“Come on, Mr. Seaton,” he urged. “They’re 161 firing on your skipper and engineer this time. It’s up to us to answer ’em—clear case of self-preservation. The first law that was ever invented!”
Bang! bang! rang Seaton’s rifle, twice. He, too, fired for the forest, near the beach. It was like the man to hope he had hit no one, but he was determined to stop if possible this direct attack on Tom Halstead and Joe Dawson.
Evidently the first sign of resistance was not to stop the bothering tactics of those on shore, for one wire that Joe was handling was zipped out of his hands.
“They mean business, the enemy,” called down Skipper Tom, softly, to the tune of a low laugh. “But we’ll get rigged, in spite of them. All we ask for is that they let us get the wire fixed often enough for a few minutes of sending and receiving once an hour.”
Hepton and his employer continued to fire, using a good deal of ammunition. The guard was much more vengeful in his firing and in his attempts to locate the hidden marksmen than was Seaton.
“That’s what those two men went ashore for last night,” called down Halstead, quietly. “First of all, to fool us and get us guessing, and, next, to hunt up some of their own rascals 162 for this work. The seventy-footer led us into this trap on purpose. Finely done, wasn’t it?”
“It shows,” retorted Mr. Seaton, wrathily, “that along this sparsely settled shore there is a numerous gang organized for some law-breaking purpose.”
“Smuggling, most likely,” guessed Tom. “And it must pay unusually well, too, for them to have such a big and so well-armed a crew.”
Three more shots sounded from the shore. All of the trio of bullets went uncomfortably close to the young skipper and engineer, though doing no actual damage. Hepton, with his ear trained to catch the direction of the discharge sounds, changed his guess, firing in a new direction.
“There, it’s done, until it’s put out of business again,” muttered Joe, finally. “Slide, Tom.”