Hope is the most treacherous of all human fancies. So long as there is a
plausible ground to expect relief from any particular quarter, men will
relax their exertions in the face of the most imminent danger, and they
cling to their expectations long after reason has begun to place the
chances of success on the adverse side of the scale. Thus it was with the
party in the Montauk. Two or three precious hours were lost in the idle
belief that the gun would be heard by Captain Truck, and that they might
momentarily look for the appearance of, at least, one of the boats.
Paul Blunt was the first to relinquish this delusion. He knew that, if it
reached their friends at all, the report must have been heard in a few
seconds, and he knew, also, that it peculiarly belonged to the professio
