“Yes, sir,” said Tom Fillot. “I knowed it and was only waiting for you to speak. Most too dark to see, but I’m ’bout sure.”
“We must let her go up with the tide, Tom, or else moor her again by the trees.”
“Well, we should be brought back again, sir; but I think it would be best to make fast.”
“Steadily, my lads,” said Mark; “let’s pull in shore with the tide till I see a good place.”
“Or, feel it, sir,” whispered Tom Fillot.
“Yes, or feel it, Tom,” said Mark. “How dark it’s getting. Easy—easy there; just dip so as to get nearer the shore. The current’s so swift we may be capsized.”
“Easy it is, sir,” said Tom, and they rowed gently on with the current, getting nearer and nearer the shore with its heavy fringe of verdure, Mark watching eagerly in the gathering blackness for a big tree with overhanging boughs, but all in vain.
It was so dark now that they seemed to be gliding along right in the shadow, while more out towards the middle of what was evidently a broad river—the stream widening above the mouth—it was comparatively light, sufficiently so for them to see any object afloat.
“Can’t you make anything we can hook on to, sir?” said Tom Fillot.
“No, my lad, not yet. But I shall directly. You be ready.”