“I’m willing,” assented the other.
As silently as two shadows, they stole to the edge of the water. Woodford deftly cast off the bow line and, leaning over, gently laid it on the deck. Then they stepped aboard and Miller took up the boathook, pressed it against the bank and the launch began moving away. When the boathook could be used no longer, it was softly laid down and the younger man took his place at the wheel. He understood the running of the launch better than his companions and generally acted as pilot.
“Shall I start?” he asked, in a guarded voice.
The other nodded. Miller slipped the switch plug in place, started the motor and put on the power, with just enough force to set the screw slowly revolving. He headed out in the river, where, because of the fog, he could barely see the flagstaff at the bow, and began a wide sweeping circle with the intention of descending the stream.
And still Mike Murphy dreamed on.
Now that the boat was under way with the screw revolving faster, Kit Woodford stepped closer to the sleeping youth and looked at his face. When he recognized him as the belligerent Irish lad, his feelings underwent a sudden change. He knew something of the sleeper and decided on the instant that he was persona non grata. While one of the other boys might have been held with some vague idea of being used as a hostage, this one would make more trouble aboard than on land.
Without a word as to his purpose to his companion, Kit Woodford stooped over, and with the great strength he possessed, easily lifted the sleeping boy clear of the deck. Then he cautiously moved to the taffrail, and with a single toss flung Mike Murphy clear of the launch. And the water was fifty feet deep, and Mike had never swum a stroke, and there was no one to go to his help.