“It’s a fine night for my plan,” he said, gleefully. “The wind is northeast, and the tide is turning.”
As Frank knew nothing of the man’s purpose, he remained silent.
Flynn sat down and took out a pipe, which he proceeded to fill and light. He puffed away a short time, and then settled back in a comfortable position, scanning Merriwell.
“It won’t take more than two hours to run down to York Island,” he said. “Then it’s only a short run out past the Eastern Ear and The Horses. Steve says there won’t be anything but the open ocean outside when we get there.”
Frank wondered what the man was driving at, and Flynn grinned when he saw the look of curiosity on Merry’s face.
“Outside The Horses,” he went on, “the wind has a clean rake down across from the Bay of Fundy. It’s rising every minute, and a small boat won’t stand much show in the seas there will be out there, especially without so much as a pair of oars in her.”
Frank began to see a light; he fancied he understood what the man meant.
“You stand a fine show of piling the White Wings on a ledge long before you get out past The Horses,” said Merry, who remembered The Horses as two ledges he had observed on his chart located to the south of York Island.
“Not much danger of that,” said Flynn. “Steve knows every inch of the bay. He can tell where every rock lies.”
“But it is dark.”