"I know all about that," said Enos, his lean jaws seeming to bite off the tart words. "But 'tain't yours. You stole it—or somethin'. I know you ain't that Kingdon feller, now. That's flat."
"You know a lot," said Pence. But, before speaking, he had hesitated just an instant. His black eyes had glanced downward and marked the catboat under the bank, and the listening party in her. For that instant, indeed, his gaze fell on Rex Kingdon's face. The latter had smiled suddenly.
"You know a lot," repeated Horace Pence.
"I got you foul, young feller," said Enos, evidently happy to say so. His pale eyes gleamed; his freckled face was roseate; he showed all the venom of the shallow mind and vindictive nature. "You pack up—all five of ye—an' git off Storm Island. I'm giving you a chance, when I might have got warrants and pulled ye."
"Say not so!" begged Pence. "You wouldn't really arrest us, Mr. Quibb?"
"Wouldn't I?" returned the constable. "I wish I'd gone to Squire Lowder fust-off and got the warrants. No use doing sech fellers a decent turn. I dunno but I could get ye for false pretenses, takin' another feller's name the way you did."
"I didn't take the name!" cooed Pence. "You gave it to me."
"You showed me that permit, and acted like it was yourn."
"And isn't it?" chuckled the black-eyed fellow.
"Not by a long chalk!" cried Enos. "I know who Rex Kingdon is now." He turned and pointed to the catboat. "There he is—that curly-haired chap that thinks himself almost as funny as you be. I l'arned who he was t'other day when he was over to Blackport gettin' fixin's for that engine. I heard Val Spear—he's treasurer of the Manatee Company—call him Rex Kingdon right on the street. You ain't him, an' you ain't got no right to that permit."