“There—there she is, right ahead of us,” whispered Pierce, and in the inchoate darkness we made out a series of tiny lights, the gleam from the Wanderer’s cabin windows.
“She’s laying bows out with her stern near the shore on our port,” whispered Pierce as we backed water and lay still. “Her starboard’s toward us. There’s one ladder down at the stern and one at the bow, port side. Better take the bow one; the cap’s more’n likely to be aft. And there’s a good place to land Miss Baldwin, right here.”
We lay without moving or speaking for many long, distressful seconds.
“Mr. Pitt,” whispered Betty finally, “do you insist on going through with your mad plan?”
“Yes.”
We were silent again.
“All right,” said Betty.
Pierce silently moved the canoe to the shore on our port side, the shore toward which the Wanderer’s stern was turned, and without a word Betty stepped out.
“Pierce will come back here as soon as he sees me go over the side,” I whispered.
She made no reply. Then we paddled silently away, steering for the Wanderer’s bow.