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"Pick up your bird and get across," he shouted, while the current rippled about his legs.

For the next minute or two they were occupied. The tide ran fast, the bottom was soft, and Jim's goose drifted away. He reached it, however, and they came out on the other bank. Jake could see nothing but the glimmering water and a narrow belt of wet sand. The geese had flown off and the punt had vanished in the fog.

"We stopped long enough, but we've got a brant and a gray-lag. You ought to be satisfied," he said.

"I'd have got another if you hadn't been so anxious to get across," Jim rejoined. "Wasn't there a punt about? I thought I saw something as I threw up my gun."

"Yes," said Jake, dryly, "Shanks' punt!"

"Of course! Nobody else keeps a punt on the low marsh. Well, we spoiled his shot and I expect he'll feel he has a fresh grievance. That is, if he knew who I was."

"I reckon he knew all right," Jake remarked. "Nobody else has been on the sands for some weeks."

Jim looked at him rather hard. "Anyhow, it doesn't matter. Let's get home. There's a hole in my wader and the water has leaked through. This sport is pretty good, but you need a punt. I'll order one from the fellow across the bay."

They set off and Jake could not tell if he had excited his comrade's suspicions. Jim was sometimes reserved. Jake admitted that his own suspicions might not be justified, but he wondered what would have happened had he not moved out from the bank.

CHAPTER XIII
MORDAUNT'S REPULSE

Shortly after his visit to the lawyer, Mordaunt walked over to Whitelees. It was about four o'clock in the afternoon, and it would soon be dark, but although he had some distance to go he did not walk fast. Tea was served early at Whitelees and, as a rule, Mrs. Halliday afterwards went to sleep. Mordaunt wanted to arrive when she had done so, and his leisurely progress gave him time to think.

He meant to ask Evelyn to marry him. He liked her and they generally agreed, but he was not sure he would have thought about marriage had he been rich. For all that, he knew no other girl who would suit him so well, and it would be an advantage to consolidate the family property, since both would inherit some part of Bernard's estate. Mordaunt knew Mrs. Halliday saw this, for she had been his friend until Jim came on the scene. It now looked as if she thought Jim would get little or nothing, and Mordaunt did not mean to enlighten her.

The loss of his West Indian investment forced him to make a prudent marriage, but he did not feel that he was doing a shabby thing. Evelyn understood him and was rather calculating than romantic. It was disturbing that she had obviously been attracted by Jim, but Mordaunt thought the attraction was not very strong. He did not mean to let Jim rob him of his inheritance and the girl he hoped would be his wife.

It was getting dark when he reached Whitelees and found Evelyn sitting by the fire in the drawing-room. The lamps were not lighted and the room was shadowy except for the reflection from the grate. Evelyn did not get up and he stood opposite, talking quietly while she rested her chin in her hollowed hand and listened. He did not pretend passion, but she thought he struck the right note. He was sincere, as far as he went, and she admitted that he made the best of a not very strong appeal. One could trust Lance to be graceful.

"If you had asked me before, I might have married you. It is now too late," she said.

Mordaunt moved abruptly, but used some control. "Ah," he said, in a rather strained voice, "I suppose this means Jim has claimed you first?"

"Yes," she said, calmly, "I have promised to marry Jim. So far, nobody else knows."

He was silent for a moment or two, knitting his brows, and then looked up.

"I'm sorry, and although your refusal hurts, don't think I'm altogether selfish. Jim is a good sort, but he's not the man for you."

Evelyn colored and her eyes sparkled, and then the firelight left her face.

"To some extent that is so, Lance. I expect Jim has drawbacks, but he's flesh and blood; red blood, I think they say in Canada. You know what you and I are; we have cultivated out our vulgar passions. At least, I thought I had!"

"Has Jim persuaded you that you were mistaken?"

"He may persuade me. After all, there is some satisfaction in being human."

Mordaunt made a sign of vague agreement. "I thought I was a philosopher, but I'm frankly savage now. However, I don't imagine you will let passion guide you very long." He paused, and after a few moments resumed: "If you find you were deceived and romance gets stale, you will find me waiting. I think you know this, and there is no more to be said."

"There is no use in waiting, Lance," Evelyn replied. "I have made the plunge. It cost me an effort, but I feel braced. Jim is bracing; like cold water or a boisterous wind. You would have kept me in an enervating calm. Well, I'm tired of artificial tranquillity; I'm going to try my luck in the struggle of life with Jim."

