“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.”