“They can't be much farther off now than Thirty-Fifth Street,” the man exclaimed under his breath. “And we're hardly past Second Avenue yet--and look at the infernal thickets and brush we've got to beat through to reach the river! Here, I'd better get my revolver ready and hold it in my free hand. Will you change over? I can take the bag in my left. I've got to have the right to shoot with!”
“Why not drop everything and run for the banca?”
“And desert the job? Leave all we came for? And maybe not be able to get any of the things for Heaven knows how long? I guess not!”
“But, Allan--”
“No, no! What? Abandon all our plans because of a few wolves? Let 'em come! We'll show 'em a thing or two!”
“Give me the revolver, then--you can have the rifle!”
“That's right--here!”
Each now with a firearm in the free hand, they started forward again. On and on they lunged, they wallowed through the forest, half carrying, half dragging the sack which now seemed to have grown ten times heavier and which at every moment caught on bushes, on limbs and among the dense undergrowth.
“Oh, look--look there!” cried Beatrice. She stopped short again, pointing the revolver, her finger on the trigger.
Allan saw a lean, gray form, furtive and sneaking, slide across a dim open space off toward the left, a space where once First Avenue had cut through the city from south to north.