She let him go and he started for Dryholm in a thoughtful mood. Her refusal had hurt him, but he would not dwell on this. He was half-afraid to do so and wanted to think about her. She was pluckier than he had imagined and was obviously sincere, since she did not know Jim would be rich, but he doubted if she could keep it up. Jim was rude and tempestuous, and she would not be satisfied with him long. The trouble was the romantic impulse might sustain her until it was too late, for Jim would, no doubt, urge an early marriage.

Mordaunt's face got hard as he thought about this, and he was rather surprised by the anger that fired his blood. He had cultivated a philosophic selfishness, but it no longer supported him. He hated Jim, and felt troubled about Evelyn. Luck was with the headstrong fool; he had swept her off her feet, but she would recover her balance and then she would pay. Mordaunt clenched his fist and raged with helpless savageness. It was long since he had indulged his passions, and now his control had gone the reaction was sharp.

He got cooler and began to look about. There was a moon, the evening was calm, and the dew sparkled on the grass by the hedgerows. A thick wood bordered one side of the road, which went up a long hill, and pale birch trunks that caught the light stood out against dusky firs. Now and then a rabbit ran across the road and plunged into the grass, and presently there was a sharp rattle of wings. A flock of wood-pigeons circled round in the moonlight and flew back into the frees. Then a cock-pheasant crowed.

Mordaunt stopped in the gloom where a nut-bush hung over the gate of a ride. Somebody had disturbed the birds; one could trust the pigeons to give the alarm when an enemy was about. Mordaunt was a sportsman and a good shot, but he waited because he wanted to find some relief from his tormenting thoughts. He was just inside the Langrigg boundary and imagined the gamekeeper began his round at the other end of the estate. By and by dry underbrush rustled and there was a noise like a briar dragging across somebody's clothes. Afterwards all was quiet for a few moments, until a dark figure came out of the gloom close to the gate.

Mordaunt let the man get over and then touched his arm. The other started, and stepping back, struck the gate. The blow was soft as if something had eased the shock and the fellow's shape was bulky about his hips. Mordaunt knew a poacher has generally a large pocket in the lower lining of his coat. As the fellow lifted a short, knotted stick, he turned his face to the light and Mordaunt saw it was Tom Shanks, the old marshman's son.

"You can put down the stick," he said, coolly. "I expect you have been smoking pheasants, but they're Langrigg bird's, not ours."

Shanks leaned against the gate and looked at him with dull suspicion. Although his face was coarse and heavy, his eyes were cunning; he slouched, but when he moved his step was light.

"There's nowt that's not Langrigg's," he growled, grasping his stick. "Gentry stands by yan anodder. Are you gan t' tell?"

Mordaunt pondered. They were alone and he knew Shanks's sullen ferocity. On the whole, he thought he was in some danger unless he could satisfy the fellow. Shanks did not mean to let him seize the heavy stick.

"I've not much ground for standing by Mr. Dearham and it's not my business to protect his game," he said.

"If I thowt you'd send keeper after me – "

"Put down your stick," said Mordaunt, with haughty impatience. "If I wanted to send the keeper, I'd certainly do so. But how many pheasants did you get?"

"Nobbut two. T' birds is varra scarce."

"Then I don't see why you ran the risk of stealing Langrigg pheasants when there are plenty in Red Bank woods."

Shanks was silent for a moment or two, and then replied, as if Mordaunt's carelessness had banished his doubts: "Mr. Dearham put us oot o' dabbin and blew 't up."

"It's possible he'll put you out of Bank-end cottage soon."

"Do you ken that?" Shanks asked with a start.

"I heard something of the kind. Dearham meant to let your father have the cottage, but said nothing about your getting it, and he's tired of you both. You are letting Bank-end go to ruin and people complain about your poaching."

Shanks's sullen look changed to a savage frown.

"If he puts us oot, there's nea place we'll can gan."

Mordaunt hesitated. He imagined Shanks had had something to do with the accident to Jim's car, and it was obvious that the fellow was bitterly revengeful. At the beginning, Mordaunt had not meant to work upon his vindictive feelings; he had done so half-consciously, but now he meant to go on.

"Nobody in the neighborhood would let you have a cottage. You might get a laborer's job in the town, but you would have to work hard, and I don't know about your father. He's rheumatic and old. None of the farmers would engage you."

