"You'll have to stand a lot of chiacking," said Smith, "but I'm sorrier for the girl. What she will do in civilisation I don't know. But it is getting light in the east, Baker. Look out for a hiding-place."
They pulled in close to the southern bank, which was steep, but broken with small gullies cut by the rain.
"None of those will do," said Smith, "and I'm afraid the river's too low for us to get much cover, unless we find a creek. The one we passed an hour ago would have done. Wake the girl up. We'd better push on till we reach some sort of cover."
When Kitty was roused, she sat up and stared about her, as if she were dazed. They explained to her what they wanted, and after kissing the Baker's hand, an act of loving homage he received with every visible sign of discomfort, they paddled on faster. And just as it was obviously dawn, they came to a bit of a creek, and shoved the canoe into it.
"If they come down this side, we're cooked," said the Baker.
"We must risk something," replied Smith. "They would hardly swim over, when one side's like another."
And he uttered an exclamation.
"What is it?" asked the Baker.
"By Jove! perhaps they think we just crossed, shoved the canoes adrift, and went back the way we came," he said.
"They might, but if they did, they would soon find out they were off it," answered the Baker. "And then they might come down this side, and our name would be—"