‘Oh, sure,’ agreed Cocker heartily. ‘We’re just borrowin’ it. Thought you knew that.’ ‘Well――when?’ ‘Oh, most any day, I guess. Want we should send it parcel post or express?’ Cocker laughed hoarsely at his humor and then broke off to lift Harmon swiftly from his feet and drop him into the bottom of the skiff. ‘Get in there!’ he ordered angrily. ‘Be quick about it or I’ll throw you all in! Come on, snap into it!’ Pud looked miserably at Tim and found no encouragement to further resistance. Tim was plainly frightened and was already climbing onto the seat. Pud choked down a lump in his throat and spoke with commendable calm. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘But you needn’t think you can get away with this. You’re stealing my――’ ‘Shut your face and get into that skiff,’ threatened Cocker savagely, ‘or I’ll kick you in!’ Pud followed Tim, and Lank tossed the painter down after him. ‘Sorry, son,’ said the latter with gruff kindness, ‘but we have to do it. Keep down that stream yonder and you’ll come out in The Flat. Good luck! Clear out now, and――’ ‘Mind this,’ growled Cocker, scowling down at them, ‘don’t you come sneakin’ back, ’cause if you do we’ll put a bullet into you, and don’t make no mistake!’ Tim had already found the oars and now he began to row hurriedly across to the farther stream. Pud, tears of mortification in his eyes, watched the launch fade away in the darkness a blurred white blotch until the bank hid it from sight. Tim pulled hard at the oars and, although no skillful waterman, soon had the skiff well on its way. No one spoke for several minutes. Then, as it often happened, it was Harmon who broke the silence. ‘Reckon ’em folkses knows a heap more about piratin’ ’an what we does,’ he said sorrowfully. Neither Pud nor Tim seemed to be able to think of a suitable reply to this statement and they went on until Tim, becoming exhausted, caught a crab that almost landed him on his back. ‘Let me row,’ said Pud, and they changed places. Again silence fell like a pall. The stream was wide and easy to follow even in the dusk that was fast swallowing up the world. Small trees were interspersed with bushes atop the low banks and these had already lost detail, were black silhouettes against the grayer darkness of the sky. The rain had stopped, but a foglike mist still hung over River Swamp. The boys were damp and chill, hungry and discouraged. Finally Tim spoke from his place in the stern. ‘Those men aren’t Swamp-Holers, Pud.’ ‘I know,’ answered the other wearily. ‘He told me, the tall one. They’re just visiting, he said.’ ‘I think they’re town folks,’ Tim went on. ‘They didn’t talk like folks around here, though sometimes it seemed as if they were trying to. And one of them wore a leather coat, Pud. You wouldn’t see a leather coat around the Swamp in a thousand years, I guess.’