"T'oad man wouldn't could live away from marsh, and I'm none for takin' a job in town; I'd sicken among t'hooses," Shanks replied.

Mordaunt thought the fellow did not exaggerate. Shanks and his father would find no place in organized industry. They belonged to the open spaces, the wide marsh and the wet sands.

"Then it's lucky I and not the gamekeeper caught you to-night," he said. "Mr. Dearham is waiting for an excuse to turn you out. I Imagine you will soon give him one."

Shanks did not reply. Seizing the top of the gate, he jumped over and vanished in the wood. For a few moments all was quiet, and then Mordaunt heard steps in the road. He left the gate and when he had gone a few yards met Dick Halliday, who stopped and looked at him with surprise.

"I thought I saw two people," Dick remarked.

"You did see two," Mordaunt agreed. "It's curious the other fellow didn't hear you farther off, because I imagine his ears are very good. Were you trying to get near us?"

"Not at first. They're mending the road up the hill and I walked on the grass. When I saw you at the gate I suspected poachers and came on quietly. Who was the other fellow?"

"Tom Shanks. I caught him coming out of the wood with some pheasants and warned him he'd have to leave Bank-end if Jim knew."

"Do you mean you promised not to tell Jim?"

"I imagined he understood something like that. He is a powerful fellow, and carried a heavy stick. Still, my satisfying him doesn't bind you."

"I don't know; perhaps it does bind me, in a way," Dick replied. "All the same, Shanks is a loafing thief; I'd have turned him out of the neighborhood."

Mordaunt hesitated. He would have liked Dick to tell Jim, since this might lead the latter to take the cottage from Shanks. For all that, he did not see how he could persuade Dick to do so, because he did not want him to think he had an object.

"Well, I must get on," he said. "Bernard grumbles when I'm late for dinner."

He felt rather angry with himself when he went off. Luck had given him an opportunity and he had used it in a manner of which he was half-ashamed. The thing was done, however, and he was not sure he was sorry. Shanks was a savage brute and had already borne Jim a grudge. One or two of the farmers and country gentlemen had had grounds to regret they had not left him alone. He would not hesitate much if he saw a way to prevent Jim's turning him out, but Mordaunt shrank from wondering how far he would go. After all, he had merely warned Shanks about the consequence of his poaching.

When dinner was over he told Bernard he had been to Whitelees, and added: "I imagine Evelyn would not like it publicly announced just yet, but she has promised to marry Jim."

Bernard was silent for a few moments, and his face was inscrutable. "Then, she is pluckier than I thought," he said, dryly. "But why does she not want people to know?"

"It's something of a puzzle. Perhaps she felt telling people would bind her to her promise."

"Jim is a handsome fellow; I suppose the flesh is willing but the calculating brain weighs the drawbacks that may after all tip the beam," Bernard remarked, and added with a sneer: "You ought to have married Evelyn; you would have got on with her. In fact, if she had been willing, I'd have seen that her prudence was properly rewarded. The curious thing is, I imagine you both knew this."

"I don't think either of us deserves the taunt, sir," Mordaunt rejoined. "Anyhow, I doubt if your generous plan altogether sprang from good will to us."

"You're clever," said Bernard, with dry humor. "Much cleverer than Jim; but he'll go far while you stand still. Hustling is new to Evelyn and at first she may find it exciting, but I doubt if she'll enjoy the effort to keep up with her husband when the novelty wears off."

He mused when Mordaunt went away. For a time at least, his plot had failed and he was keenly disappointed. Evelyn was not the wife for Jim; he ought to have married the girl from Canada. Carrie was frankly flesh and blood, and although she had not much polish yet, this would come; she had a natural dignity and was staunch and fearless. She would keep pace with Jim, fronting troubles with her steady glance; Bernard smiled as he pictured Evelyn's stumbling gait when Jim, so to speak, took a rough, steep hill. The thought, however, did not amuse him much, and he resigned himself moodily to wait.

CHAPTER XIV
FOOTSTEPS IN THE SAND

Jim had a shooting-punt built, and now and then when the tide served at night, paddled up the creeks and shot a goose or duck, although he did not use a big punt-gun. He liked to pick out his birds and not throw a pound of shot into a flock. In the meantime, he pushed on the draining of the marsh, and although he spent anxious hours counting the cost, resolved to hold out until the job was done. As a rule, he was preoccupied and quiet, and Evelyn often found him dull. His talk about dykes and sluices did not amuse her.

