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THE TREASURE OF THE SEAS, by James De Mille (Part 2)

CHAPTER XIV.

There, side by side, stood the two boys, at the bottom of that deep pit, into which they had descended; and, standing there, they looked with unutterable feelings at the opening far above them, across which was suspended the treacherous beam. At first there was a thrill of expectation, in both of them, that the beam was even then breaking, and at any instant might fall and crush them. It had sagged down so far, and the fracture was so complete, that the end might come in another moment. Thus they stood, and looked up in silence, and with hearts that throbbed fast and painfully. Neither of them spoke a word. It was as much as they could do to breathe.

A terrible position it was, and how terrible they knew only too well. One hundred feet below the ground, and seventy feet below the level of the sea—such was the depth of that pit. It was so long and so narrow that the bottom was quite dark. As they stood with their eyes thus fixed on the threatening beam, they noticed that the sky beyond it had changed in its color from blue to black, and two or three stars were faintly visible. It was like the sky of night, and not like that of day. That little piece of sky thus indicated to them the change in their fate, and seemed to frown upon them from above.

In their minds there was one prevailing sense of mute horror and awful expectation; yet, together with this, a thousand other thoughts flashed through them—thoughts of friends, thoughts of home, wild speculations as to the possibility of escape; and with these they noticed also that black piece of sky, with its faintly-twinkling stars. But between them and it, between the upper world which that sky spoke of and themselves, there intervened that broken beam stretching across like a bar, to shut them in forever.

Now, gradually, the first horror passed. It was too intense a feeling to endure. The delay of their fate made them calmer, and brought back presence of mind; for the beam moved no more—it fell not—perhaps it might remain as it was, threatening them, but doing no more than that. This respite from their doom thus, brought them back to themselves, and made them search eagerly the sides of the pit as they looked up.

“I wonder if we can’t climb it, thin,” said Pat.

“I’m afraid not,” said Bart, in a dejected tone.

“Sure an there’s no harrum in given it a thrial,” said Pat; and, as he said so, he laid his hands upon the staying around the hole. Scarce had he done this, than he was aware of a difference between the staying here, and that which was higher up. Bart, also, who had done as Pat had done, and tried to find some way of climbing, noticed the same thing.

Had the staying below been like that above, the question of their escape would very soon have been settled by such practised climbers as these two; but, unfortunately, there was a very important difference. Above, the staying had been made of stout planks and deals, and these were far enough apart to have served for grasping by both hands and feet. They would thus have afforded an actual ladder. Below, however, it was very different. The staying of the sides of the pit was made, not of planks, which could be grasped by the hands, but of round logs, which the hands could not hold, though the feet could insert themselves well enough in the interstices. These logs rested closely one upon the other, nor was there any way by which the hands could pass between them or around them so as to grasp them. This, then, was the discovery that Bart and Pat made the moment that they tried their hands at climbing; and thus the first plan of escape which had suggested itself was baffled most completely.

“If we only had the planks!” sighed Bart: “but these round logs give no chance.”

Pat made no reply.

Bart then tried to climb at the corner, for here there would be more advantage to the feet, since the sides, being at right angles, would afford an easier foothold. But, though it was easier for the feet, it gave no greater help to the hands than before. Still, there were the round logs; nor was there at the angle formed by the sides any spaces sufficient to receive the hand and afford a hold.

“If we cud only get up as far as the rope,” said Pat, “it might give us a help, so it might.”

“What! when that beam is hanging there? Why, if you touched that rope the beam would come down.”

“Sure an I forgot that for the moment, so I did,” said Pat, dejectedly.

“Strange we didn’t notice that the beam was rotten,” said Bart, mournfully. “It looked sound enough.”

“It looked as sound as a nut, so it did; and how it managed to howld on till I jarked it bates me intirely, so it does.”

“It must have been sagging down and cracking all the time. The only wonder is, that it didn’t give way when we were higher up. If it had, there’d have been an end of us.”

“Sure ’n you niver spoke a truer word in your life, so you didn’t; an, be the same token, it’s a good sign, so it is, an a fine thing intirely, that we’re down here now at this blissid minute, wid our bones not broke to smithereens. Sure but it makes me fairly shiver whin I think of you an me, one after the other, hangin away up there from that bit of rotten stick that was broken all the time.”

“If this wasn’t quite so wide,” said Bart, “we might stretch our legs across, and get up that way. I’ve seen men go down into wells as easy as you please, just by stretching their legs across.”

“Sure an meself it is that’s seen that same,” said Pat, briskly; “an I wondher whether, afther all, our legs mightn’t be long enough to do it.”

“O, no,” said Bart; “it’s too wide altogether.”

“Sure an we might then; an there’s nothin like tryin.”

With these words Pat set himself to try, and Bart did the same. They tried by stretching their legs as far as possible on each side to secure a foothold, and thus ascend. Had the pit been narrower, or had their legs been longer, they could have done it; but, as it was, they found it quite impossible. “They could, indeed, touch the beams on either side if they stretched their legs as far apart as possible; but, having accomplished this, they could do no more. They could not raise their feet higher to the log above. So rigid were their legs when thus spread apart, that they could not raise them. At length they were compelled to desist from these efforts.

“It’s too wide intirely, so it is,” said Pat, dolefully. “An whativer was the use of makin the hole so wide is beyond me. It wasn’t any use at all at all, so it wasn’t; an there you have it.”

“The fault’s in our legs as much as in the pit,” said Bart. “If we were five years older we might do it.”

“Sure I always thought I cud climb betther thin any man till this blissid momint,” said Pat.

“I only wish I was a man for about five minutes,” said Bart, fervently.

“Two minutes’d jist do it, so it wad,” said Pat.

“Yes,” said Bart.

“An these logs don’t go all the way up. If we cud only get up to the planks we’d be all right.”

“I didn’t notice particularly,” said Bart, “but it seems to me that the plank staying reaches nearly halfway down.”

“Full that, ivery inch of it, so it does,” said Pat.

“If we could only get up as far as that!” exclaimed Bart.

“Faith, I have it,” said Pat, suddenly.

“What?” asked Bart, with some excitement.

“I have it,” repeated Pat. “It’s a rope we want.”

“A rope!” exclaimed Bart.

“Yis, a bit of a rope; ony we haven’t got one long enough.”

“Why, what good would a rope be to us here?” asked Bart, in a puzzle to know what in the world Pat had got into his head.

“Sure, I have it. Can’t we twist a rope an make this longer?”

“I don’t know what you’re after,” said Bart, impatiently. “What do you mean?”

“Sure an we can tear up our coats an shirts, an make a rope that way; ony,” he added, thoughtfully, “it mightn’t be long enough, so it mightn’t.”

“Nonsense,” said Bart; “you’re crazy. What do we want of a rope?”

“Sure, to climb with.

“How? Where would you fasten it?”

“Fasten it, is it?” said Pat, in a dubious tone; “sure that same I niver thought of at all at all. I forgot all about it, so I did.”

“Well, we’ll have to do something,” said Bart. “We can’t stand still here and die.”

“There’s the bit of a pick here,” said Pat. “Sure an we ought to be able to do somethin with the pick, so we ought.”

And with these words he stooped and lifted up the pickaxe which he had thrown in before they went down, and which, in the anguish and excitement which they had thus far felt, had been altogether forgotten.

“We ought to do something with that,” said Bart.

“It won’t do any good to more thin one of us,” said Pat, sadly, “for only one of us can use it at a time.”

“Nonsense,” said Bart; “if one of us can only climb up, can’t he help the other?”

“Sure an so he can,” said Pat; “an I niver thought of that, so I didn’t.”

“I wonder if we can climb with that?” said Bart.

“Sure an we can try,” said Pat; “an we ought to do somethin, so we ought.”

With these words, he thrust the pick between two timbers, a few feet above his head, and then clutching it, he raised himself up to a level with the pick, in the easiest way possible. Hanging there for a moment, with his hands grasping the pick, and his feet stuck tight between the logs, he tried to raise himself higher. To do this, it was necessary to hold himself there, while removing the pick, and raising it to the logs farther up. But here was the fatal and insuperable difficulty; and this brought them exactly back to where they were before. Do what he would, his hands could not grasp the round logs with sufficient firmness to maintain a hold. After a few efforts he gave it up, and jumped down.

Bart then tried, making his attempt at the corner of the pit, where the angle of the two sides favored him more. Striking the pick in between two logs, as high up as he could reach, he raised himself up as Pat had done, and then tried to lift himself higher. He found a place which he could grasp, and clinging to this with a convulsive effort, he raised the pick to the logs farther up, and succeeded in thrusting it into a new place. Then he drew himself up higher, and once more searched about for a place to grasp. But now no place could be found. In vain he tried to thrust his fingers between the logs; in vain he sought to grasp the round surface. It was a thing that could not be done. After a long but fruitless effort, Bart was compelled to give up. Yet he was not satisfied. He tried the other three corners of the pit in succession. In all of them his efforts met with the same result—failure, utter and hopeless.

At length he flung down the pick, and stood panting.

“Deed, thin, an I’m glad to see you back, so I am,” said Pat.

“Glad!” said Bart.

“Yis, glad I am; that same’s what I mane. I’d rather have you fail down here, than half way up. You niver cud go all the way; an if you had to turrun back when half way up, it’s a sore head I’d have watchin you; an you cud niver expict to git back here again without broken bones.”

“If we only had one other pickaxe,” said Bart, “I could do it.”

“Of coorse you cud; an if we had dizens of other thing, you cud do it, so you cud, an so cud I; but there’s the throuble, an that’s what we’ve got to contind against, so it is.”

“We’ll have to do something,” said Bart, gloomily and desperately.

“Sure an that’s thrue for you, so it is, an you niver spoke a thruer word in yer life, so you didn’t,” said Pat; “an be the same token, it’s with this pick, so it is, that we’ve got to work,—for it’s the only thing we’ve got at all at all.”

“What can we do,” said Bart, in the same gloomy tone, “if we can’t climb?”

“Sure an there’s lots more, so there is,” said Pat, who on this occasion showed a wonderful fertility of invention. “I’ve ben a thinkin,” he added, “that we might dig away these logs with the pick.”

“What good would that do?” asked Bart.

“Sure an we might dig thim out one by one, an pile thim up as we dug thim, an so we might make a pile of logs high enough to reach to the top.”

Bart was silent for a few moments. The suggestion was certainly of some value.

“I wonder whether we mightn’t shake that log down on us, by pounding away down here?”

“Sure an it’s the only thing,” said Pat. “We’ve got to run some risk, of coorse; an I don’t think that our blows would be felt so high up. Besides, we needn’t sthrike very hard.”

“Well,” said Bart, “it’s the only thing we can do.”

Upon this, Pat inserted the point of the pick between the logs near him, and tried to pry the lower one out at one end. But the stubborn log resisted his efforts. It had been too firmly fixed in its place to yield to such a slight force as that which he could bring. Bart lent his efforts, and the two exerted themselves with their utmost strength, but altogether in vain.

“If we cud ony git out one log,” said Pat, “it wud be aisy workin out the others, so it wud; but this one seems a tough customer, so it does.”

“There ought to be some log about here,” said Bart, “weaker than others.”

“Sure an that’s thrue for you,” said Pat, “an so we’ll jist thry thim all one afther another, ivery one of them. We’ve got lots of time, so we have.”

“See, here’s a smaller one,” said Bart.

Pat struck the point of the pick where Bart pointed, and once more the two boys exerted themselves to pry out the log. But though this one was somewhat smaller than the other, it was quite as firmly fixed, and the utmost efforts of both of them failed to move it, even in the slightest degree, from its bed.

“Sure an there’s no danger of this pit iver cavin in,” said Pat, as he desisted from his efforts. “They made this pit strong enough to howld a iliphant, so they did—the worse for us.”

“Well,” said Bart, “we’ll have to try every log that’s within reach.”

“Sure an we ought to find some weak spot if we do, so we ought,” said Pat.

Bart now inserted the pick between the logs just above the last one.

“This is jist what we intinded to do whin we come down,” said Pat; “for weren’t we goin to thry to git to the money-hole?”

Bart said nothing.

The two boys now tugged away as before. But the result was the same, for this log was as firmly fixed, as tough, and as obdurate as the others.

“Sure an it’s hard, so it is, that the very log we trusted our lives to should turrun out to be rotten, an all these logs here should be as sound an as strong as steel an iron, ivery mother’s son of thim. If we cud only find a rotten one, an pull it out of its place, we’d be able to git at the others aisy, and haul out all the rist of thim.”

The boys now tried other logs, one after the other; but from all of them they met with the very same stubborn resistance. They had all been placed here evidently by men who worked conscientiously; and were determined to leave no weak spot exposed to the pressure of the earth. And, as was natural, that which had withstood so well the pressure of the surrounding soil, was easily able to withstand the puny efforts of a couple of boys.

CHAPTER XV.

In this way they went over all the logs, and at length reached the lowest layer of all. At this point, Pat’s superior dexterity with the pick enabled him to invent and to put in practice a plan which could not have been used before, or with any of the logs except these lowest ones. For beneath these was the earth, and Pat’s plan was the natural and simple one of digging this earth away, and so undermining the log that lay there. Pat worked nimbly and thoroughly, and as he loosened the soil, Bart scraped it away with his hands. Pat dug down to the depth of a foot all along, and then thrust the pick far in, scooping out the earth that lay on the other side of the log. In this way they succeeded in removing the earth that kept the log in its place, and at length they were able to detach it, and draw it forth.

The removal of this one log served to make the removal of the others possible. By diligent efforts the four logs which composed the lower tier were detached. The side logs were too long for the pit, and therefore had to be placed erect, and leaned against the side. The end logs could lie down easily. The second tier then followed and was removed more easily than the first. Then the third tier was detached, and the fourth. In each case the logs of the side had to be stood erect, while the end logs were laid on the ground at the bottom.

A serious difficulty now appeared before the boys, and one, too, for which they had not been prepared. The length of the side logs was a very embarrassing circumstance. They were too long to be placed at the bottom, and had to be stood up. But this took up space, and infringed very seriously upon the narrow area in which their operations were carried on. In passing from one side to remove the logs on the other, they had to lift these backward and forward so as to get them out of the way—a work which was most exhaustive, and at the same time hindered them in their proper efforts. Still they kept on, until at length about eight tiers of logs had been removed, and the longer ones filled up so much space, that it was quite impossible to do any more. They still worked away at those which were within reach, and managed to remove a dozen logs more; but after this they could do nothing, for the bottom of the pit was completely filled, and the staying was now a compact mass from which nothing further could be detached until the logs were removed which were covered up by those piled against it.

Bart and Pat were now compelled to desist for a time, and as they felt quite exhausted, they raised themselves to the top of the pile of upright logs, and there sat down. Scarcely had they done this, when they were aware of a trembling all around, like an earthquake. In horror they sprang to their feet. The sides seemed to be moving; the logs separated, and descended, and through the crevices there protruded sand and clay. It was as though the whole mass of the casing was falling in. In an instant they knew what it was. In their thoughtlessness they had taken away the foundations of this structure, and it was all falling in. An involuntary cry of terror burst from both. They shrank together, clinging to the pile on which they stood, and awaited their last hour.

But once again there was a respite. The movement ceased. The worst seemed to be over, at least for the present. Yet the result of this one movement was fearful as far as it went. All the logs of the casing seemed severed and distorted, and had apparently descended as far as they had dug away the foundations. Seeing this, another frightful thought came—the broken beam above. They looked up fearfully. As yet, however, the danger impending hesitated to strike, for there, across the mouth of the hole, they saw the broken beam defined against the sky. It did not appear to have moved; nor was there that appearance of irregularity about the upper casing of the pit which now marked the lower. It seemed to them as though the slighter staying of plank had been put in the upper part of the pit, because it was clay, and needed but little protection; but down below, where the soil was looser, stout logs had been required. As they looked up, they saw that all this lower casing of logs had fallen.

No sooner had they discovered this than they saw also something which inspired them with hope. Not only had the lower staying of logs thus descended, but it had also lost its cohesion, and the logs all seemed to be separated by spaces of more or less width, while many of them protruded into the pit as though thrust in by the pressure of the earth. Now they recognized at a glance the tremendous risk that they had run while removing the lowest logs; but at the same glance they perceived that the immediate danger had passed, and that they were now at least less helpless than before. For now, at last, there need be no difficulty about climbing. Now the spaces between the logs were wide enough for them to find something which they might grasp with their hands, and for some distance up, at any rate, they could see what seemed like a ladder, up which they might climb in search of escape from this fearful place.

No sooner had they made this discovery than they at once caught at this prospect which thus had so unexpectedly opened before them, and began to climb. The task was not very difficult. Each one took a corner of the pit where the meeting of the two walls favored the ascent, and for some time they continued to mount without much difficulty.

“Sure but I’m afraid this is too good to last,” said Pat.

Bart made no reply. That very fear was in his own mind. In that suspense he could say nothing. At last they had mounted as high as the place where the rope had broken. The end hung here suspended most tantalizingly. O, what joy it would have been for them had it been the rope alone which had thus broken,—if the beam had only continued sound; but now that rope was useless, and they dared not touch it for fear lest even a touch might bring down upon their heads the beam that hung there impending over them. Fortunately they were able to ascend yet higher, for still above them the log casing had been started asunder, and still they found themselves able to grasp places of support. The staying had certainly undergone a universal disintegration, and nothing but its great compactness had prevented it from falling in ruin over their heads, and burying them alive. It was with amazement and consternation that they recognized their work, and these feelings would have overwhelmed them had they not found the result, after all, so fortunate for themselves. The risk had passed away. For the present, at least, they were receiving the benefit.

The fear which Pat had expressed, and which Bart had felt without expressing, that the ascent was too good a thing to last, was at length proved to be only too well founded. After they had climbed some distance farther, they found their ascent brought to an abrupt termination. For here there was a kind of separation between the lower casing and the upper; a log bulged forward about a foot, and above this there was a gap in the casing about two feet in height which showed the earth behind, a kind of clay, and in this there was a cavity caused by the falling of the casing. Above this the casing had held firm, but unfortunately they had not reached the planks. They were the same round logs which rose above them, and which would be as difficult to scale from this point as they had proved from below.

Upon this ledge, formed by the bulging logs, they clambered, and seated themselves, dejected at the termination of their ascent, yet relieved slightly by the chance which was now afforded of some rest and breathing space. Here they sat, and looked up.

“Sure an it’s hard, so it is,” said Pat, “to find an ind to it just here, whin, if we’d only been able to climb twinty or thirty feet further, we’d have got to the planks, an been all safe.”

“Yes,” said Bart, looking up, “there are the planks; and they’re not more than thirty feet above us at the farthest.”

“An yit they’re as much out of our raich as though they were a hundred, so they are.”

“I’d rather have the thirty feet, at any rate,” said Bart. “Come now; can’t we manage to get farther up.”

“Nivir a farther,” said Pat. “We’ve got to the ind of our journey.”

“Come now,” said Bart. “See here, Pat. You spoke of a tunnel once. In fact we came down here with the pickaxe on purpose to make a tunnel to the money-hole. Well, we’re after something more precious than money—life itself. Can’t we tunnel up to life?”

“Tunnel, is it?” cried Pat, in great excitement. “Of coorse we can. Ye’ve jist hit it, so you have. It’s what we’ll do. We will thin.”

“The soil here seems like clay; and if we cut up behind this casing, it’ll be comparatively safe,” said Bart. “We need only cut up to the planks.”

“Sure an we’ll have to cut up to the top.”

“O, no! When we get to the planks, we can break through, and climb them like a ladder to the top. Once up to the planks, and we’re safe.”

“Break through the plankin is it? Sure enough; right are you; that’s what we’ll do, so it is.”

“And so that makes only thirty feet to cut away. It’ll be hard work cutting upwards; but you and I ought to manage it, Pat, when our lives are at stake.”

“Manage it? Of coorse; why not? Only we haven’t got that bit of a pick with us, so we haven’t, for we left it down below; an sorra one of me knows what’s become of it. It may be buried under the roons of the fallin logs.”

At this Bart looked at Pat with something like consternation.

“Well,” said he at length, “we’ll have to go down again—one of us; we must have that pickaxe. I’ll go.”

“Sure an you won’t,” said Pat; “meself’s the one that’s goin to go.”

“No, you shan’t. Poh! Don’t be absurd.”

“Sure I’m bound to go; and so don’t you go too. There’s not the laste nicissity in life for both of us to go.”

“O, well, then,” said Bart, “we’ll have to toss up for it. That’s all.”

And saying this, he took out a piece of money, and said to Pat—

“Head or Tail?”

“Tail,” said Pat.

Bart tossed. Pat lost. It was Pat’s business therefore to go down.

“Sure an it’s aisy climbin,” said Pat, “an the pick’ll be a help whin I returrun.”

With these words he departed.

