Chapter VIII
The Dredge
The dredge M. E. 28 stood motionless in the evening twilight above Stechovice. The Paternoster shovel had long since ceased heaving up the cold sand from the bed of the Vltava River. The evening was mild and calm, fragrant with new-mown hay and the breath of the woodlands. A tender orange glow still lingered in the north-west. Here and there a wave glittered with unearthly splendour amid the reflections of the sky—gleamed, murmured and blent itself with the shining surface of the stream. A skiff was coming towards the dredge from Stechovice. It made slow progress against the rapid current, and stood out upon the glowing river like a black water-beetle.
"Someone is coming over to see us," Kuzenda, the skipper, said quietly, from his seat in the rear of the dredge.
"Two of 'em," said Brych, the stoker, after a pause.
"Yes, and I know who it is, too," said Kuzenda.
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