Jules Verne - "The Mysterious Island"

Charles Ives - "Essays Before a Sonata"

John Lothrop Motley - "History of the United Netherlands, 1588"

Stephen Crane - "Maggie: A Girl of the Streets"

New Philadelphia Book Publisher Highlights Local Talent
Book and Publishing News from Publishers Newswire(tm)

Looking for Child to be on Cover of a New Book, 'The Model Child'
PHILADELPHIA, Pa. -- The Philadelphia literary world will celebrate the launch of two new players today, April 10th: Kay Square Press, a new publishing company focused on Philadelphia-area artists, their stories, and their art; and Kay Square's first release, 'With the Rich and Mighty: Emlen Etting of Philadelphia' (ISBN: 978-0-9815129-0-7), a critical biography by Kenneth C. Kaleta.

FlatSigned Press Alleges Don Imus Remarks Damage Legacy of President Gerald R. Ford
NEW YORK, N.Y. -- Nathan Yungerberg, an accomplished model scout and professional child photographer is launching a nation-wide casting call to find the cover model for his highly anticipated book release, 'The Model Child: A Parents Guide to the Child Modeling Industry' (ISBN: 978-0-9817018-0-6).

Books: Lost in the Fog

J >> James De Mille >> Lost in the Fog




"All right," said Tom.

He stooped, and took the box of biscuit in his arms.

At that time the tide was running down very fast, and the boat,
caught by the tide, was forced out from the schooner with such a
pressure that the rope was stiffened out straight.

Tom made one step forward. The next instant he fell down in the
bottom of the boat, and those on board of the schooner who were
looking at him saw, to their horror, that the boat was sweeping
away with the tide, far down the river.






V.

A Cry of Horror.--What shall we do?--Hard and fast.--Bart and
Bruce.--Gloomy Intelligence.--The Promontory.--The Bore of the
Petitcodiac.--A Night of Misery.--A mournful Waking.--Taking
Counsel.





A cry of horror escaped those on board, and for some time they
stood silent in utter dismay.

"The rope wasn't tied," groaned Arthur.

"Yes, it was," said Captain Corbet; "it bruk; catch me not tyin it.
It bruk; see here!" and he held up in the dim light the end of the
rope which still was fastened to the schooner. "I didn't know it
was rotten," he moaned; "'tain't over ten year old, that bit o'
rope, an I've had it an used it a thousand times without its ever
thinkin o' breakin."

"What can we do?" cried Arthur. "We must do something to save
him."

Captain Corbet shook his head.

"We've got no boat," said he.

"Boat! Who wants a boat?"

"What can we do without a boat?"

"Why, up anchor, and go after him with the schooner."

"The schooner's hard and fast," said Captain Corbet, mournfully.

"Hard and fast?"

"Yes; don't you notice how she leans? It's only a little, but
that's a sign that her keel's in the mud."

"I don't believe it! I won't believe it!" cried Arthur. "Come,
boys, up with the anchor."

As the boys rushed to the windlass, Captain Corbet went there, too,
followed by the mate, and they worked at it for some time, until at
last the anchor rose to the surface.

But the Antelope did not move. On the contrary, a still greater
list to one side, which was now unmistakable, showed that the
captain was right, and that she was actually, as he said, hard and
fast. This fact had to be recognized, but Arthur would not be
satisfied until he had actually seen the anchor, and then he knew
that the vessel was really aground.

"Do you mean to say," he cried at last, "that there is nothing to
be done?"

"I don't see," said Captain Corbet, "what thar is to be done till
the schewner muves."

"When will that be?"

"Not till to-morrow mornin."

"How early?"

"Not before eight o'clock."

"Eight o'clock!" cried Arthur, in horror.

"Yes, eight o'clock. You see we had to come in pooty nigh to the
shore, an it'll be eight o'clock before we're floated."

"And what'll become of poor Tom?" groaned Arthur.

