Useless for any purpose but that for which they were built, racing machines pure and simple, the hulls of the once splendid sailing cracks lie moldering on ancient ways, dreaming of the days when they skimmed the seas with pyramids of snowy canvas rising above their deep-keeled bodies. In this part of the island can be found gaunt, rat-haunted factory buildings once devoted to sail-lofts and rope-walks. But with the passing of this branch of maritime trade from Civic Island the rickety structures with gaping windows and cracking boards stand tenantless and moss-grown like so many stranded hulks, the tide washing at the piles on which some of them extend out over the water.
They were passing along the lower end of the "summer resort" street of the island when Herc gave a sudden exclamation. Before Chuck could utter a word, Herc was out of the rig and bounding off down the thoroughfare.
The old cabby had not even time to shout out indignantly that Herc had forgotten the formality of paying his fare, before the tall, red-headed youth had vanished round a corner, his long legs going like piston rods.
The cause of Herc's sudden change from the cab to the street was this:
Rounding the corner, past which he himself dashed a moment later, he had caught a glimpse of two backs that appeared strikingly familiar to him.
Like a flash, the reason for this familiar appearance had come over him.
The two pedestrians who excited his attention were Kenworth, the renegade midshipman, and Saki, the mysterious Jap.