“Boys,” cried Hank, “it’s the police, it’s the cops sure as certain, and we’re done out of it.”
Candon took the glass.
“Don’t look like a police boat to me,” said he, “and I only see two fellows on her. Of course, there may be a dozen hid away. Looks more like to me that it’s a contrabander done up as a pleasure launch. We can’t see anything from here. Let’s take the boat and push out so that we can get a sight of the next bay.”
“They’ll spot us,” said Hank.
“They’ll spot the Wear Jack anyhow,” said Candon. “The boat doesn’t matter, they’ll think we’re fishing.”
The boat was still alongside. Led by Candon, they got in and pushed off.
Half a mile out the next bay had opened enough to show them the junk at anchor and the tents on the beach. The launch, the blue water shearing from her forefoot, was approaching the junk.
Hank, watching through the glass, reported: “They’re clawing on. There’s only one Chink on the junk, he’s handing over parcels and taking things aboard. You’re right, B. C., it’s no police affair; it’s contraband sure enough. Bend over the gunnel, you two, and pretend to be fishing. Now the launch is putting off back to the coast. Well, that settles it.”
“Where are they out from?” said Hank.
“Oh, Santa Barbara,” said Candon, “sure thing.”