It was on Wednesday evening that the Antelope passed from the sunshine and beauty of Digby Basin out into the fog and darkness of the Bay of Fundy.  The tide was falling, and, though the wind was in their favor, yet their progress was somewhat slow.  But the fact that they were moving was of itself a consolation.  In spite of Captain Corbet’s declared preference for tides and anchors, and professed contempt for wind and sails, the boys looked upon these last as of chief importance, and preferred a slow progress with the wind to even a more rapid one by means of so unsatisfactory a method of travel as drifting.

At about nine on the following morning, the Antelope reached a little place called Wilmot Landing, where they went on shore and made the usual inquiries with the usual result.  Embarking again, they sailed on for the remainder of that day, and stopped at one or two places along the coast.

On the next morning (Friday) they dropped anchor in front of Hall’s Harbor—­a little place whose name had become familiar to them during their memorable excursion to Blomidon.  Here they met with the same discouraging answer to their question.

“Wal,” said Captain Corbet, “we don’t seem to meet with much success to speak of—­do we?”

“No,” said Bart, gloomily.

“I suppose your pa’ll be sendin schooners over this here same ground.  ’Tain’t no use, though.”

“Where shall we go next?”

“Wal, we’ve ben over the hull bay mostly; but thar’s one place, yet, an that we’ll go to next.”

“What place is that?”

“Scott’s Bay.

“My idee is this,” continued Captain Corbet:  “We’ll finish our tower of inspection round the Bay of Fundy at Scott’s Bay.  Thar won’t be nothin more to do; thar won’t remain one single settlement but what we’ve called at, ’cept one or two triflin places of no ’count.  So, after Scott’s Bay, my idee is to go right straight off to old Minas.  Who knows but what he’s got on thar somewhar?”

“I don’t see much chance of that.”

“Why not?”

“Because, if he had drifted into the Straits of Minas, he’d manage to get ashore.”

“I don’t see that.”

“Why, it’s so narrow.”

“Narrer?  O, it’s wider’n you think for; besides, ef he got stuck into the middle of that thar curn’t, how’s he to get to the shore? an him without any oars?  Answer me that.  No, sir; the boat that’ll drift down Petticoat Jack into the bay, without gettin ashore, ’ll drift up them straits into Minas jest the same.”

“Well, there does seem something in that.  I didn’t think of his drifting down the Petitcodiac.”

“Somethin?  Bless your heart! ain’t that everythin?”

“But do you think there’s really a chance yet?”

“A chance?  Course thar is.  While thar’s life thar’s hope.”

“But how could he live so long?”

“Why shouldn’t he?”