It was a hundred and fifty yards from the rock to the boat, the going good over a strip of hard sand uncovered by the ebbing tide.
From the boat to the nearest tent was about a hundred yards, the going bad over soft friable sand.
They had made fifty yards unnoticed, when Tommie tripped and fell. Hank picked her up and flung her on his shoulder.
The ruffians, racing from tent to tent hunting, cursing, rooting about, saw nothing till Pat McGinnis himself, turning from Tommie’s tent empty like the rest, saw the whole of Hank’s cards on the table—so to speak.
All but the ace of trumps.
He whipped it from his belt, aimed, took a long shot on chance, and, leading the others, raced back for the sea edge.
CHAPTER XXXIV
JAKE
HANK had dropped Tommie into the boat and was striving with George to push off, when the crack of the revolver came followed by the bizz of the bullet, yards out.