He shuddered, and his eyes rolled a little, but he lay still, and we glided on till we must have gone down a couple of miles, when all at once Pomp uttered a cry.
“Hush!” I said, despairingly. “You will be heard.”
“Nebber mind. Quick, Mass’ George! Push! Push!”
I could not understand what he meant, but it was evident that something was wrong, and there was no time to ask for an explanation; so I helped all I could to push the raft toward the farther shore, convinced that the Indians were upon us, and that we must seek safety in the forest once again.
It was easy enough to float with the stream, but hard work to make the raft to move as we wished, and we must have gone down fully a hundred yards farther before there was a chance to seize an overhanging branch, and tow the raft to a clear piece of the farther bank, on to which Pomp scrambled at once.
“Quick, Mass’ George, quick!” he cried; and leaving me to follow, he disappeared at once in the dense cane and bush.
I was not long in following; and as I got ashore I saw the raft caught by an eddy, as it rose relieved from my weight, and as I plunged into the thicket I had a glimpse of it being carried out into the swift stream.
I was too much excited and hurried to follow Pomp, whom I heard crashing on before me, to pause to think about our retreat being now cut off by water, unless we made a new raft. The Indians must be there within view, I felt; but why did no arrows come; and why did not my companion plunge at once into the forest?
The explanation came directly, as I struggled on, seeing my route marked by trampled down reed and broken twig, for Pomp suddenly shouted—
“I got um, Mass’ George.”