Frisk Fagan crouched at the steering wheel. Jabowski, his face well hidden beneath a cap, huddled beside one of the boxes which had been shoved half way into the cabin. Jacques sat slumped over in the stern of the boat.
“Hey! What’s the idea?” Frisk Fagan growled. “We can’t take that kid along. We’re overloaded now.”
“We got to take him along,” Joe Matt answered. “If we don’t, he’ll spill everything to the cops. Git going!”
Leaping down into the boat, the man bound Dan’s legs and wrists with a stout piece of cord.
“Better gag him too,” Fagan advised. “The river is swarming with cops. Three boats out watching the shore. We can’t risk having him yip at the wrong minute.”
“I’ll fix him right,” Joe muttered. He pulled the thongs tighter about the boy’s wrists and stuffed a handkerchief into his mouth.
The motorboat sped away from the dock, nosing directly toward Skeleton Island.
Scarcely was the craft well out from shore than those aboard heard the shrill blast of a police whistle. Dan’s heart leaped with hope.
“We’ve been seen!” Joe Matt muttered. “Either that, or Hank has revived and given the alarm! Faster, Frisk!”
“I’m pushin’ her as hard as I can.”