Seated on the log, Bart looked down, watching Pat’s descent. They had climbed about half way up the pit, and Pat had about fifty feet to go down. Looking down, it was dark, and Pat at length disappeared from view. Bart could only hear him as he moved about. At length there was a deep stillness.

Bart grew alarmed.

“Pat!” he called.

No answer came.

“Pat!” he called again.

Still no answer.

“Pat!” he called, as loud as he could, for he was now thoroughly frightened. As he called, he put his feet over, and prepared to descend.

“I’m here,” Pat’s voice came up. “Don’t come down. I’m coming up.”

These words filled Bart with a feeling of immense relief. He now heard Pat moving again, and at length saw him ascending. Nearer he came, and nearer. But Bart noticed that he did not have the pickaxe. He feared by this that it had been buried beneath the fallen logs. If so, their situation was as desperate as ever. But he said not a word.

Pat at length reached the place where Bart was, and flung himself down, panting heavily. Bart watched him in silence.

“The pickaxe is buried,” said he at length, “I suppose.”

“Worse,” said Pat, with something like a groan.

“Worse?” repeated Bart in dismay.

“Yis, worse,” said Pat. “The water’s comin in. There’s six feet of it, an more too. The hole’s flooded, an fillin up.”

At this awful intelligence Bart sat petrified with horror, and said not one word.

“It’s the diggin away at the casin,” said Pat, dolefully, “an the cuttin away of the earth, that’s done the business, so it is. I can onderstand it all easy enough. Sure this pit’s close by the money-hole, an the bottom of it’s close by the drain that they towld us of. An them that made this hole didn’t dare to go one inch further. An that’s the very thing, so it is, that we’ve done. We’ve cut, and dug, and broke through into the drain. What’s worse, all the casin an all the earth’s broke and fallen down. An there’s no knowin the mischief we’ve done. Any how, we’ve broke through to the “drain”—bad luck to it; and the water’s jist now a powerin in fast enough. Sure it’s got to the top of them logs that we stood upon end—the long ones; and they’re more’n six feet long, an it’s risin ivery minit, so it is, an it’s comin up, an it’ll soon be up to this place, so it will. An sure it’s lost an done for we are intirely, an there you have it.”

After this dreadful intelligence, not a word was spoken for a long time. Pat had said his say, and had nothing to add to it. Bart had heard it, and had nothing to say. He was dumb. They were helpless. They could go no farther. Here they were on this log, half way up the pit, but unable to ascend any further, and with the prospect before them of swift and inevitable destruction.

They had worked long and diligently. Not one mouthful had they eaten since morning; but in their deep anxiety, they had felt no hunger. They had labored as those only can labor who are struggling for life. And this was the end. But all this time they had not been conscious of the passage of the hours; yet those hours had been flying by none the less. Time had been passing during their long labor at the logs below—how much time they had never suspected.

The first indication which they had of this lapse of time was the discovery which they now made of a gradually increasing gloom. At first they attributed this to the gathering of clouds over the sky above; but after a time the gloom increased to an extent which made itself apparent even to their despairing minds. And what was it? Could it be twilight? Could it be evening? Was it possible that the day had passed away? Long indeed had the time seemed; yet, even in spite of this, they felt an additional shock at this discovery. Yet it was true. It was evening. The day was done. They two had passed the day in this pit. This was night that was now coming swiftly on.

They remained motionless and silent. Nothing could be done; and the thoughts of each were too deep for utterance. Words were useless now. In the mind of each there was an awful expectation of a doom that was coming upon them—inevitable, swift, terrible! They could only await it in dumb despair.

Night was coming, adding by its darkness to the horror of their situation. Death in daylight is bad enough, but in the dark how much worse! And the fate that threatened them appeared wherever they might turn their eyes—above, in the shape of that broken beam which yet in the twilight appeared defined in a shadowy form against the dim sky; around, in this treacherous casing, which, being undermined, might at any moment fall, like the lower portion, and crush them; beneath, most awfully, and most surely, are those dark, stealthy, secret waters which had come in from the “drain” upon them as though to punish their rashness, and make them pay for it with their lives. In the midst of all these fears they remembered the superstitious words of the man whom they had questioned, “Flesh and blood will never lay hands on that treasure, unless there’s a sacrifice made—the sacrifice of human life!” Such was the declaration of the man on the shore, and this declaration now made itself remembered. The sacrifice of life. What life? Was it theirs? Were they, then, the destined victims? Awful thought! Yet how else could it be? Yes, that declaration was a prophecy, and that prophecy was being fulfilled in them. But O, how hard it was to die thus! so young! in such a way! to die when no friends were near! and where their fate would never, never be known to those friends.

CHAPTER XVI.

The boys at the inn slept soundly, and did not wake until after their usual time. On going down to breakfast, they looked about for Bart and Pat. At first they thought that their two friends had already taken their breakfast, and gone out; but an incidental remark of the landlady made known to them the fact that they had not been back to the inn at all. This intelligence they received with serious faces, and looks of surprise and uneasiness.

“I wonder what can be the meaning of it,” said Bruce.

“It’s queer,” said Arthur.

“They were very mysterious about going, in the first place,” said Tom. “I don’t see what sense there was in making such a secret about it. They must have gone some distance.”

“Perhaps they didn’t think we’d be back so soon,” said Phil, “and have planned their own affair, whatever it is, to last as long as ours.”

“O, they must have known,” said Bruce, “that we’d be back today. Aspotogon is only a few miles. In fact we ought to have been back yesterday, in time for tea, by rights.”

“Where in the world could they have gone to?” said Arthur.

“O, fishing, of course,” said Tom.

“But they ought to have been back last night.”

“O, they’ve found some first-rate sport.”

“After all,” said Phil, “there wasn’t any actual reason for them to come back. None of us are in any hurry.”

“Yes; but they may have got into some scrape,” said Bruce. “Such a thing is not inconceivable. It strikes me that several members of this party have already got into scrapes now and then; and so I’m rather inclined to think that the turn has come round to Bart and Pat.”

“What I’m inclined to think,” said Arthur, “is, that they’ve gone off in a boat for a sail before breakfast, and have come to grief somehow.”

“Well, if they tried a sail-boat, they were pretty sure of that,” said Tom.

“Yes,” said Phil; “neither Bart nor Pat know anything more about sailing a boat than a cow does.”

“At any rate,” said Bruce, “they can’t have fallen into any very serious danger.”

“Why not?”

“There hasn’t been any wind worth speaking of.”

“Neither there has.”

“But there was some wind yesterday morning,” said Arthur. “It carried us to Aspotogon very well.”

“Pooh! Such a wind as that wouldn’t do anything. A child might have sailed a boat.”

“O, I don’t know. That wind might have caught them off some island, and capsized them.”

“I don’t believe that wind could have capsized even a paper boat,” said Phil; “but still I’m inclined to think, after all, that they’ve met with some sort of an accident in a boat.”

“I don’t believe it,” said Tom. “They couldn’t meet with any kind of accident. My opinion is, that they went off fishing, kept at it all day, got too far away to think of coming back last night, and so very naturally put up at some farm-house, where they have by this time eaten a good, rattling breakfast, and are on their way back, walking like the very mischief.”

“The most natural thing in the world too,” said Bruce. “I quite agree with Tom. It’s just what any other two of us fellows would have done. In the first place, they backed out of the Aspotogon expedition very quietly, so as not to make a fuss, then they went off, and, as Tom says, got too far to come back; though whether they’ve had such a tremendous adventure as ours at Deep Cove with the shark is a matter that has yet to be decided.”

This first allusion to the shark was received by all the party with a solemn smile.

“Well,” said Arthur, “I believe they’ve taken to a boat. Perhaps they’ve gone cruising about.”

“But they couldn’t have been capsized.”

“No.”

“Then how do you account for their absence?”

“Easily enough,” said Phil. “I believe they’ve gone visiting some of the islands, and somehow they’ve lost their sail, or their oars, or else they’ve been careless about fastening the boat, and she’s drifted away. And so I dare say that at this very moment they are on some desert island in this bay, within a mile or so of this town, looking out for help; but if they are, they must be pretty hungry by this time, for it isn’t every island that can furnish such a bill of fare as Ile Haute gave to Tom.”

“A perfectly natural explanation,” said Arthur. “Those two fellows are both so abominably careless, that, if they did go ashore on any island, they’d be almost certain to leave the boat loose on the beach, to float away wherever it liked. I believe, as Phil says, that they’re on some island not far away.”

“I don’t,” said Bruce. “I believe that they went fishing.”

“Well, what are we to do about it? Oughtn’t we to hunt them up?” said Phil.

“I don’t see the use,” said Tom. “They’ll be along by dinner time.”

“Well, for my part,” said Arthur, “I can’t sit here and leave them to their fate. I believe they are in a fix, and consequently I intend to go off to hunt them up.”

“So will I,” said Phil.

“Well, of course, if you go, I’ll go too,” said Bruce.

“So will I,” said Tom; “though I don’t believe there’s the slightest necessity. Bart and Pat’ll turn up somewhere about noon, and find us gone. They’ll then go off in search of us. Well, it’ll amount to the same thing in the end, and so, perhaps, it’s the best way there can be of filling up the time.”

“I wonder if the Antelope’s got back,” said Bruce.

“I don’t know.”

“Suppose we go down and talk it over with Captain Corbet.”

“All right.”

With these words the boys rose from the breakfast table, and went down to the wharf. As they approached they saw the Antelope lying there at her former berth; for she had arrived about an hour before, and had come here.

“Wal, boys,” said he, as he saw them, “here we air once more, jined together as before; though whether you did well in a desertin of the ship in mid-ocean is a pint that I don’t intend to decide. You might as well have turned into your old quarters aboard, an slep calm an comfortable, instead of rowin six or eight mile by night. However, you don’t none o’ you look any the wuss for it, an so we’ll let bygones be bygones. Ony I’m pleased, likewise relieved, to see you here, instead of havin to larn that you’re among the missin, an probably roamin the seas in a open boat. An where, may I ask, air Bart and Pat?”

The answer to this question plunged the good Corbet from the comfort in which he had settled himself, down into the depths of anxiety and worriment.

“What! Not back yit?” he said. “You don’t say so. Is this railly so?”

“Yes.”

“What! all yesterday, an all last night?”

“Yes.”

“An no word of partin—and no directions as to where they went, an when they’d return?”

“Not a word.”

“An nobody seen them go?”

“No.”

“An nobody’s seen anythin of them at all?”

“No, nothing.”

“An you don’t even know whether they’re in danger or safety?”

“No.”

“Nor even whether they’re on land or water?”

“No.”

Captain Corbet shook his head slowly and sadly, and turned away with the profoundest dejection and melancholy depicted upon his venerable yet expressive features.

“Tom and I think they’ve gone off fishing,” continued Bruce, who had told the tale of woe; “but Arthur and Phil are afraid that they’ve gone off in a boat, and have met with some accident. They’re determined to go off to hunt them up, and we’ve concluded to go too, as we don’t care about staying behind doing nothing; though, at the same time, we don’t believe they’ve come to any harm, and we think they’ll be coming after us. We thought we’d let you know; and perhaps we’d better put off in the Antelope, unless you think a small boat would be better.”

“O, yes,” said Arthur, “let’s go in a small boat. The Antelope won’t do. There’ll be another calm, and we’ll have to stand still and do nothing.”

“We could get one of these whalers,” said Phil, pointing to a number of boats at the wharf.

These boats were sharp at each end, and were therefore called “whalers” on account of their shape, and not because they were ever used, or ever intended to be used, against whales. They were large and capacious and well ballasted; while, at the same time, they were not too large to be rowed, in case of calms or head winds.

“O, bother the whalers,” said Tom; “let’s stick to the Antelope, whatever we do. Whenever we leave the Antelope, we’re sure to come to grief. Besides, I don’t like to have to stuff myself into a little open boat. I like to move about, and walk up and down, and change my position.”

“So do I, for that matter,” said Phil; “but then, you know, we may be caught in a calm, as we were last night.”

“O, there’s lots of wind now.”

“But it mightn’t last.”

“Then, if it don’t, we can take to the boat.”

“What, our little row-boat?”

“Yes; why not?”

“Why, we can’t go any distance in her; she’s too small.”

“O, let’s get a whaler,” said Arthur, “and then we’ll be ready for wind or calm.”

“Well,” said Bruce, “if I thought that Bart and Pat were really out anywhere in the bay, I’d say, take a whaler; but as I consider this expedition a wild-goose chase, I go in for comfort, and vote for the Antelope.”

“Well, we won’t do anything; that’s all; and if they are in danger, we’ll be sorry for it.”

“O, I’ll run the risk.”

“We’re a tie,” said Phil. “Let’s give Captain Corbet the casting vote. Come, captain, what do yon say about it? Do you think they’re on land or water? and do you advise a whaler or the Antelope?”

“Me?” said Captain Corbet, mournfully. “Me? Wal, for my part, I’ve come to believe the wust. I believe them two air at this moment on some lone rock of the deep, gazin in despair upon the waste of water, and lookin wildly in all directions for help. And so it ever hath been, and ever shall be. Amen. For my part, I’m free to say, that I never see, nor never hear tell of, nor never even dreamt of the likes of you. If you get out of my sight for one moment, you’re sure to be engaged in reskin your lives about nothin. An I’ll give up. If Providence restores them two, I hereby declar solemn, that it’s my fixed intention to start right straight off for hum; never to stop at one single place, nor even to go near any land, till I touch the wharf at Grand Pré. What this here’s goin to end in beats me; and this last business doos beat my grandmother. As for you, I advise you to stick to the Antelope, and sail under the old flag. Them’s my sentiments.”

This advice of Captain Corbet was accepted as his decision, and so it was resolved to set off in the Antelope, and cruise round the bay. Such a search was, of course, not very promising; but Arthur and Phil had a vague idea that in the course of the cruise they would see the two missing ones making signals of distress from some lonely island, and that thus they might be rescued. As for Captain Corbet, he still remained melancholy, though not at all despairing; for though he insisted that the boys were in some danger, he yet believed that they would be rescued from it.

In the midst of this conversation, they were interrupted by the appearance of the landlord. He had just returned from that journey up the country, which had prevented him from accompanying them to Aspotogon on the previous day. He had learned at the inn the state of affairs, and had at once come down to the wharf. The boys, on the other hand, knowing that he had been up the country, thought it possible that he might have seen or heard something of their missing friends; and therefore, no sooner had he made his appearance, than they all hurried to meet him, and poured upon him a whole torrent of questions.

The landlord’s answer was a complete defeat of all their hopes. He had seen nothing of Bart and Pat, and had heard nothing of them. He had known nothing of their departure, and nothing of their absence, until a few moments before, on his arrival home. He himself had to question them to find out the facts of the case.

Of the facts of the case, however, they themselves were, unfortunately, quite ignorant. They had nothing to communicate but fancies, conjectures, and speculations, more or less plausible, such as they had just been discussing. To these the landlord listened with the profoundest attention and the deepest gravity, and then considered them all in succession.

“I can’t say,” said he, at length, “that I see any danger for them in any way. Praps they’ve gone in a boat, an praps they’ve gone fishing. If they’ve gone in a boat, why, there hasn’t been wind enough to capsize a walnut-shell. An as to getting on an island, I don’t see how their boat could drift away, unless they made it go, and actually shoved it off on purpose. You must remember that this bay ain’t like the Bay of Fundy. There ain’t any tides or currents here worth mentioning. The tide only rises and falls six or seven feet, and the currents are so trifling that they ain’t worth considering. If these boys have got on an island and been left there, it’s a puzzle to me how on earth they managed it. Then, again, there are boats and schooners passing backward and forward almost all the time, and if they had got ashore anywhere, they’d have been got off by this time. So it’s my opinion that they haven’t gone off in a boat, but that they’ve gone fishing. If they’ve gone fishing, it’s the most likely thing in the world for them to go off a good bit, and not be able to get back the same day. The only trouble about this is,—that they wouldn’t be likely to go away on foot; and if they got a wagon, they’d be most likely to take it from the hotel; but that’s just what they haven’t done. So there’s a fresh puzzle on top of the others.”

“O, I think they’d be just as likely to walk as not.”

“Well, then, there’s another puzzle. Where could they go? They never made any inquiries. We had a long talk the night before last, but not a word was said about fishing. If they’d been intending to go fishing, they’d have asked; wouldn’t they? Of course they would. That stands to reason.”

“O, I dare say they got up early, and a sudden notion took them, and they started off without having any particular place in view.”

“Well, that’s not unlikely,” said the landlord; “and if they did, why, all I’ve got to say is, they’d have a precious long walk of it, for there isn’t any really decent fishing within less than nine or ten miles; and so, if they walked that, and then went up stream, why, by the time they’d finished, they’d have walked ten miles more; and so, all together, they’d make a precious good day’s work of it,—work enough, in fact, to make them rather indifferent about hurrying back here—especially when they’d have to do it on foot.”

“I suppose they’d find houses to stop at.”

“O, yes, there are houses enough; but it depends on what direction they went. In some places, they’d have to camp out for the night.”

“Well, they understand that well enough,” said Tom. “Bart and Pat can put up as neat a camp as any two fellows going.”

CHAPTER XVII.

The remarks of the landlord served to weaken the belief of Arthur and Phil in their theory of the boat, and they began to doubt the expediency of setting off in the Antelope. The easy way also in which the landlord met the difficulties of the case, and accounted for everything, had a very great effect in diminishing, if not in destroying, the anxiety which they had begun to feel. They had nothing to offer in reply, and they naturally gave up their proposal. They began to think that the absentees might make their appearance at any moment, and that under the circumstances it would be very unwise to start off on a long, uncertain, and unprofitable cruise in the Antelope. And thus it was that the whole party came to the conclusion to remain where they were, and wait for Bart and Pat.

With this intention they all went back to the inn. On arriving there, they found a man who had just come to the house, and was waiting to find the landlord. He looked like one of those half farmers, half fishers, who live about Mahone Bay; and the boys would not have paid any attention to him, had they not been startled by his first words.

“It’s about a couple o’ lads,” said he, “jest like them there. I’m afraid there’s somethin gone wrong with ’em.”

At the mention of “a couple o’ lads jest like them there,” all the boys started, and gathered round the stranger with eager and anxious curiosity.

“Ye see,” continued the man, “it was yesterday morn’n,—an them two come a knockin at my door about sunrise, or not much arter, and asked the way to Oak Island.”

“Oak Island!” repeated the landlord, in a strange voice. The other boys noticed his tone, but as they knew nothing whatever of the character of Oak Island, they were of course unable to understand the cause of it, or the meaning of those words.

“It seems they was a huntin up the way there,” continued the man. “They had a boat with them.”

“A boat?” said the landlord; “a sail-boat, or row-boat?”

“A sail-boat,” said the man. “They were strangers—that was evident; and they wanted to find Oak Island. Wal, I showed them the island, for it can be seen plain enough from my door. My name’s Roach, an I live on the shore up there. So we had some talk about the treasure, an they asked me if I believed. An I says, ‘Yes, I do.’ For at first they thought I didn’t believe. But I did, an I do. And I says to them, says I, ‘Flesh an blood won’t never lay hands on that thar treasure till there’s a sacrifice of human life took place.’ That’s what I says, in so many words. Wal, some more words followed, an then them two went on an steered to the island.

“Wal, I don’t know how it was, but I kep a thinkin about them two all day long. At last I fell a wonderin why they didn’t come back. There wasn’t no sign of any boat a comin back from that island. They was on it, I knowed; an why they staid on it I couldn’t make out. It began to bother me. An all the time I couldn’t help thinkin of what I told em, an the words kep a ringin in my ears as to how that there’s got to be a sacrifice of human life before the treasure’s riz out of the hole whar the pirates buried it. An I couldn’t get them words out o’ my head. An what’s more, I got a thinkin that them two lads was kine o’ connected with them words,—jest as if it was a sort o’ prophecy like, that I’d gone an spoke,—not knowin, an not intendin it, you know, but givin a prophecy all the same,—as is generally the case, you know; for often it happens that them that prophesies hain’t got no intention of so doin, an hain’t got no reel idee of the meanin of what they’re sayin. An that was jest the case with me, an it was only afterwards that these thoughts come.

“Wal, all day long I was in this state, an felt dreadful anxious, an more an more so as the day went by. It was yesterday. An I see no signs of that thar boat a comin back. An when evenin come I begun to feel pooty skeart, an I’d a gone off then but darsn’t, for fear of the ghosts of them old pirates that prowl around on the island arter dark. I didn’t close my eyes all last night, or sleep a wink, for thinkin o’ them two lads. It seemed to me that I’d been kine o’ to blame—though whar the blame was, no one can say, for I was as innocent of blame as a babe unborn. But so it was, an I couldn’t sleep. Wal, this morn’n I was up before dawn, an into my boat, an off for the island. I got thar about sunrise.

