Mart, with the fear of prison walls no longer chilling his heart, had recovered himself during this harangue, and his eyes gleamed with a furtive, half-wild hate. Still he made no resistance. The sickle lay far beyond his reach, and he knew he was physically no match for either Reube or Will. He was led to the very edge of the steep, slippery incline of the channel, wherein the tide had dropped about fifteen feet. Will snatched a coil of rope out of the boat.
“Can you swim?” he asked, curtly.
“No,” said the fellow, eyeing him sidewise.
“He is lying,” remarked Reube, in a businesslike voice.
“Well,” said Will, “if he isn’t lying we’ll fish him out again, that’s all.”
Just as he was speaking, and while Gandy’s eyes were fixed upon his face with an evil light in them, Reube stepped forward and executed a certain dexterous trip of which he was master. Gandy’s heels flew out over the brink, his head went back, and, feet foremost, he shot like lightning down the slope and into the stream.
In a moment he came to the surface and began floundering and struggling like a drowning man.
“He’s putting that all on,” said Reube.
“Maybe not,” exclaimed Will. “Better throw him the end of the rope now.”
Reube smiled, gravely, but obeyed and a coil fell almost in Gandy’s arms. The struggling man seemed too bewildered to catch it. He grasped at it wildly, sank, rose, sank, and rose again. Will prepared to jump in and rescue him. But Reube interposed.