“Yes, at last. Mind how you come. The wharf must be just here. Can you make out that bank of mist?”
“Yes; I can see the top of it cut off quite sharply, and with the stars above it. That must be the river, then.”
“That’s right,” said Poole. “Here, look out; we are quite close to the edge of the wharf. I say, what luck! We’ve got here safely, after all. Ah–h! What are you about?”
“Slipped,” said Fitz, with a gasp. “The wood’s like ice.”
“Precious hot ice. I’m dripping. Do take care. If you go overboard you’ll be swept right away, and I’m bothered if I come after you.”
“I don’t believe you,” said Fitz, with a little laugh. “But oh, I say!”
“What’s the matter now? Smell crocs?”
“No, no. I was thinking about those poor fellows in the boat. It’s so horribly silent. Surely they have escaped.”
Poole was silent for a few moments, and it seemed to the middy that he was breathing unusually hard.
“Is anything the matter?” whispered Fitz, at last. “Oh, don’t talk like that!” came in an excited whisper.