“Wal, I landed thar, on Oak Island, an the fust thing I see was that thar identical boat that the boys had—the very one. I couldn’t mistake it; an it lay hauled up on the beach, an tied thar. But thar wasn’t any sign of any boys anywhars. I called, an shouted, but no answer come. Wal, then I walked up some distance, an looked all around everywhars. ’Tain’t much of an island in size; so I soon walked all round it; but I didn’t see nothin of them thar lads. I looked at one or two of them pits that’s ben dug thar, but didn’t see anythin but water. I kep a screamin an a shoutin all the time, but thar wasn’t any answer at all. Thar was the boat on the beach,—but whar was the boys? I couldn’t see em, I couldn’t find em; and though I called for em, they didn’t answer.

“Wal, I went back to the beach, an then I stood an tried to think what I’d best do. Somethin had happened. I knowed that the best thing to do was to make haste an try to let the friends of them lads know how things was. I knowed that they was strangers in these parts, an that they’d come from Chester. I thought I’d find out about em here at the inn, an that the best an quickest way would be to come right straight off to this place, an see if I couldn’t larn somethin about em, or find some friends o’ thairs that’d come with me back again, an find out, for sure an sartin, what it was that had happened. An what troubled me most all the time, and troubles me now, is them very words that I said to em as to how that it was necessary that thar must be a sacrifice of human life. For I’m kine o’ feared that it’s turned out true, an that them’s the very ones that was destined to be that sacrifice. They’ve got into some trouble, I know—but how it was I don’t know, an whether it was in the day time, or at night. This is what I want to find out.”

“What did the boys look like?” asked the landlord, as the man ceased.

“Wal, jest sech lookin lads as these—not overly well dressed, in fact a leetle mite shabby; but one of them was a gentleman’s son,—no doubt o’ that; an the other was a bright-lookin lad enough.”

“It’s Bart and Pat. There’s no doubt of that,” said Bruce.

“And what sort of a boat was it?”

“O, an ordinary Chester boat, with a sail, as I said.”

“Is the boat on the beach of Oak Island yet?”

“Course it is. I left it where it was. But air them thar boys a stoppin here? Do you know them?”

“Yes,” said the landlord, in a husky voice; and he stood in silence for a few moments, with his eyes cast down.

Upon the boys this information had produced an effect which was at once distressing and puzzling. It was distressing, from the fact that this stranger more than hinted at some possible evil befalling their two companions; and his gloomy allusions to his prophecy about the “sacrifice of human life,” together with the expression of his own anxiety, produced a corresponding effect upon all of them. But it was also puzzling, for they could not imagine what there was on this Oak Island to attract Bart and Pat; or, if there was any attraction in it, how Bart and Pat had found it out. Various expressions made use of, however, such as his allusions to “pirates” and “treasure,” served to make them suspect that this Oak Island might be the very place, in search of which they had come to Chester, the place indicated by the story of the governor of Sable Island; that somehow Bart and Pat had made this discovery, and had remained behind, while they went to Aspotogon for the express purpose of finding out the place for themselves.

In this suspicion they were right, and it was confirmed by the landlord.

“I see it,” he exclaimed, suddenly. “I have it.”

“What?” asked Bruce.

“Why, I know now why they didn’t go with you.”

“Why?”

“Why, because they wanted to go to Oak Island.”

“Oak Island? But what is there in Oak Island?”

“Enough to attract any one. I told them about it the evening of the day you came—all about the pirates, and how Kidd buried his treasure there, and how it was found out, and the different attempts made to raise it. It’s too long a story now. You can hear it some other time. But I told it to them, and they’ve gone wild with excitement to visit the island themselves. That’s it. Yes, that’s it. But I didn’t think they’d clear out this way. What made them do it? They made a great secret of it. What was the use of that? And now what in the world has become of them?”

“They went to that thar island,” said Roach, “an they’ve never left it.”

“Are you sure you went all over it?”

“Sure? Of course.”

“And the boat was on the beach?”

“Yes; an it’s thar yet. An if them lads belong to this here party, then my advice is, you’d better hurry off an find out what’s become o’ them. I’m dreadful anxious still, an want to know the wust. An I’m afeard that if we find out anything, it’ll be the very wust.”

To this disheartening remark there was no reply made. The boys all felt the same. Arthur and Phil, who had at first felt anxious about the absentees, now felt a worse anxiety; while Bruce and Tom, who had explained away their absence, now knew not what to say or to think. Although the evident superstition of the man Roach lessened somewhat the value of his testimony, still they could not conceal from themselves the fact, that there were grave reasons for alarm,—such as the boat on the shore, and the failure of his cries to reach the ears of the boys. Where could they be, that in a circuit of the island, this visitor had not been able to see them, or to make his cries heard? What could have happened to them? What sort of dangers could have presented themselves? The dangers which had been suggested by the superstitious fancy of Roach had no terrors in their eyes, and no weight in their minds,—at least in broad day. But there might be other dangers, of a material kind, of which they knew nothing. What did he mean by those “pits” full of water? What pits? They could not guess at this, for they had not heard the landlord’s story, and Oak Island was all an unknown ground to them.

Such, then, were the questions and the fears which were started by the anxiety of the boys; and the more they thought over these things, the more that anxiety increased.

But one thing, of course, now remained to be done, and that was, to hasten, as fast as possible, to the place where Bart and Pat had gone, and search for themselves after their lost companions. The landlord at once began his preparations. The Antelope was not to be thought of. By taking her, time would be lost; for it was necessary to start from the back bay, which was very much nearer to Oak Island. Roach had landed on that side, and his boat, a roomy whaler, was at their disposal. They therefore at once decided to embark in her, and go by that way in search of the lost ones.

They set forth at once, the landlord accompanying them. It was not thought necessary to send word to Captain Corbet, as he would not be able to do anything, and might only embarrass their movements by an untimely fussiness, or by an anxious determination to accompany them in Roach’s boat. A walk of a few minutes brought them to the back bay, where the boat was lying. It was soon afloat, and the party embarked. Then the sail was hoisted, and as the wind was fair and fresh, they moved rapidly through the water, heading for Oak Island. On the way the landlord informed them that he had told to Bart and Pat the story of Oak Island, and gave them a kind of summary of the same story. From this the boys were able to understand why it was that their absent companions had not accompanied them, though they were still at a loss to know why it was that they had made such a secret of their plan, and what their purpose had been in thus setting out by themselves. They could only conclude that Bart and Pat wished to have the whole glory of making some discovery by themselves, with which they should astonish their companions; and if there was any hope left in their minds, it was that they had purposely secreted themselves from Roach, so as not to be disturbed in their investigations. And this hope, though it was a faint one, served to sustain them to some extent.

In a short time they reached Oak Island, where they landed at the very place which had been chosen by Bart and Pat for their landing. Here the first thing that they noticed was the boat which their friends had brought, and which lay as they had left it. It was with melancholy forebodings that they looked upon it, wondering what had been the fate of those who had brought it here. But there was no time to waste in useless regrets or idle fears. There was a very serious business before them—the search after their lost companions.

They went up from the beach upon the island just as Pat and Bart had gone, and noticed the same things. They came to the mound of bluish clay, and saw the pit close by filled with water. They examined this narrowly, as though they feared to find their friends here. Then they went on further. Another mound, marking the presence of another pit. They now began to understand the full meaning of these “pits” to which Roach had alluded. It was with a feeling of great relief that they saw no signs here of their lost friends. From this they went on farther to a third pit.

“I can’t imagine,” said the landlord, “how any harm could have happened. Two sensible boys like these couldn’t have fallen into any trouble here. They wouldn’t feel inclined to jump into a flooded pit and drown themselves. As to this pit, it is dry; and I don’t think they would go down into it. Why should they? They wouldn’t jump down, for they were not yet quite tired of life, and there’s nothing here to show that they lowered themselves down.”

Roach solemnly shook his head.

“’Tain’t that,” said he; “’tain’t that. It’s the sperits—the ghosts of the old pirates, that allers haunts this island. No man dare live on it, except when they come in companies. One or two, men or boys, air at their mussy. ’Tain’t no or’nary uthly dume that’s come over them thar lads. It’s Kidd an his gang that’s ben an done for them.”

CHAPTER XVIII.

The coming of darkness gave a new horror to those which already surrounded Bart and Pat far down in the pit. This made them perceive how long they had already been down, and threw a new difficulty in the way of escape. But that way of escape seemed already to be effectually closed when Pat brought back his terrible intelligence from the bottom of the pit. They had formed a new plan, which had given them hope; but now the only way of carrying out that plan into execution was snatched from them by the advance of the waters. There was nothing for them to do. To climb up the log casing was impossible, and to dig through the clay was equally so without some strong, sharp instrument, like the pickaxe.

Nothing was visible down below, and up above it grew steadily darker. Whether the water below was rising higher in the pit or not they were unable to find out from actual sight, but they had a full conviction that it was steadily advancing higher and higher towards them, and that with its advance it was also unsettling or sapping away altogether the sides of the pit. Awful were the moments, and terrible the forebodings. The darkness intensified every fear, and made the actual dangers by which they were surrounded still more formidable.

Overhead they could see the shadowy form of the broken beam still hanging, and still threatening to fall at any moment. The rope fastened to it had broken below the point where they were seated, and was within reach of their hands; but it was of no use. Had the beam above been strong, they could have easily saved themselves in this way; but the beam being broken, they dared not touch the rope. The terror of the broken beam was, however, lost sight of in the presence of that greater terror advancing from below, minute by minute—the terror of that water into whose mysterious sources they had penetrated; whose secret fountain they had broken up, and which now, like some formidable monster too rashly challenged, was advancing step by step, in irresistible power, to take vengeance upon these reckless intruders. That soil beneath had shown its looseness by tumbling down in the removal of the lower logs; the tenacious upper clay did not exist there; and it seemed to them that the rising water, by permeating all the soil, might at any moment cause all the pit to fall together in one heap of undistinguishable ruin. In that case, they would be overwhelmed beyond the possibility of escape, and snatched from the world to destruction, without leaving behind them the faintest vestige, or the slightest token of their awful fate.

At such a moment nothing was said. Nothing could be said. They sat there then in silence, listening with sharpened senses for any sound that might tell of the approach of the water. For a long time, however, they heard nothing except the quick throbbing of their own hearts, until, at last, there gradually came up a dull sound, which slowly resolved itself into something like thumping and grinding.

They listened now with intense excitement and agitation to these sounds.

What were they?

There was only one meaning which they were able to give to them. It seemed as if these sounds must indicate the breaking up of the lower casing of logs that lined the pit—the first notice sent them of that break-up which was inevitable. Every sound seemed to tell of some new log severed from its place by the pressure of the surrounding soil, which, now saturated with water, and transformed to a sort of ooze, streamed through the crannies, and destroyed the staying of the pit. At this thought the expectation of the end grew stronger, their awful doom seemed more immediate, and every nerve tingled, and every fibre of their being thrilled with a sense of horror.

They sat with their legs hanging over, and their hands grasping the log beneath as firmly as they could. It was while they were in this position that Bart felt something strike his foot. At that touch his first impulse made him shrink back in terror, and jerk both feet into the air. The same moment Pat felt the same, and evinced the same repugnance by a similar gesture. A moment’s thought, however, served to show Bart what it might be; so, reaching his feet down as far as he could in order to test it, he found that his suspicions were correct, and that the water had risen to that point. What had touched his foot was a log that had floated on the top of the rising water.

But there were more than one log, and this was the discovery that Bart made; and these logs were a dense mass that filled the pit, and were carried up by the water in this way. They had loosened many logs at the bottom, and had stood the long ones upright, while the shorter ones lay lengthwise. It was in about this same position that the mass of logs now floated up, and reached the place where they could be touched.

In a moment a joyful cry escaped Bart.

“What’s the matter?” cried Pat.

“We’re safe! we’re safe!” cried Bart.

These were the first words that had been spoken since Pat first announced the entrance of the water.

“Safe, is it?” said Pat. “I’d like to know how, so I would.”

“Why, these logs; only feel with your feet, Pat. They’re all floating up. I never thought of that. Only feel how compact and solid they are. They’ll bear our weight, and we can float up with them.”

Pat for a moment made no remark, but reached out his feet, and felt as far as he could. Then a cry of joy burst from him.

“Huroo!” he cried. “By the powers! but it’s safe we are. Sure it’s as solid as a flure, so it is. It’s a raft that we have, and it’ll float us as high as it goes.”

“Yes, if it don’t cave in first.”

“Cave in, is it? O, sure but it won’t be likely to cave in up here at all at all.”

“We’d better lie along at full length.”

“An what’ll we do that for?”

“O, so as to get the advantage of the floating power of all the logs. If we stand on one or two they’ll sink down at once.”

“Sure an that’s so. It’s right you are, so it is. We’ll lie down at full lingth; an O, don’t I wish we could take a bit of a nap!”

“No, don’t think of that, Pat; we’ve got lots to do yet.”

“Nappin? me nappin? Sure it’s only funnin I wor.”

“At any rate, we need only to float up to the plank casing. Then we’ll be all right. And it seems to be coming up pretty fast. It’s risen a foot already, since we first felt it.”

“So it has, sure.”

“We’d better be getting ready. I’ll drop off first, and roll over to the other side, and hold on to as many as I can, and then you come along after me.”

“Wait a bit, sure, till it gits a few inches higher. It’ll be up fast enough, sure.”

“O, yes, of course.”

The boys now waited in silence for a little while longer. The water rose steadily, bearing up the mass of logs on their surface. At length, slowly and cautiously, Bart allowed himself to pass upon the logs, and to his immense delight, found that they supported his weight.

“Hurrah, Pat!” said he. “They’re as solid as a rock. Come along.”

In a few moments Pat was by his side.

“I had no idea,” said Bart, “that they would be so solid.”

“Nor me ayther,” said Pat.

“I tell you what it is. The logs were stood upright, and as they floated up from the ground, they were turned in all directions, and got so mixed up, that each one supported the other, and the short logs have got mixed up with the long ones; and so it’s just like a regular raft, and they bear us as well as if they’d all been laid crosswise on purpose.”

“Thrue for you,” said Pat; “an if it’s so solid, I don’t see why we mightn’t stand up.”

“O, we’d better not. This is the safest way. We might jar them, or shake them by putting too much weight on one spot.”

“Well, it’s best not to be in too big a hurry,” said Pat, “an let well enough alone.”

The boys now relapsed into silence, and watched anxiously their progress. By feeling the logs on the sides of the pit, they could perceive that they were rising at a rate that was very satisfactory. Inch after inch slipped away from their fingers; log after log on the sides was covered by the rising water. And at intervals, as they looked up to measure their distance from the top, they could see that it was steadily diminishing.

Yet the hope which had arisen within them did not blind them to the danger that still surrounded them. Still there was the danger of the broken log. The rope hung down, and never ceased to remind them, as they rose, that there was this above them, for the rope coiled itself over them, and they feared to make the slightest movement, lest they might give it a pull. Another danger was the chance that the pit might cave in, from having its foundations more and more sapped by the water. This danger had been delayed for long, but the longer the time was, the greater the danger grew. But most of all they feared lest the supply of water might cease before they reached the plank casing. If these waters came from the level of the sea, they would not rise in the pit higher than that level; and whether that would bring them as high as the plank casing, they could not tell. Their chief hope arose from the landlords statement that the island was not more than thirty feet above the water, and if this was so, they knew that they might get to within thirty feet of the top. And the plank casing came down about as far as that.

And so, full of hope and fear, which thus alternated, they floated up, rising higher and higher every minute, and feeling most carefully all the while in order to note the progress which they made. At length the progress grew somewhat slower, and hope began to grow faint; still, as it did actually continue, they struggled against despondency, and looked upward.

Their progress now grew slower. It seemed as though the force which pressed the waters on was being gradually exhausted. Was this because that water came from some internal reservoir, or because they had now reached a point almost at the level of the sea? They were not high enough yet, and they were not rising fast enough for their impatience.

Bart now stood up and felt. They were near to the lowest part of the plank casing, yet not near enough. Would they ever get nearer? At the rate at which they were now rising, they could scarcely hope to rise more than one other foot at the farthest. And the plank casing was four feet, at least, above his head—quite out of his reach. What then? Must they lie down here and perish almost within reach of safety? For a few moments it seemed so.

But it was only for a few moments. Suddenly the problem was solved.

“Pat,” cried Bart, “I’ll stand here. You climb up till you get your feet on my shoulders. You can reach the planking then.”

“But how’ll you git up yourself?” asked Pat, anxiously.

“Why, when you git up, you can throw me that rope, of course,” said Bart.

“Sure enough. Och, but it’s the fool I am, sure, not to think of that.”

No more words were spoken. Pat did as Bart told him, climbing till his feet rested on Bart’s shoulders. The lowest line of planks was within reach. Here he found a place to grasp with his hands, the logs below affording sufficient foothold. He found no difficulty. It was almost like going up a ladder now, and in a few moments he was at the top.

But all danger was not yet over. He dared not touch the broken log, and could not detach the rope without doing so. As the log was, it seemed to be hanging by a few fibres, and the slightest touch might send it down. But there were plenty of ropes at the hut, and he at once hurried away to procure one. He brought back one which was quite new, and therefore strong enough; and also a crowbar. Driving the crowbar into the ground, he bound the rope to it, and flung the end down to Bart, who had been waiting patiently in the mean time. Pat now held the crowbar to steady it, and Bart, seizing the rope, raised himself up. A slight effort was sufficient to bring him up to within reach of the plank casing, and for the rest of the way it was easy enough.

At last! There they stood, those two, who had of late been in such deep and dark despair. They stood there, drawing deep breaths of that glad upper air, and looked around. The moon shone from on high, throwing its lustre over the scene, and pouring upon the sea a silver flood. Joy and gratitude overwhelmed them, and with one common impulse they fell upon their knees, and gave thanks to that Merciful One who had drawn them up “out of a horrible pit,” and restored them to the light of life.

But their excitement and their labor had utterly exhausted them in mind and body. They were terribly fatigued. To row back to Chester was impossible. They therefore went off at once to the little hut, and here, flinging themselves upon the floor, they soon sank into a profound slumber. Meanwhile the boys, with the landlord, and Roach, had searched about the island, until the minds of all were filled with the deepest anxiety. The hut still remained, and into this, not expecting to find anything, yet still anxious to search everywhere, they all went. There was an outer room full of ropes and tools, passing through which they came to an inner room.

Out of a profound slumber Bart and Pat were abruptly roused, and opened their eyes to find themselves surrounded by their four companions, perfectly frantic with excitement and joy, together with two strangers, the landlord and the man who had shown them the way, which two exhibited a most profound emotion. After their first bewilderment, Bart and Pat found it easy to guess at the meaning of this scene, and the memories which they had of their terrible adventure fully justified in their eyes the wild joy of their friends. It was a comfort to them to perceive that they had thus been promptly followed, for they saw that had they not been able to get out of the hole, they would have been rescued by these loving hands before all was lost.

Long explanations were deferred for the present. Bart and Pat were in a state of starvation, and their friends had forgotten to bring any food. But Chester was not far away. The wind was fair, and before very long they were all seated at the inn table, where the two lost ones satisfied their ravenous appetites, and the other boys made a second breakfast, which was more satisfactory than the first had been.

After which Bart and Pat told the whole story minutely, answering every question.

The wonder, the anxiety, and the horror that were manifested by the hearers during this narrative need not be described here. Roach insisted that it was all the doings of Kidd, and maintained that life must yet be sacrificed, before the malign spirits would be appeased, and surrender the treasure. The landlord, on the contrary, rightly viewed it as utter recklessness on the part of the boys. The previous diggers had several times broken into what he called the “drain,” and the boys had done the same thing, and so he declared all would do, till they should organize the new company, and set up a steam-engine.

And here it may be as well to state that the new joint stock company was afterwards organized, and the steam engine set up, and a regular series of engineering experiments carried out. Coffer dams were constructed on the shore, and ever so many new pits were dug in many different places. In spite of all, however, the new company was a total failure; the waters of the sea proved stronger than their puny arms; and the place known as the original money-hole was never reached. Scientific men laughed at the theory of Kidd’s treasure, and the drain, as all moonshine, and said that the company might as well try to dig pits in a quicksand; but the stockholders clung to their faith even after they had failed, and to this day talk about the “treasure,” the “money-hole,” the “chest,” and the “drain,” as though they were all solid and well-established facts.

CHAPTER XIX.

Two of the party in the Antelope had neither heard of the peril of Bart and Pat, nor known of their escape from it; and to these it was that the information of these things came last of all, yet not with the least profound effect. To Solomon the theory of the man Roach seemed unanswerable, and the very mention of it made his eyes roll about till nothing was visible except two revolving white disks on an ebon ground. His fingers clasped one another nervously, and his jaw fell and remained hanging, as though the owner of it had no further use for it, or had lost all control of it. From Solomon’s former actions on different occasions, he had given indications of a nature that was not untinged with superstition, and a fancy that was ready to kindle and flame up with all those visions of the supernatural which seem so congenial to the negro mind.

