“I do,” Corso answered.
“I let them ask me questions, then told them you stayed here a week. They are so disgusted with the place I don’t think they’ll hang around, but you better keep out of sight. I’m going to escort them off the island, but they don’t know that.”
“Much in your debt we are, Sir,” Corso said quietly. “We shall not forget, Sir.” His eyes turned toward the road. “Bad men, Sir. Very, very bad men.”
“They don’t look any too good,” Jim admitted. “You stay here until one of us comes and tells you they are gone.” Jim strode quickly back toward the house and as he crossed the road he saw Burnam getting into the limousine.
“Get a move on, Dyke,” he growled, and the smaller chap hastily took his place. Motioning to his step-brother to keep quiet, Jim stepped behind the huge maple, and when the car hacked into the road, he hopped onto the spare tires, caught the strap and threw his legs over, ducking his head so that if the men should either of them glance through the window, he would not be seem. The car raced off carrying the stow-a-way. “I told you those lads were in this part of the country,” Burnam said shrilly when they had gone some distance from Stumble Inn. “I know just how to handle natives, and I got exactly the information we want.”
“Yes, but how the blazes do you expect to pick up the trail in Canada?” Dyke demanded in a lower tone.
“It’ll be easier than in the United States,” the big fellow replied, and after that he seemed to concentrate his whole attention on driving, for the road was rough from the rains and the boy in the back was soon splashed thickly with mud. Presently they came to the bridge which connected North Hero with Isle La Motte. Jim could see that the water had risen until it was splashing through the planking, and dozens of men were working hard to keep it from being washed away. They were bringing the biggest rocks they could haul and were distributing them in piles from one end to the other. Young Austin hoped anxiously that none of the workmen would call Burnam’s attention to the extra passenger he was carrying, but they passed over quickly, and if anyone noticed the boy, nothing was done about it. They probably thought him a hiker tired of walking and unable to get a lift on his way. The car sped on to the station, but it was deserted, and Jim was mighty thankful that no agent was there to answer inquiries regarding the travelers who were supposed to have gone on to Toronto. Half a mile ahead the machine had to slow up for a sharp curve, so feeling confident that the pair were really headed for Canada, the boy dropped off and started to trudge home. A good-natured farmer gave him a lift, and at last he saw Bob anxiously scanning the road.
“Gosh all hemlock, I was going into the air to look for you. Say, come on, quick.” He led the way to the water’s edge, and far across the thrashing lake Jim saw a tiny boat, with an outboard motor on the stern, chugging valiantly against the waves and making for Fisher’s Island.
“Who is it?” Jim demanded.
“Corso and the boy. I saw them a few minutes after they left the shore. They have a load of stuff aboard as if they intend to hide over there,” Bob explained.