"What's that?" one man cried out. "Is a spy there? Here—take this club and beat about—we'll catch 'em!"
The two men charged into the marsh so fast that Chris barely had time to whisper to Amos: "Hurry Amos—run! I'll be all right. I'll draw them off! I'll meet you where we ford the stream!"
Amos safely out of sight, the men came only on a stray dog foraging for rats, wagging its tail and letting out a yip or two as it followed a scent along the ground.
"Give it a kick—there—it's only a stray dog," one said.
"Oh—devil take it—what do I care?" answered the other, turning back.
The dog lay panting at the river's edge. Looking past the ship as it rested, it saw what it thought was snow upon the water and the banks. But it was just thousands of ducks migrating south, and when they rose to move farther away, the sky was overcast and thunderous with their wings.
Long after dark, cold, dirty, and quite wet, the two boys reached the house on Water Street.
"Where did you go?" Becky inquired, frowning with solicitude at the bedraggled pair.