“She’ll swing over to us yet,” asserted Reube, confidently. “She isn’t going to desert us in such a horrible scrape as this!”
But Will made no reply. He was studying his tactics for the struggle which he felt was now close at hand.
“You’d better give that stake, or picket, or whatever it is, to me, Reube,” he suggested. “You’ll have enough to do just swimming. I, being perfectly at home in the water, will be able to make the best use of it, don’t you think? If I can manage to give each of those brutes a solid jab in the belly, maybe they’ll get sick of their undertaking and depart.”
“All right,” agreed Reube, though with some reluctance. And he handed over the sharp stick.
“You’ll have to fight for yourself and me too, that’s all,” he continued.
“I’ll make a fight anyway,” said Will. “And I dare say I can drive them both off. In these well-stocked waters they can’t be very hungry or very fierce.”
At last the strip of sand was not more than three or four feet wide and six inches above water. But though so narrow it was more than a hundred yards in length, extending like a sort of backbone up the entrance to the creek. About the middle it looked a foot or two broader than where the captives were standing.
“Come up there where it is wider,” said Reube.
As they went those black fins kept scrupulously abreast of them, and they shuddered at the sight.
At this point the opposite shore of the creek jutted out somewhat sharply toward the sand spit. Will cast his eye across the narrow channel.