"He isn't a fisherman," said Hope; "he's a pirate looking out for ships from his island."
"It's a pity we have no gun to blow him to pieces! My dear husband, put a bit more strength into that old punt stick of yours! Let's rush down the stream and pull hold of his line—perchance we may pull in the pirate to his death!"
So all four got hold of their oars, and by dint of prodding the banks in punt-like fashion, the raft began to quicken its pace. The fisherman saw them before they reached him and pulled in his line. He did not swear but laughed heartily as the raft approached.
"Who the dickens is this?" he asked. "Here, hi, don't pass me by! Is there room for me on board?"
He was a tall, broad-shouldered young man.
Charlie threw a ferocious look at him.
"You're a pirate, let us pass!"
The young man had stopped the raft with his foot. Charlie was rather exhausted with his efforts, and the little girls were panting for breath.
"If I'm a pirate, I beg to tell you that this water is mine, and that you are my prisoners. You'll land at once, and forfeit your ship."
With a quick, dexterous stroke, he had seized hold of the rope, and drawn the raft close to the bank.