'What, sleep through this?' I exclaimed. 'I can't stand this, I must
_do_ something. Can't we go for another walk?'

I spoke in bitter, half-delirious jest.

'Of course we can,' said Davies, 'if you don't mind a bit of a tumble
in the dinghy.'

I reconsidered my rash suggestion, but it was too late now to turn
back, and some desperate expedient was necessary. I found myself on
deck, gripping a backstay and looking giddily down and then up at the
dinghy, as it bobbed like a cork in the trough of the sea alongside,
while Davies settled the sculls and rowlocks.

'Jump!' he shouted, and before I could gather my wits and clutch the
sides we were adrift in the night, reeling from hollow to hollow of
the steep curling waves. Davies nursed our walnut-shell tenderly over
their crests, edging her slantwise across their course. He used very
little exertion, relying on the tide to carry us to our goal.
Suddenly the motion ceased. A dark slope loomed up out of the night,
and the dinghy rested softly in a shallow eddy.

'The West Hohenhörn,' said Davies. We jumped out and sank into soft
mud, hauled up the dinghy a foot or two, then mounted the bank and
were on hard, wet sand. The wind leapt on us, and choked our voices.

'Let's find my channel,' bawled Davies. 'This way. Keep Neuerk light
right astern of you.'

We set off with a long, stooping stride in the teeth of the wind, and