Nosing through a thick clump of the water grass, he came into a stretch of open water at the far end of which was a ramshackle dock.
Tim shut off his outboard, lifted the motor into his boat, and set his oars into their sockets. With steady strokes he pulled toward the island. A hundred yards from the dock he let his oars drag, turned toward the island, cupped his hands, and shouted mightily.
“Hello, there on the island,” he cried. “Hello! hello!”
But the only response was the mocking echoes. Tim waited a full minute; then proceeded slowly toward the dock. Once more he rested on the oars and called. This time the baying of dogs answered and two huge beasts came galloping down to the water’s edge. Teeth bared, they waited for him to come ashore.
Tim had no intention of providing a meal for the dogs, and he kept a safe distance from shore. For five minutes the dogs snapped and snarled at him. Then they were silent and two men appeared from the tangle of brush.
Grenville Ford was in the lead with an older man, greatly stooped, behind him.
“What do you want?” called Ford.
“I’m Tim Murphy of the Atkinson News. Let me come ashore.”
“Nobody lands here, mate,” boomed the man behind Ford, and Tim was surprised at the vigor of the tone. Crazy John, from his voice, was anything but a weakling despite the stoop in his shoulders.
“What was all the shooting a few minutes ago?” asked Ford cautiously.