“You’d better give up!” Nat had hailed to Minory across the water. “Even if you get ashore the authorities are already on the lookout for you, warned by wireless. You don’t stand the chance of a rat in a trap.”
Minory’s answer had been to stand up in the skiff, holding aloft in one hand the model and in the other the plans and calculations that had cost the sleeping inventor below so much effort.
“If you come any closer, down these go to Davy Jones!” he had yelled desperately.
“To do such a thing would be only to increase the sentence you will get in a court of law!” Mr. Anderson had shouted back indignantly.
“He’s only bluffing!” Joe had rejoined.
It was just at this instant that the unlucky disaster in the engine room had occurred. Joe could have cried with vexation.
“Of all the luck!” he exclaimed as the Nomad lost way and came to a standstill, swinging seaward with the outgoing tide. Minory stood up in his skiff and shook a triumphant fist at them. They turned away from him, and the next moment something came buzzing and singing past their ears.
It was followed by a sharp, cracking report. Then came a yell of defiant laughter.
“The rascal’s shooting at us!” exclaimed Nat.
“Yes; duck quick!” cried Joe, as the revolver was once more leveled.