“What rocks?” Bob asked, looking about him.
“I tink you know what rocks ver’ well,” the man asserted with a sneer.
“But I don’t see any,” Bob insisted.
“Mebby you geet out an look, you see heem.”
“Mebby,” Bob repeated. “But it’s too wet to try.”
“Dat mak no matter. You goin’ geet out build up dat pier, oui,” the breed shouted as he rose in his seat.
“Looks as though he meant business,” Jack whispered.
“Get a hold on that rope and be ready to pull in when I give the word,” Bob whispered back.
He had risen to his feet again and stood, peavey in hand, as two of the men were pushing the row boat sideways toward the scow. He waited until the two boats were but four or five feet apart.
“Now,” he shouted, and at the same instant he threw his peavey with all his strength.