I began to chuckle. "Then the adventure wouldn't be spoiled, would it?
And you've been talking rubbish."

Paul struck a match, looked at his watch, and remarked that it was
nearly one o'clock--a way he had when the argument went against him.
Besides, this was the nearest we ever came to quarreling now, though
our share of squabbles had fallen to us in the earlier days of our
friendship. I had just seen a little white light ahead when Paul
spoke again.

"Anchor-light," he said. "Funny place for people to drop the hook. It
may be a scow-schooner with a dinky astern, so you'd better go wide."

I eased the _Mist_ several points, and, the wind puffing up, we
went plowing along at a pretty fair speed, passing the light so wide
that we could not make out what manner of craft it marked. Suddenly the
_Mist_ slacked up in a slow and easy way, as though running upon
soft mud. We were both startled. The wind was blowing stronger than
ever, and yet we were almost at a standstill.

"Mud-flat out here? Never heard of such a thing!"

So Paul exclaimed with a snort of unbelief, and, seizing an oar, shoved
it down over the side. And straight down it went till the water wet
his hand. There was no bottom! Then we were dumbfounded. The wind was
whistling by, and still the _Mist_ was moving ahead at a snail's
pace. There seemed something dead about her, and it was all I could do
at the tiller to keep her from swinging up into the wind.