“There!” exclaimed Herbert. “Tom has frightened them away before they had time to get into the trap.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said I. “There are more turkeys in that boat than we can eat at one Christmas dinner.”
Duke, who was managing the raft, used his paddle with all his strength; but, before we were half-way across the bayou, the robber came in sight, carrying a turkey slung over each shoulder. He stopped when he discovered us, and his face turned red with shame and then pale with alarm.
“Now, I’ll jest tell you what’s the matter, Tom Mason,” exclaimed Sandy. “We ain’t a-goin’ to put up with this yere kind of business no longer. We’ll wash some of that ar meanness outen you by dumping you in the bayou.”
Tom stood for a moment as if he had been rooted to the ground, and then, dropping the turkeys, ran toward his boat.
Duke, comprehending his design, exerted himself to the utmost to defeat it; but our clumsy raft moved very slowly through the water, and when we arrived within twenty feet of the bank, Tom reached his boat and shoved off. He could manage a canoe as well as any Indian, and he would certainly have succeeded in effecting his escape, had it not been for Sandy Todd. He saw that there was but one way to prevent the robber from making off with his booty, and he had the nerve to adopt that way. He hastily threw off his powder-flask and shot-pouch, and before we knew what he was going to do, he was in the water striking out for Tom’s boat.
For a moment he puffed and blew like a porpoise (you can imagine how cold the water is in December, even in a warm climate like ours), but he kept on, and, after a few swift strokes, was near enough to Tom to seize the stern of his canoe.
“Let go!” shouted Tom, flourishing his paddle in the air. “Let go, I say, or I’ll rap you over the head!”
“Hold fast to him, Sandy!” I yelled. “Those turkeys are ours, and we’re bound to have them.”
“If he attempts to strike you, capsize the canoe and spill him out,” exclaimed Herbert.