“Robbins, what time is it?” cried McCabe in a higher key, determined to make him answer.
“How do I know?” was the gruff response. “D’ye s’pose I’ve got a time-piece? an’ ef I had one, d’ye s’pose I could see it? I advise ye to keep yer meat-trap shet ef yer don’t want to git yerself in trouble. Yer talks as if thar’s nobody ’thin a mile of us.”
This rebuff had the desired effect. The restless ruffian became quiet without another word, and for awhile the profoundest silence reigned over the trio.
Presently Nick Robbins seized his companion’s arm, and whispered:
“Hist! Didn’t ye hear that?”
“What?” asked McCabe, excitedly.
“Why, a plash in the water out yander,” said Robbins, pointing. “I heerd it, sure’s shootin’.”
“So did I,” said Mike Terry, who had sprung to his feet at the sound.
“An’ it wur caused by nothin’ else but a keerless stroke of a paddle,” continued Robbins, emphatically. “The Injuns are on the river, an’ on thar way to the island, that’s sartin.”