“It’s impossible to even guess where we are,” said Bart. “We’ve been going in the dark all along. We may as well be off Sable Island as anywhere else. And if so, all I can say is, I’ve seen worse places.” “Sure an thin it’s as likely to be Anticosti as Sable Island,” said Pat. “We’ve ben a turrunin around ivery way, so we have, an we may have< fetched up there, so we may, an if that’s so, we may as well dig our graves an lay ourselves down in thim.” “Well, if you’re going so far as that,” said Bruce, “I’d put in a claim for Bermuda. I don’t see why we mayn’t be off Bermuda as well as Anticosti. If so, we may be sure of good accommodations.” “Well, while you’re about it,” said Arthur, “why don’t you say Jamaica?” “At any rate,” said Bruce, “I shouldn’t wonder if it should turn, out to be Newfoundland. This sou’-west wind would take us there.” “Yes, but there’s been a calm,” said Arthur, “for some time, and we’ve got into some current. I dare say it’s taken us west, and that this is close by Cape Cod.” “Pooh!” said Phil. “If we’ve been drifting with any current, there’s only one current hereabouts. That’s the Gulf Stream. I tell you what it is, boys; we’ve crossed the Atlantic, and this place is off the coast of Owld Ireland; and there ye have it.” “Arrah, go way wid yer deludherin talk,” said Pat. “We want a sinsible opinion.” “The more I think of it,” said Tom, “the more I’m inclined to be of Bart’s opinion. We’ve been tacking and drifting, and going backward and forward, and it seems to me most likely that this is Sable Island. If so, we may be glad that we came here when the water was so calm.” “Wal,” said Captain Corbet, thoughtfully, “I don’t b’lieve that this here air Ireland, nor Iceland, nor Africky, nor Jamaiky, nor any other sech. ’Tain’t unpossible for it to be Sable Island. We drifted there onst, an may heve done it agin. Far be it from me to dispute that thar. But then again it might be Newfoundland. ’Pears to me as ef we’ve got off some land whar thar’s woods, for I got jest now a kine a scent o’ trees, an ’peared to me of spruce an sech. I shouldn’t be s’prised ef the wind was to haul round. It often doos, specially when it’s ben an done its wust, an you don’t care. So now we don’t care what it doos, or which way it blows; an consekently it’s goin to turn an blow away the fog.” At this moment, and while the ancient mariner was yet speaking, there came a breath of wind, very gentle, yet quite perceptible, and there was in it an unmistakable odor of forest trees--balmy, delicious, most fragrant, bringing with it hope, and joy, and delight. “The land must be close by,” cried Bart. “Hurrah!” “Don’t hurrah too soon,” said Tom. “It may be Anticosti.” “Pooh! Anticosti could never send out such a smell of spruce and pine.” “Well, it may be Newfoundland, and that won’t help us much.” “The wind’s going to change,” said Arthur. “I think the fog isn’t so thick as it was.”