"Dacre!" he exclaimed. "You're the kids that broke up that gang of Chinese smugglers on the Sound a while ago!"
"You're unco canny to guess it," said Sandy. "We're the boys."
At this instant another figure appeared on the bridge—a tall man with rough-looking clothes and a battered derby hat. It was the pilot. He addressed Mr. Dacre.
"The tide serves, sir. If you are all ready, we'll get under way."
"Come, boys," hailed Mr. Dacre from the bridge. "Time to get aboard."
The three lads hastily gathered up the few packages that they had been purchasing at the last moment. The cabman was paid and they bounded with elastic strides up the gangway. As they reached the end of it, the stern lines were cast off.
"Let go breast and bow lines," bawled the foghorn voice of the pilot.
The order was quickly executed. Jessop shouted something, but his voice was drowned in the three mournful blasts of her siren that were the Northerner's farewell to Seattle. But the instant the whistle ceased and the tug that was to tow the Northerner into the stream began to puff energetically, he found his voice again.
"S-a-y!" he shouted across the widening breach between the steamer and the dock.