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To keep his head to the wind he paddled slowly, listening for any

sound of a boat.

Another hour passed and darkness began to come down. The pearly

gray fog lost its color and became black, like smoke from a

burning oil-tank. He knew the sun was below the horizon. He

wondered if any of the other men had been caught. If none were

gone but himself, he reasoned, the schooner would have come in

search of him.

So, from listening for the horn of a dory, he tried to catch the

hoarse voice of a patent fog-horn that would be grinding on the

forecastle head.

By this time the wind was a gale, and he knew it was driving him

astern, despite his rowing. The waves were no longer the little

choppy seas that the Lass had encountered since leaving Freekirk

Head, but hustling, slopping hills that attacked him in endless

and rapid succession. His progress was a continuous climb to one

summit, followed by a dizzying swoop into the following depth.