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 for nothing,” I answered. “There was some little steamboat off the depôt, 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 darkness—and still we sped unfalteringly over that trackless waste, sitting and swinging in our little pool of stifled orange light. To drown fatigue and suspense I conned over my clues, and tried to carve into my memory every fugitive word I had overheard.

“What are there seven

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