So he set off through the fog, keeping the river’s edge dimly in sight. He began to feel rather soggy and very, very hungry. Also, it was none too warm that morning, although after he had been walking for a time his chilliness passed off. When he reached the woods he hesitated. To turn to the left and follow the shore would mean much harder walking and a much longer trip. So he decided to go through the wood and come out on the other side of the point. After five minutes he began to think that he had made a mistake. For there was no sign of a break in the trees, nor, when he paused and listened, could he hear the lap of the little waves along the shore. Probably he had borne too far inland. He changed his course to the left and started on again. But the trees grew near together, there was a good deal of underbrush and keeping a straight course was out of the question. By this time his only thought was to reach the shore again, and he kept bearing farther and farther to the left. Some ten minutes passed. Tom’s face began to grow anxious. He had visions of spending the day in those woods, breakfastless, luncheonless, dinnerless! He stopped and sat down on a fallen log to consider the situation calmly and to get some of his breath back. “The next time I leave home in a fog you’ll know it!” he muttered, apparently addressing the nearest tree. “What good’s a fog, anyway?” Presently he realized that his thoughts had wandered away on the subject of fogs and that he hadn’t solved his dilemma. By this time he had lost all sense of direction and didn’t pretend to know where the river lay. The wood, he thought, couldn’t be very large and so if he kept on walking in a straight line he was certain to get out of it before long. Once out of it—Well, maybe he could find a house or a road. As for the _Vagabond_ and Dan and Nelson and Bob they could choke for all he cared; what he wanted was breakfast, and lots of it! So presently, having recovered his wind, he got up, fixed a direction firmly in his mind and trudged on again. The fog was thinner here in the woods than it had been along the shore; possibly, he reasoned, the farther inland he got the less fog there would be. Although if he could only find something to eat he wouldn’t bother about the weather. He had been walking for some five or six minutes when the trees suddenly disappeared and he found himself on the edge of a planted field. The fog seemed as thick as ever and it was impossible to see more than twenty or thirty feet away. But a planted field, especially one planted with vegetables, as this one was, argued a house near by. So he got between two rows of cauliflower and tramped on. Presently he found his way barred by a stone wall. On the other side of the wall was grass. Tom perched himself on top of the wall and speculated.