"Just flash a few signals to those oars," he advised, taking his place in the stern. "And be careful with that left oar—she squeaks if you pull her too hard."
But Phil soon showed that he needed no advice about handling a boat. Without a sound—without a ripple, almost—they moved away from shore and cut out into the current.
"Safe to get out into line with the island, I guess. If they're watching, it's the shore they'll be most suspicious of."
"They? We've only seen one out there."
"Maybe. But I'm betting on a pair of them at least. It's about time for the boys to—listen to those Indians, would you? I'm afraid they're overdoing it a bit."
From the far shore, out of sight behind Lost Island, rose a hubbub of cries that sounded as if the island were about to be attacked by a war party of Sioux. A Boy Scout yell sounded out, the voices of Dave and Frank heard above the rest.
"Guess your two must have deserted your banner and joined the Eagles," teased Phil.
The island lay dead ahead of them, dark and still. Both boys had a shivery feeling of being watched, but no sign was apparent as they floated in behind the point of the island and noiselessly beached the boat.
"We'd best stay close together," suggested Jerry in a whisper.
"And by all means don't whisper—talk in an undertone. A whisper carries twice as far," countered Phil. Jerry marked down one more to the score of the Boy Scouts.