“Just eleven-forty-five. Parker ought to be over the house in fifteen minutes. That is, if he comes.”
“He will—” declared the Seminole. “He said he would.”
“If he wakes up in time, you mean. After those two long hops, he’ll be a dead ’un.”
“Oh, not so bad. I flew the plane most of the way up here,” confessed Osceola. “So Parker caught plenty of sleep on the trip.”
“Good boy! Your instructor is proud of you. Look out—here are those blocks you tripped over before.”
They scrambled over the debris and a few moments later came to another flight of stone steps. Osceola manipulated the sliding door at the top very much in the same manner as he had closed the one to the cellar. Bill switched off his light and they entered a small, one-roomed building. Here the Indian led him past a broken doorway and through a dense thicket of evergreen and brambles. When they reached the more open woods, Osceola paused.
“I ambled over these woods the day we corralled our friend the Baron,” he remarked. “And I took a look at the outside of Turner’s then. Keep the moon on your right and you’re bound to hit the harbor. It’s between two and a half and three miles over there.”
“And where do you think you’re going?” asked Bill in surprise.
“Over to the cove and out to Pig Island!”
“But you’ve no boat.”