“You’ll have to get up early to get ahead of me, you whelps!” was the insulting cry borne over the waters.
Nat’s teeth clenched; his cheeks flamed red. He did not often lose his temper, but the ruffian’s audacity had made him mad clear through.
Regardless of his danger, he sprang erect and faced the man in the skiff.
“We’ll get you yet, Minory!” he shouted.
For an instant the occupant of the small boat appeared taken aback, and that for a good reason. Obviously, if they knew his real name, the professor must have not only discovered his loss, but recovered sufficiently to tell the whole story. His acute mind reasoned this out in a jiffy, and it gave him pause. But only for a fraction of time. The next minute, with a cry, “Take that, you young cub!” another bullet came singing and whinging through the air.
“I’ll go below and get the rifle!” cried Joe furiously. “We’ll show him two can play at this game; we’ll——”
“Do nothing of the sort,” said Nat calmly; “he can hardly get much of an aim standing up in that cranky skiff, and if he wants to get away he’ll do better by taking to his oars than by blazing away at us.”
“There he goes now,” cried the sailor. “I guess he was so plumb mad clear through at the quick tracks we made after him that he just naturally had to blaze away at us.”
As the man spoke they saw Minory, with another mocking laugh, bend to his oars once more and row rapidly toward the creek mouth.
“Once let him get in there and we’ve lost him,” cried Nat despairingly.