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!