“O, de sakes alive!” he exclaimed. “An under neaf de groun—an back agin safe! What! down below dar to dat ar place! Clar, if it don’t make dis yer ole man go nigh stracted to think of. On dat ar island, down in dat ar hole, dar’s a hull slew of ghosts an hobblegobblums ob de wustest sort ob pirates an murderers all lyin in wait, wid de ole boy himself, an a watchin ober de treasure. How ebber youns managed to git out ob de clutches ob dem dar hobblegobblums beats me—does so. Clar, if I ain’t mos ’fraid to think ob it. Darsn’t—no how. Ef I’d ben down dar, I’d gon mad wid fright. But dar couldn’t be any danger ob me ebber goin down—no, sah! You may bet high on dat ar. Not for all de treasure dat Cap’n Kidd ebber buried.”

Captain Corbet heard the harrowing story with a face full of sickening suspense and terrible anxiety. In his gentle and affectionate nature he seemed to suffer all that the boys had suffered. He made no remark whatever, and after it was all told, he remained in silence for some time, looking, in an abstracted way, at vacancy. The others respected his evident emotion, and stood regarding him in solemn silence.

At length he raised his venerable head, and surveyed Bart and Pat with an impressive gaze; after which he looked at each of the other boys.

“Well, well, well!” he said, slowly, and with emphasis; “had I a knowed—had I a thought—had I a s’posed—had I a dreampt of the posseebility of this, I’d never a ventoored into any harbure till I cud anchor opposite my natyve hum. An I might have expected it—tew. I know how it allus was, an might have expected how it allus was a goin for to be. But this here does clap the climax. And whuffore? What upon airth possessed you to ventoor down under ground on a broken rope, hangin from a rotten beam? Why, it won’t bar a thinkin on. It’s wuss than anythin that’s happened among all that long an eventfuel serious of misfort’ns an clamties that’s ben a befallin of us ever sence we fust assembled together on board this here schewner.

“And now what am I a goin to do? Do? Me? Why, I’ll tell you what I’m a goin to do. I’m a goin to take up a bee-line for hum, an never enter another harbure—no, not so much as look at one, till I get to the wharf at Grand Pré. This responsibility is tew, tew kerushin. I ain’t a stick, an I ain’t a stun, an I can’t abear it. A human heart beats in this aged boosum, an it’s ben wrung on-common. I don’t want to get another squinge. No—not me. An so I intend this day to hist anchor, an spread my sail to catch the gale. An, them that wants to go hum by land air at liberty so to do—an peace an joy go with em; but them as wishes to stand by the ship’ll be welcome to the aged Corbet, an make his path of life all the brighter for their presence. An, so sayin, I’ll kinclewd.”

The conclusion, thus announced, was one which the boys were not unwilling to accept. There was nothing more here which they particularly cared to see. After the adventure of Bart and Pat, the treasure of the seas and the plunder of the Spanish Main lost that dazzling and alluring charm which hitherto had been found in those sounding words. The fact that it was so inaccessible was of itself sufficient to quell their ardor; but, more than this, they were affected by the information of past attempts to get at the treasure, and especially by the present efforts at forming a joint stock company. This at once vulgarized the whole affair. It put it into the hands of every one. It made it a matter of shares and shafts, engineers and steam-engines. With such things as these the boys felt they had nothing to do, and in them they took no interest whatever. Then, finally, the adventure of Bart and Pat had so exhausted the possibilities of Mahone Bay, that they could hope for nothing which could surpass it.

The consequence was, that, not long after the happy return of Bart and Pat, the Antelope once more set sail. The wind was fair, and the ship was ready. The landlord and Roach watched them as they moved away, and waved their hats after them as they passed down the harbor. And so the Antelope went away, leaving behind her, in its resting-place, undisturbed, the treasure of the sea.

All that day the wind continued fair from the north-west, and all the night following. The Antelope made a good run, and it was hoped that now they might reach their destination without any further trouble; but, on the following day, they found that these hopes were premature, and that trials yet awaited them; for, on going to the deck, they saw, all around, and above, and beneath, their old enemy—the enemy that they detested—the fog.

Yes, the fog was upon them—like some stealthy, vigilant, inexorable foe, who, finding them thus setting forth on their last voyage for home, now advanced upon them from all sides, to assail them for the last time. Bruce saw this first, and groaned. Arthur groaned likewise. So did Tom and Phil. And so did Bart and Pat. As for Solomon, he took no notice of it whatever, but devoted himself, as usual, to his pots and pans, while Captain Corbet had far too philosophical a soul, and far too much experience of such a situation, to be disturbed in the slightest degree by so commonplace a matter.

“I don’t like this,” said Bruce, after a long and most unhappy silence, which told more eloquently than words their opinions as to this last mischance. “I didn’t expect it.”

“We might have expected it,” said Arthur, “judging from the past. We’ve had enough of it to make it seem natural. Still, I didn’t expect it, I must say, any more than you did.”

“For my part,” said Phil, “I had forgotten all about it, and thought that the Atlantic Ocean would be like Mahone Bay.”

“I wish we had left the Antelope,” said Tom, “and gone off by land, as Captain Corbet advised, either to Grand Pré, or anywhere else.”

“O, sure an it’ll blow over, so it will,” said Pat.

“Not it.”

“Sure an it’s best to be afther lookin on the bright side.”

“There isn’t any bright side to the fog that I could ever see,” said Tom.

“Well,” said Bart, “we’ll have to do as we’ve done before—grin and bear it.”

“But it’s a great deal harder to grin now than it used to be,” said Phil, plaintively; “and I can’t bear it at all.”

“O, well, Captain Corbet’ll work his way along. He understands fog, at any rate.”

“Well, I don’t altogether think so,” said Bruce. “After losing himself so utterly a few days ago, and fetching up at Sable Island, I rather begin to doubt his power to understand fog.”

“O, well, that was in a strange place.”

“Well, this is a strange place.”

“Not quite. We are getting well on towards the Bay of Fundy.”

“Well, we’re not there yet. As yet, we’re in the Atlantic Ocean. Now, Captain Corbet got lost once before in this same place,—the Atlantic Ocean,—and it’s my fixed belief that he’ll do it again.”

“O, we know where the coast of Nova Scotia is now, and we’re all right. I’m determined to look on the bright side.”

“Well, and I’m determined to be prepared for the worst.”

The event showed that this fog did not have a bright side, and that it was wiser, in these circumstances, to be prepared for the worst. That day passed, and the fog still held on. The wind that brought the fog was strong, steady, and sustained, showing neither violence nor irresolution, but blowing in a way that promised to last long after their stock of patience was exhausted. It was a sou’-wester, the wind of fog and storm.

After another day had passed, Captain Corbet’s face assumed an expression, the meaning of which was but too well known to all the boys through sad experience. That meaning was, that he was puzzled, that he was uncertain, hesitating, and not decided where to go. And the boys discussed this among themselves, and perceived that once again their good, their venerable, their modest, but, after all, somewhat incapable commander had again lost his way.

“Ye see,” said he to Bruce, who mentioned this to him in a mild way,—”ye see thar’s ben so much tackin backard an forard that I kine o’ got out o’ the knack of it, an thar’s a kink or two in my cal’lations. Ef we hadn’t got to allus beat up agin this sou’-wester, we’d manage to keep a better course; but, as it is, we ain’t got no course in pa’ticular, wuth mentionin. An then thar’s them tides, an currents, an all that; an what with them, an tackin, an the fog, why, it’s got to be precious hard navigatin.”

“But why don’t you keep well in to the Nova Scotia shore?”

“Wal, that thar’s the very identical thing I’m a drivin at, an I dar say, if the fog was to lift, you’d see it quite handy over thar.”

“But where are we now?”

“Wal, as nigh as I can cal’clate, we’ve about got to the end of Nova Scotia; an I’ve a mind to take a long tack to the nothe-west, next turn, an hain’t got no reasonable doubt but what we’ll keep on till we fetch up in old Fundy.”

All this was rather disheartening to the boys. They saw that Captain Corbet did not even profess to have any exact knowledge of his position, and, judging from the past, they did not believe that he had any. Still, the change of course which he announced was something, and it seemed to afford some slight material for hope.

At length the Antelope came round on her next tack, and, taking a north-west course, she kept it for some time. At first the captain was rather watchful; but, after three or four hours, his vigilance began to relax, and at length he ventured to announce to the boys that they must be in the Bay of Fundy.

“An when I’m here, in this Bay o’ Fundy, boys, mind you,” said he, with something of exultation in his tone,—”when I’m here, why, I’m to hum. These waters was the place whar I sported in boyhood’s days. Here I matoored into a man. Here I’ve held commoon with the ragin biller, an rode on the kerest of the toomultus ocean. You can’t disturb me when I’m in old Fundy. It’s my hum. Fog an tide hev ben my companions from childhood, an the Bay of Fundy recognizes in the aged Corbet her—”

But what he was going to say was never said, for the word was taken out of his mouth, and exchanged for the interjection,—

“Hallo!”

The Antelope had come to a sudden stop. The shock was strong enough to knock Captain Corbet on his knees, and huddle all the boys together in a startled and struggling crowd.

In an instant Corbet was on his feet, and rushed forward to see what was the matter. The boys followed. The helm was left to take care of itself, and the sails snapped and fluttered in the wind. All was confusion.

“Why, I do believe,” said the captain, “I do railly believe she’s struck! Dear me! Wal, I never! This—doos—beat—my—grandmother!”

This allusion to his grandmother, under such circumstances, far from reassuring the boys, only excited their alarm the more, and made them think that their revered commander had lost his senses.

“Boys,” cried Bruce, “the Antelope’s struck, and is sinking. We’ll have to take to the boat. I’ll fill a keg of water. The rest of you gather a supply of biscuit for a week, and one of you bring the compass.”

“O, no; don’t trouble yourselves,” said Captain Corbet. “It’s—it’s—not—the slightest consekence. Don’t—don’t—hurry.”

But these and other words were lost on the boys, who, now in the full conviction that the Antelope was sinking, hurried to do as Bruce had told them.

But Tom and Pat held back. Pat rushed to the mainmast, and busied himself with some ropes; and Tom went to the pump, and, after taking a peep into the hold, began pumping.

After a minute or so he called out,—

“I say, boys, there’s no hurry. There’s no water in her.”

These words made the others desist from their preparations. Seeing Tom pumping, it struck them all that this was better than taking to the boat; so they all hurried to his help. As yet, however, there was nothing to be done.

“O, thar’s no danger in p’tic’lar,” said Captain Corbet. “She’s struck a sand-bank, paps, or, paps, a reef, somewhars. An now I wonder whar it can be.”

To this remark, which showed his utter ignorance of the situation, the boys had no reply to make. Bruce, however, tied an iron belaying-pin to a rope, and began sounding for bottom. At the stern he found three fathoms, at the bows only three feet. He took a boat-hook, and, plunging it down into the water at the bows, found that it was smooth sand, and the bows were resting upon it. This gave some comfort, for he hoped that they might yet escape.

But the wind was strong, and the waves made the Antelope roll and work about in her sandy bed after a most unpleasant fashion. If this continued long, the boys knew that the schooner would be lost, for she could not resist such a strain as this. Still, they turned their thoughts now rather to the task of saving her, if possible, than taking to the boat; and so, lowering the sails, so as to lessen the effect of the wind upon her, they set to work, some with the sweeps rowing, and others with the boat-hook pushing, and thus they tried to get her off the sand-bank.

“It’s about the best thing we can do,” said Captain Corbet, in a patronizing tone; “an we’ll do it yet. An I dare say the tide’ll lift us.”

This mention of the tide cheered the boys. If the tide was rising, they could hope; if not, it would be bad for them. A little calculation showed them that it could not be falling, but must be rising, and this discovery made them work with renewed energy.

At length they had the satisfaction of finding that their efforts were successful. The water at the bows deepened; the schooner moved. She was afloat! Quickly the sails were hoisted, and the Antelope, catching the wind, came round, and once more sought the deep water.

CHAPTER XX.

But though the Antelope was once more in deep water, their troubles were not yet over, for others soon arose almost as grave as the one from which they had just escaped. First of all, the uncertainty of Captain Corbet as to his position had evidently returned. He had that expression of concern, bewilderment, and confusion which shows a puzzled mind. He said nothing, but, after about a quarter of an hour’s run, brought the Antelope about, and went on another tack. And now the wind, which all day had been rather fresh, began to lessen more and more, until after about a couple of hours it had almost died away.

All this time Solomon had been on deck. He had come up when the Antelope struck, and had worked away with the rest in their efforts in getting her off. Afterwards he had remained, out of a natural feeling of curiosity, to see whether any more rocks or sand-banks were to be encountered. This danger, however, now seemed to have passed away, and Solomon became mindful of the duties of a cook. He therefore went below to prepare the evening’s repast.

Scarcely had he done so, than he bounded up again out of the hold upon deck. His eyes were staring, his jaw dropped, and if his black face could have shown anything like pallor, it would have done so at that moment.

“Da-da-da-dars—a—leak. Da-da-dars a foot of water down below!” he gasped.

At this astounding and alarming intelligence the boys rushed down into the hold. Solomon’s information was right. Over the floor there was as much as six inches of water, and everything that lay there was saturated.

At once the whole truth flashed upon them. The Antelope had rolled and twisted herself on the sand-bank so much, that her timbers and planks had been opened, and a dangerous leak had been established. It was not a broken place, or a hole that could be stopped up, but evidently some general leakage arising from the strain to which she had been subjected.

This served, in the opinion of all, to fill up the measure of their troubles. Bad enough it was to be enclosed in the fog; bad enough to be without any knowledge of their situation; bad enough to be in the vicinity of dangerous shoals, and perhaps rocks; but in addition to all this, to have their vessel leaking, this indeed was a thing which might well cause despair. And accordingly at the first sight of the water in the hold, every one of them stood as if paralyzed, and looked on motionless and in dead silence.

Bart was the first to break the silence.

“Come, boys,” said he. “We’ve every one of us been in worse scrapes than this. After being on a water-logged ship, we oughtn’t to care for a few inches of water. Let’s go to the pump, and see if we can’t get rid of this.”

Saying this, Bart leaped up to the deck, and sprang to the pump, followed by all the others. Only two of them could work at a time. Bart and Phil worked away first, till they were exhausted. Then Arthur and Pat took hold, and were relieved by Bruce and Tom. They worked vigorously, and with a will, in all the freshness, too, of their first efforts. Every one of them had a confident expectation that this labor would be successful, and that a half an hour, at the farthest, would be enough to pump the schooner dry. But a half hour passed, and yet that result was not accomplished. There was a difference certainly, but not anything like what they had wished. Judging from the amount of labor that they had put forth in this half hour, and the slight result, they were filled with dismay at the prospect before them.

“Well,” said Tom, “it ain’t what we expected; but I dare say we expected too much. Perhaps we ought to be satisfied if we find that we can keep the water under.”

“But can we do it?” said Bruce.

“Of course we can. Haven’t we been doing it?”

“We have—certainly. But how long can we keep at this sort of work? Why, the pump’ll have to be kept going day and night.”

Wade and Solomon now went to work; but their efforts made no very perceptible diminution in the water in addition to what had already taken place.

“I’m afraid,” said Bruce, “that the leak gets steadily worse.”

“Why so?”

“Well, because Solomon and Wade don’t do more than any two of us.”

“O, they don’t work with such a will.”

“Perhaps not. But in pumping, I dare say steady efforts like theirs amount to as much at least as our quick way of working; and besides, they’re stronger, and ought to do more. I think the leak is worse.”

“O, I don’t believe it.”

“Well, it took about two hours for the water to come in that’s in her now. If it had been coming in so slowly as that, we would have pumped her dry by this time. But the fact is, the more we pump, the faster the water comes in. I think it is working its way through new seams and crevices.”

There was no further reply to this; but not long afterwards, when Bruce and Tom had pumped with unusual vigor, they examined the hold once more. They found about six inches of water. The water had gained therefore. It had come back to the amount which had been there when they first began. These last efforts had gained nothing. In spite of all the water that had been poured out over the side, the quantity below was the same. There was no longer the slightest doubt that the leak was increasing, and that, too, with a rapidity that was very alarming. And while the leak thus gained power, their own efforts could not possibly increase beyond what they had already been, but, as a matter of course, would, on the contrary, rather decrease. And yet there was nothing else to be done but to pump on, for if they relinquished their efforts, they were lost. So they kept at it, taking turns as before, and while any two were at the pump, the others occupied themselves with watching the water beneath.

In one of the intervals, Solomon prepared the evening meal. It was later than usual, and any other than he would have omitted it altogether. But Solomon knew too well its importance, and felt that now it was, perhaps, of more importance than ever. The boys also, in the intervals which they had, prepared provisions for the boat. They put in oars, the boat’s mast and sail, two kegs of water, amounting to about twenty gallons, a barrel of biscuit, a ham, and a few other articles. In this way they endeavored to prepare themselves for the worst, and to have everything ready when the critical moment should arrive.

All this time Captain Corbet was mooning at the helm. He occasionally offered a remark, of which, however, no heed was taken by the busy company. They had something else to do.

“Ef I’d ony a come straight along from Bosting,” said he, on one of those occasions,—”ef I now at this moment was a navigatin from Bosting, I’d know whar I be. For I never know that I ever did lose my reckonin on one of them thar vyges. But comin up in this here roundabout circuous way from them outlandish seas, made me kine o’ git everythin upset and jumbled together in my old head. An now where air we? ’Tis a pint I long to know. Blest if I know.

“I should be pleased,” he continued, in a meditative tone, “to find out what course is the best for us jest now; though for that matter thar ain’t overly much wind, and I don’t seem to see how we could sail anywhars, even ef we wanted to go, an knowed jest the pint to go to. But as soon’s the wind does rise, I have an idee of the course I’m goin to take.”

“What’s that?” asked Bart, who happened to be near and hear this last remark. It seemed to him a good sign that Captain Corbet should have any theory now about his position.

“Wal,” said Captain Corbet, “it kine o’ seems to me as if the best way would be to head her nothe-east. We can’t head her nothe agin in this fog; r’else we’ll hit another rock; but ef we keep her nothe-east, we may dodge the rocks, an fetch up somewhars.”

At this utterly vague and unsatisfactory statement Bart turned away, more disheartened than ever.

That night the boys took turns till about midnight, when they all turned in, leaving Solomon, Wade, and the captain to take turns pumping till morning. The wind had gone down almost altogether, and the sea was quite smooth. The water in the hold remained at about the same level; and when the boys turned in, they had a feeling of satisfaction at this, or they would have had, if they had not been so completely worn out. Their sleeping-place was not their usual one. The water had driven them out. They brought their mattresses on deck, rolled themselves up in blankets, and curled up there the best way they could. So they passed the night.

On the following day they awaked early. There was a moderate breeze, and the Antelope was making some progress running before it. But the fog still continued, and environed them on all sides. Of this, however, they took no note just then. Their first thought was about the leak. They saw Wade working away at the pump in that dull, mechanical fashion which distinguished him in everything that he did. They said nothing to him, but at once looked into the hold.

The sight that they saw there confirmed their worst fears. The water had increased during the night, and they saw at once that either the leak had grown worse, or else that the pumping had been neglected. Things did not look well either for them or for the Antelope.

“We’ve all ben a takin of our turn thro the night,” said Captain Corbet, who was, as usual, at the helm. “It seems to be considerable of a leak. But I dar say we’ll manage to keep it down. The Antelope hadn’t ought to be a leaky vessel either. I’ve allus took good car of her. But it’s that strain she got.”

“Why, there’s a foot of water, at least,” cried Bart, “over the floor. There must be over two feet of water in the hold.”

“Full that,” said Arthur, gravely. “At this rate we’ll have to take to the boat before long.”

“O, thar’s no hurry,” said Captain Corbet; “the old Antelope’s dreadful perseverin, and a tremenjous hand at keepin afloat.”

“Well,” said Bruce, “I rather think we may fight off the water today, at any rate, and the fog may lift before night.”

“Yes,” said Phil, “we’d better not take to the boat till the last moment. I’d rather be here taking my turn at the pump, than off in the boat, not knowing where we are or where we’re going.”

“Sure an it’s a pity there wasn’t another pump,” said Pat. “We cud do double the work, so we cud. An I’d be proud to take me turrun at the pump twice as often, so I would.”

“I tell you what, boys,” said Tom. “Some of us might bale out with pails, while we’re not pumping. I wish I could construct a siphon; but I suppose it couldn’t be managed; so let’s bale. Two at the pump, and the rest at pails. That ought to be equal to two pumps, at least.”

“Sure an it’ll be aqual to fower pumps, so it will, if we work hard enough.”

