“But we’ve no guns.”
“Man alive, we don’t need them.”
“But they are just as strong a party as we are, and they are probably armed, and we know that one, at least, doesn’t hesitate to shoot on provocation.”
“Well, we’ll pack monkey-wrenches in our hip pockets. If trouble comes we’ll use them, but I’m thinking that old Israel Harley, from all accounts, will give up his passenger without trouble. He’s been too badly singed by the law to want to come near it again.”
“Maybe there’s something in that,” rejoined Joe resignedly. “I’ll go below and pick out a few likely-looking wrenches.”
He turned and went down to the engine-room, where he related to Ding-dong all that had happened in the last exciting moments.
In the meantime the Nomad had crept up to the black craft, and those on the bridge could now see that the hood above the engine was raised and that an old, rugged-looking man in rough clothes with three younger men were working over the motor.
“They’ve broken down, sure enough,” chuckled Nat exultingly as the Nomad drew nearer.
“Our turn at last,” chortled Joe, as he came on deck and slipped a wrench to Nat and another to the sailor. Mr. Anderson said that, in case of a tussle, he preferred to rely on his fists.
The old man looked up in apparent surprise as the Nomad came alongside the thin, sharp motor boat.