For half an hour they laboriously poled her with a long oar and the boathook between the banks of mire. Sometimes she touched and stuck until the rising water floated her off, and sometimes she scraped along the bottom, but still made progress. They were breathless and soaked with perspiration, while the foul scum that ran off the oar stained their damp clothes. Then Jake's boathook sank a foot or two deeper and finding the depth as good after a few vigorous pushes, they started the engine. Sour exhalations rose from the wake of the churning screw and there was a curious dragging feel in the boat's motion, as if she were pulling a body of water after her, but this was less marked when Jake found three or four feet, and by and by he threw down the pole and they went half-speed ahead. After a time, the mangroves outshore got farther off, the air smelt fresher, and small ripples broke the surface of the widening channel. They went full-speed, the trees faded, and a swell that set her rocking met the boat, although there still seemed to be a barrier of sand or mud between her and open sea. Giving Jake the helm, Dick crawled under the foredeck, where the floorings were drier than anywhere else, and lay smoking and thinking until day broke. The light, which grew brighter rapidly, showed a glistening line of surf to seaward and mangrove forest on a point ahead. Beyond this there seemed to be an inlet, and then the shore curved out again. As they passed the point Dick stood up on deck and presently saw two tall spars rise above the mist. A few minutes later, the top of a funnel appeared, and then a sharp metallic rattle rang through the haze. "We're in the lagoon," he said. "That's the Danish boat and she hasn't finished heaving cargo on board." CHAPTER XXIX KENWARDINE TAKES A RISK Shortly after the launch entered the lagoon, the Danish boat hove her anchor and steamed out to sea. Dick, who had engaged a half-breed pilot to take the launch home, lounged in a canvas chair under the poop awning. His eyes were half closed, for the white boats and deckhouses flashed dazzlingly in the strong light as the steamer lurched across the vivid swell of the Caribbean. The cigarette he languidly held had gone out, and his pose was slack. He was physically tired and his brain was dull, but he was conscious of lethargic satisfaction. For a long time he had been torn between his love for Clare and his duty to his country. His difficulties were further complicated by doubts of Kenwardine's guilt, but recent events had cleared these up. It was, on the whole, a relief to feel that he must now go forward and there need be no more hesitation and balancing of probabilities. The time for that had gone and his course was plain. He must confront Kenwardine with a concise statement of his share in the plot and force from him an undertaking that he would abandon his traitorous work.