“By St. Pancras!” muttered Gysbert. “If that isn’t Dirk Willumhoog again! There’s mischief afoot!” Dropping his clothes he ran down the bank, slipped without noise into the water, and swam hurriedly in the direction of the retreating figure.
“If I keep behind him close and to the bank,” thought the boy, “I can watch him very well, and he’ll never suspect there is a soul around.” It did not take him long to catch up with the man he was pursuing. Most of the time he kept out of sight, but he rose occasionally far enough to poke his head over the edge of the canal and peep at his enemy. Once as he did so, he dropped back quickly, finding that Dirk had seated himself under a tree not five feet away. The man was busily engaged in examining the writing on some scraps of paper, or he would certainly have seen the wet, tousled head poked suddenly up over the bank.
“Whew!” thought Gysbert as he ducked, “but that was a narrow escape! I wonder
