“Hist!” came in a low whisper. “Stop here—don’t move. Quiet;” and it seemed to Ned that the man lowered himself down till his head was on a level with his companion’s knees, and a faint splashing told him where.
They were at the edge of the river, and their rescuer was slowly wading against the stream, holding on by the overhanging boughs.
Then the faint splashing ceased, and the boys joined hands, to stand awe-struck and listening in the thick darkness, and with the knowledge that the water, gliding swiftly by their feet, swarmed with monstrous reptiles, which for aught they knew might seize their guide, or be marking them down for their prey.
Chapter Nineteen.
Down the Stream again.
Five minutes, ten minutes, a quarter of an hour passed, and neither of the boys spoke. No sound came from the house, no splashing of the water told that their guide was on his way back.
All at once a shout reached them, followed by another cry, the noise of a struggle succeeded by a splash. Then another splash, and while, with their nerves all on the strain, they listened trembling with excitement, there was another faint gurgling cry; but, instead of being from the direction in which their rescuer had gone, it was close to them in the river, and ceased at once, to be heard again more faintly lower down.
“Oh, Ned,” whispered Frank, passionately, “that was poor old Hamet. They’ve krissed him, and thrown him in the river.”