eds a change of wind. Why, I've
knowed it all vanish in half an hour, an the fog as thick as it is now."

"But sometimes it lasts long--don't it?"

"I should think it did. I've knowed it hang on for weeks."

At this gloomy statement the boys said not a word.

Soon after the schooner approached the fog bank, and in a little while
it had plunged into the midst of its misty folds. The chill of the
damp clouds, as they enveloped them, struck additional chill to their
hearts. It was into the midst of this that poor Tom had drifted, they
thought, and over these seas, amidst this impenetrable atmosphere, he
might even now be drifting. In the midst of the deep dejection
consequent upon such thoughts, it was difficult for them to find any
solid ground for hope.

The wind was moderate, yet adverse, and the schooner had to beat
against it. As she went on each tack, they came in sight of the
shores; but as time passed, the bay widened, and Captain Corbet kept
away from the land as much as possible. All the time the boys never
ceased to maintain their forlorn lookout, and watched over the sides,
and peered anxiously through the mist, in the hope that the gloomy
waters might suddenly disclose to their longing eyes the form of the
drifting boat and their lost companion.

"I tell you what it is, boys," said Captain Corbet, after a long and
thoughtful silence; "the best plan of acting in a biz of this kind is
to pluck up sperrit an go on. Why, look at me. You mind the time when
that boat, that thar i-dentical, individdle boat, drifted away onst
afore, with youns in it. You remember all about that,--course. Well,
look at me. Did I mourn? Did I fret? Was I cast down? Nary down;
not me. I cheered up. I cheered up Mr. Long. I kep everybody in good
sperrits. An what was the result? Result was, you all turned up in
prime order and condition, a enjyin of yourselves like all possessed,
along with old O'Rafferty.

"Again, my friends," he continued, as the boys made no remark,
"consider this life air short an full of vycissitoods. Ups an downs
air the lot of pore fallen hoomanity. But if at the fust blast of
misforten we give up an throw up the game, what's the good of us? The
question now, an the chief pint, is this--Who air we, an whar air we
goin, an what air we purposin to do? Fust, we air hooman beins;
secondly, we air a traversin the vast an briny main; and thirdly, we
hope to find a certain friend of ourn, wh