Dazed, thunderstruck, his mind wholly befuddled by this astounding turn to the mystery, Tom Halstead did not linger. He knew too well what was likely to happen to him if he fell into Pedro’s hands.
Slipping over the side, Tom cast off from the rope, striking out strongly, swiftly for the shore which was distant not more than one hundred and fifty feet.
“That’s him!” cried Ted Dunstan, pointing, and forgetting his grammar in his excitement. “That’s one of those slippery boys. He had the cheek to say he had come to rescue me.”
“He did, hey? Huh! I’se gwine fix him!” uttered the black man savagely. “Jest yo’ wait, chile, twell I’se bring out dat shotgun.”
“Oh, no, no, Pedro! Not that!” pleaded Ted in sudden dismay and terror.
But Pedro dived back into the forward cubby. All this conversation the young motor boat captain had heard, for it passed in no low tones. Just as Pedro reached the cubby Tom scrambled up on the beach. Before him were the deep woods. In among the trees he plunged. The instant he was satisfied that he was out of sight of the launch, he turned at right angles, speeding swiftly for some hundred and fifty yards. Then he halted to listen.
“Where he done gone?” demanded Pedro, reappearing on deck, gripping a double-barreled shotgun.
“I’m not going to tell you,” retorted Ted sulkily. “Shooting is not in the game.”
Tom heard the murmur of the voices—nothing more. A minute later he heard the steady chug! chug! of the launch’s steam engine as that craft started. Then the noise ceased as the craft got smoothly under way. But Halstead was up a tree, now, where he could watch.
“Heading out to sea, are you?” he chuckled, despite his great anxiety. “And in a six-mile boat. Hm! I think the ‘Meteor’ can overtake you and at least keep you in sight. For that matter, three boys can fight better than one!”