“Beat it, Kelly,” Duffy flung after them, “and ’phone the chief to break out a bunch of his flat-feet and get ’em down to the wharf on the run. Now you men,” they heard him say as they drew away from the patrol boat, “rip them covers off the guns and git under way. The Katrina over yonder’s got a bunch o’ murderin’ kidnappers on her, and we’re the lads what will run ’em in the cells, sure as Saint Patrick run the snakes out o’ the old country!”
The wharf was deserted. After knotting the dinghy’s painter to an iron ringbolt, the lads followed Kelly across the rough planking to the small shack Bill had hidden behind while watching Slim Johnson.
Kelly produced a key and went inside. From the doorway they heard him call Police Headquarters and pour forth the sergeant’s message into the ’phone.
“Well, Bill,” said Charlie, “you certainly handed Sanders and his bunch a red hot wallop. What will they do to them, do you think?”
“Murder is a hanging matter in this state, Charlie, and kidnapping means a long term in state’s prison. When Sanders and Company get through with that, there will still be a federal charge of piracy against them on the Flying Fish job that we cleaned up a few weeks ago.” He broke off as Kelly came out and told him he could use the ’phone. Two minutes later, he had Mr. Evans on the wire.
“Bill Bolton speaking, sir,” he said. “I’ve found Charlie. He’s safe and sound and with me now.”
“Thank God!” Bill heard him exclaim, and went on talking.
“I’m sorry I was so rude earlier this evening,” he apologized. “I misjudged you, sir.”
“I understand how you felt, Bill. But I’d already broadcasted the boy’s abduction when you called, and—but never mind about that now. Where are you, and what’s happened?”
Bill gave him a hurried resume of the evening’s adventures.