He had gone perhaps two hundred yards when the boat grounded on the flats. He saw at once that it was impossible to make the yacht until flood tide. The safest thing to do was to get out and push to the island marsh, two or three hundred yards away. There they could take exercise enough to keep warm until the tide came in again. It would be a wait of two hours in bitter cold and pitch darkness, but there was no help for it.
Bivens sat up and growled:
"What the devil's the matter? Can't you hurry up, I'm freezing to death!"
"We can't make it on this tide. We'll have to go to the marsh."
"Can't we walk over the flats and let the boat go?"
"I could walk it, but you couldn't."
"Why not?" Bivens asked, angrily.
"Because you haven't the strength. This mud is six inches deep and tough as tar. You'd give out before you'd gone two hundred yards."
"Nothing of the sort!" Bivens protested, viciously. "I'll show you!"
He stepped out of the boat and started wading through the mud. He had made about ten steps when his boot stuck fast, he reeled and fell. The water was less than six inches deep but his arms were wet to the skin as far as the elbows, and the icy water got into his boots and drenched his feet.