“That’s so,” said Adam; “and as to that Maggie, I am pretty sure I saw her when we got out into this river. She was about two miles down the stream on the other side, with her sail down, and most likely anchored.”
“What was she doing there?” asked Phœnix.
“My ’pinion is,” said Adam, “that she was lyin’ there waitin’ for us to come out. I think them fellers intend to follow us up to Titusville, keepin’ out of our way as much as they kin. You see we’ve got their guns, and they can’t do much till they get ’em.”
“I wish they had their old guns,” said Phil, “and were sailing down the Indian River. I don’t think it’s very pleasant to have such fellows sneaking after us.”
“I wish they had their guns, too,” said Adam, “and if I was only sure they’d sail straight down the river, I’d go in for givin’ ’em back to ’em. But I don’t trust ’em. They’re mean, cowardly scoundrels, and if they could take a crack at us with that rifle afore they went down the river, they’d be quick enough to do it.”
“They haven’t anything to complain of,” said Phil, “for I’m sure we treated them a great deal better than they deserved, or had any right to expect.”
“I should say so,” cried Chap, vehemently. “If I’d been along, they wouldn’t have got off so easily. Just imagine their pushing me slam-bang into the water right off our own boat. It makes me boil over to think of it. If ever I get a chance, I’ll pay them up for that.”
“I don’t suppose you ever will get a chance,” said Phœnix; “but if you do, you’d better let them alone. You are rid of them now, and you ought to be glad of it.”
“It seems to me, Phœnix,” said Chap, “that you are always telling fellows to keep peaceable, and yet, whenever there’s a chance to fight, you are the very first one to pitch in.”
Phœnix hesitated for a moment, and then he said,—