"Wake him up. We didn't hire him to sleep, did we? Go on, you snail," ordered Ben.
Behind one of the two tents, pitched in this open glade on the rather steep northern shore of Storm Island, sprawled a roughly-dressed fellow. When Pudge had done Ben's bidding and aroused this individual, the latter uncovered his face, revealing features unmistakably those of an Indian boy. He came sullenly down to the other two lads.
"What y'want?" he asked, yawning.
"Who's that coming this way, Joe?" Ben Comas questioned. "That fellow in the launch?"
The Indian's eyes snapped open and he stooped a little, shading them with his hand, the better to view the approaching boat and its single occupant. Then he straightened up again, turning as though to retreat.
"Know him," he said.
"Who is he?" Pudge put in. "A cop?"
"Him Quibb."
"What'd I tell you?" cried Pudge. "That's the name of the constable we saw at Blackport—Enos Quibb."
"The one Horrors had the growl with," Ben agreed, rather faintly. "He's coming straight for us."