Dexter jumped up, seized his companion’s scull, and, weary as he was, with all the stubborn English pluck which never knows when it is beaten, he reseated himself, shipped his scull, and bent forward to try, inexperienced as he was, to make another effort for escape.
As he seated himself, breathless and panting hard, he gave one glance at his enemy, then another over his shoulder at a boat on ahead, which it would be his duty to avoid, for it seemed to be going right across his track.
Then he began to row, putting the little strength he had left into his last strokes.
“Ah, it’s no good,” cried the man triumphantly. “I’ve got yer at last.”
“How—ow!” yelled Bob, with a cry like a Newfoundland dog shut out on a cold night.
“Drop that there rowing, or I’ll—”
Dexter heard no more. He was pulling frantically, but making hardly any way. Then he heard voices ahead, glanced round with his sculls raised, and found that he was running right toward the craft just ahead.
Another moment and there was a bump.
The man had driven his little tub right into the stern of the gig, and as he laid hold he snarled out—
“I knew I should ketch yer.”