“All right, Nate, I won’t forget. We might need you badly in case of a mix-up.”
“You can sure count on me,” the sturdy waterman assured them.
Then they parted, Nate striking off toward the shanty, whither two of the strangers had preceded him, and Nat and Joe taking the trail after the trio, one of which they firmly believed was none other than old Israel himself.
Through the darkness they made the best speed they could after the old smuggler and his two sons, for they now knew by the sound of the voices that had been flung back to them on the wind that their surmise had been correct. It was old Harley himself and his rascally offspring who had landed on Goat Island under the cover of night.
At first their motive in so doing had been plain enough to Nat, or at least he had thought it was. Now, however, he was by no means so certain that the destruction or injury of the wireless was the sole object of their call. This striking off through the dark to the southerly point of the island was inexplicable to the boy, and as they made their way along, sometimes stumbling over rocks and clumps of beach-plum bushes, he confided his bewilderment to Joe.
“I wonder what all this means?” he said. “There’s nothing to the south, so far as I know, but some low cliffs and waste land.”
“I’ve no more idea than you have,” rejoined Joe, equally puzzled. “One thing is sure and certain, though, they are not out for a pleasant stroll.”
“No, they’ve got some definite object in view, and I’m inclined to believe that we don’t figure in it as prominently as we thought we did,” was Nat’s rejoinder.
They paced on in silence, always keeping the three figures in front of them in view, but creeping along as close to the ground as they could and taking advantage of every bit of cover that offered.
“Say, Nat,” exclaimed Joe after a while, “it’s my belief that they are making for those old ruins!”