“Got to get out of here,” he thought. “Got to get out quick, and got to do it lying down.”
Even as the pole silently touched the water, then sank to grip the bottom, he speculated on his chance of escape. He was unarmed. At times he had brought a shot gun to the marsh. Not to-day. There were no ducks—to early in the season.
“Only chance is to lose him,” was his mental comment as he drove the boat forward into the channel. At the same time he felt an almost uncontrollable desire to see the face of the man who had fired the shot. He had a notion that were he an artist he could paint the man’s picture, even though he did not see him. In this he probably was mistaken.
CHAPTER VI
THE BLACK SHACK
As Johnny gave the pole at the side of the boat a vigorous shove, then another and another, he found no time for thoughts other than directing the silent maneuvering of his clumsy bark. A prod or two on this side, then as the boat swung to the right the same number of pokes on the other side, and he moved silently down the narrow channel. A division in the narrow course was greeted with delight. If the man who had fired that shot was following he could not follow both channels at once.
“That gives me a fifty-fifty chance of escape,” Johnny thought as he chose the right fork.
It is hard work, this poling a boat while lying flat on one’s back. Johnny found himself perspiring at every pore. Yet he persevered, and his perseverence was rewarded for, as he moved slowly forward, he came to a place where the channel was cut squarely across by another.
“A four corners,” he rejoiced. “I might go straight ahead, or to the right or left. The natural thing to do would be to turn right, so I go left.”
Skilfully he maneuvered the turn and went gliding down the new channel.
Ten minutes later, still lying on his back and looking up at the clouds, he lifted his pole without a sound into the boat and then allowed himself time to think matters through.