Ferd was rather steadied by the excitement, I think. He reached over and dragged me in without a word, and the next instant we were pulling for the shore in the moonlight, with the entire puddlers' picnic on their bank, calling awful things to us. That was not all, though. One of the men had got into their other boat and was coming after us. He could row, too. I implored Ferd to hurry--hurry. And I kept turning round to see whether he was gaining. That was how I discovered why they were so wrought up. There were two dozen quart bottles of champagne in the stern of that boat! We were carrying off the picnic! I told Ferd. "Throw it overboard!" he said. "It'll lighten the boat." So I did, basket after basket; and, whether it lightened the boat or not, we drew ahead. Ferd rowed like a demon. In the moonlight his face was white and set, with the queerest expression. We struck the shore with a bump that sent me on my knees, but Ferd grabbed my hand and jerked me out. "Now run--if you ever ran in your life!" he said. "Make for that grove over there, and bend over. The bushes will hide us." "I can't," I panted after a minute. "And why should I, Ferd? He's got his old boat by this time----" "Run!" gasped Ferd. And I ran. We crouched down in the grove. My teeth were chattering, but I was nothing to Ferd. He was pallid. The puddler landed just then. We heard him throw his oars into the boat and drag it up on the beach, and I knew he was examining the other boat and finding that the wine was gone. We could hear him breathing hard, and he even made a start toward us, beating the bushes with an oar. He was in a red fury, muttering to himself in the most horrible manner. I had been in Ferd's mill once or twice, and I remembered the enormous shoulders the men had, and how they simply toyed with steel rails; and I was paralysed. A puddler turned Berserk! He gave it up just in time, however, and started back for the boat. I could see him moving about--a huge creature in white flannels. And he seemed to have cut himself on a branch or something, for he was tying a handkerchief round his forehead. We did not dare to move until he had started back and was safely out from shore. Ferd's voice had lost its strained quality and he looked a little less like death. We could hear the picnic party calling to the man in the boat about the wine, and his calling back that we had got away with it, but for some of them to come over and they could beat the bushes. They couldn't come, of course, until he took the boat back. "We've got to get out of here, Fan," Ferd said. "In ten minutes the whole shooting match will be here. Can you run any more?" "Not a foot--I'm all in. And I lost a shoe in the water at the island." Ferd groaned. "They'll have us up for stealing their champagne," he said. "I suppose you can walk."