They waited for the next shot; then Kells, calculating direction from the sound, said, “Come on” — they ran out along the rocks to the edge of the water.
Kells kicked off his shoes, waded in; Borg followed. The fog was heavy over the water — they swam blindly in the direction — Kells figured the Comet to be.
After a little while the end of the wharf took form ahead, a bit to the right. They circled toward it, came up to the bow of the big cruiser. They swam around the cruiser, under the wharf and up to the Comet’s stern.
Kells grabbed the gunwale, pulled himself up a little way and called to Bernie. Bernie was crouched in the forward end of the cockpit, behind the raised forward deck. He whirled and swung the gun toward Kells, and then he grinned broadly, put down the gun, crawled over and helped Kells climb aboard. He muttered, “Good huntin’,” went back and picked up the gun; Kells helped Borg.
Borg was winded — he lay at full length on the deck, gasping for breath. Kells started toward Bernie, and then his bad leg gave way, he fell down, crawled the rest of the way.
He said: “Get the engine started — I’ll take that for a minute.”
Bernie gave him the gun and a handful of shells, went down to the engine. Kells called to Borg, told him to work his way to the after line, cut it. There was a shot at the head of the wharf, a piece of wood was torn from the edge of the cowling, fell in splinters.
Borg rolled over slowly, got to his knees. He was still panting. He looked reproachfully at Kells, fumbled in his pocket and took out a small jackknife, started worming his way aft.
The engine went over with a roar.
There was an answering roar of shots from the shore.