“That’s it!” he cried. “We shan’t even need the soldiers to keep him from landing. I very much want to make the fellow’s acquaintance. He’s a cool hand and no mistake!”
The funny thing was that the distance was now diminishing at an abnormal rate, as though the fugitive had lost heart at realizing the futility of the struggle. The policemen redoubled their efforts. The boat shot across the water with the swiftness of a swallow. Another hundred yards at most and they would reach the man.
“Halt!” cried the commissary.
The enemy, whose huddled shape they could make out in the boat, no longer moved. The sculls drifted with the stream. And this absence of all motion had something alarming about it. A ruffian of that stamp might easily lie in wait for his aggressors, sell his life dearly and even shoot them dead before they had a chance of attacking him.
“Surrender!” shouted the commissary.
The sky, at that moment, was dark. The three men lay flat at the bottom of their skiff, for they thought they perceived a threatening gesture.
The boat, carried by its own impetus, was approaching the other.
The commissary growled:
“We won’t let ourselves be sniped. Let’s fire at him. Are you ready?” And he roared, once more, “Surrender . . . if not...!”
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