“No, I think that’s all. Thanks for the information,” replied Rawlins and then, reaching in his pocket he handed the man several cigars.
Touching his forelock again and with a final hitch of his trousers the sailor turned and strolled off with the rolling gait of the true deep-water seaman.
“Well, what do you make of it?” asked Mr. Pauling, when the sailor was out of earshot.
“I’ll say it’s blamed funny that packet was hanging around near the sub,” replied Rawlins. “It might be a coincidence—Bahama smacks do come pretty well up here during the summer—and she might have been a rum-runner, but putting two and two together I’d say she was waiting for the sub and that the crew were on board her when the destroyer came up.”
“Jove!” ejaculated Mr. Pauling. “Then you think she was a West Indian boat?”
“I don’t think, I know!” answered Rawlins. “A Bahama schooner—not any doubt of that. Only Caribbean craft carry those two deck-houses and
that sprung jib-boom and the darkey skipper with the English accent just clinches it. I’ll bet those square-heads were Russian Johnnies or Huns off this darn sub. Say, if we don’t get a move on they’ll beat us to the islands yet!”
“Gosh!” exclaimed Tom. “I’ll bet they took their radio outfit aboard.”
“I’ll say they did!” declared Rawlins. “And like as not they’ll be under full sail for the Caribbean by now and working that radio overtime to get word to the old High Panjandrum down there.”
“Not if I know it!” cried Mr. Pauling. “Come along, Rawlins. I’m going to see the Admiral.”