“Young man,” said the bigger of the men, “if it wasn’t so funny, your talk would be impertinent. Why, we live at Westport, farther up the lake. This is Henry Skidmore and I am William Truesdale. We are merchants, and we have been taking a little outing.”
“That being the case,” said Chot, “of course you won’t object to going to Westport with us and giving proof of what you say?”
“That’s asking too much. Westport is five miles from here, at least, and we would be losing too much time. However, you boys can stop off there as you pass and inquire as to our characters.”
“Yes, we’ll do that—I don’t think!” said Fleet, rather contemptuously. “The best thing we can do with these men, Chot, is to take them to Dave Higgins so his wife can identify them.”
“I think so, too,” said Bert. “That’s the easiest way out of the matter.”
“Now, look here,” said the big man, glowering at them from under his heavy eyebrows, and speaking in a voice that rumbled like a smoldering volcano, “this has gone far enough. We’re bound for the east shore over there, and you will follow us at your peril.”
“We’re going to hand you over to the authorities, and it may as well be on the east shore as anywhere,” said Chot.
“Then look out for us,” warned the man at the oars. He sent the skiff shooting ahead as he spoke, rammed squarely into Pod’s canoe, upsetting it and throwing the little fellow into the water. The skiff shuddered from the force of the impact, careened to one side, righted itself, and sped on.
“After them!” shouted Fleet, “I’ll attend to Pod.”
Following his suggestion, Chot, Tom and Bert started in pursuit of the skiff, which they had no difficulty in overtaking, because they could paddle all around any man with a heavy skiff and an ordinary pair of oars.