“No, no,” cried the latter, ducking down his head. “I will pull—I will pull.”
He did pull too, with all his might, and the boat was going swiftly through the water as Dexter stepped right over the left-hand scull, nearly toppled over, but recovered himself, and stood in the bows of the boat, as they were now within twenty yards of the man, who, wet and muddy, stood up out of the creek like some water monster about to seize the occupants of the boat for a meal.
“Pull, Bob, hard!” whispered Dexter, in a low, excited voice; and Bob pulled.
The boat sped on, and the man uttered a savage yell, when, with a cry of horror, Bob ceased rowing.
But the boat had plenty of impetus, and it shot forward so swiftly that, to avoid its impact, the man drew a little on one side as he caught at the gunwale.
Whop!
Dexter struck at him with the light ash pole he held in his hand—struck at their enemy with all his might, and then turned and sat down in the boat, overcome with horror at what he had done, for he saw the man fall backward, and the water close over his head.
Then there was a loud hissing, rustling sound as the boat glided through the reeds, which bent to right and left, and rose again as they passed, hiding everything which followed.
The next moment the force given to the boat was expended, and it stopped outside the reeds, but only to commence another movement, for the tide bore the bows round, and the light gig began to glide softly along.
“I’ve killed him,” thought Dexter; and he turned cold with horror, wondering the while at his temerity and what would follow.