“There are three passengers, sir, and one sailor, for whom we are unable to account.”

The chief officer was thus reporting to Captain Munson of the transport Sherman, and Ned, standing near, disheartened and with his mind torn by cruel worries, overheard.

“Who are the missing ones?” asked the captain.

“Two soldiers, Bob Baker and Jerry Hopkins; Professor Uriah Snodgrass; and Beno Judd, a first-class seaman. They can not be found, they are not among the injured, nor are their bodies among the dead. I have put them down as missing, sir.”

“Quite right. Unfortunate, but quite right. Have the boats been able to pick up any one?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, there is not much use, I believe, in keeping them out longer in this fog. Some of them may get lost. Call them back, but station lookouts[176] with orders to report at once anything that looks like floating wreckage to which a person might cling. If this fog would only lift we might have a chance of picking them up, if they, by any chance, are still alive. Have a sufficient number of lookouts stationed, Mr. Bangs.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ned felt sick at heart. It was all over, then—the happy companionship of years—he thought. Never again would he see his beloved comrades, Jerry and Bob, comrades with whom he had passed the gates of death in many a battle. Professor Snodgrass, also—that dear but eccentric individual—he, too, was gone.

“Isn’t there anything we can do?” asked Ned of the captain.

“I’m sorry to say I don’t see what else can be done,” was the sympathetic answer, for the commander of the ship knew something of the love and friendship existing between the lad who was left and those who were gone. “You know how the accident happened, my lad, and we have searched all over in this vicinity. It would be risking other lives to search farther, for it is easy for a small boat to be lost in a fog. If it should lift I would order them out again. I am sorry.”

Ned turned away, his heart heavy. To whom could he go for solace? He had many friends and acquaintances among his fellow soldiers, and[177] the officers were fond of him and his chums. But Ned did not feel like talking to any of them just now. He wanted to be alone. But solitude was difficult to come at on the crowded ship.

Idly he made his way back to the scene of the accident. The break in the bulwarks and rail had been temporarily mended, and a curious crowd was gathered about the hole torn in the side of the Sherman. Ned did not want to stay there.

He looked out into the mist. The wet particles clung to his face like tiny tears, and he had much ado to keep back his sobs as he thought of those who had so lately been with him.

“If only the fog would lift!” murmured Ned, as he turned away from the broken place with a shiver.

But the white curtain of vapor still swirled about the troopship, seemingly moved more by the mysterious ocean currents than by any wind. It was still a dead calm, and though the fog may have lifted over some parts of the ocean area that it had covered, in the vicinity of the transport it was still heavy and impenetrable.

“It seems to shut me in like a prison!” murmured Ned.

Night was coming on, and it seemed to settle down earlier than it needed to, caused by the murkiness of the air. The first call to the supper mess was sounded, but Ned did not respond. He had[178] no appetite for food. There would be time ............