"Now you tell us all you know about the set-up on that island. How many guards, where they usually are, how they're armed, where Kendrick is kept. Everything. If you brief us well enough, we may succeed—and then we'll be back for you."
Pudgy had got the point. He had talked long and rapidly, feverishly giving Wales every scrap of information he possessed.
They had left him there, and had come by foot to the waterfront, and now if they had a boat, the island was only a little way ahead.
But there was no boat, not a canoe even, along these dark docks. Wales led the way farther along the waterfront. He dared not flash a light, and they might search all night amid these dark piers without success.
He was beginning to despair, when they came to a small boatyard. He found a skiff by stumbling over it in the dark. There were no oars, but he soon forced the door of the dark office-shack and found those.
"Now before we start, Martha—" He was fitting the oars into locks that he'd made as silent as possible by rag mufflings. "—when we reach the island, I want you to stay on the shore and wait."
"I'm not afraid—" she began, but Wales cut her short.
"Listen, it's not that. I'll be in the dark there. If I have to shoot, I want to be sure I'm not shooting you by mistake."
He pushed out onto the water, and bent to the oars, rowing steadily. The tide was running, and he had to allow for that, but there was only a little choppiness on the Upper Harbor.