From sheer reaction, Stewart’s body dropped limply for an instant through the water, and then rebounded as from an electric shock.
“I can touch bottom!” he said, hoarsely. “We’ll get there yet. Hold fast!”
Setting his teeth, digging his toes into the mud, he dragged the box toward the shore with all his strength. In a moment, the water was only to his shoulders—to his chest—he could see that his comrade was wading, too.
He stopped, peering anxiously ahead. There was no light anywhere along the shore, and no sound broke the stillness.
“It seems all right,” he whispered. “I will go ahead and make sure. If it is safe, you will hear me whistle. Keep behind the box, for fear that searchlight will sweep this way again, and when I whistle, come straight out. You understand?”
“Yes.”
“Good-by, then, for a moment, little comrade!”
“Good-by.”
With one look deep into her eyes, he snatched up the bundle containing his clothing, and crouching as low in the water as he could, set off cautiously toward the shore. There was a narrow strip of gravel just ahead, and behind that a belt of darkness which, he told himself, was a wood. He could see no sign of any sentry.
As he turned at the water’s edge, he noticed a growing band of light over the hills to the east, and knew that the moon was rising. There was no time to lose! He whistled softly and began hastily to dress.