“That’s right—be a quitter!” he said over his shoulder. “Anything to get out of hunting for Varley and the Shark, of course!”
Step was beside him in an instant. “Quitter, eh?” he snarled. “We’ll see who’ll be first to lay down his playthings in this game!”
“Oh, then you haven’t really laid them down, eh?” said Poke with crafty sweetness. “Isn’t it too bad it looked so much like that?”
Step merely gritted his teeth in reply, and set a pace which put Poke into a dog-trot to keep abreast of him.
It was, of course, the most trivial of quarrels, but like some other trifles in life fated to have consequences out of all ratio to its real importance. It made both boys determined to go on with the hunt without much regard for reason. Also it brought it about that when in the growing darkness the flood came sweeping down the valley in a fine wave, Poke and Step were still marching along, each more intent upon wearing out the other than upon keeping keen watch for danger.
Luckily, the roar of the approaching water gave even these preoccupied youths some warning. Luckily, too, though the road they were then traveling was close to the river, they were near a tiny hillock on which stood a shed such as farmers sometimes build in remote fields to protect stock or tools. Poke and Step dashed for its shelter, and were well above the wave as it went raging down the valley. However, it left them on what was now an island, safe for the time being, but cut off from the shore by a hundred yards or more of deeply inundated swale.
Poke clutched Step, and Step clung to Poke, their bickering forgotten and peace restored. In a moment they were as thoroughly comradely as Herman and the Trojan, who three or four miles down the valley watched, or, more accurately, heard the sweep of the wave down the stream. Chance had put the Trojan and his companion, at the time on the hillside, well above the flood level. In the faint light they could make out little except that the stream, of a sudden, was over its banks; but while they were pausing, uncertain what to do, Mr. Grant’s hired man drove up. He could give them no information except that he had been instructed to carry on the inquiry for the Shark and Varley at the gorge at the mouth of the valley. They held a short consultation, agreeing that the man should go on as far as he could, the road at this point being well above high water mark, while the boys turned back. By keeping to the hillside they would be able to regain the Grant place, and on the way they could continue the search for traces of the missing pair.
For Poke and Step, however, no such solution of their problem was possible. They were effectually marooned. Neither felt tempted to venture to swim to the shore. They put their heads together, debated briefly, and agreed that there was nothing to do but to make the best of the situation.
The roof of the shed leaked abominably, but at one end they found a comparatively dry spot, and here, too, they made a discovery. Against the wall lay a boat, bottom up, evidently in storage for the winter. It was a home-made affair; a punt, broad, flat-bottomed, square-ended; built of heavy planks and generally so clumsy and weighty that they were unable to move it, though they put all their strength into the effort.
“No use!” groaned Step, and now it was Poke who took the rôle of comforter.