“That’s the intelligent query. I don’t know. Do you?”
“No—”
“Spelvin doesn’t, and we haven’t got any time to waste trying to find out. Probabilities are, there is. The only thing to do is to run for it and trust to luck. Spelvin says it took him an hour and thirty-five minutes to run in, this evening; and he’s going to better that if nothing happens. Did you remember to bring a gun?”
“Two.” Staff produced the pistol he had taken from Ismay, with the extra clips, and gave them to the little man with an account of how he had become possessed of them—a narrative which Iff seemed to enjoy immensely.
“Oh, we can’t lose,” he chuckled; “not when Cousin Artie plays his hand as poorly as he has this deal. I’ve got a perfectly sound hunch that we’ll win.”
Staff hardly shared his confidence; still, as far as he could judge, the odds were even. Ismay might beat them to Pennymint Centre by train, and might not. If he did, however, it could not be by more than a slight margin; to balance which fact, Staff had to remind himself that two minutes’ margin was all that would be required to get the boat away from land, beyond their reach.
“Look here,” he put it to Iff: “suppose he does beat us to that boat?”
“Then we’ll have to find another.”
“There’ll be another handy, all ready for us, I presume?”
“Spare me your sarcasm,” pleaded Iff; “it is, if you don’t mind my mentioning the fact, not your forte. Silence, on the other hand, suits your style cunningly. So shut up and lemme think.”