This being tantamount to a declaration of his own want of knowledge, Gil began cautiously to feel his way about, with the result that the first two steps he took placed him up to his chin in water, that would, he felt, be over his head at the next. Dressed as he was, swimming was a most difficult task, the high, heavy boots he wore filling with water, and being sufficient to drag him down; and yet sooner or later he felt that he should be obliged to trust to his powers as a swimmer, and gave the hint to his companion. "Be ready to swim, Wat," he whispered. "No, no; there be no need to swim," was the response. "Only hit the right place, and it won't reach above your boots." Gil did not respond, but tried in various directions, always to find the water deepen; and at last he stood with it bubbling at his lips, and he knew that the next moment he must strike out. Even now he could have made an effort to go back ashore in the direction of the house, but it might mean an encounter with the founder, and this was to be avoided at all hazards, for Mace's sake; and after all, he thought, what was before them was nothing more than a good swim, for he never once realised the fact that there was danger in his position: it seemed more ludicrous than full of peril. He gave a glance round, and, having decided in his own mind where lay the shore they sought to reach, he uttered a low warning to Wat, and tried to wade towards it. The second step rendered it necessary for him to swim, and striking out boldly he had gone a few yards before he turned his head to speak to Wat. "This way," he whispered; but there was no response for a few moments, and then, with a hoarse blowing noise, the old sailor spluttered out, "Why, I went right over my head." This added to the ridiculous side of the question, and, contenting himself with bidding Wat keep close, Gil swam on in the direction of the shore, making very slow progress, and now becoming aware for the first time of the difficulty of the task he had undertaken. Wat was swimming close at hand, making a good deal of noise, but Gil never thought for a moment that he would have any difficulty, and it was not until they had progressed slowly for about five minutes that the first intimation of danger came like a chill of dread. "Can you touch bottom, skipper?" said the old fellow. "No," said Gil, after a pause. "We are in deep water. Why?" "Because, if we can't directly, I shall drown!" "Nonsense, man," whispered back Gil. "Swim slowly and steadily, and we shall soon reach the shore." There was no more said for a few moments, and then from old Wat, in a low panting voice-- "Skipper, I shan't never reach no shore; and this ain't even brackish water, let alone salt." "Don't talk," said Gil, sharply; "but swim, man, with a long steady stroke." "Not even salt water," said Wat hoarsely, as if he had not heard his leader's words. "Drowned in a miserable pond."