"Come, Sandy, the work is done. Now use your legs," said Richard, as he started at the top of his speed towards the inlet where the Greyhound lay.
Sandy's legs did not fail him on this emergency, for he soon outstripped his companion. They had gone but a few rods, when both were appalled at the discovery of two men, who were running towards the fire with all their might—which was not saying much, for both of them seemed to be old and stiff, and incapable of making very good time even on so pressing an emergency as the present.
The guilty boys were filled with terror. The shock was so great that it seemed to deprive them of their strength, and they found their legs giving out under them.
"We are caught, Dick," gasped Sandy, when he could regain breath enough to speak.
"No, we are not; come along. Don't stop here," answered Richard, who was beginning to recover his self-possession.
They ran as fast as their weakened limbs would permit, till they reached the bank of the river. Richard jumped into the boat and hoisted the sails, while Sandy cast off the painter, and they were soon standing out from the shore before the fresh breeze. Neither of them spoke for some minutes, for neither of them had breath enough left in his body to do so.
"The fire don't burn," said Richard, when the boat had gone far enough to enable him to see over the high bank of the river.
"Don't it?" asked Sandy, hoarsely, for the terror and exhaustion of the awful moments through which he had just passed seemed to have choked up his throat, and deprived him of his voice.
"No; it is as dark up there as it was before we landed."
"I am glad of it," gasped Sandy, who was beginning to breathe a little easier.