Jerry braced his shoulders for the stiff carry to the Plum, a five-gallon can in each hand. He was willing to stop now and then for a breathing spell, but at last he set the load down on the narrow fringe of sandy beach. Cupping his hands about his mouth, he sent a lusty shout ringing across the water; he was too weary to swim it, and there did not seem to be much need for further concealment. There was an instant answer, showing that the boys had been awaiting his signal. The splash of oars told him that the boat was on the way, and he felt suddenly glad that he could now think of a few minutes' rest.
It proved to be Dave and Tod and Phil in the Scout boat. They made quick work of loading in the two cans, and then they all piled in, Dave and Tod at the oars. They were perhaps halfway across when Jerry asked, anxiously, it seemed:
"Can't you get any more speed out of her, fellows?"
"What's eating you? It's as dark now as it's going to get," answered Dave, at the same time letting his oars float idly up against the side of the boat.
"I'm worried, that's why," exclaimed Jerry, slipping over and pushing
Dave out of his seat. "Do you hear anything?"
They all listened, Tod holding his oars out of the water. Sure enough, a purring, deeply muffled sound came faintly across the water. It was unmistakably a motorboat.
"Some camper," suggested Dave.
"It sounds more like—trouble," declared Phil, a significant accent on the word. "The enemy, I bet, and trying to cut us off."
"Well, we've got a big start on them. They're a long way off" again
Dave volunteered.
"You mean you're a long way off. They've got her tuned down—she isn't over two hundred yards away and coming like blue blazes. They mean mischief—they aren't showing a single light. What's our plan?"