“Means zwim for it, Master Nic,” he cried, with an attempt at being cheery; “but look here, lad, if you zee me pulled down by them ’gators or vish, let it be a lesson to you. Don’t you try the water.”
Then to himself, as he plunged in:
“Why, o’ course he wouldn’t. What’s the good o’ saying that?”
The water was deep and clear close in to the overhanging bank, and Pete dived out of sight, scaring some occupant of the river, which swept itself away with as much commotion in the water as was caused by the man’s dive; but when he rose to the surface, yards away, shook his head, and glanced back over his left shoulder, it was to see Nic’s head rise a short distance behind him, for the younger man had followed on the instant.
Pete ceased swimming, to allow his companion to come abreast.
“Oh, Master Nic!” he cried, “you zhouldn’t ha’ done that;” and he glanced wildly about him as if expecting to see the rugged head of an alligator rise close by. “Go back, lad; go back. It’s on’y one man’s work.”
“Go back? No,” said Nic firmly. “We must fight it out, shoulders together, Pete. Come on.”
Pete gave vent to something like a sob, and his face grew wrinkled; but the next moment he forced a smile.
“Well, you’re master,” he said cheerily; “zo now for it, zir. You zwim lighter than I do, but I’ll race you down to the boat. Virst to lay a hand on gunwale wins.”
“Come on,” said Nic, fighting hard to master the horrible feeling that at any moment they might be attacked from beneath by one or other of the fierce creatures which inhabited the stream—Nic’s dread being mostly respecting the shark-like gar-fish, which he knew must be abundant.