By and by he found it needful to engage some drain-cutters, and one afternoon Jake, taking Carrie with him, started for a village on the other side of the bay. It was a long way round the sands and when they were near the village the car stopped and Jake found a valve had broken. He engaged the men he wanted and afterwards resolved to leave the car and walk back across the sands. The few cottages were very small and their occupants had no room for strangers, but the bay got narrow near its mouth and the distance across the sands was scarcely three miles. Jake did not expect to find much water in the channels, and when he had borrowed a pair of fishermen's waders for Carrie, and they had got a meal at a cottage, they set off.

It was dark and fog drifted in from sea, but the moon shone between slowly-moving clouds. The throb of the surf was unusually loud and a fisherman told Jake to get across as soon as he could. He said there was wind outside and the tide often turned before its proper time when a fresh breeze was coming.

When dusk fell Jim returned from the marsh and found Mrs. Winter in the hall. There was nobody else about, and he thought the hall looked lonely. He was tired after a day's hard work and sat down in an easy-chair when Mrs. Winter asked if he would like some tea.

"I'll wait until Carrie comes," he said. "Jake ought to have brought her back by now. The house feels empty when they're not here."

Mrs. Winter mused. Although Jim had rather unwillingly agreed when Evelyn insisted that nobody should be told about their engagement, he took much for granted when he imagined that nobody knew. Mrs. Winter was not deceived by his silence and knew that Carrie understood.

"When do you reckon you'll finish the dykes, Jim?" she asked presently.

"I don't know," he said. "It looks like a long job and money's getting short. Anyhow, I have got to put it over, because I can't stand for losing the sum I've already spent. But why do you ask?"

"Because we must go back when you have no more use for Jake."

"Oh," said Jim, smiling, "I'll always have some use for Jake, and Langrigg wouldn't be the same if he took you away. You and Carrie make the old house feel like home."

Mrs. Winter felt troubled. Jim was obviously sincere, and she had liked him from the beginning. She had been happy at Langrigg; after the strain of hard work and poverty, it was nice to rest and control the well-ordered English household. Carrie, too, had been happy, but Mrs. Winter imagined she was not happy now. Although the girl had grit and would play her part well, Mrs. Winter did not mean to let her wait for Jim's wedding.

"You know we can't stay very long," she said.

"I don't see why it's impossible."

"You may get married."

"Well?" said Jim. "Suppose I do? There's plenty of room at Langrigg and my wife would be kind to my friends when she knew how much I owe them."

"The plan wouldn't work. When you marry, your wife will have first claim on you. I reckon she'll have all the claim there is and won't want to share it with anybody else."

Jim frowned. Perhaps Mrs. Winter was justified. Now he came to think of it, he had once or twice got a hint that Evelyn did not altogether understand his friendship for Carrie.

"I hate to think of your going," he declared. "Anyhow, you must stay for some time yet. Jake promised to help me finish the draining scheme, and I may go broke. Then I'd need him more."

He got up and was silent for a few moments. If he lost his money, his engagement to Evelyn must be broken off. This was obvious, but if he had, for example, meant to marry Carrie, his embarrassments would not, in one sense, matter much. Carrie would meet their troubles with a smile and help him to make good. Still he must not indulge thoughts like this.

"I think I'll take the punt and paddle up the big creek," he said. "You can tell Carrie she ought to have come back to give me tea. Since she hasn't come, I'll wait for dinner."

He went off and Mrs. Winter mused. Jim generally knew what he wanted, but his attitude was puzzling now. Although he meant to marry Evelyn and imagined he loved her, Mrs. Winter doubted. She wondered whether Evelyn had, so to speak, dazzled him by her grace and beauty. Jim was resolute and practical, but not clever. Mrs. Winter sighed and imagined she had been foolish to let Carrie stay so long, but she could not see her way. Jim would not be married until he had drained the marsh and Jake would not go before the work was finished. Mrs. Winter admitted that he could not go.

In the meantime, Jim launched his shooting-punt in a muddy creek. The punt would carry two people and measured about eighteen feet long and nearly three feet wide. She was decked, except for a short well, and when loaded floated a few inches above the water. A bundle of reeds was fastened across the head-ledge of the well to hide the occupant when he lay down and used the short paddle.

