icky, turn back and let's go along the edge of the fog," cried
Dick.

"Nay, it's driftin' ower us," replied the wheelwright. "Best keep on
and go reight through."

"Go on, then," cried Dick. "Feel how cold and damp it is."

"Feel it, Dick? Yes; and right in my wounded arm."

"Does it hurt much?"

"No; only aches. Why, how dense it is!"

"Can you find your way?"

"Dunno, mester. Best keep straight on, I think. Dessay it'll soon pass
over."

But it did not soon pass over; and as the wheelwright pushed on it
seemed to be into a denser mist than ever.

For a long time they were going over perfectly clear water; but soon the
rustling of reeds against the prow of the boat told that they must be
going wrong, and Hickathrift bore off to the right till the reeds warned
him to bear to the left. And so it went on, with the night falling, and
the thick mist seeming to shut them in, and so confusing him that at
last the wheelwright said:

"Best wait a bit, Mester Dick. I dunno which way I'm going, and it's
like being blind."

"Here, let me have the pole!" cried Dick. And going to the front of the
boat, the wheelwright good-humouredly gave way for him, with the result
that the lad vigorously propelled the craft for the space of about ten
minutes, ending by driving it right into a reed-bed and stopping short.

"Oh, I say, here's a muddle!" he cried. "You can't see where you are
going in the least."

"Shall I try?" said Mr Marston.

"Yes, do, please," cried Dick, eager to get out of his difficulty.
"Take the pole."

"No, thank you," was the laughing reply. "I cannot handle a pole, and
as to finding my way through this fog I could as soon fly."

_Bang_!

A heavy dull report of a gun from close by, and Hickathrift started
aside and nearly went overboard, but recovered himself, and sat down
panting.

"Here! hi! Mind where you're shooting!" cried Dick. "Who's that?"

He stared in the direction from which the sound had come, but nothing
but mist was visible, and no answer came.

"Do you hear? Who's that?" shouted Dick with both his hands to his
mouth.

No answer came, and Hickathrift now shouted.

Still no reply. His great sonorous voice seemed to return upon him, as
if he were enveloped in a tremendous tent of wet flannel; and though he
shouted again and again it was without result.

"Why, what's the matter with your hand, man?" cried Mr Marston, as the
wheelwright took his cotton kerchief fro