“Awake!” he says, cross-like. “If I was as sound asleep as I’m w-w-wide awake an earthquake wouldn’t rouse me.”
“Let’s talk,” says I; “it’ll seem more sociable.”
We started in to talk, but there didn’t seem to be anything to talk about but snakes and Batten and Bill. The more you talk about things that scare you the more afraid you get, so our conversation wasn’t what you’d call a success. We both laid back and kept quiet.
I don’t know whether it was two hours or fifteen minutes after that when I sat up straight and listened. I thought I heard voices out on the river, and I sat there stiff, holding my breath, with chills running up and down my spine ten to the minute. For a while I didn’t hear another thing; then, up the river some place, something creaked. It isn’t natural to hear something creaking out on the water, for fish don’t creak, and neither does water. It’s surprising how few things there are that do creak that aren’t made by men. Just listen around and see. As soon as I heard that sound I knew it couldn’t be anything else but an oar-lock, and an oar-lock meant a rowboat, and a rowboat meant Batten and Bill. Nobody else would be poking around the river at that time of night.
“Mark,” I says, my voice trembling in spite of all I could do to keep it steady.
“Yes,” he answered, right off.
“Did you hear it?”
“Yes.”
“It must be Batten and Bill.”
“L-l-l-lookin’ for us!” he sputtered.