“Yes, sir. I’ll attend to it,” answered Letts. He was a short, stocky individual and anything but prepossessing in appearance. Later, the boys learned that he had once been a prize-fighter in England.
A short time later, and while the Rover boys and their chums were wondering what would happen next, orders were given to hoist the sails and start up the auxiliary engine, and soon the Hildegarde was moving away through the fog.
“Which way are you heading?” questioned Ralph, of the mate.
“Down the coast,” was the curt reply. “Now don’t ask more questions. When the call comes for mess, you can have your share with the men. If you have to stay on board over night, I’ll have them fix you up somehow in the fo’castle.”
The lads found the forecastle of the Hildegarde anything but a clean and sweet-smelling place, and so, after a brief survey, they were glad to come out on deck again and seek such shelter as they could find in the fresh air. All of the hands on the rum-runner eyed them curiously, but said little, having evidently been instructed by Letts not to become communicative.
“Well, we are certainly in a pickle,” announced Jack, dubiously. “I must confess I can’t see any way out, either.”
“Nor can I,” came from Gif.
“The worst of it is, there is no telling how long they’ll compel us to remain on board,” broke in Fred.
“Gee! I wish we had our school rifles here,” remarked Randy. “I think we could soon show this bunch where they get off!”
“I’d like to put up a fight as well as any of you,” said the young major. “But I’m satisfied we would get the worst of it. You saw how the captain and Ferguson drew their pistols at the first sign of trouble.”