"Wal," said the captain, "don't look on the wust. He may get
ashore."

"He has no oar. The oar was thrown aboard of the schooner."

"Still he may be carried ashore."

"Is there any chance?"

"Wal, not much, to tell the truth. Thar's no use of buo-oyin of
ourselves up with false hopes; not a mite. Thar's a better chance
of his bein picked up. That thar's likely now, an not unnatooral.
Let's all don't give up. If thar's no fog outside, I'd say his
chances air good."

"But it may be foggy."

"Then, in that case, he'll have to drift a while--sure."

"Then there's no hope."

"Hope? Who's a sayin thar's no hope? Why, look here; he's got
provisions on board, an needn't starve; so if he does float for a
day or two, whar's the harm? He's sure to be picked up
eventooally."

At this moment their conversation was interrupted by a loud call
from the promontory. It was the voice of Bruce.

While these events had been taking place on board the schooner,
Bruce and Bart had been ashore. At first they had waited patiently
for the return of the boat, but finally they wondered at her delay.
They had called, but the schooner was too far off to hear them.
Then they waited for what seemed to them an unreasonably long time,
wondering what kept the boat, until at length Bruce determined to
try and get nearer. Burt was to stay behind in case the boat
should come ashore in his absence. With this in view he had walked
down the promontory until he had reached the extreme point, and
there he found himself within easy hail of the Antelope.

"Schooner ahoy!" he cried.

"A-ho-o-o-o-y!" cried Captain Corbet.

"Why don't you come and take us off?" he cried.

After this there was silence for some time. At last Captain Corbet
shouted out,--

"The boat's lost."

"What!"

"The boat's adrift."

Captain Corbet said nothing about Tom, from a desire to spare him
for the present. So Bruce thought that the empty boat had drifted
off, and as he had been prepared to hear of some accident, he was
not much surprised.

But he was not to remain long in ignorance. In a few moments he
heard Arthur's voice.

"Bruce!"

"Hallo!"

"The boat's gone."

"All right."

"TOM'S ADRIFT IN HER!"

"What!" shouted Bruce.

"TOM'S ADRIFT IN HER."

At this appalling intelligence Bruce's heart seemed to stop beating.

"How long?" he dried, after a pause.

"Half an hour," cried Arthur.

"Why don't you go after him?" cried Bruce again.

"We're aground," cried Arthur.

The whole situation was now explained, and Bruce was filled with
his own share of that dismay which prevailed on board of the
schooner; for a long time nothing more was said. At length
Arthur's voice sounded again.

"Bruce!"

"Hallo!"

"Get a boat, and come aboard as soon as you can after the tide
turns."

"All right. How early will the tide suit?"

"Eight o'clock."

"Not before?"

"No."

After this nothing more was said. Bruce could see for himself that
the tide was falling, and that he would have to wait for the
returning tide before a boat could be launched. He waited for some
time, full of despair, and hesitating to return to Bart with his
mournful intelligence. At length he turned, and walked slowly back
to his friend.

"Well, Bruce?" asked Bart, who by this time was sure that some
accident had happened.

"The boat's adrift."

"The boat!"

"Yes; and what's worse, poor Tom!"

"Tom!" cried Bart, in a horror of apprehension.

"Yes, Tom's adrift in her."

At this Bart said not a word, but stood for some time staring at
Bruce in utter dismay.

A few words served to explain to Bart the situation of the
schooner, and the need of getting a boat.

"Well," said Bart, "we'd better see about it at once. It's eleven
o'clock, but we'll find some people up; if not, we'll knock them
up."

And with these words the two lads walked up from the river bank.

On reaching the houses attached to the shipyard, they found that
most of the people were up. There was a good deal of singing and
laughter going on, which the boys interpreted to arise from a
desire to celebrate the launching of the ship. They went first to
Mrs. Watson's house, where they found that good lady up. She
listened to their story with undisguised uneasiness, and afterwards
called in a number of men, to whom she told the sad news. These
men listened to it with very serious faces.

