“Don’t!” interrupted Dave, “Don’t!”
“Well, ’e would,” persisted Tom. “An’ he’d cut mine too. I don’t want to be round with my throat cut, Dave Gibson, if you do.”
“I don’t,” protested Dave, “I don’t.”
“Vary well,” continued Tom. “The only thing to do is to go down the river and ’ide till we see what turns up. Let us go an’ get the boat.”
Tom stood up shakily, and Dave trembling in every limb, followed suit.
They crawled rather than walked to the edge of the creek. Tom drew the boat up to the log as noiselessly as possible and helped his mate in.
Poor Dave was likely to faint at any moment.
“I wish I never came piratin’,” he sobbed.
“Piratin’s right enough,” muttered Tom, sticking an oar in the mud and pushing out, “but these Germans is ruinin’ the country. I’ve heard the old man say that often when he wuz talkin’ politics on the punt, but I never see the meanin’ of it afore—not the true meanin’.”
They slipped out into the middle of the stream and breathed a trifle easier.