Silently we rowed, and not a sound was heard above the plashing of the
rain upon the surface of the sea, and the regular stroke of the oars.
"It's very strange that we don't reach old Point Shirley," says Tom,
who had been on the look out for this landmark during the last
half-hour.
"Very strange," said we, and pulled away as before.
Thus passed another half-hour in silent, ceaseless occupation, when,
from the mere force of habit, I dipped my hand over the boat's
gunwale, with the hope of cooling my blistered palm in the salt water.
Judge of my surprise, when I found my hand immersed in _thick black
mud_.
"By Jove, fellows," cried I, "we're floored!"
There was no mistaking the fact; we were aground. At that instant the
moon burst out from between the drifting clouds, and, as if in
derision, threw a streak of light over our melancholy position. There
we were, high and dry on a bank of mud, a scooped furrow on each side
of us attesting the frantic efforts of our oarsmen to get a headway,
and a long wake, ten feet in extent, marking our distance from the sea
behind us. Such was our position as the moon revealed it to us. We
looked dolefully in one another's faces for three minutes; then a grim
smile gradually stole over Tom's expressive countenance, as he slowly
ejaculated, "Point Shirley it is!" when the ludicrous side of the
matter seemed to occur to each of us simultaneously, and we indulged
ourselves with a roar of laughter,--the first since we had left
Nahant.
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