"It's no joke," said one, shaking his head. The others said
nothing, but their faces spoke volumes.

"What had we better do?" asked Bruce.

"Of course ye'll be off as soon as ye can get off," said one.

"The lad might have a chance," said another. "The return tide may
drift him back, but he may be carried too far down for that."

"He'll be carried below Cape Chignecto unless he gets to the land,"
said another.

"Isn't there a chance that he'll be picked up?" asked Bart.

The man to whom he spoke shook his head.

"There's a deal of fog in the bay this night," said he.

"Fog? Why, it's clear enough here."

"So it is; but this place and the Bay of Fundy are two different
things."

"A regular sou-wester out there," said another man.

"An a pooty heavy sea by this time," said another.

And in this way they all contributed to increase the anxiety of the
two boys, until at last scarce a ray of hope was left.

"You'd better prepare yourselves for the worst," said one of the
men. "If he had an oar he would be all right; but, as it is--well,
I don't care about sayin what I think."

"O, you're all too despondent," said Mrs. Watson. "What is the use
of looking on the dark side? Come, Bart, cheer up. I'll look on
the bright side. Hope for the best. Set out on the search with
hope, and a good heart. I'm confident that he will be safe. You
will pick him up yourselves, or else you will hear of his escape
somewhere. I remember two men, a few years ago, that went adrift
and were saved."

"Ay," said one of the men, "I mind that well. They were Tom
Furlong and Jim Spencer. But that there boat was a good-sized
fishing boat; an such a boat as that might ride out a gale."

"Nonsense," said Mrs. Watson. "You're all a set of confirmed
croakers. Why, Bart, you've read enough shipwreck books to know
that little boats have floated in safety for hundreds of miles. So
hope for the best; don't be down-hearted. I'll send two or three
men down now to get the boat ready for you. You can't do anything
till the morning, you know. Won't you stay here? You had better
go to bed at once."

But Bart and Bruce could not think of bed.

"Well, come back any time, and a bed will be ready for you," said
Mrs. Watson. "If you want to see about the boat now, the men are
ready to go with you."

With those words she led the way out to the kitchen, where a couple
of men were waiting. Bart and Bruce followed them down to a boat-
house on the river bank, and saw the boat there which Mrs. Watson
had offered them. This boat could be launched at any time, and as
there was nothing more to be done, the boys strolled disconsolately
about, and finally went to the end of the promontory, and spent a
long time looking out over the water, and conversing sadly about
poor Tom's chances.

There they sat late in the night, until midnight came, and so on
into the morning. At last the scene before them changed from a
sheet of water to a broad expanse of mud. The water had all
retired, leaving the bed of the river exposed.

Of all the rivers that flow into the Bay of Fundy none is more
remarkable than the Petitcodiac. At high tide it is full--a mighty
stream; at low tide it is empty--a channel of mud forty miles long;
and the intervening periods are marked by the furious flow of
ascending or descending waters.

And now, as the boys sat there looking out upon the expanse of mud
before them, they became aware of a dull, low, booming sound, that
came up from a far distant point, and seemed like the voice of many
waters sounding from the storm-vexed bay outside. There was no
moon, but the light was sufficient to enable them to see the
exposed riverbed, far over to the shadowy outline of the opposite
shore. Here, where in the morning a mighty ship had floated,
nothing could now float; but the noise that broke upon their ears
told them of the return of the waters that now were about to pour
onward with resistless might into the empty channel, and send
successive waves far along into the heart of the land.

"What is that noise?" asked Bruce. "It grows louder and louder."

"That," said bart, "is the Bore of the Petitcodiac."

"Have you ever seen it?"

"Never. I've heard of it often, but have never seen it."

