“Cantle! Did you see it? Cantle! It was he!”
“Keep down!”
They paddled on, past the last of the boats, through the bridge, on as far as the squat little bomb-ketch bulking black and menacing at the mouth of the creek.
“Hold on!” whispered Cantle. “Run her out of sight into the reeds. We must wade on board there.”
“There? That fellow Spindler’s boat?”
“Of course, now. That was his name.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ll soon know.”
They accomplished the feat, though near mud-foundered by the way, and scrambled, dripping, on board. The door of the cuddy yielded to their touch. Monk was beginning to gather dim light.
“Don’t let me,” he whispered, almost sobbing. “Keep my hands off him.”