“Hod Hawkins!”
Keeping quiet, the pair in the skiff waited to see what would happen.
Hod came down to the water’s edge, peering with a puzzled expression along the waterway. He did not see the skiff, shielded by leaves and dense shade.
“Hit’s all-fired queer,” they heard him mutter. “I shore didn’t see no boat pass here this mawnin’. But Maw musta seen one go by or she wouldn’t heve pounded the pan.”
Hod sat down on a log, watching the channel. Penny and Mrs. Jones remained where they were. Once the current, sluggish as it was, swung the skiff against a projecting tree root. The resulting jar and scraping sound seemed very loud to their ears. But the Hawkins youth did not hear.
Penny and the widow were becoming weary of sitting in such cramped positions under the tree branch. To their relief, Hod arose after a few minutes. Reaching into the hollow log, he removed a tin pan somewhat smaller than the dishpan Mrs. Hawkins had used a few minutes earlier.
“He’s going to signal!” Penny whispered excitedly. “Either to his mother, or someone deeper in the swamp!”
Already Hod was beating out a pattern on the pan, very similar to the one the girl had heard before.
After a few minutes, the swamper thrust the pan back into its hiding place. He hesitated, and then to the surprise of Penny and Mrs. Jones, stepped into his boat.
“If he comes this way, he’s certain to see us!” Penny thought uneasily.