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.
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