"I've changed my mind," said Truxton' suddenly. "We'll keep the boat. Get in, Miss Tullis. There! Now, push off, Newport."
"What the devil—" began Newport, but King silenced him. The boat slowly drifted out into the current.
"Now, row!" he commanded. With his free hand he reached back and dragged the limp Brutus into the boat. "'Gad, I believe he's dead," he muttered.
For five minutes the surly oarsmen pulled away, headed in the direction from which they came.
"Can you swim?" demanded King.
"Not a stroke," gasped Newport. "Good Lord, pal, you're not going to dump us overboard. It's ten feet deep along here."
"Pull on your left, hard. That's right. I'm going to land you on the opposite shore-and then bid you a cheerful good-night."
Two minutes later they ran up under the western bank of the stream, which at this point was fully three hundred yards wide. The nearest bridge was a mile and a half away and habitations were scarce, as he well knew. Under cover of the deadly revolver, the two men dropped into the water, which was above their waists; the limp form of Peter Brutus was pulled out and transferred to the shoulders of his companions.
"Good-night," called out Truxton King cheerily. He had grasped the oars; the little boat leaped off into the night, leaving the cursing desperadoes waist-deep in the chilly waters.
"See you later," sang out Newport, with sudden humour.