“Wall, you shore must hev sharp eyes in yer head, young feller,” said one of the old man’s sons, a fellow named Seth Harley, who bore as bad a reputation as his father. “So you saw us take on a passenger, eh? Wall, this is the first I hearn on it. Say, Jake, or you, Hank, did you notice any passenger embarking on this packet?”
A contemptuous laugh was the only rejoinder and then old man Harley struck in again in his harsh, rasping voice, like the dragging of a rough file over metal.
“’Spect you be the loonies thet hev stuck up thet thar birdcage contraption on Goat Island, beant yer?”
“If you mean the wireless station, yes,” responded Nat.
“Wall, thet accounts fer ther bees in yer bonnet, then,” scoffed old Israel, while his relatives chuckled in a peculiarly irritating manner; “an’ anuther thing, lemme tell yer,” the old man went on, “you’d better be gittin’ ready to quit that thar island, anyhow.”
“Why is that?” asked Nat, striving to keep his temper, while Joe hopped about, first on one foot and then on another in his irritation.
“’Cos we hev a prior claim to it, thet’s why,” retorted the old man, a sudden fiery gleam coming into his cold eyes. “We don’t want none of you spies an’ interferers comin’ from the mainland and mixin’ up in our affairs.”
“We’ve no intention of mixing up in your affairs,” flung back Nat, with an emphasis on the last word. “You’ve just as legitimate a right to use the island as we have and we’ll concede you that, but, as for quitting it at your orders—well, that’s another story.”
“See here, Harley,” interpolated Mr. Anderson, “we suspect you of having on board your boat one Miles Minory. He is wanted for several grave offences. You’ll save yourself a lot of trouble by giving him up. We know he paid you well to help him escape, but the jig is up and we mean to have him.”
The old man stared at him with what appeared to be absolute bewilderment.