“Because I did not like Frank Merriwell,” said Wallace; “but I didn’t suppose you were going to do anything more than take this yacht, which you declared was rightfully yours, anyway. Had I known just what sort of a fellow you were, you can be sure I would not have run into this scrape.”
Wallace was a rascal at heart, but he had no relish for anything like murder, and he was weakening. The thought that he might be concerned in a murder had taken the courage out of him, and now he hoped to force Flynn to give over his bloodthirsty scheme.
Already, in his mind, Wallace was thinking that, if he succeeded, Merriwell would owe him his life. Of course Frank would be grateful, and Wallace would not be held responsible for his share in stealing the yacht.
But the Belfast boy did not know the character of the man with whom he was dealing. A thorough ruffian at heart, Flynn did not pause to count the cost of any rash act. He did not think that some time in the future, if Frank Merriwell was drowned that night, he might be tried for murder and convicted. He did not have imagination enough to fancy himself standing at the bar, securely ironed and charged with the dastardly crime he contemplated committing at that moment.
Some men commit crimes from lack of imagination; some commit them because they have too much imagination.
“Hold this line, Steve!” snarled Flynn, thrusting the end of the painter into the hand of the man at the wheel.
Steve obeyed.
Flynn advanced straight on Wallace, revolver in hand.
“Now,” he grated, lifting the weapon, “you do just as I say, or by the skies! I’ll shoot you in your tracks!”
Wallace realized that the ruffian meant what he said.