“Now, I reckon the young cub can be yanked onto his feet,” came in a low, cool voice from one of the assailants.
Tom Halstead was brought up onto his feet with a jerk. At last, he was able to see all his captors as well as the almost total darkness permitted.
Two of them were white men, in ragged jeans and wearing coarse woolen jackets and nondescript caps. The other two men were negroes; if possible they looked more ragged than their white companions. All seemed to be between the ages of thirty and forty.
“Whew! But this is a hard-looking crowd,” reflected young Halstead, as coolly as he could. “So this is the composite Ghost of Alligator Swamp? Humph! I’ve found the ghost, but I wish it were under better circumstances!”
“This yere,” whispered one of the white pair, to his companions, “is the one we want—the fellow that’s captain of the yacht down in Oyster Bay.”
“Now, why on earth do they want me, especially, and how on earth do they recognize me so easily?” wondered Tom Halstead, with a new start.
“We’se right glad t’ see yo’, suh!” remarked the other white man, with an evil grin. “So glad we won’t even trouble yo’ to walk. Jabe, I reckon yo’ can carry the young gentleman. Pick him up.”
Humming softly, the more stalwart negro of the pair clasped Halstead around the waist, easily raising the helpless boy to one of his broad shoulders.
“Don’ make no trail, now,” warned one of the whites who appeared to be the leader, as he led the way carrying Halstead’s captured rifle.
Their path took them down straight to the water’s edge. From there they worked around to the pier, which, in the darkness, was not visible from the front of the bungalow.