“Here—yes—it—is—all right,” came in rather a high-pitched voice, the accents being those of one not fully accustomed to the English language.
“Well, what’s the word?” cried Smithers, who, with his piece presented, found himself close up now to a slight man of middle height, wearing a sun-hat, dressed in knickerbockers, and apparently having a fishing-creel slung from one shoulder, something like a tin case from the other.
“The—the—word?” he answered.
“Yes. What’s the word?”
“Oh yes; it is all right,” faltered the new-comer, with a half-laugh. “I was just going down to my boat. What a dark night!”
“Oh yes, it’s dark enough,” growled Smithers; “but what’s the word?”
“The word? Oh yes. Good-night—good-night.”
“Halt, I tell you!” cried the sentry in a deep tone. “That’s not the password.”
“Oh no; but that does not matter, my good friend. I tell you I am going down to the pier to my boat, which is waiting for me.”
“Rum time to be going to meet a boat,” growled Smithers; “and there’s no boat waiting there. Can’t you hear? They are paddling away down-stream as hard as eater they can.”