No more was said, but they both worked silently and vigorously. Soon the water grew somewhat rough, and waves began to rise. These were not of any size, but the boat was so low down that even the little wavelets broke over them as they sat there. After a time these wavelets grew larger, and at length they encountered several in succession that were worthy of being considered as waves. After this the water continued rougher, and their drift was by no means so quiet and uneventful as it had been. The fog, too, remained as thick as ever. Around them was still the sound of whistles and fog horns, and high and loud and clear above all the din arose one far-penetrating yell. “That’s the island whistle,” said Pat--“the fog whistle, so it is. We’re comin nearer.” After a time this whistle seemed to be no nearer, but to have changed its direction. “Where in the wide wurruld are we dhjiftin to?” said Pat, trying in vain to peer through the fog. “We must have passed the island,” said Phil, uneasily. Pat shook his head in silence. But now new anxiety came to the two castaways, and the faint hopes that had arisen began to subside. The wind was blowing somewhat fresh, the waves were growing larger and more aggressive every moment. They appeared to have been carried beyond the island, and if so, they had no hope of any escape, unless they should come upon some vessel. But in that dense fog such a hope was faint indeed. Even in broad day their situation would have been dangerous, but now it was nothing less than desperate. These thoughts now came to each of them, and they said nothing, but they still worked, as if mechanically, at the oars. Suddenly something dark loomed immediately before them through the fog, and in a few seconds, as the swift tide bore them nearer, they saw rocks and sea-weed. “Hurrah!” cried Pat. “It’s the island, afther all.” But at that moment the great fog whistle sent forth its blast, which sounded far away over the waters. “‘Tain’t the island, ayther, sure enough,” said Pat. “I wondher if it’s the shore.” By this time they were close up to the rocks, and Pat leaped off. It was not deeper than his waist. Phil followed, and they pulled the boat forward. It was a shelving ledge of rock, covered with sea-weed; and drawing the boat as far up on this as they could, they stood still, and rested, and looked around. But little could be seen, for the fog was thick, and shut out all except what was within their immediate vicinity. Nothing but rocks and seaweed appeared. The rocks were rude and jagged crags, upheaved in wild disorder, with huge boulders lying in the interstices and hollows. Over all these was a vast accumulation of sea-weed.