The strong glare of light was found to be working satisfactorily. Dark came on quickly, still without any more signs of life aboard the Drab than had already been observed.
“Supper time, surely,” announced Hank, in a glum voice.
“Don’t bother about that to-night,” objected the young skipper. “Slip down into the galley and make sandwiches enough for all hands. We can eat and watch—must, in fact, if we eat at all.”
After the sandwiches had been made and disposed of the Motor Boat Club boys began to find the swinging of the light on the drab boat, on the water and on either river bank, to be growing rather monotonous.
“I wish something would happen,” grumbled Hank.
“Now, don’t start a fuss about that,” yawned Joe. “Something is likely enough to start up at any second.”
“It has started,” whispered Tom Halstead, swinging the searchlight, just then, across the Drab’s hull. “Look there!”
Two much-muffled figures, looking nearly identical, and each of the pair carrying a bag, appeared on deck amidships, one standing on 138 each side of the deck-house. Then, as quickly, by their sides stood two other men who sprang to lower the two small boats that hung at davits. One muffled man and one helper embarked in each boat, the helper in each case rowing swiftly to either bank of the river.
“That’s a queer game, but a clever one,” muttered Captain Tom, swinging the glaring searchlight and watching.
“It’ll mix up Mr. Seaton and Hepton all right,” grimaced Joe Dawson. “Each will wonder whether he has Dalton on his side of the river, to follow.”