“Why, we’re clear out beyond Squirrel!” exclaims Mabel at last.  “Ask Payne where we’re going to stop for our picnic.  I’m getting hungry.”

“Oh, yes,” says Payne, “we must be thinking about landing.  I had planned to run out to Damariscove; but that looks like a fog bank hanging off there.  Perhaps we’d better go back to Fisherman’s Island, after all.  Tell her Fisherman’s.”

I couldn’t see what the fog bank had to do with it—­not then, anyway.  Why, it was a peach of a day,—­all blue sky, not a sign of a cloud anywhere, and looked like it would stay that way for a week.  He keeps the Vixen headed out to sea for awhile longer, and then all of a sudden he circles short and starts back.

“Fog!” he shouts over his shoulder to Mabel.

“Oh, bother!” says Mabel.  “I hate fog.  And it is coming in too.”

Yes, that bank did seem to be workin’ its way toward us, like a big, gray curtain that’s bein’ shoved from the back drop to the front of the stage.  You couldn’t see it move, though; but as I watched blamed if it don’t creep up on an island, a mile or so out, and swallow it complete, same as a picture fades off a movie screen when the lights go wrong.  Just like that.  Then a few wisps of thin mist floats by, makin’ things a bit hazy ahead.  Squirrel Island, off to the left, disappears like it had gone to the bottom.  The mainland shore grows vague and blurred, and the first thing we know we ain’t anywhere at all, the scenery’s all smudged out, and nothin’ in sight but this pearl-gray mist.  It ain’t very thick, you know, and only a little damp.  Rummy article, this State of Maine fog!

Young Hollister is standin’ up now, tryin’ to keep his bearin’s and doin’ his best to look through the haze.  He slows the engine down until we’re only just chuggin’ along.

“Let’s see,” says he, “wasn’t Squirrel off there a moment ago?”

“Why, no,” says Vee.  “I thought it was more to the left.”

“By Jove!” says he.  “And there are rocks somewhere around here too!”

Funny how quick you can get turned around that way.  Inside of three minutes I couldn’t have told where we were at, any more’n if I’d been blindfolded in a cellar.  And I guess young Hollister got to that condition soon after.

“We ought to be making the south end of Fisherman’s soon,” he observes.

But we didn’t.  He has me climb out on the bow to sing out if I see anything.  But, say, there was less to see than any spot I was ever in.  I watched and watched, and Payne kept on gettin’ nervous.  And still we keeps chuggin’ and chuggin’, steerin’ first one way and then the other.  It seemed hours we’d been gropin’ around that way when——­

“Rocks ahead!” I sings out as something dark looms up.  Payne turns her quick; but before she can swing clear bang goes the bow against something solid and slides up with a gratin’ sound.  He tries backin’ off; but she don’t budge.