But their words were interrupted now by the deepening thunder of
the approaching waters. Towards the quarter whence the sound arose
they turned their heads involuntarily. At first they could see
nothing through the gloom of night; but at length, as they strained
their eyes looking down the river, they saw in the distance a
faint, white, phosphorescent gleam, and as it appeared the roar
grew louder, and rounder, and more all-pervading. On it came,
carrying with it the hoarse cadence of some vast surf flung ashore
from the workings of a distant storm, or the thunder of some mighty
cataract tumbling over a rocky precipice.

And now, as they looked, the white, phosphorescent glow grew
brighter, and then whiter, like snow; every minute it approached
nearer, until at last, full before them and beneath them, there
rolled a giant wave, extending across the bed of the river,
crescent-shaped, with its convex side advancing forwards, and its
ends following after within short distance from the shore. The
great wave rolled on, one mass of snow-white foam, behind which
gleamed a broad line of phosphorescent lustre from the agitated
waters, which, in the gloom of night, had a certain baleful
radiance. As it passed on its path, the roar came up more
majestically from the foremost wave; and behind that came the roar
of other billows that followed in its wake. By daylight the scene
would have been grand and impressive; but now, amid the gloom, the
grandeur became indescribable. The force of those mighty waters
seemed indeed resistless, and it was with a feeling of relief that
the boys reflected that the schooner was out of the reach of its
sweep. Its passage was swift, and soon it had passed beyond them;
and afar up the river, long after it had passed from sight, they
heard the distant thunder of its mighty march.

By the time the wave had passed, the boys found themselves
excessively weary with their long wakefulness.

"Bart, my boy," said Bruce, "we must get some rest, or we won't be
worth anything to-morrow. What do you say? Shall we go back to
Mrs. Watson's?"

"It's too late--isn't it?"

"Well, it's pretty late, no doubt. I dare say it's half past two;
but that's all the more reason why we should go to bed."

"Well."

"What do you say? Do you think we had better disturb Mrs. Watson,
or not?"

"O, no; let's go into the barn, and lie down in the hay."

"Very well. Hay makes a capital bed. For my part, I could sleep
on stones."

"So could I."

"I'm determined to hope for the best about Tom," said Bruce, rising
and walking off, followed by Bart. "Mrs. Watson was right.
There's no use letting ourselves be downcast by a lot of croakers--
is there?"

"No," said Bart.

The boys then walked on, and in a few minutes reached the ship-
yard.

Here a man came up to them.

"We've been looking for you everywhere," said the man. "Mrs.
Watson is anxious about you."

"Mrs. Watson?"

"Yes. She won't go to bed till you get back to the house. There's
another man out for you, up the river."

"O, I'm sorry we have given you all so much trouble," said Bart;
"but we didn't think that anybody would bother themselves about
us."

"Well, you don't know Mrs. Watson that's all," said the man,
walking along with them. "She's been a worrytin herself to death
about you; and the sooner she sees you, the better for her and for
you."

On reaching the house the boys were received by Mrs. Watson. One
look at her was enough to show them that the man's account of her
was true. Her face was pale, her manner was agitated, and her
voice trembled as she spoke to them, and asked them where they had
been.

Bart expressed sorrow at having been the cause of so much trouble,
and assured her he thought that she had gone to bed.

"No," said she; "I've been too excited and agitated about your
friend and about you. But I'm glad that you've been found; and as
it's too late to talk now, you had better go to bed, and try to
sleep."

With these words she gently urged them to their bedroom; and the
boys, utterly worn out, did not attempt to withstand her. They
went to bed, and scarcely had their heads touched the pillows
before they were fast asleep.

Meanwhile the boys on board the Antelope had been no less anxious;
and, unable to sleep, they had talked solemnly with each other over
the possible fate of poor Tom. Chafing from their forced inaction,
they looked impatiently upon the ebbing water, which was leaving
them aground, when they were longing to be floating on its bosom
after their friend, and could scarcely endure the thought of the
suspense to which they would be condemned while waiting for the
following morning.

