They pushed off, and before they were fifty yards from the shore the boat seemed to enter a bank of mist, so thick that the wheelwright, as he poled, was almost invisible from where Mr Marston and Dick were seated.
“I say, Hicky, 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.