It was about five miles, in a direct westerly course, to the shore, but by an oblique, northwesterly course a fishing village some nine miles away could be reached.
“Steer for the fishing village,” nodded Powell Seaton. Captain Tom hurried forward to give the order, adding: “Make it at full speed, Joe. If you have to go to the engine, call me forward to take the wheel.”
Soon afterwards Tom slipped into the motor room, rubbed down and got on dry clothing. Joe, in turn, did likewise, afterward returning to the wheel.
Down in the cabin all had been quiet for some minutes after the discharge of the gun on deck. Yet Captain Tom, by peeping through the transom, discovered the heads of Dalton and some of his rough men close together in consultation.
“I’ll annoy them a bit,” chuckled the young skipper, moving swiftly forward. Dropping 76 down into the motor room he switched off all the cabin lights. An instant roar of anger came from below.
“Funny we didn’t think of that before,” grinned Dawson, as Halstead came up out of the motor room.
“It’ll bother the rascals a bit,” chuckled Captain Tom back over his shoulder.
With such a boat as the “Restless” ordinary distances are swiftly covered. It was barely twenty-five minutes after leaving the dock that Joe reached the entrance to the little harbor around which the houses of the fishing village clustered, nor had much speed been used.
Now the whistle sounded steadily, in short, sharp blasts. Moreover, Dawson managed to send the distress signal with the searchlight. By the time he slowed down speed, then reversed, to make the little wharf, a dozen men had hurried down to the shore.
“What’s wrong?” hailed one of them.