“Row! pull! pull!” whispered Bob excitedly, as there was a loud breaking of the low growth on the bank close by them, followed by the loud clap given by a swing-gate violently dashed to.
Dexter pulled, but against the bank, for they were too close in for them to get a dip of the oar in the water; but what he did was not without some effect, and, as Bob backed, the boat’s head gradually glided round, shot into the stream, and they went swiftly on again, pulling as hard as they could.
“Did you see him!” whispered Bob at last.
“No, did you?”
“No, but I nearly did. He has been creeping along the bank for ever so long, and he nearly got hold of the boat.”
“Who was it?” whispered Dexter.
“Pleeceman, but pull hard, and we shall get away from him yet.”
They both pulled a slow stroke for quite an hour, and by that time the horse that had been feeding upon the succulent weedy growth close to the water’s edge had got over its fright, and was grazing peaceably once more.
Bob was quiet after that. The sudden alarm had cut his string of words in two, and he was too much disturbed to take them up again to join. In fact he was afraid to speak lest he should be heard, and he kept his ill-temper—stirred up by the loss of a night’s rest—to himself for the next hour, when suddenly throwing in his oar he said—
“Look here, I’m tired, and I shall lie down in the bottom here and have a nap. You keep a sharp look-out.”