbor. Just here, the boat, in its drift, came near to the oar which Pat had dropped when he clambered into it. He grasped Phil’s oar, and reaching out, he drew it towards him and regained possession of it. “There’s no knowin,” said he, “what use this may be. It’s best to take it whin it comes to us handy.” Saying this, he gave Phil one oar, and keeping the other himself, he waited for some chance of escape. But their troubles were far from ending as yet, and soon the prospect of escape was removed still farther from them. For as they reached the place where the river enters the harbor, just as they saw a man on the beach, and began to shout to him to try and attract his attention, they drifted on, and plunged into a thick, dense cloud of fog. That fog was no common fog. It was the advance guard of a fog that covered the bay, and seemed to be thrown forward into the harbor to take possession and hold it until the main army should be ready to advance. It was dense, damp, and obscure. Through this they passed, trying to peer through the gloom, and find out where they might be going. Several times they shouted, but soon found out the uselessness of this. For the noise and riot all around showed them that shouting was simply absurd. Around them they heard the yell of steam whistles from tug-boats, from ferry-boats, and from what seemed to be a thousand other places. For it was now about midday, and that is the time when all the steam whistles of all the steam saw-mills of the city let off one simultaneous blast. The yells seemed to arise in every conceivable direction. Amid such an uproar, their loudest cries were feeble, and could not be heard; so they soon became convinced of the uselessness of this, and remained silent, but watchful. Watchfulness, however, was equally useless; for if it is in vain that one shouts amid the yells of steam whistles, so it is equally in vain that one tries to keep up a watch in the midst of a dense fog. Watching could reveal nothing but that obscurity which surrounded them.