He turned and ran down the street, while Don sullenly walked on, in anything but a pleasant mood. At the first corner, he turned to the left and made for the shore, considering himself lucky when he left the main streets of the village without meeting any of the scholars besides Bentley.
When Leon reached Nutt’s Wharf, he found Don sitting on one of the old spiles, gazing moodily down into the water that was eddying round the barnacle-encrusted timbers. Hearing Bentley approaching, Don looked up, a frown still on his face.
“Well, where’s your rifle?” he asked. “Couldn’t you get it?”
“Sure thing,” grinned Leon, unbuttoning his coat and displaying a small rifle with a detachable stock. “I kept it out of sight by tucking it under there. Just as well, for I ran into some of the fellows, and they would have asked questions if they’d seen it.”
“Now, where’s your boat?” demanded Scott.
“We’ll take Jeff Tyler’s old dory. I know where he hides the oars.”
“Did you ask Jeff for her?”
“What’s the use of asking?” chuckled Bentley. “I’ve used her more than once, and I never asked yet.”
“Jeff might not like it if he knew.”
“What do we care? He’ll never know, for he’s at work over in Lobsterville. Come on.”