“Who’s stupid now?” panted Dexter, as he too rowed with all his might.
Bob did nothing but groan, and the pursuit and flight were once more continued, each moment with despair getting a stronger hold of the fugitives. The oar felt hot in Dexter’s blistered hands, a peculiar sensation of heaving was in his chest, his eyes began to swim, and he was just about to cease rowing, when he could hardly believe his starting eyes—their enemy had once more given up the pursuit, and was sitting wrenched round, and staring after them.
“Don’t, pray, don’t shout at him this time, Bob,” panted Dexter.
“I won’t if you’re afraid,” said the young scoundrel.
“Keep on rowing, or he’ll come after us again.”
Bob’s scull was dipped again directly, and the motion of the boat was kept up sufficiently to counteract the drift of the tide, while the man in the little tub was swept rapidly away.
“Let’s get over the other side to those trees,” said Dexter, as he felt that he could row no further, and the boat’s head was directed half-across the stream so as to reach the clump of willows indicated, where, after a much heavier pull than they had anticipated, the gig was made fast, and Bob’s first act after laying down his scull was to lean over the side and drink heartily of the muddy water.
Dexter would gladly have lain down to rest, but there was a watch to keep up.
Bob mocked at the idea.
“Yah!” he said; “he won’t some any more. I say, are you nearly dry?”