“All right?” asked Farmer Sanderson questioningly.
“All right,” agreed Don Emilio. Click went the padlock.
“All wrong, I’ll bet a hundred cookies,” mocked Tom Halstead under his breath.
“Come along, now,” directed Don Emilio. He seemed to be the leader in to-night’s work.
“I don’t believe I’m included in that invitation to ‘come along,’ but I’m going to cheek my way along,” grinned the young skipper.
He had no need to keep them exactly in sight, these industrious workers in the dark. Laden as they were, it was enough to keep within sound of the rather regular shuffle of their feet.
As Tom had surmised, the four pairs of men, keeping together, proceeded toward the shore. Once, on the way down the slope, they halted to give the weaker ones an opportunity to rest their muscles. Then, picking up their heavy cases once more, the men went on down the slope toward the pier.
“That is the stuff that was billed under ‘machinery’ labels!” muttered the young skipper to himself. “I’ll wager those boxes contain guns and cartridges to start a new revolution with down in stormy Honduras. But is their filibustering craft here? Are they getting ready to sail before daylight? If that’s the game, then I must get awfully busy.”
As Tom, taking advantage of the uneven ground and dodging behind bushes and trees, followed unobserved and came within sight of the pier he made out with certainty that no craft was tied there.
“That doesn’t prove a lot, though,” he reflected, watching the procession of toilers from behind a bush. “If they have a tug or some other steam vessel it could slip in here two hours before daylight and be away again in another hour. But what’s that? Where are they going now?”