“What! and leave the boat?” cried Dexter. “That I’m sure I will not.”
Dexter pulled all the harder after hearing this proposal, and Bob uttered a moan.
All that morning the flight and pursuit were kept up, till on both sides it became merely a light dipping of the oars, so as to keep the boats’ heads straight, the tide carrying them along.
It was plain enough now that they were getting toward the mouth of the river, which was now quite broad. Houses were growing plentiful, barges lay at wharves or moored with other boats in the stream, and care had to be exercised to avoid coming in collision with the many obstacles in their way.
But they kept on; and though at Bob’s piteous suggestion they wound in and out among the many crafts in the hope of shaking off their pursuer, it was all in vain, for he kept doggedly on after them, with the matter-of-fact determination of a weasel after a rabbit, sure of its scent, and certain that before long the object of the pursuit would resign itself to its fate.
On still in a dreary mechanical way. Dexter could hardly move his arms, and Bob was, in spite of his long experience, almost as helpless.
“It’s of no use,” the latter said at last; and he ceased rowing.
“No, no, Bob; don’t give in!” cried Dexter excitedly. “We shall soon tire him out now. Row! Row!”
“Can’t,” said Bob drearily. “I haven’t another pull in me.”
“Then give me the other scull, and let me try.”