"Might as well wind the thing up now!" observed Jim in an undertone.
"On board the sloop!" he hailed. "It's all off, Captain! We've got your four men tied up, and we've got their revolvers. You and Dolph might as well give it up. Throw your guns in on the beach, and we'll come out and get you, one at a time!"
A tremendous surprise was voiced by the absolute silence that followed. It was broken by Brittler's sneering voice:
"So we might as well give up, had we, eh? Guess you don't know Bart Brittler, sonny! Let 'em have it, Dolph!"
Spang—spang—spang—spang!
A fusillade of revolver-shots woke the echoes. The bullets spattered in the water and thudded on the beach. Fortunately no one was hit.
"Scatter, fellows!" shouted Jim. And in a lower voice he added, "Don't fire back!"
Silence again. The two on the sloop were evidently reloading. Then came a regular splashing. The men on the Barracouta were paddling her ashore. Armed and desperate, now fully aware that the only things between themselves and a term in a Federal prison were the bullets in their automatics, they would go to almost any length to escape, even to the taking of life itself. Plainly there was trouble ahead.
The boys came together again at the foot of the sea-wall. Should they fight or run? It was one or the other. Whatever else they might be, Dolph and Brittler clearly were not cowards. If there was a fight, it was certain somebody would be shot, very likely killed. Was the risk worth taking? Would it not be better to hurry back to the cabin, warn Filippo and Throppy, and escape up the bank into the woods? The smugglers, with but two automatics against four, would hardly dare to follow them.
"Way enough, Dolph!" growled Brittler's voice.