“No,” he said; “I see no boat.”
“We’ve beaten him, then!” Iff declared joyfully.
But they hadn’t, nor were they long in finding it out. For presently the little island lay black, a ragged shadow against the blue-grey sky, upon the starboard beam; and Bascom passed the word aft to shut off the motor. As its voice ceased, the boat shot in toward the land, and the long thin moonlit line of the landing-stage detached itself from the general obscurity and ran out to meet them. And so closely had Bascom calculated that the “shoot” of the boat brought them to a standstill at the end of the structure without a jar. Bascom jumped out with the headwarp, Staff and Iff at his heels.
From the other side of the dock a shadow uplifted itself, swiftly and silently as a wraith, and stood swaying as it saluted them with profound courtesy.
“Gennelmen,” it said thickly, “I bidsh you welcome t’ Wrecksh Island.”
With this it slumped incontinently back into a motor-boat which lay moored in the shadow of the dock; and a wild, ecstatic snore rang out upon the calm night air.
“Thet’s Eph Clover,” said Bascom; “him ’nd his wife’s caretakers here. He’s drunker ’n a b’iled owl,” added the boatbuilder lest they misconstrue.
“Cousin Artie seems unfortunate in his choice of minions, what?” commented Iff. “Come along, Staff.... Take care of that souse, will you, Spelvin? See that he doesn’t try to mix in.”
They began to run along the narrow, yielding and swaying bridge of planks.
“He hasn’t beaten us out yet,” Iff threw over his shoulder. “You keep back now—like a good child—please. I’ve got a hunch this is my hour.”