“I’ve allus said,” remarked Captain Corbet, “that in navigatin this here bay, tides is more important than winds, and anchors is more important than sails.  That’s odd to seafarin men that ain’t acquainted with these waters, but it air a oncontrovartible fact.  Most of the distressin casooalties that happen hereabouts occur from a ignorance of this on the part of navigators.  They will pile on sail.  Now, in clar weather an open sea, pile it on, I say; but in waters like these, whar’s the use?  Why, it’s flyin clar in the face of Providence.  Now look at me—­do I pile on sail?  Not me.  Catch me at it!  When I can git along without, why, I git.  At the same time, I don’t think you’ll find it altogether for the good of your precious health, boys, to be a movin about here in the fog at midnight.  Better go below.  You can’t do no good a settin or a standin up here, squintin through a darkness that might be felt, an that’s as thick as any felt I ever saw.  So take my advice, an go below, and sleep it off.”

It was impossible to gainsay the truth of Captain Corbet’s remarks, and as it was really midnight, and the darkness almost as thick as he said, the boys did go below, and managed to get to sleep in about a minute and a half after their heads touched the pillows.

Before they were awake on the following day the anchor was hoisted, and the Antelope was on her way again.

“Here we air, boys,” said the captain, as they came on deck, “under way—­the Antelope on her windin way over the mounting wave, a bereasting of the foamin biller like all possessed.  I prophesy for this day a good time as long as the tide lasts.”

“Do you think we’ll get to Eastport harbor with this tide?”

“Do I think so?—­I know it.  I feel it down to my butes.  Eastport harbure?  Yea!  An arter that we hev all plain-sailin.”

“Why, won’t the fog last?”

“I don’t car for the fog.  Arter we get to Eastport harbure we cease goin down the bay.  We then cross over an steal up the other side.  Then it’s all our own.  If the fog lasts, why, the wind’ll last too, an we can go up flyin, all sails set; an I’ll remuve from my mind, for the time bein, any prejudyce that I have agin wind at sails.”

“Do you intend to go ashore at Eastport?”

“Yes, for a short time—­jest to make inquiries.  It will be a consolation, you know.”

“Of course.”

“Then I’ll up sail, an away we’ll go, irrewspective of tides, across the bay.”

By midday the captain informed them that they were in Eastport harbor.

“See thar,” said he, as he pointed to a headland with a light-house.  “That thar is the entrance.  They do call this a pootyish place; but as it’s this thick, you won’t hev much chance to see it.  Don’t you want to go ashore an walk about?”

“Not if we can help it.  Of course we’ll have to ask after poor Tom, but we haven’t any curiosity.”