“There goes my beefsteak,” Alex whispered to Jule. “Our good thing will be in the village lockup in about half a second.”
“Just our luck!” declared Case.
“Gentlemen,” began Clay, but he was stopped by a man who came pushing his way through the crowd impetuously.
“None of that, gentlemen,” he drawled. “If I want any shooting done, I’ll do it myself. What seems to be the trouble?”
“I don’t see where you get cards in this game,” sneered a bystander.
“I can tell you where this man was last night,” put in Alex, who was resolved not to lose his steak. “He was up the river about thirty miles helping four boys load a wounded boy on a motor boat.”
“What of that?” demanded the spokesman of the party. “Last night wasn’t Monday night.”
“That’s so,” said Alex, looking very much ashamed, “it was Tuesday night. Pardon me.”
“Where’s the wounded boy and the motor boat?” inquired a man who stood in the crowd.
“Yes, where be they?” asked another. “I fail to see any motor boat, or boat of any kind, with them. In fact, I know that they came swimming up to the landing like a lot of dock rats. I’m in favor of locking the whole bunch up.”