“Perhaps Mr. McRae says more than his prayers,” was Hennessy’s surly reply.
The words, with all they implied, struck Joe with the force of a blow. Like a flash, the warning of Louis Anderson that morning came to his mind.
“Look here!” he cried, starting to his feet. “What does this mean? What game are you up to?”
“You’ll find out soon enough, my bucko,” answered Hennessy. “In the meantime you’d better take my tip and keep a civil tongue in your head. My temper’s rather short, as those who have sailed with me can tell you.”
“Don’t threaten me!” warned Joe, all his fighting blood coming to the surface.
At his menacing attitude, the men in front rose to their feet and moved forward. There were three of them, which made the combined force five in number, counting Hennessy and the man at the wheel.
Joe cast a swift glance around. There were no boats near at hand which could be reached by a shout. Nor did he have a ghost of a chance against the husky figures standing about him. For the moment the advantage was with the enemy.
An agony of self-reproach overwhelmed him. Why had he so lightly taken it for granted that it was McRae at the telephone? Why had he let the warning of Anderson slip from his mind?
He had fallen into a trap! Where were they taking him? What was their object? He thought of Mabel and his family. Into what dread and consternation they would be plunged by his disappearance! And his comrades on the team! What would they think of him?
Hennessy had been watching him keenly.