Sheriff McCurdy headed the boat toward the seaway, but before they reached it swung it sharply to the right and they chugged through a narrow passageway that twisted and turned interminably.
“How under the sun can you find your way through all this maze of channels?” asked Bob, understanding now why it was an ideal spot to carry on smuggling operations.
“Been in this country all my life,” explained the sheriff, “but once in a while I get lost. Then I usually just sit still until someone hunts me up.”
A larger expanse of water opened ahead of them.
“Harpey’s bayou,” said the sheriff. “This is where Emil was fishing when that black speed boat came through.”
The sheriff put the rudder bar between his legs and unwrapped a package which had been resting on the floor boards in the bottom of the boat. Inside were half a dozen thick sandwiches, heavily laden with butter and with generous slices of cold ham between the bread.
They ate the sandwiches as the launch chugged through the quiet waters of Harpey’s bayou.
The sheriff produced a jug of cold water and after a deep drink apiece, they nosed the boat out of the bayou and into another twisting channel, which, while deep, was heavily overgrown with trees which arched above the water until they formed a perfect tunnel.
The air was cool and dank and Bob shuddered involuntarily as he thought of the loneliness which would descend upon such an area when the sun went down.
“How far is it to Lost Island?” he asked the sheriff.