“There he is, Bob,” said Dexter excitedly; and looking toward the other creek, there, sure enough, was the man in his wretched little tub of a boat, which he was forcing rapidly through the water, and looking over his shoulder from time to time at the objects of his pursuit.
Bob pulled with all his might, growing pallid and muddy of complexion as the gig glided on. Matters had been bad enough before. Now the map would be ten times worse, while, to make things as bad as they could be, it soon became evident that the tide was on the turn, and that, unless they could stem it in the unequal battle of strength, they would be either swept back into their enemy’s arms or else right up the river in a different direction to that which they intended to go, and, with the task before them, should they escape, of passing their enemy’s lair once again.
Chapter Thirty Eight.
The Crowning Point of the Trip.
“Come and lay hold o’ one scull,” said Bob, whose eyes seemed to be fixed as he stared at the back of their enemy. “Oh, do be quick!”
Dexter slipped into his place, took the scull, and began to row.
“Getting closer, ain’t he?” whispered Bob hoarsely. “Yes. I’m afraid so.”
“Pull, pull!”