“Just the tops of their caps: they were behind one of those low rocks where the water rushes round.”
“Are you sure, Vince?”
“Sure?—yes. Ah, mind! that oar!” cried the boy.
He crept past Mike, after seizing the boat-hook, and, reaching over the stern, made a dash at the oar his companion had been using to thrust with against the rocks, and which had been laid-down when they passed right in, so that Mike could use his hands.
How it had slipped over the gunwale neither could have said; but when Vince caught sight of it, the oar was floating just in the entrance, and the sharp dash he made at it resulted in the hook striking the blade so awkwardly that he drove it farther out, where it was caught by the current and drawn swiftly away.
“Gone!” said Mike despairingly.
“Gone! Yes, of course it’s gone; and now they’ll find out where we are.”
“No, they’re not obliged to,” said Mike; “that oar may have been washed from anywhere, and they haven’t found it yet.”
“Oh no,” said Vince bitterly—“not yet; but you’ll see.”
Mike made no reply, but helped, without a word of objection, to thrust the boat farther in along the passage, which greatly resembled the seal hole, as they called it, but was nearly double the width, and afforded plenty of room for the boat.