“Private reasons, I guess. These secret service agents are queer fish, mate.”
The men continued to talk in the same strain for some little time. Ethan and Longsword crouched behind the hanging net and listened.
“I say,” remarked one, at last, “suppose we take a walk up the pier and see if they are coming. My eyes are closing for want of sleep.”
“But who’ll watch the boat?”
“Oh, let it take care of itself. There is no one awake here in this sleepy old town. And then who wants a few old government cutlasses and pistols?”
“Come along, then, mate.”
The two seamen started up the pier; and as they disappeared in the shadows, Ethan and the Irish soldier crept from behind the net.
“Cutlasses and pistols in the boat,” whispered Longsword with a joyous chuckle.
“It couldn’t be better,” said Ethan. “In with you, now; and we’ll push off.”
They clambered into the jolly-boat that was tied to a ring in the wharf log. Ethan cast off, placed the blade of an oar against one of the piles, and with a strong shove sent the craft well clear of the pier. But they had scarcely placed the oars into the rowlocks and settled themselves for the pull out of the cove when they heard running feet coming down the pier and the sound of angry voices.