This from Case, who was still in his despondent mood, and was, as Alex had explained, imagining the worst and making himself think that was what was coming!
Alex nudged him with his elbow, in gentle reminder of his failing, and nodded toward the head of the pier. Through the falling drops, they saw the figure which had recently left the shelter of the warehouse coming toward the boat.
“Whoever it is,” muttered Case, “he’s alarmed at the police whistle, and is coming down here to hide away!”
“Oh, Case——”
Alex got no farther with his protest against his chum’s idle croakings of evil, for the figure was now almost at the pier, a few yards from the prow of the Rambler. It was moving slowly, in spite of the storm beating upon it, hands in pockets, chin buried in a turned-up coat collar, eyes on the ground.
When almost to the head of the pier the boy, for such the queer-acting stranger appeared to be, turned sharply about and went back over the course he had taken, head down, eyes evidently searching the ground. This was repeated three times, then the ring of footsteps above caused him to seek the shelter of the warehouse again.
Then Clay dashed into view, running at top speed and bending low as if to better resist the storm, or to avoid any attack which might be made upon him. The boys could see the silent figure standing in the shadow of the warehouse, standing there in a listening, observant attitude. The thought came to Alex that this might mean peril to Clay, and so he called out to warn the skulker that help was at hand.
“Hurry, Clay!” he shouted.
Clay did not reply, but dashed on at increased speed to the rotting planks of the pier, and was soon inside the cabin, shaking the rain from his clothes like a great dog just out of a pond. Alex closed the door and locked it.
“Did you see Jule?” Case asked, eagerly.