This news was received sadly by the boys, and Captain Corbet had to exert his utmost to rouse them from their depression, but without much effect.

“I don’t know how it is,” said he, plaintively, “but somehow your blues air contiguous, an I feel as ef I was descendin into a depression as deep as yourn.  I don’t remember when I felt so depressed, cept last May—­time I had to go off in the Antelope with taters, arter I thought I’d done with seafarin for the rest of my life.  But that thar vessel war wonderously resussutated, an the speouse of my buzzum druv me away to traverse the sea.  An I had to tar myself away from the clingin gerasp of my weepin infant,—­the tender bud an bulossum of an old man’s life—­tar myself away, an feel myself a outcast.  Over me hovered contennooly the image of the pinin infant, an my heart quivered with responsive sympathy.  An I yearned—­an I pined—­an I groaned—­an I felt that life would be intoll’ble till I got back to the babby.  An so it was that I passed away, an had scace the heart to acknowledge your youthful cheers.  Wal, time rolled on, an what’s the result?  Here I air.  Do I pine now?  Do I peek?  Not a pine!  Not a peek!  As tender a heart as ever bet still beats in this aged frame; but I am no longer a purray to sich tender reminiscinsuz of the babby as onst used to consume my vitals.”

Thus it was that the venerable captain talked with the boys, and it was thus that he sought, by every possible means, to cheer them up.  In this way the day passed on, and after five or six hours they began to look for a turn of tide.  During this time the schooner had been beating; and as the fog was as thick as ever, it was impossible for the boys to tell where they were.  Indeed, it did not seem as though they had been making any progress.

“We’ll have to anchor soon,” said the captain, closing his eyes and turning his face meditatively to the quarter whence the wind came.

“Anchor?”

“Yes.”

“What for?”

“Wal, you see it’ll soon be dead low tide, an we can’t go on any further when it turns.  We’ll have wind an tide both agin us.”

“How far have we come now?”

“Wal, we’ve come a pooty considerable of a lick now—­mind I tell you.  ’Tain’t, of course, as good as ef the wind had ben favorable, but arter all, that thar tide was a pooty considerable of a tide, now.”

“How long will you anchor?”

“Why, till the next tarn of tide,—­course.”

“When will that be?”

“Wal, somewhar about eleven o’clock.”

“Eleven o’clock?”

“Yes.”

“Why, that’s almost midnight.”

“Course it is.”

“Wouldn’t it be better to cruise off in the bay?  It seems to me anything is better than keeping still.”

“No, young sir; it seems to me that jest now anythin is better than tryin to cruise in the bay, with a flood tide a comin up.  Why, whar d’ye think we’d be?  It would ony take an hour or two to put us on Cape Chignecto, or Cape d’Or, onto a place that we wouldn’t git away from in a hurry,—­mind I tell you.”