It was still dark when Luggy Martin carne out of his cottage and got on to his bicycle. He headed towards the Marsh, moving as silently as a ghost along the road that led out to the lighthouse. There was no lamp on the bicycle and it is doubtful if anyone except Luggy could have ridden along that road in the dark without coming to grief. He knew the Marsh as a dog might know it, by scent and by sound, and he knew it far better than did the warden whose job it was to protect and preserve the Marsh’s wild birds from such as Luggy.
The morning was calm and cold and the absence of stars told Luggy that the sky was clouded. Twice every three minutes the beam of the lighthouse swept the Marsh and by its flash Luggy could see that a mist lay over the stretches of mud and water, a white mist so s
