TOM HALSTEAD—READY!
There was no time to raise the anchor. Even had this been possible, it would have been out of the question to get the motors started and running in time to get out of the Drab’s way.
Captain Tom Halstead was taken wholly by surprise, yet he was not caught with his wits asleep.
“Make a dive for those sticks, fellows!” he shouted, bounding for the motor room hatchway. “If we get a chance we’ll give ’em at least a pat for a blow!”
The sticks of firewood that they had used on 140 the night of their long swim were in the motor room. Tom caught up his, wheeling to bound outside again. Joe Dawson was barely a step behind him.
But Hank—he went as though by instinct for the hitching weight that had already made him famous in the annals of the Motor Boat Club.
Swift as they were, the trio were back on deck just in time to witness the final manœuvre of the seventy-footer. That craft, not moving very fast, suddenly veered in its course.
Instead of cutting through the “Restless,” the larger motor boat swung suddenly so as to come up alongside, rail to rail. And now the whole intention was manifest at a glance, for the figures of six men, with their caps pulled well down over their eyes, appeared at the Drab’s rail.
“All hands to repel boarders!” sang out Captain Tom Halstead, his voice ringing defiantly. “Show ’em the best you can!”
Joe swung, with a single-stick trick he had learned and practiced. It was a feint, aimed at the first of the Drab’s crew to try to leap aboard. The intended victim threw up his hands to ward off the blow from the top of his head, but he received, instead, a stinging, crushing slap across the face.