“Oh, it ain’t likely I let ’em catch sight of me! I don’t know about the girl, but old Jim Hancock is one of those fellers who never misses with a rifle.”
“So you, I take it, Mr. Sanders, are working for the other side in this mysterious business?”
“I am the other side, Mr. Midshipman Bolton. What made you think I’d want to chum up with Evans’ secretary?”
“Evans’ secretary!” Bill repeated in amazement. “You mean—that girl—Deborah—is his secretary?”
“Surest thing you know, young man. Evans owns Pig Island—didn’t he tell you that?”
Mr. Sanders laughed sardonically and nodded until Bill thought he would burst a blood vessel—he hoped he would.
“And so,” said Bill, light dawning at last, “you decided it would be swell to have me throw myself into your arms, as it were. And before those people on the island and I woke up to the fact that we were on the same side of the fence in this mixup!” Mentally he cursed himself for his impulsiveness.
“Who’d have thought you’d tumble so fast?” sneered Sanders.
Then as Bill made a threatening move toward him, an automatic whipped into sight from beneath Sanders’ armpit.
“Oh, no you don’t, sonny!” he barked. “It won’t pay you to get nasty with me. Sit down! It’s time you learned a few things, you young whelp!”