This proposal was excellent in its way, only there was a doubt as to whether they could muster four pails. After some search two were found, and Solomon produced a tin kettle. This made three. Pat then brought forth a coal scuttle, which was well adapted for the work. With these increased resources they now set to work. Jumping down into the hold, four of them baled out the water, and poured it upon the deck, from which it ran into the sea. They worked at this most zealously and most industriously for two hours. At the end of that time they were all utterly exhausted. They had taken turns at the pump and at the pails, and the continuous work without rest had told most severely upon them all. They all felt that this would utterly use them up, if persisted in much longer. At the same time they had the satisfaction of seeing a perceptible diminution in the water, though by no means as much as they had hoped to find; and they all felt as though they had not received an adequate reward for such exhaustive labors. They saw that if they hoped to continue at the pump, it was absolutely necessary to give up the baling, and rest until the turn of each should come. And so the baling was given up.

A hasty breakfast was taken. Solomon had to give up his work as cook, and take his turn at the pump, and therefore every one had to forage for himself. Already, however, Solomon had taken the precaution to remove the stores from the hold and cabin up to the deck, where they would be out of the reach of the water, at least as long as the schooner could pretend to float. Out of these stores each one could now supply himself whenever and however he might feel inclined.

Having given up the idea of baling, the boys, in the intervals of taking turn at the pump, had nothing else to do now than to gather up strength for a new effort. While so doing, they watched the state of the water in the hold; or tried to penetrate the veil of fog that hung around; or listened, hoping to hear some sound that might tell of ships in their neighborhood. Sometimes, also, they sounded on the “fog-horn” of the Antelope—a peculiar tin trumpet with which every Down East coaster or fisher is provided, and which makes the most unearthly sound that has ever been contrived by man, not even excepting the yell of an asthmatic steam whistle. But looking, and listening, and sounding on the trumpet were alike unavailing, for no sight, or sound, or answering note of any kind came to them through that wall of mist.

All this was depressing. The fog was depressing. The fact that they had lost their way was depressing. But most of all, their own exertions proved depressing, for those exertions seemed unavailing. Still the waters crept ahead of them. They were not able to hold their own. After their vigorous and exhaustive efforts at baling, the water, held at bay for a time, came back to the assault, and this time it triumphed over the pump, and rose slowly, yet steadily. By the close of the day the water in the hold was enough to startle even the phlegmatic Wade. That personage had taken some sleep during the afternoon, after a long tug at the pump, and had snoozed away as calmly as an infant until sunset. On waking he walked to the hold, and looked down. The sight was by no means reassuring. Nearly two feet of water rolled backward and forward at the motion of the Antelope. He shook his phlegmatic, unexcitable, undemonstrative head.

“My name’s Wade,” he said, speaking as if to himself. “An my old ’oman’s name’s Gipson. An you’ll not find many o’ that name in this country. No, sir.”

He took another look.

Again his head gave a solemn and portentous shake.

Then he said once more,—

“No, sir!”

And the pump went on.

And pump struggled with sea.

And the sea gained!

CHAPTER XXI.

Night came—a miserable—miserable night! On the previous night, the boys had slept; but this night, sleep was not thought of by any one of them. Exhausted though they all were by hard work, they yet felt the position of the Antelope to be too perilous to think of sleep. It was a time for vigilance. It was a time when each one had to keep himself wide awake, and hold himself prepared to rush to the boat at a moment’s warning. The boat floated astern, as usual, and in it were all the stores that might be necessary for a lengthened row; but they wished to postpone any recourse to this boat to the latest possible moment. And all the time the Antelope held on her course, impelled by a fair, yet moderate breeze, that blew directly astern.

Exhausted though they were, yet none of them shrunk from his task. All took turns. Corbet and Wade, Wade and Solomon, Corbet and Solomon; then the boys, two by two, at the pump; each couple laboring strenuously and conscientiously, yet showing the same result. For, whoever it was that worked, or whatever was the amount of labor expended, the result seemed in each case a failure and a defeat. They were struggling against a common enemy; but the enemy was gaining. In spite of their efforts, the waters continued to rise, and there was no way by which they could bring any additional labor to bear. Had there been another pump, they would have been in a better position. At about midnight they undertook a second time to supplement the pumping with baling, but again desisted on account of the utter exhaustion which followed such severe toil. It only lessened their power of working at the pump. So once more they gave it up.

From that time on their efforts grew less and less. The long toil had told upon every one of them, more particularly upon the boys. The labors of Captain Corbet, of Solomon, and of Wade, were less vigorous certainly; yet still, they were even and well sustained; but those of the boys grew more and more fitful, irregular, and feeble. Each time that any two of them came to take their turn, they felt as though this must be the last. And so the hours and the labors of that dreary night dragged on.

Morning came.

All the boys felt that their capacity for work was well nigh exhausted. Morning came, and brought the fog. No land appeared. No ship was in sight. They sounded a blast on the fog horn, but no reply came.

Morning came, and brought, worse than all, the sight of four feet of water in the Antelope’s hold,—an amount so great that further pumping was useless, and at the best could only delay for a very short time a doom that was inevitable.

Morning came, then, and brought this sight; and the four feet of water in the Antelope’s hold at once forced a change in the decision of those on board.

They saw that if they continued pumping they might delay the decisive moment somewhat, but that it must come; and if it came with all of them on board, they must sink with the sinking schooner. And that the end was near, they could see. There was no time for delay. Already the signs which met their view told them that the end was near.

Take to the boat!

This was now their thought. To the boat,—before it was too late! On board the boat were all the stores necessary for a protracted voyage; and they all began to feel that this boat was now a better place than the sinking Antelope. The boat was a place of rest; a place more restricted, yet still, one which promised comparative peace and safety. To that boat, therefore, they must go, before it was too late; while yet they could embark in peace, and move away from the doomed Antelope.

Nor was a resort to the boat so hopeless an undertaking as it might appear to have been. At the worst, they were in a part of the world where ships are frequent; and some of them thought that land was near enough to be seen in some direction if only the fog should be dispelled. The stores in the boat were sufficient to sustain life for a considerable time, and they would be free from the necessity of incessant and most exhaustive labor.

There was now no time for any delay or any hesitation. They all felt this. The sight of the Antelope’s hold decided them.

They must take to the boat.

“Come along, captain,” said Bart. “We mustn’t stay any longer. The Antelope’ll go down before half an hour. If we pump any longer we’ll all be used up, and won’t delay her sinking more than five minutes. Come along.”

“Goin doun!” said Captain Corbet dreamily. “Only think of the Antelope goin doun! Dear me!”

“Come, captain,” said Bruce, taking his arm. “The boat’s all ready.”

“O, yes,” said the captain; “and the Antelope’s goin doun! Dear me! Only think of it!”

“Captain Corbet,” said Arthur, solemnly, “we’re all ready. Come, go aboard the boat.”

“Well—well—well,” said the captain. “Very well. O, all right. O, yes. You jest git into the boat. Git along. Never mind me. I’ll wait a while, you know. You go ahead. I’ll jest meander around here while you’re gettin into the boat. All right.”

At this the boys went off to the boat, and dropped in one after the other. Bruce, and Arthur, and Tom, and Phil, and Bart. Pat lingered behind. Those who had got into the boat expected that the others would follow at once, and now looked eagerly towards them.

They were afloat astern; and there, at the stern of the Antelope, stood Captain Corbet, surveying them with a melancholy air.

“Come along, captain,” said Bart.

“O, all right. Wait till the rest go,” said he. “Tain’t right for me to clar out jest yet. The captain must allers be the last to quit the sinkin ship.”

At this the boys called to the others,—to Pat, who had lingered behind, to Solomon, and to Wade.

Pat was standing by the mainmast. To their amazement, they saw that he was busily engaged in binding himself to it with ropes.

“Pat,” cried Bart, “why don’t you hurry up?”

Pat made no reply, but went on as before, solemnly and methodically.

“Pat,” cried Tom, “what in the world are you waiting for? Hurry up! What are you doing?”

“Sure it’s tyin meself to the mast, I am,” said Pat.

“What,” cried Bruce, “tying yourself to the mast! What nonsense! What do you mean?”

“Sure it’s the right thing to do,” said Pat. “It’s what they allers does, so it is, wheniver a ship gits wracked. Sure I know; and I advise you to do the same.”

“He’s tying himself to the mast!” cried Phil. “He’s mad. He’s insane. Some of us’ll have to drag him on board.”

“Pat,” cried Bart, “come along. Are you crazy? The Antelope’s sinking! What do you mean? Stop that. If you tie yourself to the mast, you’ll go down with her. What nonsense! Drop that rope, and come with us.”

“Sure it’s safer here,” said Pat, calmly, “than on that bit of a boat, so it is.”

“But the Antelope’s sinking.”

“Sure, don’t I know it? Meself does.”

“But you’ll go down in her, if you do that.”

“Arrah, what are you talking about? In shipwracks, doesn’t everybody tie themselves to the mast?”

“What in the world shall we do?” cried Bart, in despair. “He’s crazy. I never saw anything like it. He’s got a craze about tying himself to the mast. Don’t you remember how he did the very same on board the Petrel?”

“We’ll have to go and untie him,” said Bruce.

“Only see how he’s fastening and knotting the rope,” said Tom.

“We’ll have to seize him, and bring him here by main force,” said Arthur.

But from these thoughts they were now diverted by the appearance of Solomon. He had been very busy for about a quarter of an hour, and was now pulling away at a rope, as though the salvation of the whole party depended upon the successful accomplishment of his design.

“Solomon,” cried Bart, “hurry, hurry! Come along! Hurry! The Antelope’s going down fast! Hurry, and bring Pat along with you. The captain’s waiting till you leave the Antelope. Hurry!”

“I’se jest a histin up dis yer cookin-stove,” said he. “Ben tyin de ropes roun it ebery which way, an jes got her ready to be put into de boat.”

“The what!” cried Arthur.

“De cookin-stove,” said Solomon, gravely.

“He’s mad!” cried Bruce. “He’s gone crazy. Pat and Solomon have both gone mad with excitement or terror.”

“You jes gib a left here, an help dis ole man put dis yer cookin-stove aboard de boat, an den you’ll be all right.”

“Solomon! Solomon!” cried Bart, “what horrible nonsense! What do you mean by talking about putting a cooking-stove on board the boat? Come along. Be quick.”

“Tell you what,” said Solomon, “dis yer stove am a nessary succumstance. How you s’pose you get you meals cooked? Mus hab a cookin-stove. Mus so. You got water to bile, and things to cook.”

“Nonsense,” cried Bart. “Can’t you see that it’ll sink the boat?”

“But what’ll you do?” said Solomon. “You’ll suffer if you don’t take it. You mus hab a cookin-stove. Mus so!”

At this obstinate persistence in such unaccountable folly the boys were in despair. The schooner was sinking lower and lower every minute, and there were those on board of her, wasting precious time and chattering nonsense. What could be the meaning of this? Had terror deprived them of their senses? It seemed so. There was Captain Corbet, absorbed in his own thoughts, evidently quite forgetful of the present danger, and unconscious of the scene around him. There was Wade, with his heavy face gaping from the windlass, where he had seated himself. There was Pat, still tying himself to the mast; and there was Solomon, toiling away at the cooking-stove. It was like a small floating lunatic asylum. They might well feel puzzled and bewildered.

But suddenly one part of this very difficult problem was solved of its own accord. Solomon had not been very careful in the selection of his hoisting apparatus. He had picked up some bits of rope, and fastened them around the cooking-stove for slings, and into this he had passed the hook from the schooner’s tackle. He pulled and labored away, hoisting the heavy stove, and succeeded in raising it about half way above the hatches. A few more pulls, and it would have been on the deck. But there’s many a slip ’twixt cup and lip; and so it was destined to prove in this case. For at the very moment when the stove hung thus suspended, the slings suddenly gave way, and with a rush the heavy mass descended, falling with a loud crash to the bottom, and with a force that seemed sufficient to break through the Antelope’s bottom. There it lay—a ruin!

Solomon stood and stared in silence at the scene. At length, drawing a long breath, he raised his head and looked at the boys.

“Dar,” said he; “dat ar’s allus de way; troubles neber comes single. Dis yer shows dat de end am come. Smash goes de cookin-stove, an shows dat dis yer scursium’s a goin to tumminate in clam-ty. Dar ain’t a goin to be no more eatin in dis yer party; dat’s all done up.”

“Solomon! Solomon!” cried Bart, “hurry up!”

“Solomon! Pat! Wade! Captain Corbet! Come! Quick! Hurry up! Quick!”

Such were the cries that now burst from those in the boat. They were floating close by the schooner, so as to be convenient for those who were yet on board. They had seen the destruction of the unfortunate cooking-stove, and were now eager to get away before the schooner should sink. But their patience was destined to be still further taxed, for Solomon continued to make observations on the fallen stove; and Pat went on winding the rope about himself and the mast; and Wade sat motionless on the windlass; and Captain Corbet stood in the same attitude as before,—in the attitude habitual with him, his hands mechanically grasping the tiller, and his mild eyes fixed before him, as though he was still steering the Antelope, and watching some shore ahead. But before him there was only fog; and what he might have seen was not visible to the material eye.

“No use” said Solomon. “Dese yer may go, but I’se boun to stay. De captain may go; an mas’r Wade, he may go; an Pat mus frow away dem ropes. But for me, I’se goin to stick to de ole Antelope.”

“But she’s sinking, and sinking fast,” cried Bart, with feverish impatience.

“Dar’s no odds to dis ole man. Ef I can’t stick to de Antelope, I don’t want to go no whars else. Dar’s somebody a waitin for me, an I ain’t a goin to ’spose mysef to her, no how.”

“But you’ll be drowned; you’ll be drowned. O, Solomon!” cried Bart, “cut Pat’s ropes, and make him come; and hurry.”

“Come, come, captain. Make haste. Cut Pat’s ropes, Solomon. Come, Wade. The schooner’ll go down in five minutes!”

“Don’t care!” said Solomon; “don’t care a mite. I’se dreadful fraid ob dat ar ole woman. I’d rader be drowned here dis yar way, dan be hammered to def wid a red-hot poker. Dat’s so; mind I tell you.”

The boys were now in an agony of impatience and anxiety. The waters were high in the hold of the Antelope. They could see, from where they stood in the boat, the dark gleam of the rising flood, and knew that any moment might now witness the last plunge of the schooner into the depths below. And so they shouted, and screamed, and called upon every one in succession of those who still so madly lingered behind. But their cries were unheeded; for those four on the deck of the Antelope made not the slightest movement in response.

When the boys had left the Antelope, the water in her hold was about four feet in depth. All the time since then it had been increasing; yet, after all, though the time seemed long to the anxious boys, not over a quarter of an hour had elapsed in reality.

CHAPTER XXII.

The waters continued to rise in the hold of the Antelope, and inch by inch the doomed schooner settled slowly down into the depths beneath. On the deck stood those four who still held aloof from the boat, and seemed to be animated by some insane or unintelligible motive. By the side of the schooner floated the boat, in which were Bruce, Arthur, Tom, Phil, and Bart. They were all standing up, and holding the Antelope’s rail, and shouting, bawling, yelling, entreating, threatening, and using every possible means to save their unfortunate companions.

Suddenly Bart drew his knife.

“Boys!” said he, “we’ll have to drag them off. Bruce and Arthur, come along. Tom and Phil, you mind the boat.”

With these words he jumped on board the Antelope, with his open knife in his hand. Bruce and Arthur leaped on board after him.

The sight of Bart, with his open knife, thus bounding on board the Antelope, astonished the other boys, who began to think that Bart, like the others, had also lost his senses; but they did as he said—Tom and Phil holding the boat to the side of the Antelope, and watching, while Bruce and Arthur followed Bart.

Bart first rushed to Pat.

“We’re not going to stand this. You’re ruining us all. If you don’t go aboard the boat, we’ll throw you overboard, and you’ll be glad to do it then. Bruce and Arthur, catch hold, and pitch Pat overboard if he don’t go to the boat.”

Speaking these words with breathless rapidity, Bart cut the rope with which Pat had bound himself, giving long slashes up and down. Bruce and Arthur seized him at the same moment, and as soon as the rope was severed, dragged him to where the boat was, ordering him on board, and threatening to throw him into the water if he refused. Pat was powerless. A few words of remonstrance were offered, but he was sternly silenced. He was thus overpowered, and so, yielding to necessity, he got on board the boat. There he seated himself in the stern, and, bowing his head, began a long, low, wailing Irish “keen,” which is a species of lamentation in the presence of death.

This scene appeared to produce some effect upon Wade. It roused him from his lethargy. It seemed as though this man was a mere machine; and though in ordinary circumstances he was able of going through certain routine duties, in any extraordinary case he was utterly helpless, and his dull and inert nature became hopelessly imbecile. But now an idea of his situation seemed at last to have penetrated to his brain, and accordingly, rising to his feet, he went to the boat. Then he slowly and solemnly passed over the Antelope’s side, and took his seat near Pat. He looked at the others with a dull stare, and then turning to Pat, he remarked, in a low, confidential tone.

“My name’s Wade, an my ole ’oman’s name’s Gipson; an you’ll not find many o’ that name in this country. No, sir.”

After which he heaved a sigh, and relapsed into himself. As to Pat, he took no notice of this confidence imparted to him, but went on with his Irish lamentation.

“Ow—O-o-o-o-ow—to only think—this bit ov a boat sure—an in the wide an impty say—an me a bindin meself to the only safety; for the ship-wracked sayman must always bind himsilf to a mast. And, O-o-o-o-o-o-o-w, but it was a bitter, crool thing, so it was, to tear a poor boy from his solitary rifuge—an dhrive him here into a bit ov a boat—to sail over the impty say—an from the last rifage—where safety was, an O-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-ow! but it’s the croolty ov it that braks me heart!”

The summary treatment with which the boys had disposed of Pat, was not to be applied to Solomon, or to Captain Corbet. They tried to coax these, and persuade them.

Solomon, however, was obdurate.

“My ’vice to you, boys, an you, in tiklar, mas’r Bart,” said he, “is to clar out ob dis yer sinkin schooner, ef yer don want to git a duckin ob de wustest sort. She’s a goin down—you’d betta believe—dat’s so.”

“O, come, come, Solomon; we can’t wait. You’re making us all risk our lives,” said Bart, imploringly, coaxing him as he would coax an insane man. “Come along; don’t keep us here. The schooner’ll sink and drag the boat down, if we don’t keep farther away.”

“Darsn’t,” said Solomon. “Couldn’t, darsn’t—no how.”

“O, come.”

“Darsn’t—fraid ob dat ar ole woman, wid de broomstick, de tongs, de fence-pole, an de red-hot gridiron. Tell you what, it stings—it does, dreadful—it does so—”

“O, come. She shall never trouble you. Never.”

“Who’s to go skewrity fer dat ar statement? Nobody can skewer her. No. Better be drownded, dan walloped to def with hay-forks. Nobody can skewer dat ar ole woman, dough; gracious sakes, she knows how to skewer me ebery time she lay hand on a pitchfork or a meat-skewer. Yah, yah, yah!”

At this ill-timed levity Bart and the others turned away in despair and disgust.

They hurried aft.

There stood the venerable Corbet. As they drew near he gave a start, and a smile came over his reverend countenance.

“Wal, boys,” said he, in a tone of kindly welcome, “how d’ye do? Pleased to see you.”

He spoke precisely as if he was receiving a call from some favorite guests. The tone pained the boys, and distressed them greatly.

“Captain,” said Bruce, hurriedly, “the Antelope’s sinking. A moment more and you’ll be lost. Come with us in the boat. Come.”

And, laying his hand on the captain’s arm, he sought to drag him away.

But the captain quietly though firmly, disengaged himself.

“Excuse me, young sir,” said the venerable navigator, very politely; “but I’m captain of this here craft; an, being sich, I ain’t got no call to leave her till the last man. You git to your boat, an I’ll retire when the time comes.”

The captain spoke with dignity. He announced a principle which involves the highest duty of every commander of a ship, and the boys knew it. His dignity overawed them.

“But come now, captain,” said Bart, “there isn’t a moment to lose.”

“I ain’t a goin ever to hev it written on my tume,” said the captain, in a calm voice, “that me—Captain Corbet—ever desarted his post, or forgot his umble dooty as commander of a vessel. No, the Antelope’ll see that her captain’s jist as much principle an honor as any of them swell navigators that sail in clipper ships over the boosom of the briny deep.”

At this moment there was a long-drawn, bubbling, gurgling sound, that came up from the hold of the Antelope, and startled the boys exceedingly.

“Come, come, captain,” cried Bruce. “She’s sinking now. There isn’t a moment to spare.”

“Wal, boys, you jist hurry off into that thar boat, an don’t mind me. I know my dooty. You can’t expect me to leave this here deck till the last man. It don’t signify argufyin. Hurry off.”

