Poke took thought. “Looks to me as if he landed somewhere, and didn’t make his boat secure. And the way the wind’s blowing—well, it’s easy guessing her line of drift. But, I say, Step! What’s Zorn doing over on our side at this time o’ night?”
“Let’s find out!” cried Step. With the painter of the punt in his grasp he sprang into the other boat. “Come along, Poke! This’ll be handier to row, and we’ll tow old Snub-Nose.”
Poke accepted the suggestion. “Where’ll we head for?” he asked as he settled himself on a thwart.
The question was answered, but not by Step. From the shore came a hail, quickly repeated.
The boys strained their ears.
“Sounds as if it came from near our camp,” Step asserted.
“And it sounds like Tom Orkney’s voice,” Poke added.
Step made swift survey. “Tell you what! Fire’s turned the ends of our ditch—tent’s a goner!”
Poke nodded agreement. He could see that while the fire had not burned through the timber clear to the shore, it was now very close, in places, to the water’s edge. And one of these places, by his reckoning, had been the site of the camp. He dipped his oar, and Step followed suit. The towing line tautened. Even with the drag of the clumsy punt the pair were able to make fair headway, so hard did they row and so determinedly.
The voice that had hailed them began to give directions. “Pull with your left!... There—that’s enough.... Left again!... Hold her there!... Now a bit on the right—as you are, as you are! Steady, steady—no hurry!... Right again! You fellows have got too much power on one side.... That’s the ticket, and here you are! ’Vast rowing!”