Dave fully expected that his throat was to be cut at last.
He dared not look at the boat, but watched the face of the escapee as a condemned criminal might watch the face of his executioner.
The boat was within twenty yards of the shore, and not more than a hundred from where they lay in the scrub.
It happened that the day being a public holiday, Dan Creyton and George Chard had decided to go out shooting. On all the large islands in the river Moreton Bay figs grew profusely, and the pigeons and flying foxes came down from the hills to feed on the ripe fruit.
They had determined to try this particular island before breakfast. Hence all that followed.
The boat was certainly going to land. Petit, watching with lynx eyes, scowled angrily. Conflicting emotions of hope and fear surged in Tom Pagdin’s breast.
The rowers turned the corner of the point, and were hidden from view, but they could hear the noise of the oars being drawn in; hear the voices of two strangers in conversation; hear them taking the gear out of the boat, and making her fast.
Again and again Tom tried to catch Dave’s eye.
At last he succeeded.
Dave saw that his mate meant to run.