From: Launch Snipe
At Sea. Five miles off Hell-Hole.
Got into fight with Mascola about an hour ago. His boats drove ours from island. His men drunk and armed with shotguns. Some of boys pretty well filled up. Curlew lagged with engine trouble and was cut in two off Hell-Hole Isthmus. Sunk in five minutes by some big boat, running dark. Albatross picked up crew. All saved. Wire what to do. Twelve boats here. Others at Cavalan for repairs.
Jones.
Dickie's eyes shone angrily at the message. "Damn them!" she cried. "They got my Curlew." Grasping
Gregory's arm, she exclaimed: "There's a bunch of the fleet off San Anselmo on the mainland side. There's some more a few miles down the coast from Cavalan. They can all make Diablo in two hours if you wire them right away. We can go over in the Richard and round them up and smash Mascola's whole fleet. What if they have shotguns? We have rifles. Come on. What are you waiting for?"
Dickie Lang was breathless. Her cheeks glowed. Her eyes were shining.
Gregory shook his head slowly and looked at Hawkins.
"The Gray Ghost ran the Curlew down about an hour ago off the Hell-Hole Isthmus," he said.
The two strangers drew closer and listened intently to the news while Dickie chafed at Gregory's failure to get under way.
"That means we've got to be off," exclaimed one of the men. "How about going over in that speed-boat of yours?"