“Looks like a clump of trees. It’s something black and bulky, anyhow,” decided Hargraves.
Ned, who had taken the precaution to bring a night glass along, placed the instrument to his eyes.
“It is trees,” he announced; “a big grove of them. That must be the Banta House.”
“Fine and dandy!” exclaimed Herc. “Now we——”
Bang!
The sharp report of a pistol split the night right ahead of them. Among the dark shadows of the grove of trees they could see, for a breath, a flash of red flame.
“Phew!” whistled Hargraves. “I guess we’ve hit the trail of trouble, all right. That was a pistol shot, and a pistol shot means a story.”
“I hope it means nothing worse,” rejoined Ned anxiously. “What can have happened?”
“No use expectrapating (speculating?) on that, lad,” struck in old Tom. “Better get this peanut roaster speeded up a bit and be ready for action when we hit the shore.”