"If we keep the breeze on our left, and Dick looks sharp out in front, we are bound to come either on the Sprit or the shore.

Try it for a bit." So they tried; rowing gingerly, and steering by the breeze on their cheeks, while Dick, ahead, strained his eyes into the soaking mist.
They may have made another mile, and still the mist wrapped them round.
They had no idea where, they were.

They might be close to the Rock, or they might have drifted down the coast, or they might be coming on to the Race again.
Still, anything seemed better than lying idle, and they paddled steadily on, hoping against hope for a single glimpse of daylight through the veil.
Suddenly Dick held his hand above his head, and shouted-- "Easy! Hold hard!" And they could just see a dark object ahead on the water.
It couldn't be the rock, for it was too small; and they could hardly imagine it to be part of the pier, or a boat on the beach.
They shouted; and, in a moment, an answer came, "Ahoy, there!" and they knew they had come upon a fishing-boat at anchor.
"It's one of the fleet, waiting to get in.

We'd better go alongside, and wait with them," said Freckleton.
So Dick shouted to say they were coming, and they rowed carefully alongside.
The first sight that met Dick's astonished eyes, as he reached across to seize the gunwale of the friendly boat, was Tom White, sitting comfortably smoking in the stern.
"Good day, young gentlemen," said that worthy.

"Can't keep away from us, can't yer ?" "Hullo, Tom! We've lost our way in the mist," said Cresswell.