They gave the yacht a wide berth, one lad at the oars, the other crouched in the stern of the rowboat. Bill used its lights, however, to get his bearings on the pier steps. He half expected some angry yachtsman to be waiting with threats to wring his neck for such bare-faced robbery. They were still a couple of hundred yards off the wharf when a sea-going tug swung round the riding lights of an anchored sloop. Bill heard the clang of the engine room bell, and almost directly the powerful craft slowed down, her propeller blades churning the water to foam. A voice hailed them from the deck forward.
“Dinghy ahoy! Scull over here and let’s see who ye are!”
“Who wants to know?” piped up Charlie.
“The Stamford Harbor Police Patrol wants ter know, sonny—that’s who. Give us no more of your lip. Come aboard and let’s see what ye got in that there rowboat!”
“Coming!” said Bill, and pulled toward the tug which was drifting slowly with the tide.
They were but a few yards off her side when a blinding light struck the dinghy.
“Why didn’t ye get that dum thing workin’ before, Pat?” growled another voice above their heads. “Them ain’t the guys we’re lookin’ for. There ain’t no booze aboard that dinghy—nothin’ but a couple o’ lads. An’ one of em’s stole his grandmother’s night shirt.”
“Grandmother, your eye!” sang out Charlie, who knew he looked ridiculous, and was in no mood to appreciate the tug crew’s laughter.
“Shut up, kid,” ordered Bill, and then in a louder voice: “We are looking for the police. There’s worse than booze-running going on out here tonight. Any objection to our coming aboard?”
“Come aboard, bub—tell us yer troubles.”