“I notice you’re not using any sign language yourself!” retorted Patsy. “And you don’t sound as if you had more breath than the rest of us, either.”
Patsy Garvan could not have kept out of an argument if there had been a spear within six inches of his heart. He dearly loved the last word, no matter where he was.
A sullen gleam of water could be made out through the tangle of trees. Surely they could cover the short distance between them and their boat, lying at the river bank before the foe cut them off.
They were not there yet, however.
A dark figure shot up ahead of the three flying detectives. Hardly had this one figure come into view, when there was another and another.
“They’ve closed us in!” cried Chick. “Just what I was afraid of.”
“Looks like it,” assented Nick Carter. “Well, there’s only one thing to do. We must rush them and take our chances of breaking through.”
“They’ll be taking the chances—not us!” shouted Patsy, with his usual drive-ahead cocksureness. “We could lick that bunch if our arms were in a sling.”
“Of course we can, but we’ll have to fight. There’s more of them every moment. Blaze away, both of you, and fire from the hip. Don’t take the time to aim. After that, revolvers! Come on, boys!”
Nick Carter’s tone was full of confidence, and his two assistants would have charged a regiment at that instant.