“Foghorn?”
“Yes, and the whistle too.”
“A gun?”
“What for?”
“We’re after ducks.”
“All right. And muffle the rowlocks with cotton-waste.”
I left Davies absorbed in the charts, and softly went about my own functions. In ten minutes he was on the ladder, beckoning.
“I’ve done,” he whispered. “Now shall we go?”
“I’ve thought it out. Yes,” I answered.
This was only roughly true, for I could not have stated in words all the pros and cons that I had balanced. It was an impulse that drove me forward; but an impulse founded on reason, with just a tinge, perhaps, of superstition; for the quest had begun in a fog and might fitly end in one.