"Thieves in the swamp!" repeated Hal. "Not Indians?—a lot of Indians used to live here, and they might have come back."
"No. White men—and one girl. Regular thieves, the kind that rob banks and jewelry stores."
"But what were they doing? Hiding from justice?"
"I don't think so," answered Linda. "Because I don't think anybody suspects them in particular. They have a regular camp on Black Jack Island, and they bring whatever they steal there, and transfer it by airplane to an island in the Atlantic Ocean, where it's picked up by another partner in a boat."
Jackson let out a whistle.
"Pretty slick, aren't they? But they'll get caught sometime."
"I sincerely hope so. Unfortunately, though, nobody could identify them as thieves, because they haven't been caught before."
"You could," remarked Hal.
"Yes, if I ever see them again. Do we have to pass Black Jack Island to get out of the swamp?"
"I'm afraid so—but we needn't go very close to it—it's some distance from the regular 'Gator Road' we always follow."