this instant shelved off suddenly and left him afloat in deep water.
Fortunately he was a skilled swimmer, and soon regained the shore wet
and angry. His dogs were whimpering at a distance, both securely
fastened to trees, and the light of the fire had died down: evidently
the old Fog was not, after all, so simple as some other people!

'I might as well see what the old rogue has taken,' thought Waring;
'all the tobacco and whiskey, I'll be bound.' But nothing had been
touched save the lump-sugar, the little book, and the picture of
Titian's daughter! Upon this what do you suppose Waring did? He built
a boat.

When it was done, and it took some days and was nothing but a dug-out
after all (the Spirit said that), he sailed out into the unknown;
which being interpreted means that he paddled southward. From the
conformation of the shore, he judged that he was in a deep curve,
protected in a measure from the force of wind and wave. 'I'll find
that ancient mariner,' he said to himself, 'if I have to
circumnavigate the entire lake. My book of sonnets, indeed, and my
Titian picture! Would nothing else content him? This voyage I
undertake from a pure inborn sense of justice--'

'Now, Waring, you know it is nothing of the kind,' said the Spirit who
had sailed also. 'You know you are tired of the woods and dread going
back that way, and you know you may hit a steamer off the islands;
besides, you are curious about this old man who steals Shakespeare and
sugar, leaving tobacco and whiskey untouched.'

'Spirit,' replied the man at the paddle, 'you fairly corrupt me with
your mendacity. Be off and unlimber yourself in the fog; I see it