The look in Petit’s eyes when he perceived the boat was not calculated to reassure Tom and Dave. Dave’s face showed gruesomely pale in contrast with his red hair, and no one would have recognised in Tom the high-spirited youth, who, garbed in nothing but a sense of injury, had defied his tyrannical parent only a few days before.

Dave, who had got into the habit of taking his cue from his superior officer, was ready to bolt, but Tom made no sign. After a visible effort to control his emotion, he began to gaze abstractedly round at the fig-trees.

Petit crept up to them.

“Hist!” he exclaimed, with a significant glance at the boat, which was making towards the point of the island.

“We just came acrost for a billy of water,” explained Tom, sotto voce, “we was goin’ to have the tea biled again you woke up.”

He was trying to catch Dave’s eye.

[165]

Petit had crouched down beside them; his knife between his teeth.

“Make ze leetle noise,” he hissed; “make ze evair so leetle an’ I will keel you both.”

“I ain’t goin’ to make no nise,” said Tom, emphatically.

“Neither am I,” pleaded Dave, in an earnest voice. “We never seen the boat till just when you came along.”

This attempt to allay Petit’s suspicions may have been successful or otherwise. The Frenchman made no sign.

Dave fully expected that his throat was to be cut at last.

He dared not look at the boat, but watched the face of the escapee as a condemned criminal might watch the face of his executioner.

The boat was within twenty yards of the shore, and not more than a hundred from where they lay in the scrub.

It happened that the day being a public holiday, Dan Creyton and George Chard had decided to go out shooting. On all the large islands in the river Moreton Bay figs grew profusely, and the pigeons and flying foxes came down from the hills to feed on the ripe fruit.

They had determined to try this particular island before breakfast. Hence all that followed.

The boat was certainly going to land. Petit, watching[166] with lynx eyes, scowled angrily. Conflicting emotions of hope and fear surged in Tom Pagdin’s breast.

The rowers turned the corner of the point, and were hidden from view, but they could hear the noise of the oars being drawn in; hear the voices of two strangers in conversation; hear them taking the gear out of the boat, and making her fast.

Again and again Tom tried to catch Dave’s eye.

At last he succeeded.

Dave saw that his mate meant to run.

It was only a lightning glance, but it said plainly enough, “chance it.”

Dave trembled all over.

He withdrew his eyes guiltily; they had only wandered for a second—and looked again in Petit’s face. He seemed fascinated, as a victim might be in watching the axe of a headsman waiting for its descent—were he permitted to see the axe. Petit was actually meditating killing the two boys, but he was also calculating the after chance. As far as the act was concerned he had no qualms once he made up his mind that it would be better for him to have them out of the way. The youth and presumed innocence of Tom and Dave would not deter a person of his gentle nature for a moment. He would have no more compunction about the matter than he would about the matter of drowning a couple of blind kittens. Had he the slightest inkling of the knowledge possessed by his hostages regarding the murder of his accomplice on the night of the bank robbery the career of the pirates would have ended abruptly the previous day.

[167]

But Petit was a true criminal—he only killed when he thought it necessary. It is the act of a lunatic, he had often explained to his fellows, to do otherwise. Why make evidence against oneself without reason. The career of the true professional was a game in which he played his life and liberty against Society and the Law. He could not, therefore, afford to throw away a chance. But if any of his crimes had been discovered—if these strangers in the boat were come to arrest him—of course there would no longer be any need for caution.

He questioned Tom with a threat.

“Zese men in ze boad,” he growled in a low guttural, “know you, eh? Spik me visout untruth,” he added, “else——”

The knife in his hand was sufficient termination for the sentence.

Tom understood.

“Yes,” said the latter, looking right into Petit’s eyes. “I know ’em both. One’s name’s Joe Saunders, an’ the other cove’s Dan Creed. They’re duck shooters.”

“Vat?” exclaimed Petit.

“Shooters,” interposed Dave, with a quivering lip and an exaggerated expression of veracity. “They go shooting ducks in the swamps for the market, and pigeons.”

“Yes,” observed Tom, “they come up the river a piece. That cove in the nose of the boat, he’s got a bit of a farm up there.”

He was looking at Dave.

[168]

Dave took up the story.

“Yes,” he went on; “that’s Dan Saunders.”

“Joe Saunders,” interrupted Tom.

“Joe Saunders, I mean,” replied Dave, correcting himself quickly; “an’ the other cove’s Dan MacCreedy.”

“Dan Creed,” said Tom.

It would have delighted him very much to punch Dave’s head.

“That’s what I said—Dan Creed,” resumed Dave. “We know ’em both.”

Petit silenced them by a motion.

The sportsmen were trooping along the track, gun in hand, with their eyes in the air looking up at the fig-trees, watching for pigeons.

It had been Dan Creyton’s idea, that expedition. He wanted to get George out in the open air, away from his troubles, to occupy his mind in some sport. There is no medicine like this for the mind and nerves, and already George was forgetting the black cloud which had recently lowered upon him. The primal instinct of the hunter can always be reverted to by a sane man, whom civilization has in one way or another made sick. An hour’s fishing, by some shady pool, under the open sky is worth more than a bottle of drugs.

They strode along in the cool morning air, making little noise on the jungle path, carpeted with leaves. Closer and closer they came to that group of three in the scrub.

Tom and Dave could hear their hearts beating in their heads. Petit lay upon the ground, flattened out like a panther, his knife ready to his hand. He had[169] put Tom on one side and Dave on the other, within reach of his arm, giving them to understand plainly enough that at the first attempt to communicate with the strangers he would choke the life out of them.

The boys knew well enough they would have little chance in the strong clutch of those vice-like fingers, because Petit had given their necks a sample squeeze with his huge forefinger and thumb.

So they lay still, fearing, hoping, despairing—both more or less hysterical, both experiencing great difficulty in restraining something which kept rising up in their throats—something choking and unpleasant which would otherwise have developed into a sob.

Dan Creyton and George passed them within a distance of ten yards, and they dared not cry out or give the slightest sign of warning. Tom said afterwards that he never felt like he did then except once, and that was when he crawled down a hollow log after a bandicoot and got stuck. It was just the same smothering, suffocating feeling.

The shooters went by and entered a clump of figs. They sat there a long time waiting for pigeons. The trio laying concealed in the bushes could hear the murmur of their voices occasionally. They talked in very low tones, because it is good not to make any noise when one is out hunting; but as they were not many yards little bits of conversation drifted down to Tom, whose ears were strained to catch it.

Presently they shif............