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who, rapidly splashing through the more shallow water, in a few seconds stood face to face with the three brave boys whom he had so lately urged to abandon him.
"Bill, is it you?" cried all three in a breath.
"Auch! and who else would yez expect it to be? Did yez take me for 'ould Neptune risin' hout of the say? Or did yez think I was a mare-maid? Gee me a grip o' yer wee fists, ye bonny boys. Ole Bill warn't born to be drowned!"
"But how did ye come, Bill? The tide's been rising ever since we left you."
"Oh!" said Terence, "I see how it is, the bay isn't so deep after all: you've waded all the way."
"Avast there, master Terry! not half the way, though I've waded part of it. There's wather between here and where you left me, deep enough to dhrown Phil Macool. I didn't crass the bay by wading at all—at all."
"How then?"
"I was ferried on a nate little craft—as yez all knows of—the same that carried us safe to the sand-spit."
"The spar?"
"Hexactly as ye say. Just as I was about to gee my last gasp, something struck me on the back o' the head, making me duck under the wather. What was that but the tops'l yard. Hech! I was na long in mountin' on to it. I've left it out there afther I feeled my toes trailin' along the bottom. Now, my bonny babies, that's how Old Bill's been able to rejoin ye. Flippers all round once more; and then let's see what sort o' a shore we've got to make port upon."
An enthusiastic shake of the hands passed between the old sailor and his youthful companions; after which the faces of all were turned towards the shore, still only dimly distinguishable, and uninviting as seen, but more welcome to the sight than the wilderness of water stretching as if to infinity behind them.
CHAPTER IX.
UNCOMFORTABLE QUARTERS.
The waders had still some distance to go before reaching dry land; but, after splashing for about twenty minutes longer, they at length stood upon the shore. As the tide was still flowing in they continued up the beach; so as to place themselves beyond the reach of the water, in the event of its rising still higher.
They had to cross a wide stretch of wet sand before they could find a spot sufficiently elevated to secure them against the further influx of the tide. Having, at length, discovered such a spot, they stopped to deliberate on what was best to be done.
They would fain have had a fire to dry their dripping garments: for the night had grown chilly under the influence of the fog.
The old sailor had his flint, steel, and tinder—the latter still safe in its water-tight tin box; but there was no fuel to be found near. The spar, even could they have broken it up, was still floating, or stranded, in the shoal water—more than a mile to seaward.
In the absence of a fire they adopted the only other mode they could think of to get a little of the water out of their clothes. They stripped themselves to the skin, wrung out each article separately; and then, giving each a good shake, put them on again—leaving it to the natural warmth of their bodies to complete the process of drying.
By the time they had finished this operation, the mist had become sensibly thinner; and the moon, suddenly emerging from under a cloud, enabled them to obtain a better view of the shore upon which they had set foot.
Landward, as far as they could see, there appeared to be nothing but white sand—shining like silver under the light of the moon. Up and down the coast the same landscape could be dimly distinguished.
It was not a level surface that was thus covered with sand, but a conglomeration of hillocks and ridges, blending into each other and forming a labyrinth, that seemed to stretch interminably on all sides—except towards the sea itself.
It occurred to them to climb to the highest of the hillocks. From its summit they would have a better view of the country beyond; and perhaps discover a place suitable for an encampment—perhaps some timber might then come into view—from which they would be able to obtain a few sticks.
On attempting to scale the "dune," they found that their wading was not yet at an end. Though no longer in the water, they sank to their knees at every step, in soft yielding sand.
The ascent of the hillock, though scarce a hundred feet high, proved exceedingly toilsome—much more so than wading knee-deep in water—but they floundered on, and at length reached the summit.
To the right, to the left, in front of them, far as the eye could reach, nothing but hills and ridges of sand—that appeared under the moonlight of a whiteness approaching to that of snow. In fact, it would not have been difficult to fancy that the country was covered with a heavy coat of snow—as often seen in Sweden, or the Northern parts of Scotland—drifted into "wreaths," and spurred hillocks of every imaginable form.
It was pretty, but soon became painful from its monotony; and the eyes of that shipwrecked quartette were even glad to turn once more to the scarce less monotonous blue of the ocean.
Inland, they could perceive other sand-hills—higher than that to which they had climbed—and long crested "combings," with deep valleys between; but not one object to gladden their sight—nothing that offered promise of either food, drink, or shelter.
Had it not been for their fatigue they might have gone farther. Since the moon had consented to show herself, there was light enough to travel by; and they might have proceeded on—either through the sand-dunes or along the shore. But of the four there was not one—not even the tough old tar himself—who was not regularly done up, both with weariness of body and spirit. The short slumber upon the spit—from which they had been so unexpectedly startled—had refreshed them but little; and, as they stood upon the summit of the sand-hill, all four felt as if they could drop down, and go to sleep on the instant.
It was a couch sufficiently inviting, and they would at once have availed themselves of it, but for a circumstance that suggested to them the idea of seeking a still better place for repose.
The land wind was blowing in from the ocean; and, according to the forecast of Old Bill—a great practical meteorologist—it promised ere long to become a gale. It was already sufficiently violent—and chill to boot—to make the situation on the summit of the dune anything but comfortable. There was no reason why they should make their couch upon that exposed prominence. Just on the landward side of the hillock itself—below, at its base—they perceived a more sheltered situation; and why not select that spot for their resting place?
There was no reason why they should not. Old Bill proposed it; there was no opposition offered by his young companions—and, without further parley, the four went floundering down the sloping side of the sand-hill, into the sheltered convexity at its base.
On arriving at the bottom, they found themselves in the narrowest of ravines. The hillock from which they had descended was but the highest summit of a long ridge, trending in the same direction as the coast. Another ridge, of about equal height, ran parallel to this on the landward side. The bases of the two approached so near, that their sloping sides formed an angle with each other. On account of the abrupt acclivity of both, this angle was almost acute, and the ravine between the two resembled a cavity out of which some great wedge had been cut—like a section taken from the side of a gigantic melon.
It was in this re-entrant angle that the castaways found themselves, after descending the side of the dune, and where they had proposed spending the remainder of the night.
They were somewhat disappointed on reaching their sleeping-quarters, and finding them so limited as to space. In the bottom of the ravine there was not breadth enough for