“Then why don’t you give the signal? What is it?”
“I was listening, and fancied I heard some one coming behind us. Face round, and if any one tries to rush us let ’em have it—both barrels. Those big shot of yours may check them, and I’ll hold my bullet in reserve.”
Fitz made no answer, but breathed harder as he stood ready with his fingers on the triggers.
“Fancy,” said Poole at last. “Now then.”
“Are you going to shout?”
“No; I’ve got the dad’s pipe,” and applying the little silver whistle to his lips he made it give forth one little shrill chirrup, and then waited, while the stillness seemed to Fitz more awful than before, and his heart sank lower with the dread lest the men were dead, the boat gone, and his project completely at an end. Chirrup!
Another what seemed to be a painfully long pause, and then Chirrup! once again.
The pause seemed even longer than before to the listeners, but the interval was short indeed before from out of the mist in front came a low hoarse “What cheer, oh!” followed by a sneeze and a grunt. “Teals?” cried Poole.
“Ay, ay! Two on us,” came back. “Shall we pull ashore?”
“Yes; come on.”