For a few moments there was the silence of utter astonishment, and then the man who had pursued the boys down the river began to take advantage of the general excitement by keeping hold of the side of the gig and beginning to draw it away; but Bob set up such a howl of dismay that it drew Peter’s attention, and he too seized the boat from the other end, caught out the chain, and hooked it on to a ring-bolt of the big boat in which he sat.
“You drop that there, will yer!” cried the man. “It’s my boat.”
“How—ow!” cried Bob, in the most canine of yelps; and at the same moment the gig was literally jerked from the man’s hold, for the two sailors had given a tremendous tug at their oars to force the boat in the direction that Dexter was likely to take after his rise, and the next minute a dozen yards were between the tub and the gig.
“For heaven’s sake, mind! stop!” cried the doctor excitedly. “Don’t row, men, or you may strike him down.”
The men ceased rowing, and every eye began to search the surface of the water, but no sign of Dexter could be seen.
“He could not sink like that,” cried Sir James. “He must rise somewhere.”
But must or no, Dexter did not rise, and the men began to paddle softly down-stream, while the doctor stood up in the boat gazing wildly round.
“It was all my doing,” he said to himself. “Poor boy! poor boy!”
A feeling of horror that was unbearable seemed to be creeping over the occupants of the great boat. Even Dan’l, who looked upon Dexter as his mortal enemy, and who had suggested, in the hope of seeing him sent to prison, that the surest way of capturing the boys was to go down to the mouth of the river—even Dan’l felt the chill of horror as he mentally said—
“’Tain’t true. Them as is born to be hanged is sometimes drowned.”