As they neared the wreck they saw the crew of the stranded vessel huddled together on the sloping deck.
"Don't go in any closer, Tom," cautioned the girl. "The tide's turning. They can wade ashore and watch her break up."
As they circled closer to make the turn, Gregory noticed a red-shirted giant leap from the wreck of the fishing-boat into the shallow water, waving his arms wildly about his head. But the noise of the Petrel's motor drowned the voice of the infuriated fishing captain and his threats and curses were heard only by his own crew.
"It isn't Rossi, after all," Dickie observed as she caught sight of the red-shirted figure. "It's Boris, the crazy Russian. I never knew Mascola to trust him with a boat like the Roma before."
The Petrel turned about and, burying her nose in the big swells, made haste to leave the dangerous water.
"Head for the nets," the girl ordered. "I'm not through with Mascola yet. He has my fish on the Roma. If I had a dory I'd go in there and get them. But it isn't good enough to risk the Petrel."
As they came nearer the two strings of nets, Dickie explained: "I'm going to work the same game on Mascola that the fish commissioner does when he catches them trawling within the three-mile limit. I'm going to salvage his nets and make him pay for his crooked work to get his property. Lay to, Tom, and we'll pull them aboard with mine."
The fisherman drew alongside the row of bobbing corks with a grim smile playing about his lips.
"Have to rustle," he observed. "You know how Mascola's boats follow up."