Scarlett nodded, and resuming the rowing, ran the boat’s head ashore, close to a clump of willows. Then, taking out his knife, he hacked off a rod about ten feet long, trimmed off the twigs and leaves, all but a patch on the end, and, before his companion could realise what he intended, he had leaped ashore, given the boat a thrust, and run up the bank.
“No, no,” cried Fred. “I’ll go.”
“It’s my place, and I shall go myself,” replied his companion. “Take the oars and row gently along. I don’t think I shall mind. If I do, I’ll come back and you shall go.”
“But you have no light.”
“No,” said Scarlett, gravely; “but I know the way now, and that there’s no danger, so I shall not care.” Before Fred could offer further remonstrance, Scarlett had run into the nearest patch of woodland and disappeared.
“I don’t like letting him go,” muttered Fred, as he gazed at the spot where his companion had disappeared. “It seems as if I were a coward. Perhaps I am, for it does seem shivery work to do. Never mind, I’ll go next time,” he added quickly; and, taking the oars, he sat down where his companion had vacated the seat, and began to row slowly back to where he fancied the entrance must be.
Then followed so long a period of waiting that the boy grew anxious, and after rowing to and fro for some time outside the thick growth which edged that portion of the lake, he made up his mind that something must be wrong, and determined to land and go in search of Scarlett.
“How horrible if he has waded into a deep place, and gone down!” he muttered, as he bent over the oars, to pull with all his might, when he fancied he heard a distant hail.
He ceased rowing, and the water rippled about beneath the front as he listened.
“Where are you?” he cried.