“There’s no doubt about that,” Bill agreed bitterly, looking into the blue-black muzzle some four feet away. He bent backward as though to sit down on the thwart, when without warning his right leg shot out and he planted a smashing blow with his bare foot upon the under side of Sander’s wrist. The automatic flew harmlessly overside, while the astounded man found himself seized by his tingling wrist. His arm was jerked forward with a suddenness that almost wrenched it from the socket, while Bill’s other arm wrapped tightly about the semi-paralyzed member. There came another wrench, and dizzying pain, and he went headfirst out of the boat, after his revolver. When he rose to the surface, his craft was already some yards away.
“As I said before,” Bill called to him, “there’s no doubt about it. You should learn savatte—the French method of foot-boxing, you know. That arm-hold I learned among others from a jiu-jitsu professor—a Jap. It pays to have international tastes. Incidentally I don’t think the current is bad about here. You’re only about sixty yards from shore. Cheerio—as they say in Merry England. A pleasant swim, Mister Sanders!”
Sanders said nothing. He felt too sick even to swear. His right arm pained him so that he turned on his back and headed for shore, using his left and both legs as a means to propel his aching body.
Bill widened his throttle and sped up the motor boat, keeping the shore line on his left. A mile farther on he came to the mouth of the cove where he had bathed with Charlie that morning. He shut off the engine and took a survey of his surroundings.
The gentle breeze had gone with the morning. Not a branch moved, not a leaf stirred on the trees above the rocks. Bill guessed it must be close to seven in the evening, for the sun was barely discernible above the woods, and long shadows lay upon the quiet water.
Next, he made a thorough inspection of the boat which brought to light two interesting items. In a locker forward he came upon the clothes he had left on the beach that morning. Bill was delighted, for this find provided him with two things he needed badly, shoes and a watch.
Beneath the clothes was a light overcoat of covert cloth, apparently the property of Sanders. He pulled it out and was about to put it back again, when a thought struck him. A closer inspection of the coat brought forth, first, a pair of pigskin gloves, then from the inside pocket, Bill extracted three envelopes.
All three of these missives bore the Stamford, Connecticut, postmark, and all three were addressed to
Zenas Sanders,
General Delivery,