At this moment there was another sound; something between a gasp and a gurgle. It seemed like the death-rattle of the Antelope.

“She’s going down, boys!” cried Bart.

Involuntarily they retreated towards the boat. But here they paused yet again, for there was a brief respite, and the Antelope was yet afloat.

“Won’t you come, captain?” cried Bart.

“O, all right,” said Captain Corbet, waving his hand; “all right. You jest get aboard the boat. Don’t you mind me. Remember, I’m the captain, an I’ve got to be the last man.”

This seemed to the boys like a promise to follow them.

“Come along, boys,” said Bart. “He’ll get into the boat if we do. He wants to be last.”

Saying this, the three boys clambered over the Antelope’s side, and it was with a feeling of relief that they found themselves once more in the boat.

“Now, captain,” cried Bruce, “hurry up. Come, Solomon. Captain, make Solomon come on board, and then you’ll be the last man.”

Captain Corbet smiled, and made no reply. As for Solomon, he merely muttered something about “dat ar ole woman” and “gridiron.”

The Antelope was low in the water. The deck was near the level of the sea. Instinctively, Tom, who was holding the rail, pushed away, and the boat moved off a little distance. Yet they could not leave those two infatuated men to their fate, though the instinct of self-preservation made them thus move away slightly.

“Captain! Solomon! Captain! Solomon! Make haste! O, make haste!” Such were the cries that now came from those in the boat.

Captain Corbet smiled as before, and nodded, and said,—

“O, it’s all right; all right. Don’t mind me. I’m all right. I know what I’m about.”

At this the Antelope gave a very unpleasant roll, and settled heavily on one side; then her bows sank down, and a big wave rolled over it.

“She’s sinking!” cried Tom, in a voice of horror. The other boys were silent. They seemed petrified.

But the Antelope struggled up, and gradually righted herself. Her deck was nearer the level of the sea than ever. This last incident, however, had been sufficient to shake the nerves of one of those two on board. As she settled on one side, Solomon sprang back, and, as the wave rolled over her bows, he gave one jump over the side and into the sea. He sank under, but a moment afterwards his woolly head emerged, and he struck out for the boat. There a dozen arms were outstretched to save him, and he was finally hauled in.

“Drefful times dese,” said he, as his teeth chattered, either from terror or from cold. “Drefful times. Didn’t ’gage in dis yer vessel to go swimmin about de Atlantic Oceum. Queer way to serve as cook—dis yer way. An dar ain’t a dry stitch ob clothin about—dat’s so; an what ebber I’se a goin to do beats me. S’pose I’se got to set here an shibber de next tree weeks. Catch me ebber a ’barkin aboard sich a schooner as dis yer. Any ways, I ain’t goin to sail in dis yer Antelope agin. Cotch me at it—dat’s all.”

But the boys heard nothing of this.

All their attention was now taken up with Captain Corbet.

He stood at the stern at his usual post, holding the tiller with both hands. He looked at the boys.

“Boys,” said he, “I’m the last aboard.”

“O, Captain Corbet! Come, come. Make haste!” they cried.

He shook his venerable head.

“This here,” said he, “boys, air the act an the doin of Fate. I did hope that the Antelope an me’d grow old, an finally die together, though not on the briny deep. It hev allus ben a favorite idee to me, that the lives of both of us, me and the Antelope, was kind o’ intermingled, an that as we’d ben lovely an pleasant in our lives, in death we’d be not divided. For the Antelope an me’s knowed each other long, an lived, an ben happy together, in fair weather an foul. The Antelope’s allus ben faithful and terew. She’s had all my confidences. She’s allus been gentle an kind, and you’ll never, never find a better friend than the old Antelope. Many’s the time she’s bore me through sleet an snow. Many’s the time she’s borne me through fog an rain. Many’s the time she’s bore me past rocks an reefs. So long as I stuck to old Fundy, so long the Antelope was safe an sound. I used to boast as to how I could navigate old Fundy. I was wrong. ’Twan’t me; it was the Antelope that navigated; for I never had a sexton aboard, nor a quadruped, nor a spy-glass, nor any of them newfangled gimcracks, savin an except a real old-fashioned, apostolic compass, as is mentioned by Paul in the Acts. And why? Why, cos the Antelope was allus able to feel her own way through rain an fog, an frost an snow—past shoals, an flats, an reefs, an was allus faithful. But, in a evil hour, I took her out of her native waters. I led her afar over the deep blue sea, up to the Gulf of St. Lawrence. There our woes began. But even there the Antelope was terew an tender. But it was too much. We come back. She had never ben thar before. She lost her way. Then she found it. We got to Sable Island an Chester. Then we put out agin. An then agin she lost her way. It was my fault, not hern. She lost her way in this fog, an she went aground. She couldn’t help it. In Fundy she never ran aground, ’cept when nessary; an it was me that brought her to this. An now what hev I got to do? I’ve got this to do—that if I’ve led my Antelope to ruin, I won’t survive her. No. We’ve been lovely an pleasant in our lives, an in death we ain’t goin to be divided.”

The boys did not hear one half of this, but interrupted the speaker constantly with their entreaties that he would save himself. Captain Corbet, however, was too much taken up with his own thoughts to notice what they said. He was like one who soliloquizes.

“O, captain!” cried Bart, with a final effort; “think of your wife—think of your, your, a—baby—”

“My babby!” said Captain Corbet. “My babby! Ah, young sir, when you mention my babby, you don’t know that you tetch a cord in this parentual heart that throbs responsive. That thar is the strongest emotion that inspires this aged breast; but, young sir, dooty air powerfuller than love, an even that pe-recious infant has less claims on me at this moment than my Antelope. For my Antelope has ben the friend that’s ben faithful in thousand perls; that’s ben my refuge an my solace in times of persecution. Yes, young sirs, in the days when a bold an violent woman disturbed my peace, by dashin a pail full of cold water over my head—at such times the Antelope hav took me to her heart; an can I ever cease to be affectionate an kind to thee, who’s ben so terewly kind to me—my Antelope? No, no; young sirs. Go, an tell my beloved one—my offspring—my inspired babby—that his parent, the aged Corbet, died a marchure’s death; died like a hero, a standin’ at his post; which post was the rudder-post of the Antelope. Tell him that; an tell him, tew, that, though dooty bound the feyther to the Antelope, yet still that feyther’s last thoughts was of his belessed babe.”

At this point the Antelope gave another lurch, and rolled far over. Captain Corbet stopped abruptly, and stiffened his sinews, and clutched the tiller with a tighter grasp. The boys looked on with horror in their faces and in their hearts.

It was a moment of awful expectation.

They had cried, and bawled, and yelled till they were hoarse. They had prayed and entreated Captain Corbet to save himself. All in vain.

But now the time for entreaty had passed.

Suddenly the Antelope rolled back, and then her bows sank. A huge wave rolled over her, followed by others, which foamed from bow to stern. Then all the sea settled itself over the sinking schooner.

The Antelope was going down!

The hull disappeared!

The rail sank under water!

But Captain Corbet stood at his post, erect, rigid, his hands clasping the tiller. Beneath him the Antelope sank down into the sea. Around him the waters rolled.

They rolled about his knees; about his thighs; about his waist. His venerable hair fluttered in the breeze; his eyes were fixed, with a rapt and abstracted air, on vacancy.

The boys looked on in horror. Instinctively they pushed the boat back out of the reach of the waters that ingulfed the Antelope, so as to avoid being carried down into that vortex.

The waters rolled about the form of the aged navigator, and so he descended with his beloved Antelope, till they were above his waist.

The boys could no longer cry to him. They were petrified with horror. They sat, with white faces, awaiting the end.

CHAPTER XXIII.

A painful thing it was to see the Antelope thus sinking into the sea; to view the waters thus rolling over her familiar form from bows to stern; to see the boiling foam of the ingulfing billows; but how much more terrible it was to see the sacrifice of a human life; the voluntary self-destruction of a human being, and of one, too, who had been their guide, their revered and beloved friend! They had no cause for self-reproach. They had done all that they could. His own will had brought him to this. Still the spectacle was no less terrible to all of them, and there was no less anguish in their souls as they saw him—the meek, the gentle, the venerable Corbet,—thus descending, by his own free will, and by his own act, into the dark abyss of this unknown sea.

And so they watched with pallid faces, and with agonized hearts for the end.

The ancient mariner sank down, as has been said, with his sinking schooner, and his feet were overwhelmed by the rushing flood, and his ankles, and his knees, and his thighs, and at length he stood there with the waters about his waist, and his mild eyes fixed upon vacancy.

Another moment, and they expected to see that venerable and beloved form disappear forever from their gaze.

But that venerable form did not, in fact, disappear.

That venerable form remained stationary,—the waters reaching as far as the waist: thus far, but no farther. The lower half had disappeared beneath the sea, but the upper half still remained to bless and cheer their eyes. Corbet still lived! But it was what an artist might call a Torso of Corbet.

Corbet thus had sunk into the unfathomable depth of ocean up to his waist, but after that he sank no more. Higher than that the waters did not rise. He stood in that rigid attitude already described, grasping the tiller, and thus steadying himself,—upright, firm as a rock, and so he stood after the waters had risen to his waist.

The hull of the Antelope had disappeared. But still her masts and rigging rose above the waters, and above the head of Corbet, and these sank no farther, but remained at the same height above the sea.

Astonishment seized upon all of them, Corbet included. What was it that had caused this wonder? Was it because the hull was too buoyant to sink any farther? Was it because there was still some air left inside the hull which prevented the schooner from sinking altogether? This they might have thought had they not been made wiser through their recent experiences. By these they now knew that on these seas there were sand banks and shoals; and, therefore, what was more natural than that, the Antelope had sunk in some place where there happened to be, just beneath her, a convenient shoal which had received her sinking hull? It was certainly a very curious sea,—a sea which seemed to abound in such shoals as these; but whatever might be the character of that sea, this fact remained, that the Antelope had sunk in less than a couple of fathoms of water.

And so it was that the heroic and devoted resolve of the venerable and high-minded captain was baffled, and his descent into the depths of the ocean was arrested. For there lay the Antelope, resting upon some place not far beneath the sea, with her masts still high above water, and with the person of her gifted commander half submerged and half exposed to view; and there stood that venerable commander up to his waist in water, but unable to descend any farther; a singular, a wonderful, an unparalleled spectacle; unaccountable altogether to those whose eyes were fastened upon it.

But the thought of a shoal or sand bank soon came, and so they began to understand the state of affairs. The Antelope had sunk, not into an unfathomable abyss in mid-ocean, but upon some sand bank. Where or what that sand-bank might be, they did not then take time to consider. Whether it was some part of one of the Banks of Newfoundland, or the slowly declining shore around Sable Island, or some other far different and far removed place, did not at that time enter into the sphere of their calculations. Enough it was for them that the terror had passed; that the grim spectacle of death and destruction before their very eyes had been averted; that Corbet was saved.

Till this moment they had not been aware of the greatness of their anguish. But now the reaction from that anguish made them acquainted with its intensity, and in proportion to their late sufferings was now their joy and rejoicing. At the first movement of the Antelope towards a descent into the sea, they had instinctively and very naturally moved their boat farther away, so as to avoid being sharers of the fate which Captain Corbet seemed to desire; but now, after the first danger was over, and the first emotions of amazement and wonder had subsided, they rowed nearer. They believed that now Captain Corbet would listen to reason, and that, having done so much in obedience to the call of duty, he would be willing to save himself.

And now, as they rowed nearer, the boat floated over the rail of the sunken schooner, and came close up to the half-submerged commander.

“Come, captain,” said Bart, in a voice that was yet tremulous with excitement, “jump in. There’s plenty of room. You—you—don’t—don’t want to be standing in the water this way any longer, of course.”

To this remark Captain Corbet made no reply in words, but he did make a reply in acts, which were far more eloquent. He seized the side of the boat at once, and scrambling in, sank down, wet and shivering, in the stern, alongside of those other obstinate and contumacious ones—Pat, Wade, and Solomon. And so it was that at last, after so much trouble, those four, who had at first been so unmanageable, now were assembled on board the boat into which they had once refused to enter.

The delight of the boys was as great as their grief had been a short time before, and no other thought came into their minds than that of the happy end that had occurred to a scene that had promised such disaster. The fact that their situation was one of doubt and uncertainty, perhaps peril, did not just then occur to them. It was enough joy for them that Captain Corbet had been snatched from a watery grave; and so they now surrounded him with careful attention. Bruce offered him a biscuit; Bart asked about his health; Tom urged him to wring out the water from his trousers; and Phil, who was next to him in the boat, fearing that he might feel faint, pressed upon him a tin dipper full of water.

Captain Corbet took the proffered draught and raised it to his lips. A few swallows, however, satisfied him, and he put it down with some appearance of haste.

“As a gen’ral thing,” said he, in a tone of mild remonstrance, “I don’t use sea water for a beverage. I kin take it, but don’t hanker arter it, as the man said when he ate the raw crow on a bet.”

“Sea water!” exclaimed Phil. “Did I?”

He raised the water to his own lips, and found that it was so.

“Then we’ve taken sea water in this keg,” he cried, “and we haven’t any fresh.”

At this dreadful intelligence consternation filled all minds.

“Who filled that keg?” asked Bruce, after a long silence.

“Sure I did,” said Pat.

“You! and how did you happen to make such a mistake?” cried Bart.

“Sure ye said to fill the kegs with wather, an didn’t say what kind; so I jist tuk the say wather, because it was most convaynient.”

At this amazing blunder the boys were dumb, and stared at Pat in silence. Words were useless. The mistake was a fatal one. The fresh water had gone with the Antelope to the bottom. Where or when could they hope to get any more? Who could tell how long a time, or how great a distance, might now separate them from the land? Bad enough their situation already had been, but this opened up before them the prospect of unknown sufferings.

“O, don’t talk to me about water,” said Captain Corbet, in lugubrious tones, squeezing his hands, as he spoke, over his thighs and shins, so as to force the water out of his clothes. “Don’t you go and talk to me about water. I’ve hed enough, an don’t want ever to see any agin. Why, it kem up as high as my waist if it kem a inch. An now what’s to hender me a fallin a helpuless victim to rheumatiz. O, I know it. Don’t tell me. I know what’s a goin to come to this ferrail body. Thar’s rheumatiz acute and chronic, an thar’s pleurisy, an thar’s lumbago, an thar’s nooralgy, an thar’s fifty other diseases equally agonizin. An dear, dear, dear, dear! But how dreadful wet it did feel, to be sure! dear, dear, dear, dear! An here am I now, with my tendency to rheumatiz, a settin here in my wet clothes, an not a dry stitch to be had for love or money. Wal, I never knowed anythin like this here, an I’ve lived a life full of sturrange vycissitudes—from bad to wuss has ben our fate ever sence we sot foot on this here eventfual vyge; an ef thar’s any lesson to be larned from sech doins an car’ns on as this here, why, I ain’t able to see it. An now what am I to do? What’s a goin to become of me? No dry clothes! No fire to dry myself! Rheumatiz before me! lumbago behind me! pleurisy on each side o’ me! such is the te-rific prospect of the blighted bein that now addresses you.”

The boys paid but little attention to Captain Corbet’s wailings. They had other troubles more serious than these prospective ones. They could not help, however, being struck by the thought that it was a little odd for a man who had just been snatched so narrowly from a terrible death to confine all his attention and all his lamentations to such a very ordinary circumstance as wet clothes. He who had announced so firmly, a short time before, his calm and fixed intention of perishing with the Antelope, now seemed to have forgotten all about her, and thought only of himself and his rheumatiz. Could this be, indeed, Captain Corbet? Strange was the change that had come over him; yet this was not the only singular change that had occurred on this eventful day. They had witnessed others quite as wonderful in Solomon and Pat. These two, however, had now resumed their usual characteristics.

There they were, in a boat, all of them, but where? That was the question. The masts of the sunken Antelope rose obliquely out of the water, showing that she was resting on her side at the bottom. But what was that bottom, and where? Was it some lonely rock or reef? Was it some sand-bank or shoal like that upon which they had already gone aground, and where the Antelope had received those injuries which had at length wrought her ruin? None of them could answer this.

And where should they go? In what direction should they turn? This was the question that pressed upon them, and required immediate decision.

“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.”

“Come, boys, this bottom shoals in some direction. Let’s sound, and row on in the direction where it shoals. That’ll bring us to the shore.”

This suggestion, which came from Bruce, was at once acted on. Bart and Tom took the oars. Bruce took a hatchet which had been flung into the boat, and tying a line to it, used this as a sounding lead.

“Row gently,” said he.

The boys did so, following Bruce’s direction, while, holding his sounding-line, he tested the bottom. After a little while he had satisfied himself.

“It shoals in this direction,” said he. “Row straight on a dozen strokes.”

They did so.

Bruce sounded again.

“All right,” said he. “Row on.”

They rowed farther.

Bruce sounded again. The bottom was much shallower.

They rowed farther.

But now no sounding was any longer necessary, for there, straight before them, looming through the now lessening fog, they all descried the welcome sight of land.

CHAPTER XXIV.

At the sight of land a cry of joy burst forth from all in the boat, and Bart and Tom bent to their oars with all their force. As they drew nearer, they saw, to their intense delight, that this strange land was no wilderness, no desolate shore, but an inhabited place, with cultivated fields, and pasture land, and groves. One by one, new features in the landscape revealed themselves. There was a long beach, with a grand sweep that curved itself away on either side, till it joined steep or precipitous shores. Behind this were fields, all green with verdure, and a scattered settlement, whose white houses, of simple, yet neat construction, looked most invitingly to these shipwrecked wanderers. At one end of the winding beach rose the fabric of a large ship in process of construction.

Nearer they came, and yet nearer. The tide was high on the beach, and the waters almost touched the green fields that fringed the shore with alder bushes. Here a boat was drawn up, and beyond this stood a neat farm-house. On a fence nets were hanging, showing that the occupant of this house united the two callings of farmer and fisher. Beyond the settlement, the land rose into high hills, which were covered with forest trees, and from these had been wafted that aromatic breeze which had first made known to them the neighborhood of land.

All this time the breeze had been slightly increasing, and the fog had been steadily diminishing. Now the shores appeared in fuller outline. Looking back over their course, they could see the masts of the Antelope, where they projected above the water. They could see that they had drifted into a bay, and the Antelope had sunk into its shallowest part.

There was something in this scene which appeared to them strangely and most unaccountably familiar. All had the same feeling, yet not one of them expressed it. Each imagined that it was his own fancy; and so disturbed had their minds been for the past few days, that they felt unwilling now to indulge this fancy. Yet every moment the fancy grew stronger, and brought fresh wonder with it. In this way they rowed along, and every moment brought the boat nearer and nearer to the shore.

At length they saw a man come forth from the house before them, and advance towards the beach. His face was turned towards them; he was staring at them most intently. As the boat advanced, he advanced; and thus the two parties approached. Every moment revealed more and more of the opposite party to each.

Bart and Tom were rowing, and thus had their backs turned to the shore and their faces towards the sea outside. Here the fog was fast dispelling; and as it fled, there opened up mile after mile of the coast, and the sea horizon. There, on that horizon, there came forth out of the fog to their eyes a solitary object, that appeared to float upon the sea. It revealed itself more and more; and first, magnified and distorted by the mist, it seemed like a lofty table land of cloud then like a giant rock, but at length resolved itself into a wooded island with precipitous sides. There it lay full before them.

As it thus revealed itself, Tom uttered a wild shout. Bart instantly uttered another.

“Boys! Boys! Look! Look! Hurrah! Hur-ra-a-a-a-a-a-ah! Hurra-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-ah!!”

But at that very instant there arose a wild out cry—a clamor worse than theirs—from all the others in the boat. Solomon gave a yell, Captain Corbet started up, and ceased to stroke his legs. Bruce, Arthur, Phil, and Pat, with one wild cry, started erect to their feet, regardless of the swaying and rocking of the boat. And “Hurrah!” they cried. “Hurra-a-a-a-a-a-a-ah!! Hurra-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-ah!!!”

“Scott’s Bay! Ile Haute!” cried Tom and Bart.

“Scott’s Bay! Benny Grigg!” cried all the others.

“Scott’s-Grigg.”

“Benny-Haute.”

“Ile-Bay.”

“Benny-Bay.”

“Ile-Grigg.”

“Scott’s Haute.”

Such was the medley of cries that arose from all, shouting and yelling at once. While all the time there stood on the shore the man that had come down to meet them; who first had started and stared with amazement,—and who then, recognizing them all, and seeing the masts of the sunken schooner beyond, understood the whole situation, and rejoiced over it accordingly—showing his joy, indeed, in a less noisy and demonstrative manner than theirs, but in a way which was thoroughly characteristic.

For Benny suddenly turned, and started off to the house on a full run. Then he disappeared.

