couple of hours after we had entered the fog. "Where do you say we
are, Charley?"

Charley looked at his watch, "Six o'clock, and three hours more of
ebb," he remarked casually.

"But where do you say we are?" Neil insisted.

Charley pondered a moment, and then answered, "The tide has edged
us over a bit out of our course, but if the fog lifts right now, as
it is going to lift, you'll find we're not more than a thousand
miles off McNear's Landing."

"You might be a little more definite by a few miles, anyway," Neil
grumbled, showing by his tone that he disagreed.

"All right, then," Charley said, conclusively, "not less than a
quarter of a mile, not more than a half."

The wind freshened with a couple of little puffs, and the fog
thinned perceptibly.

"McNear's is right off there," Charley said, pointing directly into
the fog on our weather beam.

The three of us were peering intently in that direction, when the
Reindeer struck with a dull crash and came to a standstill. We ran
forward, and found her bowsprit entangled in the tanned rigging of
a short, chunky mast. She had collided, head on, with a Chinese
junk lying at anchor.