Chapter Thirty Two.
Never say die.
“What zay?” cried Pete sharply. “Never zay die, lad. English lads are never beat. Look at that!”
He pointed through the trees at where the streamlet widened into the little creek where they had first landed, and Nic rubbed his eyes, refusing to believe in what he saw.
But there it was plain enough in the dim, grey dawn—the boat lying tied up to the post; and a great sob rose to the poor fellow’s lips, while for a few moments he could not stir.
Then a thrill of excitement ran through him as he looked round and saw that the dogs had passed out of sight beyond the long, low shed which had been their jail.
It came like a flash to him now what must have taken place—one of those guesses at the truth which hit the mark. He knew that his enemies had dashed off in pursuit of the men who had made for the boat.
They must have been overtaken during the night, brought back, and were doubtless at that moment shut up in their old quarters.
Nic hurriedly told Pete his impression, and the latter slapped his leg.