The boat drew nearer.

Benny appeared once more.

The boat touched the beach.

At that very instant Benny touched the beach also, and, plunging into the water, began shaking hands with every one of them, in the most violent, and vehement manner.

“Come along! Come along! Come right up! Come along! Don’t mind the boat. I’ll see to that. Come along to the house. Blowed if I ever see the likes o’ this in all my born days! Come along!”

Such was the welcome of Benny Grigg.

And in this way Benny dragged them all up to his house. Here he gave them another welcome, characterized by a lavish hospitality, and a warm-hearted friendliness that was truly delightful to his guests; in all of which he was seconded by Mrs. Benny. The table that was spread before them was loaded down with everything that the house could furnish, and the shipwrecked guests ate with an appetite such as is only known to those who have labored hard and fasted long.

After which Benny questioned them all closely, and made them tell him how it was that they had come here. Great was his astonishment, but greater still his amusement. Though it had so nearly been a tragedy, to hear it seemed like a comedy. There is but one step between the sublime and the ridiculous—the terrible and the grotesque—tragedy and comedy. Benny chose to regard it all from the lighter point of view, and accordingly he laughed with unrestrained hilarity, and made merry with exceeding mirth.

But after the story was all told, he grew more serious, and, producing a well-worn chart, he explained to them his theory as to their wanderings. He pointed out to them the probable place where the Antelope had struck, described the character of the tides and currents, and showed how it was that, with such a wind, and under such circumstances, they, very naturally, had drifted into this particular part of the Bay of Fundy. Benny’s explanation was indeed so very lucid, and so satisfactory, that they all expressed their regrets at not having known this before, in which case they would have been saved from much anxiety.

When they arrived at Scott’s Bay it was high tide, but by the time that they had finished their story and the conversation that had been caused by it, the tide was far down on the ebb. On going forth they could see that the deck of the Antelope had been uncovered by the retreating waters. In two or three hours more the tide would be at the lowest ebb, and they could see that it would be possible for them to visit the sunken schooner. It lay about a mile away from the beach, between which and her there extended long mud flats, which could easily be traversed at low water.

They waited till the tide was low, and then they all walked down to her.

There she lay—the Antelope—the vessel that had carried them so far, through strange seas, amid so many dangers and perils—the vessel associated with so many memories. They climbed on board. They saw that her hold was still full of water; for, though the crevices were numerous, and wide enough to let in the sea, they could not let it out with sufficient rapidity to keep pace with the fall of the tide. Still, the water streamed out in small jets, or trickled out, drop by drop, in a hundred places, affording them a very impressive sight of the true condition of the Antelope, and of the danger against which they had struggled so long and so laboriously.

“If the water’d ony get out of her,” said Captain Corbet, in a melancholy voice, “she might float ashore.”

“Yes,” said Benny, “she might float, perhaps, as far as the shore, but no farther, ’Tain’t no manner of uthly use a tryin to repair that thar craft, cos she’s ben an gone an got done for. She’s wore out, the wustest kind. That thar vessel ain’t wuth a tryin to repair her. It’s a mussy she held out so long, an didn’t go to pieces all of a suddent, somewhars in the middle of the sea.”

To this Captain Corbet made no reply. He felt keenly the truth of the remark, and could see that the Antelope was indeed beyond the reach of human aid.

The boys all climbed on board of the beloved, though battered old craft, to take a last look and a last farewell. It was with unconcealed sadness that they looked around. They could not go down into the cabin, or the hold, for the water was there; yet the deck was enough to remind them of that eventful past which they had experienced here. This was the schooner that had borne them on their cruise around Minas Bay; which had taken them around the Bay of Fundy when Tom was lost; which had afterwards taken them to the Bay de Chaleur. This was the schooner for whose appearance they had so watched and waited on board the water-logged Petrel, and which had lately borne them over so many miles of watery sea, through so many leagues of fog. And this was the end.

Captain Corbet it was that first broke the solemn silence.

“It air gone,” he said; “the derream hev bust! The berright derream of fortin, of wealth, an of perosperity. Gone, tew, air the ole Antelope—companion of my toils, my feelins, an my fame. Boys, you hev ben the confidants of my feelins towards this here Antelope, an knows how I loved her, yea, even as the apple of my aged eye! I stood here, not long sence, by yon rudder, fixed firm an solemn; resolved to perish with her; ready to sink into the deep blue sea. From that fate I was spared; yet still my feelins air the same; the heart’s the same—’twill ne’er grow cold. An now I feel to mourn. I feel that I am indeed a growin old. The days of my navigatin air brought to an end. Henceforth the briny deep will be traversed by the aged Corbet no more forever. From this time I retire from the heavin biller, an take refooge in my own vine an fig tree. My navigatin arter this’ll be, with my belessed babby in my arms, up an down the room. The only storms that await me now, an the only squalls, air to be of a sterictly domestic characture. Weak human natur, boys, might be tempted to repine, an to indulge in vain lamintations over this here; but the time hev passed. I’ve made my lamintation, an that’s enough. I’ll lament no more. Peace to her ashes. Let her lie, an may no rude hand go a disturbin of the beloved Antelope in her last restin-place. Let her lie buried here beneath the ocean. Let the billowy main sound her requem, an chant her foon’ral dirge. An now, farwell! an may you be happy! Good by, Antelope—ole friend—an receive, as your last legacy an benediction, the belessin of the mournful Corbet!”

He ceased. Silence followed, and in that silence they all retired from the Antelope, and returned to the shore.

CHAPTER XXV.

On reaching the shore they found it necessary to take into consideration the course of action that was now most advisable.

“We’ve got a few weeks yet of vacation, boys,” said Bart, “and if we want to enjoy ourselves, we’d better get out of this as fast as possible.”

“We ought, at any rate, to write to our fathers and mothers,” said Phil; “I don’t know what they’ll think.”

“Write!” said Bruce; “we’d better hurry off home our own selves, and not send letters. For my part, I’m ready to start off this evening for Grand Pré.”

“Grand Pré? But why Grand Pré?” asked Arthur.

“O, I don’t know,” said Bruce: “what other way is there to go? We’ll have to get away from this, of course; and it seems most natural to cross the mountain to Grand Pré, and then go on by stage. Bart could leave us at Windsor, and take the steamer for St. John.”

“Sure an the stage goes the other way altogether,” said Pat.

“How’s that?”

“Why, down the valley to Annapolis; an the steamer starts from that to St. John, so it does; an’ it’s twice as near, so it is.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Yes, it is. St. John is only sixty mile from Annapolis, and it’s more’n a hundred an twinty from Windsor.”

“But Annapolis is seventy or eighty miles from this place, and Windsor’s only thirty.”

“At any rate, it’s easier goin by the way of Annapolis.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Yes, it is; you go down the valley, so you do, an the other way you have to go up.”

“Pooh! nonsense! The Annapolis valley isn’t a hill. The fact is, from here to St. John it’s easier to go by the way of Windsor.”

“It’s further thin.”

“Yes,” said Phil, “it’s a hundred and fifty miles by the way of Windsor, and only a hundred and forty-seven by the way of Annapolis.”

“For my part,” said Bart, “I don’t fancy either way. What’s the use of talking about a hundred and fifty miles, when you need only go half that distance?”

“Half that distance? How?”

“Why, across the bay.”

“Across the bay? O! Why, that completely alters the case,” said Bruce.

“Of course.”

“Sure, but how can we go on fut across the bay? or by stage?” objected Pat.

“There don’t seem to be any schooner here,” said Arthur, looking all around.

All the others did the same, searching narrowly the whole line of coast. Nothing, however, was visible of the nature of a vessel. Boats there were, however, in plenty, quite commodious too, but none of them sufficiently large to take them so far as St. John.

“I’m afraid, Bart, your idea of getting to St. John by water won’t do,” said Bruce. “You’d better make up your mind to come along with us.”

“O, I’ll go, of course, along with you; we must stick together as long as we can; but we must settle, first of all, which is the best way to go. You’ll find it most convenient to come to St. John. You can go from there up the bay, and then go over to Prince Edward Island, easier than by any other route.”

“Well, I don’t know but that we can, at least as easy as any other way, and so I’ve no objection; but won’t it be best to go to Windsor, or, if you prefer it, to Annapolis?”

“Well, let’s find out, first of all, whether there is any chance of going by a more direct way. Old Bennie can tell us all about it.”

“Yes, yes,” said Tom, who had thus far taken no part in the discussion, “let’s ask old Bennie; he can tell us what’s best to do.”

With these words the boys walked on faster towards where old Bennie was sauntering about with Captain Corbet and Solomon. At the first mention of their wish Bennie energetically refused to say anything about it.

“You’ve got to stay here, boys—you’ve got to, you know; an thar’s no use talkin, an that’s all about it—thar now.”

This the good Bennie said over and over again, persisting in it most obstinately. At length Bart managed to secure his attention long enough to convey to him an idea of the circumstances in which they were, and especially the regard which they had for their respective parents. At the mention of this Bennie’s obstinacy gave away.

“Wal, thar, boys”, said he, “that thar does knock me, an I give up. The fact is, when I regard you, and think on what you’ve ben a doin on, an how you’ve ben adoin of it, an what sort of a craft you’ve ben a navigatin in, I feel as though the parients an guardins of sech as youns had ort to be pitied.”

In fact, Bennie’s commiseration for these anxious parents was so great that he changed his tactics at once, and instead of trying to keep the boys with him, he exhibited the utmost eagerness to hasten their departure.

“You can’t go straight off to St. John, boys, from this place, for there ain’t a schooner in jest now; but there’s a way of goin that’ll take you to that place faster, mebbe, than you could go if you went direct in a sailin craft. It’s to get off to the nighest place where the steamer touches.”

“What’s that?”

“Parrsboro’.”

“Parrsboro’? and how far is it?”

“O, only a few miles; it’s only jest round thar;” and Bennie swung his arm round over towards the right, indicating a vast extent of the earth’s surface.

“O, we all know Parrsboro’ perfectly well,” said Bart; “but when can we catch the steamer there?”

“Why, tomorrow, some time, at about half tide. The steamer comes up tonight, and goes down tomorrow. So, if you go to Parrsboro’ an take the steamer thar, you’ll be able to be in St. John quicker than if you went any other way.”

This intelligence at once settled the question completely. They all saw that to go by land part of the way would take up much longer time. Parrsboro’ was so near that it needed only to be mentioned for them all to adopt at once this plan. The only question now remaining was how to get there.

“Wal, there ain’t no trouble about that,” said Bennie. “Thar’s my boat—a nice, clean, roomy one; and I’ll engage to put you over in Parrsboro’ quick sticks. ’Tain’t big enough, quite, to take you to St. John; not because she couldn’t go there, for I’d a precious sight sooner cross the bay—yes, or the Atlantic Ocean—in her than in that old Antelope; but because she hain’t got good sleepin accommodations in case we was to be delayed, as would be very probable. She’s ony an open boat—a beautiful one for sailin in by day, an in fine weather, but not overly good for long vyges for reasons above mentioned, as you’ll observe, young gentlemen.”

“And can we get over there today?”

“Wal, let me see. The tide’s a leetle agin us, but bein as you’re anxious, I don’t know but what we might do it. There ain’t much wind about, an we may have to pull a bit; but we’ll do what we can, an then, you know, we’ve got all night afore us. Even at the wust we’re sure to get to Parrsboro’ before the steamer doos; for if the tide’s too much for us we can wait till it turns, and then go up with the flood. An so, if you’re bound to be off, why, here am I, in good order and condition, an at your service.”

Bennie now led the way to his boat, which was drawn up on the beach. It was an open fishing boat of large size, with one mast and sail. It was, as Bennie had said, quite clean and comfortable, and afforded a very pleasant mode of dropping over to the Parrsboro’ shore. Having once seen the boat, the boys were now all eager to be off. Bennie, however, insisted on their taking their dinner before starting. This they all consented to do very readily. The dinner was almost ready, and Bennie prepared for the voyage, which preparation consisted chiefly in moving the boat down over the beach to the water, which was some distance away.

Then followed the dinner, which was served up in the usual sumptuous style peculiar to Mrs. Bennie. After this followed a kindly farewell to their motherly hostess, and the boys followed Bennie to the beach, accompanied by the venerable Corbet and the aged Solomon.

It had been no slight task to move the heavy boat from the place where she had been lying all the way down to the water, for the tide was quite low, and the space intervening was considerable; but Bennie had accomplished the task with the help of some of his neighbors, and the boat now lay so that a slight push might suffice to set her afloat; and inside were some provisions prepared by the forethought of Mrs. Bennie, together with some wraps put there with an eye to some sudden assault of the fog. Everything was, therefore, very well ordered to secure the comfort of the travellers.

On the way to the boat the venerable Corbet and the aged Solomon were silent, and appeared overcome with emotion. This silence was first broken by Solomon.

“Tell ye what, chilen,” said he; “it am drefful hard for a ’fectionate ole nigga like me to hab to undergo dis yer operatium. Can’t stan it, no how; an donno what on erf I’se a gwine to do. Here I ben a romin ober the mighty oceam, feelin like de father an garden ob all of youns; and now it ’mos stracts dis yer ole nigga to tar his sef away. Blest if I ain’t like to break down like a chicken; an I ain’t got nuffin else to do. Darsen’t go on wid you, Mas’r Bart—darsen’t, no how. Fraid ob dat ar ole woman wid de gridiron. De aged Solomon hab got to become a pilgrin an awander on de face ob de erf. But I ain’t gwine to wander yet a while; I pose to make a bee-line for de Cad’my. I hab a hope dat de ole ’oman hab not got dar; an if so I be safe, an tany rate de doctor’ll take her in hand—he’s de boy—dat ar’s de identical gemman dat kin overhaul her an teach her her ‘p’s’ an ‘q’s.’ But what you’ll do, chilen, widout me to cook, and to carve, an to car for you, am more dan I can magine. Ony I truss we’m boun to meet agin afore long, an jine in de social band; an so you won’t forgit ole Solomon.”

The boys all shook him warmly by the hand, advising him to go by all means back to the Academy, and put himself at once under the protection of the doctor, who would defend him from all possible dangers arising out of his “ole ’oman.”

The mate, Wade, also received their farewells.

Thus far the venerable Corbet had been a mute spectator; his heart was full; his mind seemed preoccupied; he seemed to follow mechanically. At last he saw the moment come which must once more sever him from them, and with a long breath he began to speak.

“It air seldom, young sirs,” said he, “that I am called on to experience a sensation sich as that which this moment swells this aged boosom; an I feel that this is one of the most mournful moments of my checkered career. Thar’s a sadness, an a depression, an a melancholy, sich as I’ve seldom knowed afore. ’Tain’t altogether the loss of the friend of my youth. That air passed and gone—’tis o’er. I’ve met that grief an surmounted him. But it was a sore struggle, and the aged Corbet ain’t the man he once was. Consequently, I’m onmanned; I’m all took aback. It’s this here separation, boys dear, comin as it doos, hard an fast on the heels of the great calamity of the loved and lost Antelope. But it’s got to be.”—He paused and sighed heavily. “Yes,” he continued, pensively, “it’s got to be. You ain’t my sons; you’ve got parients an gardens that’s anxious about you an wants to see you, and no doubt hain’t got that confidence in me which they might have in some. But go you, boys dear, and tell all them parients an gardens that there ain’t a pang, an there ain’t a emotion, an there ain’t a anxiety, an there ain’t a grief that they’ve ever had for any of you that I haven’t had for every one of you. Tell them that there ain’t a tear that they’ve shed over you, but I’ve shed too; an there ain’t a sigh they’ve heaved what I haven’t heaved, and ain’t a groan they’ve groaned that I ain’t groaned too. Tell them that Corbet, with all his faults, loves you still, an that if you run into dangers and trials, thar wan’t a moment when he wouldn’t hev shed his heart’s blood to get you off safe and clear. Don’t let em run away with the idee that I’m a stony-hearted monster that’s ben a endangerin of your lives in divers places. I’m ready to be blamed for carlessness an ignorance, boys dear, but not for lack of affection. You know it, an I know that you know it, an what I want is for you all to make them know it too. For, boys dear, I’m a father, an I know a father’s heart, an I wouldn’t have the heart of any father made bitter against me.”

How long the venerable navigator would have gone on talking, it is impossible to say; indeed, it seemed now as if, after his long silence, his tongue, having once found voice, had become endowed with perpetual motion, and was ready to wag forever. But Bennie Grigg put on a stopper, and abruptly interrupted.

“All right, all right, my hearty,” said he; “I’ll engage that they’ll do all that; but thar ain’t no time to lose; so tumble in, boys, tumble in, and let’s get off so as to round the pint an take the flood tide as it runs up.”

Upon this the boys all shook hands hurriedly with Captain Corbet, one after another, and then each one “tumbled” into the boat. Captain Corbet, thus suddenly silenced, remained silent as he seized each one’s hand. Then Bennie called upon him and Solomon to help him shove off the boat. Then Bennie jumped in and hoisted the sail. Then the boat moved slowly away, bearing the “B. O. W. C.” and their fortunes.

“Good by, boys,” wailed Captain Corbet.

“Good by,” murmured the aged Solomon.

“Good by! Good by!” cried all the boys.

“We’ll meet soon,” said Captain Corbet.

“O, yes—in a few weeks,” cried Tom.

And so with frequent good bys the boat moved slowly from the beach, and slowly passed over the water till the forms of the aged Solomon and the ancient mariner were gradually lost to view.

CHAPTER XXVI.

The tide was coming up; some time had elapsed since the Antelope had sank, and it had sufficed for the ebb of the tide and its return to its flood. The wind also was light, and as they sought to get out of Scott’s Bay, they had the tide against them, and very little wind to favor them. At first they moved rather along the line of the shore than away from it, and though they lost sight of the figures on the beach, they did not therefore make any very great progress.

Scott’s Bay is enclosed in a circle of land formed by the Nova Scotia coast, which here rises high above the Bay of Fundy, and throws out a long, circling arm, terminating in a rugged, storm-beaten, and sea-worn crag, known as Cape Split. It was necessary to double this cape, and then go up the Strait of Minas to Parrsboro’, which place was at the head of the strait, inside Minas Basin, and rig opposite Cape Blomidon. In order to do this, either the wind or the tide ought to favor the navigator; but, unfortunately, on the present occasion, they were not thus favored.

“I had an idee,” said Bennie, after a long silence, “I had an idee that the wind would come up a leetle stronger out here, but it don’t seem to; an now I’ve a notion that it’s goin to turn. If so we’ll be delayed, but still you’ll be landed in Parrsboro’ time enough to catch the steamer. Only you may have to be longer gettin thar than you counted on.”

“O, we don’t care. Only get us there in time for the steamer, and we won’t complain.”

“Wal, it’s best to make up one’s mind for the wust, you know. The wind may change, an then we may be out half the night, or even all night. But, at any rate, I’ll put you through.”

“You needn’t think about any inconvenience to us. We’re only too grateful to you for putting yourself out so much, and none of us would care whether we were out all night or not. We’ve learned to rough it during the last two or three weeks.”

Bennie now diverted his gaze to the surrounding sea, and kept his eyes fixed upon it for a long time in silence, while the boys chatted together in the light-hearted manner peculiar to those who feel quite comfortable, and have no particular aversion even to a moderate amount of discomfort. Yet Bennie did not seem altogether at ease. There was a slight frown on his noble brow, and he did not show that genial disposition which generally distinguished him.

The wind was light and fitful. At first it had been favorable, but before long it changed. It did not grow stronger, indeed; yet still, though it continued light, the fact that it was acting against them made their prospects worse, and justified Bennie’s fears that they might be out all night. The distance was not great, being not more than fifteen miles or so; but their course was in such a direction that the opposition of wind and tide might delay them to a very uncomfortable extent. The spur of the coast line, which terminated in Cape Split, as has been said, and formed the bay, ran for about five miles, and this distance it was necessary to traverse before they could go up the Strait of Minas.

“I think, boys,” said Bennie, at last, “we’d best try the oars, for a while at least. We may save a tide. I don’t know, but at any rate we’d best try an see; for, you see, we’ve got the wind agin us now,—what thar is of it,—an thar’s no knowin how much wuss it may grow. If we could ony git around that pint afore the tide turned, we might save ourselves from spendin the night aboard. I did hope that the wind might favor us; but it’s changed since we started, an now I see we’d best prepar for the wust.”

“All right!” cried Bruce, cheerily; “we’re in for anything. We can pull as long as you like.”

Upon this the boys took the oars which were in the boat, and began to row. There were four oars. Bennie lowered the sail, and took the stroke oar, Bruce and Arthur took the next oars, and Bart the bow oar. They rowed in this way for about an hour, and then they changed, Arthur taking the stroke oar, Tom and Phil the next oars, and Pat the bow oar. Bruce soon relieved Arthur, and thus they rowed along.

