The two boys bore on the painter. The reeds swayed and parted, and out of the darkness came the bow of a boat.
“By gosh!” cried Dave, “she’s a beaut. I wonder where she came from?”
“That’s got nothing to do with us,” responded Tom. “Git the swags in. She’s our boat, anyhow; I found ’er.”
“Where’s the paddles?” asked Dave. “Did she have any paddles when you found ’er?”
“Only a broken one,” replied Tom, “but I got two since. Git in!”
Tom cast loose with the air of the commander of a man-o’-war.
“I’ll pole ’er out of the creek,” he said, “and then I’ll let you pull one oar. Sit still, and don’t make no row.”
“We got to go as quiet as mice,” he explained, digging the blade of an oar in the soft black mud, and pushing the boat out gently through the high reeds into the stream. “Ere’s your oar, an’ don’t make no more nise with that rollick than you kin ’elp.”
They sculled down stream in silence, taking care to dip the oars into the water as noiselessly as they could, and keeping in under the shadow of the banks.