“I beg your pardon, Boatswain,” he said, but without relaxing his watchfulness; “I couldn’t see your uniforms until now, and mistook your party for one of a very different sort. Come to the fire and tell us what you want; your men can stay where they are till we understand each other better.”
This last was said because of an apparent purpose on the part of the men to move forward in a body.
“Now then, Boatswain, what have you to say to us?” Larry asked, while the other three boys stood watchfully by the huge trunk of the fallen tree with their shotguns held precisely as they would have been had their owners been alertly waiting for a pointer to flush a flock of birds for them to shoot on the wing.
“We are men in the revenue service,” the boatswain answered. “We were sent ashore from the cutter that lies just off the mouth of the creek to ask who you are and what you are doing here—in short, to give an account of yourselves. It will save trouble if you answer us.”
“Coming from an agent of the revenue,” answered Larry, with dignity, “your questions are entirely proper. It was not necessary to couple an implied threat with them. However, that was nothing worse than a bit of ill manners, and I’ll overlook it. To answer your questions: My name is Lawrence Rutledge; one of the others is my brother. We live in Charleston, and with our two guests we are down here for a little sporting trip. Is there anything else you’d like to know about us?”
“That’s a queer sort of boat you’ve got,” answered the other.
“I asked if there was anything else you wanted to know,” said Larry, ignoring the comment on the dory’s appearance as an impertinent one.
“I guess you’ll have to talk with the lieutenant about that. You see I’m only a warrant officer.”
“Very well. Where is he?”
“On board the cutter.”