“An escaped convict?” Andy asked himself. “Maybe. That’s bad. I don’t want to be caught in such company, the fix I’m in.”
The thought made the passenger suddenly repellant to Andy. He had an idea of running close to the shore and making off.
“No, I won’t do it,” he decided, after a moment’s reflection, “I’m only guessing about all this. He’s not got a bad face. It’s rather a wild and worried one. I’m a runaway myself, and I’ve got a good reason for being so. Maybe this man has, too.”
Andy applied himself to his work with renewed vigor. It must have been about five o’clock in the morning when the stranger directed him to navigate up a feeder to the stream, which, a few rods beyond, ran into a swamp pond, which Andy knew to be Swan Cove.
A few pushes of the pole drove the craft up on a muddy slant. It was getting light in the east now. Andy came up to the man with the question:
“Is this where you land, mister?”
“Yes,” nodded his passenger. “Come here.”
Andy drew closer to the speaker.
“I told you I’d make it worth your while to pole me down the river,” he said.
“Oh, that’s all right.”