“My love to Carlo!” cried Chub from the wheel-house.
“Tell him I hope he chokes!” added Roy vindictively.
At that moment a man in a faded blue coat with brass buttons came out of the woods and hurried toward the farmer. Hasty explanations followed on the part of the latter.
Chub put his lips to the speaking-tube.
“Got her full speed, Dick?” he called.
“Yes,” was the answer.
“All right. Our friend, the constable, has arrived. Keep her going.” The Slow Poke was now far out of the cove and making good time down the river. Roy waved a polite farewell to the two figures on shore; the whistle croaked, and the next minute the wooded point had shut them from view. Roy hurried up to Chub.
“What are you going down the river for?” he asked.
“Because they may send out warrants for us,” answered Chub. “I want them to think we’re going this way. After a while we’ll turn around, go over toward the other shore and come back. I’ve got to get rid of these wet clothes.”
When he came back, once more in conventional attire, he headed the boat across to the opposite shore, turned her and crept upstream again. Roy brought his field-glasses up and they searched the shore of the cove as they went by. But there was no one in sight.