He now took Babbage and Turley into his confidence. When he mentioned Sandy Cove he met with an unexpected check.
"There ain't no such place, sir—leastways, not on this coast," said Turley.
"Are you sure?" Jack insisted.
"Sartin, sir."
"That's strange. I don't think I read the word wrongly. I could be sure it was Sandi, the way a Frenchman would spell it. We'll have to go back to Portsmouth and get a chart of the coast; we may find something that looks like it."
But when he got a chart from the admiral he searched it in vain. There was no such name as Sandy Cove. He was convinced that he had not mistaken the signal; all that could be done now was to inquire in the neighborhood of Luscombe whether any of the inlets was locally known by that name. But with the exception of the Bastables he knew of no one whom he could trust, and he had a strong reason for avoiding the squire's house; nothing must be done that might put De Fronsac on his guard.
Then a thought of Gumley came to him—Joe Gumley, the one-legged sailor. He was Luscombe born; though he kept himself to himself, he would probably know the whereabouts of Sandy Cove. And he might safely be asked the question, for, never a friend to the smugglers, he had a distinct grudge against them since that day when his garden was ransacked, and he was the least likely of men to give them any information.
"Yes, I'll ask Gumley," thought Jack. "It can't do any harm."
It was afternoon when he steered the Fury into a sheltered cove some six miles west of Luscombe. He had chosen the spot because the coast there was rugged, and the shore uninhabited, and the cutter might lie safe from wind and wave, and from observation by too inquisitive people.
"Now, Babbage," said Jack as he stepped ashore, "I leave you in charge. Keep quiet, and be on your guard."