“All right. It will not be much trouble to do that. Put the dingy into the water, Bob,” said the officer, addressing some one on board the steamer. “Then make the falls fast to this sink-box, haul her up to the davits and take her aboard.”
“Barr, that’s the last of your boat,” whispered Enoch. “Your license has been revoked.”
“And it’s all Egan’s fault—and Don Gordon’s,” said Lester. “If they hadn’t stumbled upon that big gun yesterday——”
“They’re all to blame for it,” hissed Barr, through his clenched teeth, “and if I don’t make the last one of them wish that they had kept their fingers out of my dish, I’m a Dutchman.”
Having seen the sink-boat disposed of, the officer turned his attention to the skiff which was lying bottom up on the sloop’s deck. He pulled it over so that he could see the inside of it, and the first thing his eyes rested upon was the padded block which served as a brace for the stock of the big gun.
“Here’s another craft we want, boys,” said he. “Take it aboard.”
By the time this order had been obeyed the dingy came around the steamer’s stern, and drew up alongside the sloop so that the officer could get in. She brought with her, besides the sailor who was sculling her, a big-whiskered man dressed in citizen’s clothes, who had not before showed himself.
“I never set eyes on that man until this moment,” whispered Enoch, “but I’ll bet anything I’ve got that he is a Baltimore detective.”
“I know he is,” answered Barr, giving emphasis to his assertion with one of his heaviest oaths. “But he can’t hurt me this trip. I stood my trial and paid my fine last season, and nobody can’t prove that I’ve been big-gunning since. Remember, boys, that it wasn’t my gun they gobbled yesterday.”
“Of course it wasn’t,” said Enoch. “You don’t know who owned it, and neither do we.”