Captain Corbet also was no less anxious, though much less agitated.
He acknowledged, with pain, that it was all his fault, but,
appealed to all the boys, one by one, asking them how he should
know that the rope was rotten. He informed them that the rope was
an old favorite of his, and that he would have willingly risked his
life on it. He blamed himself chiefly, however, for not staying in
the boat himself, instead of leaving Tom in it. To all his remarks
the boys said but little, and contented themselves with putting
questions to him about the coast, the tides, the wind, the
currents, and the fog.

The boys on board went to sleep about one o'clock, and waked at
sunrise. Then they watched the shore wistfully, and wondered why
Bart and Bruce did not make their appearance. But Bart and Bruce,
worn out by their long watch, did not wake till nearly eight
o'clock. Then they hastily dressed themselves, and after a very
hurried breakfast they bade good by to good Mrs. Watson.

"I shall be dreadfully anxious about that poor boy," said she,
sadly. "Promise me to telegraph as soon as you can about the
result."

Bart promised.

Then they hurried down to the beach. The tide was yet a
considerable distance out; but a half dozen stout fellows, whose
sympathies were fully enlisted in their favor, shoved the boat down
over the mud, and launched her.

Then Bart and Bruce took the oars, and soon reached the schooner,
where the boys awaited their arrival in mournful silence.






VI.

Tom adrift.--The receding Shores.--The Paddle.--The Roar of Surf--
The Fog Horn.--The Thunder of the unseen Breakers.--A Horror of
great Darkness.--Adrift in Fog and Night.





When the boat in which Tom was darted down the stream, he at first
felt paralyzed by utter terror; but at length rousing himself, he
looked around. As the boat drifted on, his first impulse was to
stop it; and in order to do this it was necessary to find an oar.
The oar which Captain Corbet had used to scull the boat to the
schooner had been thrown on board of the latter, so that the
contents of the boat might be passed up the more conveniently. Tom
knew this, but he thought that there might be another oar on board.
A brief examination sufficed to show him that there was nothing of
the kind. A few loose articles lay at the bottom; over these was
the sail which Captain Corbet had bought in the ship-yard, and on
this was the box of pilot-bread. That was all. There was not a
sign of an oar, or a board, or anything of the kind.

No sooner had he found out this than he tried to tear off one of
the seats of the boat, in the hope of using this as a paddle. But
the seats were too firmly fixed to be loosened by his hands, and,
after a few frantic but ineffectual efforts, he gave up the
attempt.

But he could not so quickly give up his efforts to save himself.
There was the box of biscuit yet. Taking his knife from his
pocket, he succeeded in detaching the cover of the box, and then,
using this as a paddle, he sought with frantic efforts to force the
boat nearer to the shore. But the tide was running very swiftly,
and the cover was only a small bit of board, so that his efforts
seemed to have but little result. He did indeed succeed in turning
the boat's head around; but this act, which was not accomplished
without the severest labor, did not seem to bring her nearer to the
shore to any perceptible extent. What he sought to do was to
achieve some definite motion to the boat, which might drag her out
of the grasp of the swift current; but that was the very thing
which he could not do, for so strong was that grasp, and so swift
was that current, that even an oar would have scarcely accomplished
what he wished. The bit of board, small, and thin, and frail, and
wielded with great difficulty and at a fearful disadvantage, was
almost useless.

But, though he saw that he was accomplishing little or nothing, he
could not bring himself to give up this work. It seemed his only
hope; and so he labored on, sometimes working with both hands at
the board, sometimes plying his frail paddle with one hand, and
using the other hand at a vain endeavor to paddle in the water. In
his desperation he kept on, and thought that if he gained ever so
little, still, by keeping hard at work, the little that he gained
might finally tell upon the direction of the boat--at any rate, so
long as it might be in the river. He knew that the river ran for
some miles yet, and that some time still remained before he would
reach the bay.

