distance. This last possibility seemed almost probable. But _how_
probable? Possibly within ten miles, probably within twenty-five,
certainly within _fifty_, some fishermen were plying their trade,
but _where_? There are thirty-two points of the compass, and by
deviating one point at the center, a distance of fifty miles would bring
us ten miles out of the way at the circumference. We could row fifty
miles, but we cannot take chances. Yet there is a snug little fishing
craft out there on the rim of the circle, waiting for us to find her!
But _which way_ shall we go? I finally decided that this was a
problem for the Pilot, and I left it with Him, satisfied that He
understood His business and that if He had any orders for me, He knew
how to communicate them.

The eighth day came, and with it came an impulse to row the boat in a
certain direction. This impulse was not unlike the thousands that had
come to me before. There was nothing about it to indicate that its
source was any higher than my own imagination. If this was a voice from
above the fog, it was certainly a still, small one. It was unheeded at
first, not unrecognized. Reason said that to conserve our strength we
should sit still and wait for the lifting of the fog. Fear whispered
that if I obeyed the impulse, we might be rowing directly away from
safety. But the impulse persisted and prevailed.

"Get up, John," I said, "we have a day's work ahead of us. We are going
to row off in this direction."

John responded automatically, fear acting in place of reason, but he was
soon exhausted and lay down again. I kept on, however, resting now and
then, and returning to the oars with the thought that fifty miles was a
long distance and that we had a very small margin of time to our credit.