“I reckon we have to take our sailing orders from them,” nodded the young skipper. “You’d better get the motors on the mote, Joe. I’ll have Hank and Hepton help me up with our anchor.”
Soon afterwards the Drab was heading north at a ten-mile gait; half a minute later the “Restless” started in leisurely pursuit.
After half an hour or so the Drab headed into another open roadstead, anchoring a quarter of a mile from shore. Tom dropped anchor some three hundred yards to the southward.
“Keep your eye seaward, Hank,” directed the young skipper. “Joe, if you’ll see whether Mr. Seaton wants anything, Hepton and I will keep a keen eye on the shore.” 157
“Mr. Seaton is asleep in the port stateroom,” Dawson reported back a moment later. “I’ve made eight calls through the night, but I’ll get at the sending key again, and see whether there’s anything in our line within hail.”
Hardly had Joe Dawson vanished below when Skipper Tom uttered a sudden exclamation. A sharp, bright glint of light from under the trees on shore caught his watchful eye.
“Look there!” the young captain called, pointing to the flash.
“There’s another,” muttered Hank Butts, pointing further up the coast.
“By Jimminy, there’s a third,” cried Hepton, pointing.
“Signals for the Dalton-Lemly crew,” uttered Tom, disgustedly. “They are getting news, now, and of a kind we can’t read. Hank! Call Mr. Seaton. He ought to be on deck, watching this.”