As the steam tug drew up on the other side of the dilapidated dock, those on board saw three persons rush from the old building nearby. They were Koswell, Larkspur and the fellow who had been running the motor boat.
“Say, I won’t have this!” roared Koswell. “You get out of here, and be quick about it!”
“Can’t we stop ’em from landing?” asked Larkspur. He was plainly scared.
“You can’t land here!” called out the young man who had run the Magnet. “This is private property. I forbid you coming in.”
“Private property?” called out Captain Wells.
“That is what I said.” And now the young man turned to his companions and a whispered, but animated conversation ensued.
“Who are you?” asked Dick.
“I am Alfred Darkingham. This island belongs to my uncle, John Darkingham. He gave us permission to come camping here, and said we needn’t let anybody else come ashore. I forbid your making a landing.”
“That’s the way to talk, Alf!” cried Koswell, in a low, but earnest voice. “Make ’em stay away.”
“Yes! Yes! don’t let ’em come ashore!” added Larkspur.