Never have I witnessed such a still, strange daybreak. Mountains, woods,
and water were curiously silent. There was not a sound to be heard,
nothing stirred except the thin veil of vapour over the water, shreds
of which were now parting from the shore and steaming slowly upward.
There was, it seemed to me, something slightly uncanny about this lake,
even in repose. The water seemed as translucent as a dark crystal, and
as motionless as the surface of a mirror. Nothing stirred its placid
surface, not a ripple, not an insect, not a leaf floating.
Brown had lugged the pneumatic raft down to the shore where he was now
pumping it full: I followed with the paddles, pole, and hydroscope. When
the raft had been pumped up and was afloat, we carried the reel of
gossamer piano-wire aboard, followed it, pushed off, and paddled quietly
through the level cobwebs of mist toward the centre of the lake. From
the shore I heard a gruesome noise. It originated under one of the row of
tents of the heavy artillery. Medusa, snoring, was an awesome sound in
that wilderness and solitude of dawn.
I was unscrewing the centre-plug from the raft and screwing into the
empty socket the lens of the hydroscope and attaching the battery, while
Brown started his sounding; and I was still busy when an exclamation from
my companion started me:
"We're breaking some records! Do you know it, Smith?"
"Where is the lead?"
"Three hundred fathoms and still running!"
"Nonsense!"
"Look at it yourself! It goes on unreeling: I've put the drag on.
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