Jim snapped it quickly on and off again.
"Righto!" was his verdict. "All ready? Then come on! But first tie that dog to the stove-leg, so he won't bolt out the second we open the door."
Throppy fastened Nemo.
"Quiet now!" cautioned Jim.
He opened the door carefully, and the five filed out into damp, cool, midnight air.
Stars filled the sky. A gentle wind was blowing from the southwest. Nothing broke the stillness save the low murmur of the sea on the ledges. Without hesitation Jim led his party at a dog-trot eastward along the beach. When he reached the rocks he halted.
"We'll go straight across to the Sly Hole," he said. "I know a short cut through the woods. Either they've killed a sheep already and are carrying it down to their boat or they've frightened the animals so that it'll take some time to get near enough to 'em again to shoot. What sticks me is why they don't use a shot-gun instead of a revolver. Now, boys! Right up over the rocks!"
It was a rough climb, but soon they were on the top of the bluff. Unerringly Jim led them to the entrance of a narrow trail penetrating the scrubby growth.
"Look out for your eyes! Don't follow too close!"
The pliant, whipping branches emphasized his caution. By the time the party gained the north shore their hands and faces were badly scratched.