“That’s old Iz,” whispered the sailor to Nat. But Nat hardly heard him, for he was face to face with the surprise of his life.
The motor boat was an open one. There was no cabin. All was open except the engine space, which was forward under the high bow and hooded in. All was plainly exposed to the view from the Nomad’s bridge, which was considerably higher than the low, swift craft she had overhauled.
There was old Israel, there were his three companions, but of Minory nothing was to be seen. He had vanished as completely as if he had evaporated into air!
CHAPTER XIII.
TRAPPED!
“Wall?” hailed Israel, raising his bushy eyebrows, which overhung his steely-blue eyes like pent-houses. “Wall? What might you be wanting?”
“That fellow you took on board in Whale Creek,” snapped out Nat decisively.
“What feller?” demanded the old man. “Say, young feller, has ther heat gone to yer brain?”
“It’s no use temporizing,” chimed in Mr. Anderson, “we saw you take on a passenger. We want him for a grave crime.”
“Do tell!” exclaimed the old man, while the others, whom the sailor whispered to Nat were the elder Harley’s two sons and his nephew, suspended their work and gazed up as astonished apparently as old Israel appeared to be.