“What is there about the schooner particularly interesting?” he asked, at length.
“Oh, nothing much,” said Mr. Chillingworth, with what seemed rather a forced laugh. “Except that she is Bully Banjo’s craft.”
“Bully Banjo?” echoed Mr. Dacre, in a puzzled tone.
“Yes. Or Simon Lake’s, to give the rascal his real name. Lake is the man who is at the present time the real ruler of the ranchers in this district,” said Mr. Chillingworth bitterly. “Dacre,” he went on, “I’m afraid that I have invited you into a troubled region. I’ll give you my word, though, that when I wrote to you things were quiet enough.”
“My dear fellow,” was the rejoinder, “don’t apologize. I myself relish a little excitement, and here are two boys who live on it.”
“If that is the case,” replied the other, with a wan smile, “they are on the verge of plenty—or I’m very much mistaken.”
CHAPTER V.
A NIGHT OF MYSTERY.
Soon after the sloop beat up into the shelter of the point, the wind having by this time increased, to what appeared to the boys, to be a mild hurricane. The sky, too, was overcast, and big black clouds were rolling in, shrouding the dark trees and heights ashore in gloom, and turning the snow-covered peaks beyond to a dull gray. It began to feel chilly, too.
“We’ll have to run up here and take the trail to the ranch,” said Mr. Chillingworth, after a while.
“I thought it was quite close in here,” rejoined Mr. Dacre.