Jim stood on the after-deck and drove the punt down the creek with a pole. He could see across the bank, and the wet marsh, glistening faintly in the moonlight, ran back into thin mist. In front, the creek got wider until it melted into the expanse of sands. Here and there a belt of smooth mud caught a silvery reflection, but for the most part the sands were dark. The night was calm and the advancing surf rumbled in the distance like a heavy train. It was a good night for shooting and Jim wondered whether anybody else was about. Mordaunt and Dick now and then went after the geese, and Shanks, in his shooting punt, generally haunted the channels when the gaggles came down to feed.

It was some time after low-water when Jim reached the main channel and stopped to listen. He thought the surf was unusually loud, but he could not hear the geese. The wild cry of a curlew came out of the dark and red-shanks were whistling in the distance. The water, so far as he could see, was still, and this meant the tide had not yet entered the channel. He thought he ought to have an hour before it did so, but the current would run fast then. Tides rise high when high-water comes at twelve o'clock with a full moon.

After a few minutes he set off again. There was no need for him to lie down and he stood on deck, using the pole. It sank about a foot, but presently the water shoaled and when the punt touched bottom he got over and dragged her by a line. He wore a yellow oilskin, long waders, and thin canvas shoes. At length, the punt would float no farther, and putting her on rollers, he pulled her a short distance up the bank and afterwards carried a small anchor as far as the line would allow. He was a mile and a half from land, the tide would soon flow, and if the geese were about, he might be away some time. Then, picking up his gun, he set off up the nearly dry channel. There was a salt-water lake, bordered by a weedy scar, not far off, and he might find some brant geese or ducks.

In the meantime, Dick Halliday called at Langrigg, and was received by Mrs. Winter.

"Are you all alone?" he asked.

Mrs. Winter told him where Jake and Carrie had gone, and that Jim was shooting. Dick inquired when Jake had started and looked thoughtful when Mrs. Winter replied.

"They ought to have been back some time since," he remarked. "The road is very bad where it runs across the head of the bay and high tides cover the causeway for an hour or two. I don't think Jake would wait until dark; the car has probably broken down."

"Then they would have to stop all night?"

"I doubt if anybody could take them in. There are only a few cottages and the mussel-gatherers and farm-hands have swarms of children. I rather imagine Jake would walk across the sands – "

He stopped and looked at the tall clock, and then crossing the floor, pulled back the window-curtains and opened a light. Mrs. Winter noted that his movements were quick and thought him anxious. Dick came rather often to Langrigg and she imagined Carrie attracted him, although she knew the girl had not meant to use her charm.

"It's nearly full-moon," he remarked when he came back. "I don't think Jim will mind if I borrow one of his guns. I know where they are. Don't bother to ring."

"Are you going to shoot?" Mrs. Winter asked.

"I might get a shot," Dick replied carelessly. "Anyhow, I'll walk across the sands. I may find Jim, or perhaps meet Jake and Carrie coming back."

He went to the gun-room and took down a heavy ten-bore, that would make a loud report, for the fog he had seen from the window was getting thick. Then he put some cartridges in his pocket, and finding a pair of waders, went back and smiled when he met Mrs. Winter's curious glance.

"Carrie may be glad of the waders," he said. "There's sometimes a little water in the hollows, and I don't expect Jake knows the driest way. Now I'll get off."

Mrs. Winter let him go. She was beginning to feel alarmed, but Dick's quick, resolute movements comforted her. He had been careful not to hint there was a risk, but if there was, he would know the best way of meeting it. Dick did not hurry when he went down the freshly-raked gravel drive, but when he reached the road he walked as fast as the heavy gun would let him. Carrie was on the sands, it was past low-water, and Jake did not know much about the gutters through which the tide ran up the bay. Dick did know, and had sometimes seen a white-topped bore roll like a wall of foam across the flats when the moon was full. To-night, when wind was coming, the tide would rise fast.

It was rough walking across the marsh, where he was forced to jump ditches and wind about among deep holes, and he was glad to reach the sands. Stopping for a few moments, he took off his boots. The sand was cold, but he meant to strike the shortest line across the bay and in places the mud was soft. He knew one can pull one's naked foot loose where one's boots would stick; moreover, Carrie would like the waders dry.

