It seemed hours and hours.
The lightning flashes became more frequent and wicked; the thunder grew louder.
“They won’t come to-night, I don’t think,” whispered Tom in Dave’s ear. “We’ll wait a while longer an’ then cut across to old Dobie’s barn an’ shelter till the storm goes over.”
But even as he spoke, in the lull between two thunder growls, they heard a low whistle, followed by the noise of someone forcing a way through the scrub.
A voice, which sounded hollow and unearthly in the dense gloom, called out:
“This way; keep to your right a bit.”
“God-dam!” came the response, followed by some choice curses in French.
“Keep to your right,” repeated the first voice. “The boat’s just about here.”
“Ze devil,” replied the other voice, “I am torn wis my clothes! Oui and wis also ze arm an’ ze leg!”
“You’re all right now,” said the first man speaking from the water side. “Hold on till it lightens again. I can’t see the log, it’s that dark.”