I took the paddles without answering and pulled towards the river’s mouth, while he sat and smoked his pipe over the business of clearing the net of weed.  Around his feet on the bottom boards lay our morning’s catch—­half a dozen soles and twice the number of plaice, a brace of edible crabs, six or seven red mullet, besides a number of gurnard and wrass worth no man’s eating, an ugly-looking monkfish and a bream of wonderful rainbow hues.  A fog lay over the sea, so dense that in places we could see but a few yards; but over it the tops of the tall cliffs stood out clear, and the sun was mounting.  A faint breeze blew from the southward.  All promised a hot still day.

The tide was making, too, and with wind and tide to help I pulled over the river bar and towards the creek where daily, after hauling the trammel, I bathed from the boat; a delectable corner in the eye of the morning sunshine, paved fathoms deep with round, white pebbles, one of which, from the gunwale, I selected to dive for.

The sun broke through the sea-fog around us while I stripped; it shone, as I balanced myself for the plunge, on the broad wings of a heron flapping out from the wood’s blue shadow; it shone on the scales of the fish struggling and gasping under the thwarts.  Divine the river was, divine the morning, divine the moment—­the last of my boyhood.

Souse I plunged and deep, with wide-open eyes, chose out and grasped my pebble, and rose to the surface holding it high as though it had been a gem.  The sound of the splash was in my ears and the echo of my own laugh, but with it there mingled a cry from Billy Priske, and shaking the water out of my eyes I saw him erect in the stern-sheets and astare at a vision parting the fog—­the vision of a tall fore-and-aft sail, golden-grey against the sunlight, and above the sail a foot or two of a stout pole-mast, and above the mast a gilded truck and weather-vane with a tail of scarlet bunting.  So closely the fog hung about her that for a second I took her to be a cutter; and then a second sail crept through the curtain, and I recognized her for the Gauntlet ketch, Port of Falmouth, Captain Jo Pomery, returned from six months’ foreign.  I announced her to Billy with a shout.

“As if a man couldn’ tell that!” answered Billy, removing his cap and rubbing the back of his head.  “What brings her in here, that’s what I’m askin’.”

“Belike,” said I, scrambling over the gunwale, “the man has lost his bearings in this fog, and mistakes Helford for Falmouth entrance.”

“Lost his bearin’s!  Jo Pomery lost his bearin’s!” Billy regarded me between pity and reproach.  “And him sailing her in from Blackhead close round the Manacles, in half a capful o’ wind an’ the tides lookin’ fifty ways for Sunday!  That’s what he’ve a-done, for the weather lifted while we was hauling trammel—­anyways east of south a man could see clear for three mile and more, an’ not a vessel in sight there.  There’s maybe three men in the world besides Jo Pomery could ha’ done it—­the Lord knows how, unless ‘tis by sense o’ smell.  And he’ve a-lost his bearin’s, says you!”