the Isle of Desserts high and dry surrounded by an ocean of oozy mud
while the river, narrowed to a mere brook, rushed in its channel some
fifty feet distant. And there you are.

That is why the man in the moon (who knows all about the tides) winked
at Pee-wee. At least, I suppose that is why he winked.

You could not have reached the Isle of Desserts with a boat or with
snow-shoes or with stilts or with anything except an airplane.
Swimming to it was out of the question. Shouting and screaming to it
was feasible, of course. Radio operations were conceivable. But reach
it no one could. The adventurer would have been swallowed in mud.
This safe isolation would continue for a couple of hours and then the
playful water would come rippling in again spreading a glinting
coverlet over the flats once more and lifting the island upon its
swelling bosom.

Down the narrowing river rowed our rescuing crew, and as they rowed the
river narrowed. Soon the lantern light on the island was abreast of
them, some forty or fifty feet distant.

"Hello, over there," called Warde.

"I'm pretty well," called Pee-wee.

"What are we going to do?" asked Townsend. "The tide has beat us to
it. He's safe enough."

"Oh, he couldn't be safer," said Warde. "Our name is mud. All our
rowing for nothing."