"Sure it is," Connie Bennett said, "listen."

Then as plain as day I could hear the words "Crab running," and then in
a minute something about "bad news." Pretty soon, through the steady
chugging I could hear a voice say very plain, "I'm glad it doesn't have
to be me to tell her."

We couldn't make them out because it was getting too dark, but it was
Jake Holden, the fisherman, all right. Pretty soon the engine began
chugging double, sort of, and I knew they were going around the corner
into Bridgeboro River, because there's a steep shore there, and it
makes an echo.

I was a chump not to realize what they were talking about, but they had
chugged around into Bridgeboro River and were heading upstream before it
popped into my thick head. And even then it was on account of something
else they said, as the chugging grew fainter all the time. It seemed as
if I heard it while I was dreaming, as you might say. I knew they were
pretty far upstream by now, but the voice was awful clear, like voices
always sound across the water, especially in the night.

"He was a nice little fellow," that's what I said, "but he had a right
to keep out of that place."

Then, all of a sudden, I knew. They were talking about me. They must
have been up that creek fishing and found that note of mine. And they
were going to tell my people as soon as they got home.

"Holler to them, fellows!" I said; "quick-all together."