Bang! That was the noise from the throat of a big-calibered pistol. It was followed, just as Tom bounded to the deck, pursued by Joe, by the rapid pounding of a horse’s hoofs and the rattle of wheels.
“There they go!” cried Tom, leaping to the pier in his bare feet and racing shoreward over the boards. But it was too late for the boys to overtake the prowlers, who were now behind a fast horse.
“Did they shoot that fine dog?” growled Joe, his voice rumbling with indignation. Bouncer answered the question for himself by running to meet them, his tail a-wag, guttural grunts of satisfaction coming from his throat, while a signal flag of information fluttered from his mouth.
“He took hold of one of ’em,” chuckled Tom. “Good old fellow, you’ve brought us a sample of their cloth. Good boy! May I have it?”
Tom bent down to stroke the dog, who submitted very willingly. When Halstead took hold of the large, irregular fragment of cloth the bull pup grunted once or twice, then let go.
Back all three went to the boat. Tom lighted a lantern, then held the cloth forward.
“Brown, striped trouser goods,” he chuckled. “Joe, whom have we seen with trousers of this pattern?”
“That Spanish-looking chap in the seat ahead on the train,” muttered Dawson grimly.
“Now if Mr. Dunstan doubts that some one wants to put his boat out of commission we’ll have something definite to call to his attention,” uttered Tom excitedly. “Bouncer, you stocky little darling!”
Joe looked the dog over carefully to make sure that a bullet had not even grazed that reliable, business-like animal.