“There’s the Betty,” said Tommy, pointing to a smart-looking little clinker-built craft away at the end of the line.  “I’ve had her painted since you saw her last.”

“And from what I remember, Tommy,” I said, “she wanted it—­badly.”

Joyce seated herself on a baulk of timber and began composedly to take off her shoes and stockings.  “How deep does one sink in?” she asked.  “I don’t want to get this skirt dirtier than I can help.”

“You’ll be all right if you hold it well up,” said Tommy, “unless we happen to strike a quicksand.”

“Well, you must go first,” said Joyce, “then if we do, Neil and I can step on you.”

Tommy chuckled, and sitting down on the bank imitated Joyce’s example, rolling his trousers up over the knee.  I followed suit, and then, gathering up our various belongings, we started off gingerly across the mud.

Tommy led the way, his shoes slung over his shoulder, and a tin of paraffin in each hand.  He evidently knew the lie of the land, for he picked out the firmest patches with remarkable dexterity, keeping on looking back to make sure that Joyce and I were following in his footsteps.  It was nasty, sloppy walking at the best, however, for every step one took one went in with a squelch right up to the ankle, and I think we had all had pretty well enough by the time we reached the boat.  Poor Joyce, indeed, was so exhausted that she had to sit down on the lunch basket, while Tommy and I, by means of wading out into the channel, managed to get hold of the dinghy.

Our first job on getting aboard was to wash off the mud.  We sat in a row along the deck with our feet over the side; Tommy flatly refusing to allow us any farther until we were all properly cleaned.  Then, while Joyce was drying herself and putting on her shoes and stockings, he and I went down into the cabin and routed out a bottle of whisky and a siphon of soda from somewhere under the floor.

“What we want,” he observed, “is a good stiff peg all round”; and the motion being carried unanimously as far as Joyce and I were concerned, three good stiff pegs were accordingly despatched.

“That’s better,” said Tommy with a sigh.  “Now we’re on the safe side.  There’s many a good yachtsman died of cold through neglecting these simple precautions.”  Then jumping up and looking round he added cheerfully:  “We shall be able to sail the whole way up; the wind’s dead east and likely to stay there.”

“I suppose you’ll take her out on the engine,” I said.  “This is a nice useful ditch, but there doesn’t seem to be much water in it for fancy work.”

Tommy nodded.  “You go and get in the anchor,” he said, “and I’ll see if I can persuade her to start.  She’ll probably break my arm, but that’s a detail.”

He opened a locker at the back of the well, and squatted down in front of it, while I climbed along the deck to the bows and proceeded to hand in several fathoms of wet and slimy chain.  I had scarcely concluded this unpleasant operation, when with a sudden loud hum the engine began working, and the next moment we were slowly throbbing our way forwards down the centre of the channel.