Part 14 (2/2)
THROUGH THE FOG BANK
CHAPTER 12
It was rather moist in the Fog Bank. ”Seems like a reg'lar drizzle,”
said Trot. ”I'll be soaked through in a minute.” She had been given a costume of blue silk in exchange for her own dress, and the silk was so thin that the moisture easily wetted it.
”Never mind,” said Cap'n Bill. ”When it's a case of life 'n' death, clo's don't count for much. I'm sort o' drippy myself.”
Cried the parrot, fluttering his feathers to try to keep them from sticking together,
”Floods and gushes fill our path-- This is not my day for a bath!
Shut if off, or fear my wrath.”
”We can't,” laughed Trot. ”We'll jus' have to stick it out till we get to the other side.”
”Had we better go to the other side?” asked b.u.t.ton-Bright anxiously.
”Why not?” returned Cap'n Bill. ”The other side's the only safe side for us.”
”We don't know that, sir,” said the boy. ”Ghip-Ghisizzle said it was a terrible country.”
”I don't believe it,” retorted the sailor stoutly. ”Sizzle's never been there, an' he knows nothing about it. 'The Sunset Country' sounds sort o' good to me.”
”But how'll we ever manage to get there?” inquired Trot. ”Aren't we already lost in this fog?”
”Not yet,” said Cap'n Bill. ”I've kep' my face turned straight ahead ever since we climbed inter this bank o' wetness. If we don't get twisted any, we'll go straight through to the other side.”
It was no darker in the Fog Bank than it had been in the Blue Country.
They could see dimly the ma.s.s of fog, which seemed to cling to them, and when they looked down, they discovered that they were walking upon white pebbles that were slightly tinged with the blue color of the sky.
Gradually this blue became fainter until, as they progressed, everything became a dull gray.
”I wonder how far it is to the other side,” remarked Trot wearily.
”We can't say till we get there, mate,” answered the sailor in a cheerful voice. Cap'n Bill had a way of growing more and more cheerful when danger threatened.
”Never mind,” said the girl. ”I'm as wet as a dishrag now, and I'll never get any wetter.”
”Wet, wet, wet!
It's awful wet, you bet!”
moaned the parrot on her shoulder.
”I'm a fish-pond, I'm a well; I'm a clam without a sh.e.l.l!”
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