Just such an experience as this had befallen Geoffrey Bingham.  He had bagged his wild duck and his brace of curlew—­that is, he had bagged one of them, for the other was floating in the sea—­when a sudden increase in the density of the mist put a stop to further operations.  He shook the wet seaweed off his rough clothes, and, having lit a short briar pipe, set to work to hunt for the duck and the first curfew.  He found them easily enough, and then, walking to the edge of the rocks, up the sides of which the tide was gradually creeping, peered into the mist to see if he could find the other.  Presently the fog lifted a little, and he discovered the bird floating on the oily water about fifty yards away.  A little to the left the rocks ran out in a peak, and he knew from experience that the tide setting towards the shore would carry the curlew past this peak.  So he went to its extremity, sat down upon a big stone and waited.  All this while the tide was rising fast, though, intent as he was upon bringing the curlew to bag, he did not pay much heed to it, forgetting that it was cutting him off from the land.  At last, after more than half-an-hour of waiting, he caught sight of the curlew again, but, as bad luck would have it, it was still twenty yards or more from him and in deep water.  He was determined, however, to get the bird if he could, for Geoffrey hated leaving his game, so he pulled up his trousers and set to work to wade towards it.  For the first few steps all went well, but the fourth or fifth landed him in a hole that wet his right leg nearly up to the thigh and gave his ankle a severe twist.  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.  Presently the hand plunged downwards into the misty waters and the curlew was bagged.  Then, while Geoffrey was still struggling with his waistcoat, the canoe sped towards him like a dream boat, and in another moment it was beneath his rock, and a sweet dim face was looking up into his own.