CHAPTER VIII.
TWO KINDS OF WOODCRAFT.
All of them lay there motionless. Long practice in this trick had made the boys almost perfect. What they had learned in play when in camp came into good service under other and more strenuous conditions, as is often the case. No boy can ever tell when the information he picks up day by day as a scout may prove a valuable asset, determining some knotty problem he faces.
As Ned had said, the sound of voices could be plainly heard now. It came in the shape of a murmur that differed from the noise of the fretting sea near by. And no doubt each scout made up his mind that it must be carried to their ears with the breeze, which, coming from almost behind them, would indicate that the unknown parties were advancing from that quarter.
Louder grew the sounds. Then there was a plain rustling of the undergrowth; and when Jack cautiously raised his head just a little, he was enabled to glimpse a trio of men standing there on the border of the wood, looking seaward.
Perhaps they, too, had seen the far-distant blur that marked the position of the mysterious fleet, and were exchanging comments about it. None of the concealed boys could say as to this, because, while they could hear the murmur of their heavy voices, it was next to impossible to make out more than a word here and there.
One thing pleased Ned very much. When he first noted the direction from whence these three rough men had come, he feared lest they may have run upon the trail of his party and were following the same. He now knew that in so far as this was concerned his fears were without foundation, and that the strangers did not dream of others being in the near vicinity.
One seemed to be the boss of the lot. He was an unusually big man, with a way of striking his fist into the palm of his other hand that told of authority. His face was covered with a heavy black beard that gave him a sinister appearance. Indeed, as Jack admitted to himself, put this man in some of the queer garments of the old times, when Kidd flourished along the Atlantic seacoast, and he would make an ideal buccaneer. His face was cruel, his manner that of a tyrant, and besides he seemed to be carrying a whole arsenal of weapons around with him.
Jimmy lay there, with his neck stretched to a fearful extent, for he was bound to see whatever was going on around him. He was possibly sizing this giant up, and trying to decide in his own mind, whether the dead ever do come back to revisit the scenes of their long-past triumphs and struggles; and if so, could this man with the hair all over his face be the noted Blackbeard?