the bird if he could, for Geoffrey hated leaving his game, so he pulled
up his trousers and set to work to wade towards it. For the first few
steps all went well, but the fourth or fifth landed him in a hole that
wet his right leg nearly up to the thigh and gave his ankle a severe
twist. Reflecting that it would be very awkward if he sprained his ankle
in such a lonely place, he beat a retreat, and bethought him, unless
the curlew was to become food for the dog-fish, that he had better
strip bodily and swim for it. This--for Geoffrey was a man of determined
mind--he decided to do, and had already taken off his coat and waistcoat
to that end, when suddenly some sort of a boat--he judged it to be a
canoe from the slightness of its shape--loomed up in the mist before
him. An idea struck him: the canoe or its occupant, if anybody could be
insane enough to come out canoeing in such water, might fetch the curlew
and save him a swim.

"Hi!" he shouted in stentorian tones. "Hullo there!"

"Yes," answered a woman's gentle voice across the waters.

"Oh," he replied, struggling to get into his waistcoat again, for the
voice told him that he was dealing with some befogged lady, "I'm sure
I beg your pardon, but would you do me a favour? There is a dead curlew
floating about, not ten yards from your boat. If you wouldn't mind----"

A white hand was put forward, and the canoe glided on towards the bird.
Presently the hand plunged downwards into the misty waters and the
curlew was bagged. Then, while Geoffrey was still struggling with his
waistcoat, the canoe sped towards him like a dream boat, and in another
moment it was beneath his rock, and a sweet dim face was looking up into
his own.