“’Urry up,” said Bagg.
Jimmie put a little more strength into the rowing. The punt moved faster, but not fast enough to please Bagg, who was terrified by the fog, the thunder and the still, black water.
“Never you fear,” Jimmie grumbled; “you’ll get home afore the wind comes.”
Bagg wasn’t so sure of that.
“An’ it will come,” Jimmie reflected. “I can fair feel it on the way.” 132
Jimmie pulled doggedly. Occasionally a rumble of thunder came out of the northeast to enliven his strokes. There was no wind, however, as yet, except, perhaps, an adverse stirring of the air––the first hint of a gale. On and on crept the punt. There was no lessening of the heat. Jimmie and Bagg fairly gasped. They fancied it had never been so hot before. But Jimmie did not weaken at the oars; he was stout-hearted and used to labour, and the punt did not lag. On they went through the mist without a mark to guide them. Roundabout was a wall of darkening fog. It hid the whole world.
“Must be gettin’ close inshore,” said Jimmie, at last, while he rested on his oars, quite bewildered.
“What you stoppin’ for?” Bagg demanded.
“Seems t’ me,” said Jimmie, scratching his head in a puzzled way, “that we ought t’ be in the tickle by this time.”
It was evident, however, that they were not in the tickle.[4] There was no sign of the rocks on either hand. Jimmie gazed about him in every direction for a moment. He saw nothing except 133 a circle of black water about the boat. Beyond was the black wall of fog.