“Oh, you-u-u-u!” called Joe, hailing. There was a sound in the woods, and then Hepton came into sight.
“Did you see the man who landed on your 143 side?” whispered Powell Seaton, as Hepton reached the beach.
“Yes; he was just an ordinary roustabout chap,” grunted Hepton, disgustedly. “I had no orders to follow him, so I didn’t take the trouble.”
“That’s right. Jump in and we’ll get aboard the ‘Restless.’”
Hank had the motors working long before Joe returned with his two passengers, and was standing by. Captain Tom was at the wheel, but keeping the searchlight inquisitively on the Drab.
Now, the seventy-footer began to move off slowly down the coast, going at a speed of perhaps six miles an hour. Halstead, without waiting for orders, went in chase, keeping his place two hundred yards behind the other craft. All the while he kept the searchlight swinging over the Drab, from her port to starboard sides.
“That must annoy those fellows,” observed Powell Seaton, with a chuckle, as he stood by the young skipper.
“I reckon it does,” returned Tom, dryly. “But it also prevents their letting anyone off the boat without our seeing it. You see, sir, they’re only about a quarter of a mile off the coast here. Their small boat could make a quick dash for the shore. Even a good swimmer 144 could go overboard. I don’t intend to let anyone get off that seventy-footer without our knowing all about it.”
Halstead had not been silent long when he saw a bright flash from the Drab, aft. It was followed, almost immediately, by the sound of a gun. Then a bullet went by about two feet over their heads.
“That was meant for our searchlight,” laughed Tom Halstead, coolly. “Those fellows want to put it out of business.”