I’m talkin an talkin, boys, but it’s a solemn time with me.  On me, boys, rests the fate of that lad, an I’ll scour these here seas till he turns up, ef I hev to do it till I die.  Anxious?  Yes, I am.  I’m that anxious that the diskivery of the lost boy is now the one idee of my life, for which I forget all else; but allow me to say, at the same time, that I fully, furmly, an conshuentiously bleve an affum, that my conviction is, that that thar lad is bound to turn up all right in the end—­right side up—­with care—­sound in every respect, in good order an condition, jest as when fust shipped on board the good schooner Antelope, Corbet master, for Petticoat Jack, as per bill ladin.”

The captain’s tones were mournful.  He heaved a deep sigh as he concluded, and relapsed into a profound and melancholy silence.

The boys waited on deck for some time longer, and finally followed his advice, and sought refuge below.  They were young and strong, and the fatigue which they felt brought on drowsiness, which, in spite of their anxiety, soon deepened into sleep.  All slept, and at length Captain Corbet only was awake.  It was true enough, as he had said, the fate of the lost boy rested upon him, and he felt it.  His exhortations to the boys about keeping up their courage, and his stories about lost men who had drifted to a final rescue, were all spoken more with reference to himself than to them.  He sought to keep up his own courage by these words.  Yet, in spite of his efforts, a profound depression came over him, and well nigh subdued him.  No one knew better than he the many perils which beset the drifting boat in these dangerous waters—­the perils of storm, the perils of fog, the perils of thick darkness, the perils of furious tides, the perils of sunken rocks, of shoals, and of iron-bound coasts.  The boys had gone to sleep, but there was no sleep for him.  He wandered restlessly about, and heavy sighs escaped him.  Thus the time passed with him until near midnight.  Then he roused the mate, and they raised the anchor and hoisted the sails.  It was now the turn of tide, and the waters were falling again, and the current once more ran down the bay.  To this current he trusted the vessel again, beating, as before, against the head wind, which was still blowing; and thus the Antelope worked her way onward through all that dark and dismal night, until at last the faint streaks of light in the east proclaimed the dawn of another day.

Through all that night the boys slept soundly.  The wind blew, the waves dashed, but they did not awake.  The anchor was hoisted, and the sails were set, but the noise failed to rouse them.  Weariness of body and anxiety of mind both conspired to make their sleep profound.  Yet in that profound sleep the anxiety of their minds made itself manifest; and in their dreams their thoughts turned to their lost companion.  They saw him drifting over the stormy waters, enveloped in midnight darkness, chilled