find it again, and, as the lesser of two evils, blew my whistle, softly at first, then louder. The bray of a foghorn sounded right behind me. I whistled again and then ran for my life, the horn sounding at intervals. In three or four minutes I was on the beach and in the dinghy.
A Change of Tactics
We pushed off without a word, and paddled out of sight of the beach. A voice was approaching, hailing us. 'Hail back,' whispered Davies; 'pretend we're a galliot.'
'Ho-a,' I shouted, 'where am I?'
'Off Memmert,' came back. 'Where are you bound?'
'Delfzyl,' whispered Davies.
'Delf-zyl,' I bawled.
A sentence ending with 'anchor' was returned.
'The flood's tearing east,' whispered Davies; 'sit still.'
We heard no more, and, after a few minutes' drifting, 'What luck?' said Davies.
'One or two clues, and an invitation to supper.'
The clues I left till later; the invitation was the thing, and I explained its urgency.
'How will they get back?' said Davies; 'if the fog lasts the steamer's sure to be late.'
'We can count on nothing,' I answered. 'There was some little steamboat off the depot, and the fog may lift. Which is our quickest way?'
'At this tide, a bee-line to Norderney by compass; we shall have water over all the banks.'
He had all his preparations made, the lamp lit in advance, the compass in position, and we started at once; he at the bow-oar, where he had better control over the boat's nose; lamp and compass on the floor between us. Twilight thickened into darkness--a choking, pasty