Even with his back turned, the unseen face bent over a book, that boy was known beyond the possibility of a doubt to Tom Halstead.
“Ted Dunstan, himself!” the young skipper almost cried aloud.
Not for one moment did Halstead even think of slipping down from the window and running for help. If he did so Ted was as likely as not to be gone upon his return.
“I’ve got to get him out of here, and on the jump, too,” puzzled the young captain. “But how is the thing to be done?”
An appeal to young Ted himself would be worse than useless. That young heir, as the spy at the window knew, had altogether too complete a faith in his present comrades.
While Tom still hung on there another happening caused his heart to bump against his ribs. The busy eight were returning. He could hear the light tread on gravel under their feet.
Not a second was to be lost. Inwardly breathing a prayer, Halstead raised himself to the window sill with the utmost stealth. In another moment he was over the sill and in the room on his stockinged tip-toes. Ted did not turn. Plainly he was too absorbed in his book to suspect any other presence. Not daring, of course, to remain near the window, which would place him in sight of the busy eight in the yard, as soon as they should reach the outbuildings, Halstead slid noiselessly along the wall, pressing his hands against it. His strained, intense look was all the time on the unsuspecting Dunstan heir.
“Ho, ho, ho!” chuckled Master Ted, throwing his head back, but he did not look around. Evidently something in the book on his lap amused him immensely.
Tom stood there, still praying under his breath, praying that the eight might quickly take up their new burdens and hasten shoreward.
At last there came the sound of crunching against gravel. Tom, trying to stifle the sound of his own breathing, listened intently until the dying out of sounds outside made him believe that the men were once more out of the way.