Thus Tom toiled on, half despairing, and nearly fainting with his
frenzied exertion, yet still refusing to give up, but plying his
frail paddle until his nerveless arms seemed like weights of lead,
and could scarce carry the board through the water. But the
result, which at the outset, and in the very freshness of his
strength, had been but trifling, grew less and less against the
advance of his own weakness and the force of that tremendous tide,
until at last his feeble exertions ceased to have any appreciable
effect whatever.

There was no moon, but it was light enough for him to see the
shores--to see that he was in the very centre of that rapid
current, and to perceive that he was being borne past those dim
shores with fearful velocity. The sight filled him with despair,
but his arms gained a fresh energy, from time to time, out of the
very desperation of his soul. He was one of those natures which
are too obstinate to give up even in the presence of despair
itself; and which, even when hope is dead, still forces hope to
linger, and struggles on while a particle of life or of strength
remains. So, as he toiled on, and fought on, against this fate
which had suddenly fixed itself upon him, he saw the shores on
either side recede, and knew that every passing moment was bearing
him on to a wide, a cruel, and a perilous sea. He took one hasty
glance behind him, and saw what he knew to be the mouth of the
river close at hand; and beyond this a waste of waters was hidden
in the gloom of night. The sight lent new energy to his fainting
limbs. He called aloud for help. Shriek after shriek burst from
him, and rang wildly, piercingly, thrillingly upon the air of
night. But those despairing shrieks came to no human ear, and met
with no response. They died away upon the wind and the waters; and
the fierce tide, with swifter flow, bore him onward.

The last headland swept past him; the river and the river bank were
now lost to him. Around him the expanse of water grew darker, and
broader, and more terrible. Above him the stars glimmered more
faintly from the sky. But the very habit of exertion still
remained, and his faint plunges still dipped the little board into
the water; and a vague idea of saving himself was still uppermost
in his mind. Deep down in that stout heart of his was a desperate
resolution never to give up while strength lasted; and well he
sustained that determination. Over him the mist came floating,
borne along by the wind which sighed around him; and that mist
gradually overspread the scene upon which his straining eyes were
fastened. It shut out the overhanging sky. It extinguished the
glimmering stars. It threw a veil over the receding shores. It
drew its folds around him closer and closer, until at last
everything was hidden from view. Closer and still closer came the
mist, and thicker and ever thicker grew its dense folds, until at
last even the water, into which he still thrust his frail paddle,
was invisible. At length his strength failed utterly. His hands
refused any longer to perform their duty. The strong, indomitable
will remained, but the power of performing the dictates of that
will was gone. He fell back upon the sail that lay in the bottom
of the boat, and the board fell from his hands.

And now there gathered around the prostrate figure of the lost boy
all the terrors of thickest darkness. The fog came, together with
the night, shrouding all things from view, and he was floating over
a wide sea, with an impenetrable wall of thickest darkness closing
him in on all sides.

As he thus lay there helpless, he had leisure to reflect for the
first time upon the full bitterness of his situation. Adrift in
the fog, and in the night, and borne onward swiftly down into the
Bay of Fundy--that was his position. And what could he do? That
was the one question which he could not answer. Giving way now to
the rush of despair, he lay for some time motionless, feeling the
rocking of the waves, and the breath of the wind, and the chill
damp of the fog, yet unable to do anything against these enemies.
For nearly an hour he lay thus inactive, and at the end of that
time his lost energies began to return. He rose and looked around.
The scene had not changed at all; in fact, there was no scene to
change. There was nothing but black darkness all around. Suddenly
something knocked against the boat. He reached out his hand, and
touched a piece of wood, which the next instant slipped from his
grasp. But the disappointment was not without its alleviation, for
he thought that he might come across some bits of drift wood, with
which he could do something, perhaps, for his escape. And so
buoyant was his soul, and so obstinate his courage, that this
little incident of itself served to revive his faculties. He went
to the stern of the boat, and sitting there, he tried to think upon
what might be best to be done.