"I mean, that we have got on the wrong road." "I thought so; but we can't be. There is only this one, if you call it a road, leading straight down to the river--no, not straight; circumbendibus-y." "No," said Fitz, "it must have branched off, or we should have been at the river long enough ago." "No, we have come too slowly." "Where is the river, then?" said Fitz. _Plash! Quenk_! At that moment some kind of waterfowl rose from its lair with a good deal of fluttering of its wings, and a plaintive cry of alarm. "Ah!" sighed Fitz, with a deep expiration of his breath. "At last!" "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. "Then why don't you give the signal? What is it?" "I was listening, and fancied I heard some one coming behind us. Face round, and if any one tries to rush us let 'em have it--both barrels. Those big shot of yours may check them, and I'll hold my bullet in reserve." Fitz made no answer, but breathed harder as he stood ready with his fingers on the triggers. "Fancy," said Poole at last. "Now then." "Are you going to shout?" "No; I've got the dad's pipe," and applying the little silver whistle to his lips he made it give forth one little shrill chirrup, and then waited, while the stillness seemed to Fitz more awful than before, and his heart sank lower with the dread lest the men were dead, the boat gone, and his project completely at an end. _Chirrup_! Another what seemed to be a painfully long pause, and then _Chirrup_! once again. The pause seemed even longer than before to the listeners, but the interval was short indeed before from out of the mist in front came a low hoarse "What cheer, oh!" followed by a sneeze and a grunt. "Teals?" cried Poole. "Ay, ay! Two on us," came back. "Shall we pull ashore?" "Yes; come on." "Right. That you, Mr Poole?" "Yes! Look sharp!"