But soon the suspicions both felt had grown into a certainty, and Mike said in a whisper, as calmly as he could,—
“Cinder, he has got the conger bat out of the locker. What does he mean?”
“He means that he won’t take us ashore,” said Vince huskily: “he’s going to sail right away with us for fear we should tell about him, and the conger bat’s to frighten us and keep us quiet.”
There was a strange look of agony in Mike Ladelle’s eyes, as he gazed in his companion’s, to read there a horror quite as deep. Then neither of them spoke, but sat there listening to the lapping of the water, which spread to right and left in two lines of foam as the little boat sped on.
It was Vince who broke the silence at last, after drawing a deep breath.
“Ladle, old chap,” he said, in a low voice, “they’re at home yonder, and it means perhaps never seeing them again. What shall we do?”
Mike tried to speak, but his voice was too husky to be heard for a few moments.
“I’ll do what you do,” he said at last.
“You’ll stand by me, whatever comes?”
“Yes.”