“It’s Israel Harley!” he exclaimed under his breath. “What am I to do? He’s sure not to be alone and Nat’s revolver is locked in his trunk.”
The boy was no coward, as those who have followed the Motor Rangers’ adventures know, but the situation was one that might have tried stronger nerves than Joe Hartley’s, gritty as he was.
He saw a shadow cross the lighted window as whoever was within the wireless hut moved about.
“I don’t like this a bit,” muttered Joe to himself, as he cast about for the best means of coping with the situation. “Those fellows are just about as bad as bad can be and I’ve had one experience with ruffians already to-day. I don’t feel like having a second struggle.”
The light burned steadily on, but whoever was within the hut did not pass the window again.
“They may be demolishing the instruments and smashing things up generally right now,” said Joe to himself as he watched and waited.
The thought was like a tonic to him. He determined to delay no longer but, come what might of it, to surprise the intruders and trust to luck for the outcome. He selected a short, heavy oar from some that lay outside the shanty. It made quite a formidable weapon when wielded by a muscular lad like Joe, and as his fingers closed on it he felt ready to give battle to a whole tribe of Harleys.
In a quiver of excitement and suspense, he crept forward almost noiselessly over the soft sand. What the outcome of the affair would be he did not know nor did he dare to think. But he was determined at all hazards to guard the valuable equipment of the wireless station.
“At any rate, I’ll give a good account of myself,” he thought as he advanced toward the lighted hut.
Nevertheless he caught himself wishing more than once that his chums were with him. About twenty feet from the hut he paused and listened intently. He fully expected to hear the noise of breakage as the vandals destroyed the instruments.