“Keep it all to yourself, old top,” said Harding, with a sneer. “I know the man you’re bucking better than you do. He’s a tough nut, and you need to be almighty slick to put anything over on him. You’re all right yourself. I wouldn’t want a better partner. But that gang you’ve picked up is the other side of the limit. Take Dennison, for instance—a weak-minded, white-livered sneak, who would turn on you and quit the first time there was a sign of danger. Svenson’s all right—if he’s sober. The rest don’t count. They’ll do what they’re told, or you wouldn’t have picked them out for this job. Mind, I’m not criticizing you. You’re doing the best you can, and in nine cases out of every ten, I’d expect your scheme to work out according to your own schedule. But listen to them now—letting the whole harbor know there’s something off color about this boat. That’s where you take your big chance.”
In the launch that was hovering near, protected from ready sight from the Marina’s deck by the shadow of a great steam yacht in which it lay, nothing that was said aboard the schooner could be heard. But the murmur of voices from her deck was plain enough to the trained ear of Dick Merriwell, well used to letting nothing escape his hearing when there was a chance that it might prove well for him to hear it. And the fact that he was almost sure that he recognized the voice—of one of those who were doing the murmuring—as that of Bill Harding, quite dispelled any feeling Dick might have had against listening.
But Dick, at that distance, could not be sure that it was Harding’s voice—much less could he make out the actual words that passed between the two on the schooner. And the mere fact that there were men on her deck was sufficient reason for not venturing any closer.
“That sounds like Harding,” said Jim Phillips, much excited, after they had waited in silence for a few minutes.
“Jove, yes!” said Brady, listening again. “That would sort of justify a few little suspicions, wouldn’t it? It seems to me that whenever Harding comes in sight, it’s a good idea to lie low and keep your eyes and ears open.”
“Some one is going ashore from that boat pretty soon,” said Dick Merriwell. He had made out, bobbing up and down by the gangway of the Marina, a small boat, evidently used by some one who had come out to pay the schooner a visit. “Suppose we just wait here and see who it is.”
They had not long to wait. They heard a shout on the Marina’s deck, and a few minutes later two figures climbed down the gangway, and got into the small boat Dick had seen, which then began put-putting for the landing stage near the station.
“I want to get an eye on that fellow,” said Dick. “But we can’t get ashore at that landing without his seeing us. I’m going to run in on the other side of the pier—I think a man can jump ashore there. Then, Jim, if you’ll do it, you could easily find out about this fellow who’s been out there. Get a good description of him fixed in your mind if you don’t know him. But I’ve got a hunch myself that it’s Harding.”
Jim agreed to this suggestion, and, two minutes later, leaped nimbly ashore, and ran around to where he could get an unobstructed view of the arrival of the launch, and the disembarkation of her passenger. He was to go on to his hotel after that, leaving the rest of the party to carry out the original plan of an inspection of the course, but he and Dick arranged a code of signals between them. Jim was an expert in imitating the calls of birds and animals, and they agreed that the call of an owl was unlikely to arouse suspicion. If it was not Harding, that was to be the signal. If Dick’s guess turned out to be right, Jim was to give an imitation of the cry of a prowling cat. These details arranged, the launch bore out into the stream again, and lay, quietly, waiting for the signal.
It came, after a delay of perhaps five minutes, which seemed endless to those in the launch. Like the wail of a lost soul was the cat’s howl that Jim emitted, and they all laughed.