The boats were cast off and forged out into the dark, wide river. In the moonless night, the shore was only a deeper bulk of blackness. Lanterman's boat, leading, swung across to the southern shore, and then kept close to it as they went silently downstream.
Occasional creak of oars, the voices of frogs along the bank—these were the only sounds. The deep summery, rotten smell of the river brought a powerful nostalgia to Wales.
Impossible to think that all this must soon end!
The darkness remained absolute as they went on downriver. They had entered what was once the busiest industrial region of the world, but it was desolate and black and silent now.
Wales ventured to whisper, "Why this way, instead of using the bridges?"
Lanterman snorted. "They expect us to use the bridges. Wait, and you'll see." A moment later he called. "No more rowing. Drift. And no noise!"
They drifted silently along the bank. A huge span loomed up vaguely over them. Wales thought it would be the old Chestnut Street Bridge.
He was startled when, beside him, Lanterman hooted. It was a reasonably good imitation of a screech-owl, twice repeated.
A moment later, from the northern, farthest end of the big bridge, rifle-shots shattered the silence. There was a sudden confusion of firing and shouting there.
Lanterman chuckled. "Harry's right on time. He'll make enough row to bring the whole bunch there."