be as close to his "dead line" as prudence would dictate that he allow,
since it might require only a single sweep of the knife to cut that rope.

They kept on advancing as though anxious to get the job over with, now
that they had keyed their courage up to the proper pitch.

Another foot was all that Bobolink meant to allow, and then his time
would come to act. Those last few seconds seemed fairly to crawl, so
wrought-up was the waiting scout; but finally he concluded that it was no
use holding off any longer. So he suddenly called out the one word:

"Now!"

Instantly a new sound broke the silence. Bobolink elevated the object
he was hold in his hands. There came a queer, whizzing noise, like
water squirting from the end of a nozzle; which was exactly what it
was, and _hot_ water in the bargain, not actually scalding, but of such
a temperature to make a fellow wince, if it happened to sprinkle
over-his face.

It was all Bobolink's idea. He had brought a little garden pump aboard
during the afternoon, with the hose that went with it. There was a
kerosene cookstove aboard each boat, used when going ashore might be
unwise on account of rainy weather; and on this the artful schemer had
heated his water. Every time he went back to that quarter he tested its
temperature, to see whether it kept up to the pitch he meant it should
be. And Andy's part of the job was to manipulate the handle of the little
pump with all his vim and power.

Imagine the consternation of four plotters, who, when just about to