‘Hallo!’ The man in the punt evinced surprise and for a moment stopped rowing. Then, ‘Reckon you’re stealin’ her,’ he grunted. ‘Better come along back with her.’ The punt bumped into the stern of the launch and, armed with an oar, the occupant began to scramble aboard. ‘I’m not stealing her!’ protested Pud. ‘You keep off!’ He started back toward the stern. His foot found something that turned beneath it, almost upsetting him. Stooping, his hand closed on the boat-hook, no longer trailing astern but back in its former rôle of general nuisance. But it was no nuisance just now, for, holding it before him, Pud charged toward the enemy. The man, a squat form in the darkness, was steadying himself preparatory to jumping down from the stern planking. Perhaps if he had not been burdened with the oar he might have recovered his balance sooner, but as it was he was in no position to stand the thrust of Pud’s weapon. There was a grunt, a loud splash, the rattle of the falling oar against the punt and, for an instant, silence. Then the man’s head came up and, between puffings and gurgles, he pursued the vanishing launch with venomous oaths. A minute later Pud heard him scrambling over the side of the punt. A final raking fire of profanity followed, and then oars creaked against thole-pins again, the creaking diminishing momentarily, and Pud knew that he had won the action. Breathing hard, but exultant, he dropped the boat-hook and sprang to the engine. Up the stream the shouting continued, drawing nearer each second. CHAPTER XVII MAROONED! Tim and Harmon watched Pud until the bend of the stream intervened and then, somewhat dejectedly, nosed the skiff to the bank and sat there in silence for a while. As usual, mosquitoes and gnats were numerous and bloodthirsty, but the boys had to an extent become inured to them and only when the pests invited slaughter by attacking their faces did they trouble to combat them. They sat sidewise, their feet on the seats they occupied to keep them out of the inch or two of water that covered the floor of the punt. The position was not extremely comfortable, and after a while Tim announced that he was going to get out onto the bank. Harmon followed, with Pud’s clothing, and tied the painter to a bush. There was a small space bare of shrubbery from which, by leaning forward, they could see the light in the cabin. Tim had just drawn attention to this fact when they heard the sound of the launch’s engine. They became tense as they listened. It stopped, began again. Then it became steady and its sound dwindled. ‘He’s got it,’ exclaimed Tim, ‘but he’s going downstream!’ ‘How-come he do that?’ inquired Harmon. ‘Maybe she was headed down and he couldn’t turn her. How’s he going to get back here?’ ‘Reckon he goin’ find him a wide place an’ turn her roun’ and shoot back quick!’