"Not much of a chance to save anything but the motor and the shaft," Dickie observed. "And we'll have to work lively to do that on this ebb. She'll break up on the flood if there's any sea."
As Howard jerked his head in acquiescence with the girl's diagnosis, a shower of loose rocks rattled from the overhanging cliff. Dickie walked around the Petrel's bow and scrambled to the ledge.
"Looks as if we were going to have company," she announced, pointing in the direction of the bluff, where three men were descending the trail to the beach. Reaching the ledge the strangers walked steadily toward the wreck and halted within a few feet of the salvage party. As they jabbered in a French dialect, Gregory listened intently.
Dickie's hand stole to the pocket of her coat. The men seemed bent on making trouble. It was best to take no chances. Her fingers sought the handle of the Colt in vain. Cursing her negligence in leaving the automatic aboard the Pelican, she stepped forward for a parley with the strangers. Gregory and Howard placed themselves about her as the men moved closer.
"No sabe," exclaimed Dickie Lang. "What kind of lingo are they talking anyway."
Gregory was dividing his attention between the man with the red beard and the weasel-faced stranger who was gesticulating so wildly with his long arms.
"Red-beard says nobody's allowed here, or words to that effect," he interpreted. "Weasel-face backs him up in it and says for us to beat it."
"Tell them what we're here for. And that when we get the boat stripped we'll go, and not before."
The red-bearded man shook his heavy head with slow comprehension. Weasel-face shuffled closer, his