“Nor I neither!” said Len.
“Come, Sellick! don’t be l’iterin’ here!” exclaimed the impatient Peternot. “Either cross over, or go round by the bridge.”
“Here comes an old wheat-boat; maybe the steersman ’ll put us across,” said Sellick. “Hello!” he shouted, “lay over here!” And he called to the driver: “Do you see any boy about the race-way, or running off anywhere, down on that side of the canal?”
“I see a man going into the saw-mill,—nobody else,” answered the driver.
“Call him! tell him to come up to the tow-path.”
“Call him yourself!” And the driver cracked his whip at the towing horses.
“I shall git aground, if I go over there,” said the steersman.
“No, you won’t! Good shore! plenty of water! you’re light!”
“What’s the row, anyhow?”
Before Sellick could answer, somebody in the crowd cried, “Prisoner got away—boy—went through the culvert under the canal—constable wants to go over and git him.”