“And yet, you old Red Head,” rejoined Ned affectionately, “when there’s anything to be done, you’re right there on the spot.”
“Oh, well, that’s when there’s some excitement in it,” was Herc’s reply.
What with taking a wrong turn and some delay in getting just the sized flag they required, it was quite late when the lads started back for Grayport. In fact, as they neared the little seaside town, they could hear the clock in the old Dutch church strike midnight. It was the only sound to disturb the moonlit stillness. The town, seemingly, was wrapped in slumber. At any rate, not a light was to be seen.
“We’re night owls, all right,” laughed Herc.
Their road led around the seaward end of the village, skirting the high fence of the Lockyer boatyard. As they drew near Ned pulled up the horse with an abrupt jerk.
“What’s the trouble?” asked Herc, in a whisper, however, as, while Ned had checked the horse with one hand, his other had gone up in a signal for silence.
“Why, I’m certain I saw some one scale that fence and drop over into the yard just as we were coming round that corner.”
“Well, if there was, Mr. Lockyer has a watchman on duty,” rejoined Herc.
“I know, but, Herc, think of what that yard contains,—all Channing Lockyer’s hopes and aspirations. If that boat were to be injured I think it would kill him, coming as it would on the eve of her launching.”