Pet Carlin was in the stern, and Foxey Irwin sat amidships, oars in his hands.
It was almost dark by this time, and, if the reeds which concealed Nick Carter’s boat had not grown almost up to the warehouse, it would have been impossible to make out the door at all.
When Dugan had tapped twice with his lead-weighted, short club, it swung open a little way, and a head protruded.
“Hello, Dugan!”
“Miguel!” muttered Nick Carter. “What’s the game, I wonder.”
“All right, boss!” was Larry Dugan’s response. “We’re ready! Let me in!”
“What do you want to come in for?” demanded Miguel. “Your man is ready to pass out.”
“That may be. But we’ve got other business beside taking this guy away,” growled Dugan. “There’s some stuff of mine in this house that I have to get.”
“I’d forgotten that,” returned Miguel. “Come in, then.”
“I’m coming!” grunted Dugan.