“Yes. That’s so. But they’d get as good as they sent, I reckon,” said Polly, who didn’t seem to have a bit of fear.
Wyn was no coward; she had shown that the time she and Bessie Lavine were spilled out of their canoes in the middle of the lake. But she had not lived, like Polly, in the woods with few but rough people for associates.
Soon they passed Green Knoll Camp, lying peacefully in the light of the moon that was just then rising above the Forge. Its rays silvered all the knoll and made the camp a charming spot.
“I hope none of them will wake up and find me gone,” remarked Wyn, chuckling.
Polly gave the tiller and sheet to her friend and stood up to get a better view of the lake astern of them. At first she saw nothing but the dim shores and the silvering water. Then, some distance out, Polly caught sight of a ghostly sail drifting across the path of moonlight.
“A bateau!” she exclaimed. “And–with the wind the way it is–she must have come right out of our cove, Wynnie.”
“Do–do you really think anybody was listening to us when we were talking there on the landing, Polly?” Wyn asked. “And are they aboard that bateau?”
“I don’t know. But I know I heard something then.”
“But that boat isn’t following us.”
“It may be. We can’t tell. They can watch us just as easily as we can watch them.”