Dick began to think about Carrie as he set out across the flats. He liked her much, and admitted that it cost him an effort not to fall in love with her; Carrie had made him feel that this could not be allowed. Sometimes he wondered why, and sometimes he thought he knew; but then he suspected that Jim would marry Evelyn. Dick approved Jim, but doubted if he was altogether the man for Evelyn. Perhaps, however, when he came to think about it, he really meant that Evelyn was not the girl for Jim. There was a difference – .

He pulled himself up. He was fond of Evelyn, although he knew her faults; besides, the fog was thick and he must keep his proper course. He ought to strike the big gutter soon and was anxious about the tide: it would soon run up the hollows in the flats. He wondered where Mordaunt was, because Lance had told him he was going out on the sands and he had not heard his gun.

Shortly afterwards, Dick went down the bank of the gutter and began to wade across. The water did not come much above his ankles; but it was moving; slowly yet, although it would soon run fast. He got across and saw Jim's punt on the muddy sand. The fog was low and drifted about in belts, clearing now and then, and when he stopped by the punt the moon shone through.

Dick was puzzled. The punt had been moved since Jim pulled her up the bank. It was prudent to leave her where one could get on board when the tide rose, but Dick could not see why Jim had afterwards moved her down. He had, however, done so, because the rollers he used had made a rut in the sand in advance of her present position. Then the anchor had been carried up to higher ground, for one could see where the line had dragged, although it now lay close to the punt. Dick began to examine the footsteps about the spot. He was something of a naturalist and a good wildfowler and had studied the tracks of animals and birds.

Jim had obviously come up the gutter and another man had joined him. The other was barefooted and the marks seemed to indicate that he had helped Jim to run down the punt. Then a third man had arrived and Dick thought this was Lance, because he wore nailed fishing brogues. Lance often used brogues; he was cautious and did not like soft mud. Dick imagined Lance had reached the spot after the others and was somewhere about; he would not go far from the gutter when the tide was rising. The thing was strange, but since Jim had moved the punt back, there was no reason why Dick should meddle. Jim had probably gone to the scar and no doubt knew how long he could stay. Moreover, Dick's business was to find Carrie, and he set off again.

He followed a small creek that joined the big gutter. Its channel was narrow and cut rather deep into the sand. Although a belt of fog rolled up he could see fifty or sixty yards, and presently distinguished a hazy figure near a bend of the creek. He thought it was about Lance's height, and shouted; but the fellow did not answer and vanished next moment. It looked as if the fog had rolled nearer and hidden him, although he might have gone down into the creek. Dick went to the edge, but saw nobody, although he crossed a row of steps. This was puzzling. He imagined the other had heard his shout and was in the hollow, where his shooting-clothes would melt into the background. The sand, however, was soft and the marks had begun to fill up. Dick did not see why he should follow them, since the man might have meant to hide until the geese flew over. He gave it up and pushed on.

The fog crept towards him and did not look as if it would soon roll away. For all that, he knew the sands and had the noise of the advancing surf for a guide, which was lucky because speed was important. A stream ran through the flats near the other shore, and if Carrie and Jake had started they would have crossed its channel and now be on the long peninsula of sand that went up the middle of the bay. When the water rose they could not get across the main gutter, and it would be hard to reach the land from the end of the peninsula because it was traversed by a number of little creeks, up which the tide forced its way.

After a time, Dick stopped and fired the gun. He heard nothing but the echoes that rolled across the waste and the roar of the sea. The latter was ominously loud and he began to run. When he had gone some distance, he tried another shot and disturbed two black-backed gulls that made a noise like hoarse laughter as they flew overhead. This was all, and he felt that the gulls were mocking him. He was getting anxious, and ran on until he was forced to stop for breath, as the fog began to lift. It rolled back before a little puff of wind, the moon shone through, and he saw glittering water in front.

Dick began to run the other way. He could do no more, and it looked as if Jake and Carrie were not on the middle sand. After all, he had not much ground for imagining they had meant to cross the bay; if there was no room at the village, they might have walked to a station four or five miles off and gone to the market town. He must save himself, and since he hardly thought he could reach Jim's punt before she floated, he headed up the middle sand. One could cross the gutter farther on, if one knew the right spot, but it would mean wading some distance and he must be quick. He got through, and then ran back along the edge of the channel. He wanted to see if Jim had returned to the punt.