He knew the carrying powers of fog. For a moment nothing was audible but the wind and wave. Then distinctly came the muffled roar of a motor. For a full five seconds it sounded. Then it was audible no longer.
“It sounds as though it were close to this shore,” said Willie to his Chief. He had almost to shout to make himself heard.
“Just what I thought,” said the Chief.
“You can’t be sure, though,” said Willie. “Fog plays strange tricks with sound.”
Wherever the rum runner was, it was evident that she was not far away. Certainly she was within half a mile. Probably she was nearer. Once more the fog lifted. Through the rift in the mist Willie made out some lights high in air. They were the lights of Quarantine.
“We’ve drifted clear into the Narrows,” he called in his Chief’s ear. “We’re at the very narrowest part of the river.”
“Good!” said the Chief. “Look!”
Far down the Narrows, and close to the western shore, there was a momentary gleam of light through the rift in the mist, as though a smoker were holding a match to his pipe in his cupped hands. Then the light was swallowed up in darkness.
“We were wrong about the sound of that motor,” said the Chief. “They must be slipping along the western shore. We must head them off. Call the other boats quick!” The Chief turned to the steersman.
“Hard about!” he called.