“Come on,” whispered the Chief. “Something’s doing there. Get your guns ready.”
They stepped lightly out on the pier. At first they could see nothing. Then they made out great piles of freight heaped across the pier. Something was afoot behind these freight piles, but what it was they could not tell. The attackers crept nearer. They came close to the piles of freight and peered past them. Motor trucks were standing on the end of the pier. The freight had been piled so as to conceal the end of the pier; but room had been left for the trucks to slip through. Already one truck was piled high with cases of smuggled whiskey. Men were passing other cases up to the pier from motor-boats, and still others were loading the cases on the trucks.
A coarse laugh broke the stillness. With an oath a rough voice said, “You sure fixed that light, Red. Them shrimps thought they was goin’ to ketch us.” And the speaker gave a loud guffaw.
At that very instant the lights of the little fleet appeared off the pier. “Now,” said the Chief, leaping forward. “Come on.”
The customs guards leaped from concealment and swept round the freight piles.
“Hands up!” cried the Chief, “and no monkey business. We’ll drill the first man that tries to draw a gun.”
A cry went up. Savage oaths burst forth. The smugglers in the dock were trying to start their motors.
“None of that!” ordered the Chief. “Stop it or I’ll fire!”
The patrol fleet from the river turned and drove into the slip. The Chief hailed them. “Arrest every man in those boats,” he ordered. “Handcuff them at once. Shoot at the first attempt to resist.”
Taken thoroughly by surprise, the smugglers could offer no real resistance. “Come on,” said the Chief. “We’re going to the Old Slip station. March.”