The voice was Pink Harper's. At this point the trees had shut in overhead, and the dark was impenetrable. Beveridge and Van Deelen could see nothing across the creek, not even the blot of denser black which told Smiley, only a few feet behind, where his companion had stopped.
“What is it?” came in a low voice from Beveridge.
“Hit my shin. Hold on—feels like a boat. Guess you'd better come across.”
Without a moment's hesitation the special agent turned to the left and plunged into the stream. At this point it was deeper, and he found himself submerged to the armpits. To save time he drew up his feet and swam across until his knees struck bottom. And then the three of them,—Van Deelen waited on the farther bank,—now dimly visible to each other, stood side by side feeling of the boat.
“You 'll have to come over here,” said Beveridge to the farmer, “and tell us if it's your boat.”
Van Deelen had no mind to swim. “Can't you strike a match?” he asked.
“Strike your aunt!” growled Beveridge, wringing his wet clothes.
“Well, say, that ain't necessary anyhow. My boat's the only one on the creek.”
“Why didn't you say that before I swam over?”
“Well, I—”