The chill of the evening, the heavy vapour clogged their tongues.
Presently, feeling the irksomeness, she said, 'When will you go after them—unless your heart fails?'
'My heart will not fail. I will try to-morrow at sunrise.'
Again she was silent. Their steps in the wet mud was like the sound of children eating.
After a while she said hesitatingly, 'I do not yet believe that you will venture. If you do, I am not responsible for your safety.'
'I risk it of my own free choice.'
In the dense mist and gathering darkness sat Olver. With his oar and a boat-hook he had been working for some time at the loose pile that sustained the landing-stage, and he had succeeded in making it doubly insecure. The planks were greasy.
He put the blade of his oar against the footway and with the pressure it declined.
Then he sat motionless.
Suddenly he lifted his head and listened. He thought that he heard steps.