The labor at the oars, far from being unpleasant, served to beguile the time. Those who were not rowing sang songs to enliven the labor of the rowers. Bennie was anxious to row all the time, but after the first hour he was not allowed to row any more, the boys declaring that it was enough for him to come with them, and that it was no more than fair that they should work their own way.

As they went, the wind increased somewhat, and, as the tide was strong, the two powers combined to oppose their progress. They therefore did not make the headway which was desirable, and after one hour of steady pulling they did not find themselves more than half way to Cape Split. Still, they did not become discouraged, but rowed bravely on, making the change above mentioned, and anticipating a turn for the better when once they had doubled the cape.

At length they reached the cape. More than two hours of hard rowing had been required to bring them there, and on reaching this place they saw Bennie’s face still covered with gloom and anxiety. What that might mean, they did not at first know; but they soon found out. At first, however, they were too much taken up with their own thoughts, and the natural pride which they felt at having attained the aim of so long and anxious an endeavor, to notice particularly any expression which Bennie’s face might assume. Besides, there was something in the scene before them which was sufficiently grand to engross all their thoughts.

Among the freaks of nature, so called, few are more extraordinary, and at the same time more impressive and sublime, than that which is afforded by this Cape Split. The whole northern shore of Nova Scotia, which borders on the Bay of Fundy, consists of a high ridge, known as the North Mountain. With one or two great chasms, like that at the entrance into Annapolis Basin, it runs along until it arrives at the Basin of Minas, where it terminates at the sublime promontory of Blomidon. Yet it hardly terminates here. Rather it may be said to turn about and seek once more to invade the water, which, for so many miles, it has defied; and thus turning, it advances for some miles into the Bay of Fundy, forming thus, by this encircling arm, Scott’s Bay, and finally terminating in Cape Split. Here, where the tides are highest, and the rush of the waters strongest, Cape Split arises,—wild, rough, worn by the sea, and scarred by the storm,—a triple series of gigantic peaks that advance into the profoundest depths of the Bay of Fundy, whose waters, at every ebb and flow of their tremendous tides, roll, and foam, and boil, and seethe about the base of the torn promontory. The cliffs of Blomidon rise precipitously, and Blomidon itself is the centre of attraction in the scenery of a vast circuit of country; but Blomidon itself, to a near observer, shows less wildness of outline and less of picturesque grandeur, than that which is revealed in the terrific outline of Cape Split. Taken in connection with all the surrounding landscape as its centre and heart, Blomidon is undoubtedly superior; but taken by itself alone, without any adjuncts save sea and sky, it is Cape Split that the artist would choose to portray upon the canvas, or the lover of the picturesque and the sublime to feast his eyes upon.

This, then, was the point which they had reached, and they saw before them a series of giant rocks towering aloft from the depths of the sea hundreds of feet into the air,—black, rough, without a trace of vegetation, thrusting their sharp pinnacles into the sky, while thousands of sea-gulls screamed about their summits, and myriads of sea-waves beat about their bases. There the tide rolled, and the ocean currents streamed to and fro, and the billows of the sea kept up perpetual war, assailing the flinty rock, and slowly wearing away, as they had been doing through the ages, atom by atom and fragment by fragment, the forms of these mighty bulwarks of the land.

This was the scene upon which they gazed as they reached Cape Split and prepared to enter into the Strait of Minas. But Bennie’s brow was dark, and Bennie’s brow was gloomy, and there were thoughts in Bennie’s mind which had no connection with any grandeur of scenery or beauty of landscape. For Bennie was thinking of the practical, and not of the picturesque; and so it was that the question of reaching Parrsboro’ was of far more importance to him than the glories and the grandeur and all the sublime attractions of Cape Split.

“Tell you what it is, boys,” said he, after a long and thoughtful silence, “we’ve missed it, an we’ve got to look sharp, or else we’ll miss it agen.”

“Missed it? Missed what?”

“What? Why, everything.”

“Everything. What do you mean?”

“Wal, it’s this con-founded tide.”

“What about it?”

“Why, you see,” said Bennie, scratching his grizzled head, “I thought we might git round the cape in time to catch the flood tide, and if so, it would carry us straight up to Parrsboro’; but, unfort’nately, we’ve jest missed it. We’ve took so much time in gittin here that we’ve lost the flood. The tide’s now on the ebb, an it’s clear agin us. What’s wuss, it runs down tremenjus, an it’ll be a leetle hard for us to git up anyhow; an, what’s wusser, thar’s goin to be a fog.”

“A fog!”

“Yes, a fog, an no mistake. See thar,”—and Bennie pointed down the bay,—”see thar. The wind’s ben a shiftin an’s finally settled into a sou-wester, an thar’s the fog a drawin in all round us, an before another half hour we’ll be all shut in, an won’t be able to see the other end of the boat. What’s wuss still, the fog is goin to be a reglar settled fog, an may last a fortnight; an the ony thing that I can see in our favor jest now is, that the wind is fair for us; but, unfortinately, the wind don’t seem to promise to be strong enough to carry us up agin the tide.”

“What! Can’t we get to Parrsboro’ in time for the steamer at all?”

“The steamer? O, yes, no doubt about that. But what I’m afeard on is, that we’ll be all night about it.”

“O, well, that can’t be helped. We can stand it. We’ve had worse things than this to stand of late, and this is mere child’s play.”

“Child’s play? Wal, I don’t know about that altogether,” said Bennie. “For my part, I don’t seem to see how goin’ without sleep’s child’s play, as you call it; but still I’m glad all the same that you look on it in this way; I am railly.”

“O, you needn’t give any thought to us. We’re old stagers. We’ve been shipwrecked and we’ve lived on desert islands. We’ve risked our lives a dozen times in a dozen days. Fellows that have been cast ashore on Anticosti and on Sable Island, can’t be frightened at anything that you can mention.”

“After my life on Ile Haute out there,” said Tom, looking at the dim form of Ile Haute, which was even then being enveloped in the gathering fog, “I think this is mere child’s play.”

“And after my adventures in the woods,” said Phil, “I’m ready for anything.”

“Pat and I,” said Bart, “have known all the bitterness of death, and have felt what it is to be buried alive.”

“An meself,” said Pat, “by the same token, have known what it is to bathe in the leper wather, so I have; an what’s fog to that?”

“Well,” said Arthur, “I’ve had my turn off Anticosti in the boat, Tom and I.”

“And I,” said Bruce, “have had my turn at the Five Islands; so you see you’ve got to do with a lot of fellows that don’t care a rush for fogs and tides, and all that sort of thing.”

“Wal, young fellers,” said Bennie, “I knock under, I cave in. I won’t say anything more. You’re all the right sort, an are ready for anything. So come along; an here goes for Parrsboro’. You’ve got to be up all night; but arter all, you’ve got wraps and rugs, an bread an butter, an pie, an can keep yourselves warm, an can have enough to eat,—’so what’s the odds, as long as you’re happy?’ I ain’t a croaker, I ain’t, but go in for bein cheerful, an if you ain’t goin to knock under, why I ain’t, an so let’s be jolly an move on.”

Saying this, Bennie hoisted his sail once more. The wind was light, but fair, and the only question now was, whether that wind would be strong enough to carry the boat against the tide. As to the tide, that was certainly sufficiently strong, but unfortunately it was unfavorable. The tide had turned, and was running down the Strait of Minas, up which they wished to go. The tide was thus adverse, and in addition to this was the fog.

The fog!

Yes, the fog, the dreaded, the baleful fog, was coming on. Already Ile Haute was concealed from view. Soon the opposite shore would be veiled. Worse than all, the night was coming on. With fog and darkness united, their way would be uncertain indeed.

Fortunately for them, the way was a straight one, and the wind, though not very strong, and though opposed by the tide, was yet fair. This much was in their favor.

And so they spread their sails. And the wind filled the sails, and the boat went on. The tide was against them, but still the boat advanced. Some progress, at last, was made. Hour after hour passed, and still they went on. Bennie seemed to be quite encouraged. At last they came to a wide beach.

“Hurrah!” said Bennie, “we’re here at last. This is the place, lads. We’re at Parrsboro’! Hurrah!”

CHAPTER XXVII.

It had been a most eventful day for all the boys, and when they stepped ashore it was nine o’clock in the evening. They looked around with some curiosity, for they saw no signs of houses just here, though the fog had diminished greatly, and it was not so dark but that they could see the outline of the shore.

“Now, boys,” said Bennie, “here you are. You see that island in front,—well, Parrsboro’ is just behind that, and not more’n half a mile off by land. It’s too far to go round it in the boat; so we’ll leave her here, and I’ll show you the way along the shore.”

With these words, Bennie drew up the boat a little distance, and secured it by putting the anchor out upon the beach. After this he started off, and the boys followed. Bennie walked along the beach, occasionally explaining the different objects around, pointing out Blomidon, Partridge Island, and other places, all familiar enough, and needing only to be mentioned to be recognized by the boys.

At length they came in sight of a number of houses on the side of a hill close by a cove. Lights shone in the windows, and everything had a most inviting appearance.

“Here you air, boys,” said Bennie, “an here I’ll leave you, for you can find your way on easy enough. You’ve only got to foller your noses. I’ve got to go back an drop down with the tide so as to git to Cape Split before the wind goes down. An so I’ll bid you good by.”

The boys made no effort to detain him, for they knew well that the return would be tedious, and had no desire to keep him away from his home any longer than they could help. So they all shook hands with him, thanking him earnestly, and promising, in obedience to his reiterated request, to pay him a visit on their return to school. Bennie now left them and returned to his boat, in which he embarked and set sail for Scott’s Bay. The boys went on. The village was reached in a short time, and they walked to the inn.

On entering the parlor of the inn, they were accosted by the landlord, and the following conversation took place.

“Can you give us accommodation for the night?”

“O, yes.”

“And get us some tea as quick as you can, for we’re starving?”

“You can have it in half an hour.”

“That’s right. We’ve just come over from Scott’s Bay, and have had no end of a tug. We want to take the steamer here to St. John.”

“O, ye’ll be wantin to wait for the steamer.”

“Yes; it’s the only thing for us to do; and I’m precious glad we’ve got such good quarters.”

“O, ay. Parrsboro’s a good place to stop at. There be people that stops here weeks an months, an says as how it’s one of the best places goin. I can put yes on the way to the best streams for salmon an trout in the country; an ye can have a nice boat if ye want to go over to Blomidon; it’s a mighty fine place over there, and folks finds cur’ous minerals; an if ye want deep-sea fishin, why, out there a mile or two in the bay ye can get no end of cod.”

“O, for that matter, we haven’t any idea of sporting. We’re in too much of a hurry. Just get us a tea and bed, and I suppose we’ll have time to get breakfast tomorrow?”

The landlord stared.

“Time? Breakfast?”

“Yes; before the steamer comes, you know.”

“Before the steamer comes?” repeated the landlord, dubiously.

“Yes; I suppose she won’t touch here too early but that we’ll have time for breakfast?”

“Breakfast? When? Tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“Why, there’s no steamer comes tomorrow.”

“What!”

At that astonishing intelligence, all the boys started up to their feet from the easy lounging attitudes into which they had flung themselves, and surrounding the landlord, stared at him with speechless amazement.

“What’s that?” cried Bruce, at last; “no steamer tomorrow?”

“No; O, dear, no.”

“Why—why—when does she come here?”

“Why, she was here this morning, and won’t be here again till this day week.”

“This morning?”

“Yes; she was here about ten o’clock.”

“This morning! Ten o’clock!”

“Jest so.”

Once more the boys subsided into silence. All was plain now. Bennie had utterly mistaken the day of the steamer. It was not an unlikely thing for him to do, living as he did in an out-of-the-way place, and having no interest in the steamer’s movements. But the mistake had been made, and there was the stolid fact that no steamer would touch at Parrsboro’ for a whole week to come.

The landlord now went off to prepare their tea, and the boys, left to themselves, discussed the situation in a low, melancholy, and utterly dispirited way. At length tea made its appearance—a bounteous repast. The well-loaded table gave a new turn to their thoughts, and as they sat down with ravenous appetites to partake of the same, they felt that they had something still left to live for.

After tea they resumed the discussion of the situation. It seemed to them now not by any means so forlorn and gloomy as it had done before tea, for then they were weary, worn out, and half starved; but now, thanks to the generous repast, they all felt life, and strength, and hope, and looked out upon life and its vicissitudes with the utmost equanimity. So great is the effect which is produced upon the mind by a good dinner! They now invited the landlord to take a share in their discussion, and in order to enable him to do so to the best advantage, they enlightened him as to the immediate cause of their presence here, informing him about the voyage of the Antelope, her mournful fate, and Bennie Grigg’s kindness in bringing them to Parrsboro’. Bennie had indeed been very kind, and had put himself to no end of trouble for their sakes, and was even at that time, perhaps, thinking, with a glow of satisfaction, of them, little dreaming how completely, though unintentionally, he had deceived them.

The first thing the landlord advised, after hearing all this, was, that they had better wait till the steamer came. He offered, if they did so, to put them in the way of all the sport that the country could afford,—fishing of all kinds, shooting too, and excursions to places of interest. But the landlord’s offer was not very gratefully received. It was, in fact, rejected at once most peremptorily. Wait a week! And in Parrsboro’! Impossible! It was not to be thought of for a moment.

What else was there to do?

To this question the landlord showed two answers. One thing to do was to go by land; another thing, to try to find some schooner, and go by water. As to the land route he had much to say. There was a mail stage that ran every week to New Brunswick, but as it went only on steamboat days, and as it would not go for another week, they found no help here. The landlord, however, pointed out to them the fact that they could hire a wagon and travel in that way. He offered to furnish them with a commodious wagon, and a very nice pair of ponies that would take them through to Dorchester, in New Brunswick, where they could catch the steamer for St. John, or go in the mail stage. But, unfortunately, on reckoning up the time and distance, they found that it would take about four days to perform their journey in this way.

The water route still remained. Could they not find a schooner that was about leaving? The landlord rather thought they could. One way would be to wait till some schooner passed by on its way down the bay, and board her. He felt certain that any coaster would land them at St. John. Another way would be to go to Mill Village,—a part of Parrsboro’, which lay about a mile off, behind a hill,—and look up a vessel among the numerous ones which at that time happened to be in port. Both of these suggestions seemed good, and the boys felt sanguine that something might result. They therefore dismissed the idea of going by land, and resolved to wait at least one day, to see whether they might not find some schooner which would take them down the bay.

It was very late when this discussion was finished, and the boys, whom excitement had thus far sufficed to keep awake, now yielded to the combined influence of fatigue and sleepiness, and retired for the night. That night passed in profound slumber, and the dawn of day still found them in deep sleep. It was after ten o’clock before any one of them awoke; and even then, so sleepy were they that they did not feel inclined to get up. But they had work before them, and so they managed to dress themselves and put in an appearance at breakfast, which had been waiting for them for two or three hours.

Then followed a journey to Mill Village. It was a beautiful day; all the fog was gone; there was not a cloud in the sky; the water was rippled by a gentle breeze from the north, and its blue surface seemed more inviting than ever. It seemed to promise them a pleasant return to their home if they would only trust themselves once more to it.

The landlord had a wagon all ready for them, and a short drive brought them to Mill Village. It was rather larger and busier than the little settlement where the inn was, and they noticed with delight three schooners in port. On reaching the place they hurried about, making inquiries. But the result of the inquiries was not very cheering. The first schooner which they visited was about leaving for Windsor, to take in a load of plaster, which would occupy a week, after which she would sail for Boston. Schooner the second would not leave for a fortnight, for she was waiting for a cargo of deals. Schooner the third was even worse. She was not seaworthy, and the skipper was hesitating between repairing her and condemning her. On making inquiries further as to the probability of other vessels being available along the coast, they could learn nothing. And this was the result of their journey, and with this they had to satisfy themselves as best they might. There was nothing now left but to return to the inn.

It was one o’clock when they reached the inn. They were all disheartened, and did not know exactly what to do. Dinner over, they began once more to discuss the situation; and the more they discussed it the more they found it necessary to hire the landlord’s team and set out to make the long, roundabout land journey. But it was now too late to set out on this day, and it would be necessary to wait till the morrow. This, then, was the conclusion to which they came; and having reached it, they began to feel more settled in their minds.

It was about three o’clock when this question was at last settled, and weary with their long discussion, they all went out to stroll about the village and along the beach. The village was not much to speak of. Some half dozen houses, with their attendant barns, comprised it all. The beach, however, was very much indeed. To the right, Partridge Island arose, lofty, rugged, wooded, projecting into the Strait of Minas. Opposite was a long line of precipitous cliff, which terminated in Blomidon. The beach began at Partridge Island, and ran on in a long, curving line for more than two miles, covered with pebbles, and sloping gradually to the water. The view was remarkably beautiful. On the right, the rugged, wooded island; in front, the long line of cliff on the opposite side of the strait; farther in, the sublime form of Blomidon; on the left, the beach, winding far away till it terminated in a promontory, beyond which spread the wide waters of the Basin of Minas, terminated in the dim distance by the far-off line of coast.

And there, as they strolled along the beach, they became aware of an object on that wide sheet of water which filled them all with the most intense interest. A sail!

Yes; there was a sail there, and it was moving towards them—towards the Strait of Minas. Doubtless it was some vessel on its way down the bay. It was a schooner bound, perhaps, for Boston—or perhaps for St. John. What mattered it? Enough that it was going down the bay.

One wild shout of joy burst forth from all that forlorn party as they recognized the truth. Here came deliverance; here came a way of escape; they were saved. Other times they had known when the sight of an approaching vessel would have been the assurance of escape from something worse than this, of course; but their situation now, though not perilous, was monotonous, and wearisome, and doleful, and altogether miserable; and so they naturally hailed this new appearance with shouts of joy.

But how to get to her was now the question.

How? Easily enough. Had not the landlord already suggested a way? Had he not promised to furnish them with a boat, with which they might board any passing vessel? Boats there were, in plenty, along the shore, and any one of these would suffice for their purpose. There was no time to lose. The schooner was coming quickly on, borne by wind and tide; they must make haste.

And they did make haste.

Hurrying back to the inn, they acquainted the landlord with the new state of affairs. That worthy, though loath to lose his lodgers, was still honest and sympathetic enough to use all energy towards furthering their desires, and proposed at once to take to the boat. As for the boys, they all felt perfectly sure that this schooner would take them; and so they insisted on paying their bills and taking a final leave of the inn.

The boat was launched without any trouble, and soon was passing over the waters, impelled by oars in the hands of Bruce, Arthur, Bart, and Tom. The schooner came on, nearer and nearer, and finally came within hail.

“Schooner, ahoy!”

“Boat, ahoy!”

“Where are you bound?”

“Schooner Dart—St. John.”

“All right. We want to go aboard.”

In a few moments the boat was alongside, and the boys were all aboard. They waved a farewell to the landlord, who dropped astern, and then turned to the skipper to make known their wants.

The first look which they gave to the skipper, who was standing there before them, was enough to fill them with surprise and delight. In that broad, thick-set frame, and that honest, jovial face, they recognized an old friend and a cherished one—one, too, who was associated with the memories of former adventures; in fact, no other than Captain Pratt. At so strange and unexpected a meeting they were all filled with amazement. One cry burst from them all,—

“Captain Pratt!”

The worthy Pratt, on his part, was no less surprised, and, it must be added, no less delighted.

“Why, boys, where in the world have you sprung from? Have you been a cruisin about Minas Basin ever since? It looks like it; but railly now—it can’t be—it can’t railly.”

“Well, not exactly,” said Bart, who then and there began to give a brief outline of the adventures of the “B. O. W. C.” since the time of their visit to Pratt’s Cove, where they had last parted with their worthy friend.

Never was there a pleasanter meeting. It was altogether unexpected, yet not unnatural, for Captain Pratt was a frequent cruiser over these waters, and was now, as he informed them, on his way to St. John with a cargo of deals. The jovial captain made them tell the whole story of all their adventures since they had last parted with him, in the Bay of Fundy, in the country about the Bay de Chaleur, in the Gulf of St. Lawrence, at Anticosti, Sable Island, and Mahone Bay, and thus acquainted himself with every particular of the wonderful story which they had to tell. The worthy captain regarded it all as a joke, and at every fresh incident his homeric laughter burst forth in long, irrepressible peals.

But such a story occupied some time in the narration, and before it was ended the schooner was far out of the Strait of Minas, beyond Ile Haute, in the Bay of Fundy. On one side lay the Nova Scotia shore, on the other the coast of New Brunswick. Before them extended the waters of the bay.

Night came, and they all slept. On the following day, in the afternoon, they reached St John.

Their adventures for a time were over. Bart took all his friends to his own home, where they spent two or three days.

Then they separated, Phil going to Nova Scotia, and Bruce, Arthur, and Tom to Prince Edward Island. Pat remained with Bart for the rest of the holidays.