“If you think I’m going to catch fish for those big stiffs, you have another think coming!” Alex answered. “I’ll catch fish for you, but not for the others!”
“Other people came in here with me,” King went on. “They’ll be here directly, I think. There! That’s their knock, now!”
The “knock” was the sharp report of a pistol. King started away in the rowboat, leaving the boys gathered on the deck of the Rambler, all anxious to be moving, yet not caring to swim ashore.
Directly the officer came back around a bend in the wall of rock. In the boat was a man Don recognized on the instant.
“That’s Myron G. Frost, the manager of the bank where I worked!” he explained. “I guess he’s come out after me and the handbag!”
“Where do you think he came from?” asked Case. “How long has he been prowling around here? You don’t think he’s the ghost, do you?”
All these questions were asked at random, and to no one in particular, as King rowed the banker to the Rambler. Don moved back as Frost stepped on the deck, but the banker seized the boy by the hand and gave him a friendly little shake.
“You little runaway!” he cried. “I’ll keep track of you after this.”
“Where’s the use?” asked Don, dolefully. “I’m going to be put in jail for murder!”
“Poor Trumbull!” said Frost. “He was a crook, but he was trying to do the right thing when he was shot down! That was a brutal crime!”