Instantly, excitement broke out in that quiet region, which up till then had been perfectly silent except for the distant quacking of wild ducks who had been skimming the water a mile or so away, the rushing of the evening breeze through the swaying rushes, and the occasional toot of a railroad locomotive taking home a load of commuters.
Patsy swung his revolver over till its muzzle was exactly opposite the right eye of Foxey Irwin, while Nick Carter pointed his automatic steadily at Larry Dugan, with the quiet warning:
“Don’t move, Dugan! Half an inch to one side or the other, and I touch the trigger.”
“Touch, eh?” sneered Dugan. “Why don’t you pull it while you are about it—if you have the nerve to shoot at all.”
“A touch is all that is needed with this gun, Dugan,” returned Nick. “It’s the easiest trigger I ever put my finger on. And I wouldn’t advise you to test my nerve about shooting.”
Nick Carter would not have parleyed thus if he had not seen that Marcos had sprung at the throat of Pet Carlin and snatched away that innocent-looking person’s pistol just as it leaped from his side pocket.
Carlin was known as a “killer,” and there is little doubt that he would have tried to “get” Nick Carter at the instant that the detective covered Dugan, if Marcos had not been too quick for him.
Nick had perfect faith in this prince from Joyalita who looked so much like himself. He had seen that Marcos never permitted himself to get rattled, but was always in complete control of his nerves.
So, when Marcos leaped at Carlin just as the other boat swung alongside, anticipating, by a sliver of a second, the drawing of Pet’s gun, it was no more than Nick Carter had felt sure would happen.
“Put on the cuffs, Patsy!” whispered Nick to his assistant. “Get Foxey first. Then take Dugan.”