When the gig was ready, which was almost instantly, the lieutenant ran down the ladder, dropped into her, took the helm, and gave the orders:
“Oars!” “Let fall!” “Give way!” and the boat shot away toward the plainly visible camp-fire.
Landing, he introduced himself to Larry, who received him cordially and in turn presented his comrades.
“I have the pleasure of knowing your father very well, Mr. Rutledge,” he began.
“Then, please,” Larry interrupted, “call me ‘Lawrence,’ or ‘Larry,’ and not ‘Mr. Rutledge,’ Lieutenant. I’m only a boy yet, and I’ll never be ‘Mister’ to any of my father’s friends.”
“Very well. ‘Larry’ it shall be then, the more gladly because that is what I called you years ago when, as I remember, I was telling a lot of sea stories to you and your brother Calhoun—”
“Make it Cal, Lieutenant,” said the youth mentioned. “Larry and I are twins, you know, and always share things evenly between us. We did so with your stories, you know. I remember it very well, though we were a pair of very small youngsters then.”
“So you were—so young that I didn’t think you would remember the matter. But we’re losing time, and time may be precious in this case. My petty officer tells me you young gentlemen have seen the miscreants I’ve been hunting for and can tell me where they are.”
“We’ve seen them, and our friend Tom Garnett here has been inside one of their caches and inspected their goods. We can tell you where they were two nights or so ago, and perhaps they are there yet.”
“Almost certainly they are,” broke in the lieutenant. “It is calm weather outside, and not a craft of any kind has put in here under plea of weather stress since the Senorita sailed two or three days ago.”