As yet there was no appearance of an interruption; but the first bar of the trellis, upon which he placed his foot, creaked and snapped. As the noise, so far as he could see, attracted no notice, he resumed his attempt, and reached the ground without any further impediment, real or imaginary.
With stealthy step he retreated from the house till there was no longer any danger of being discovered. Quickening his pace, he soon reached the pier, and with the skiff boarded the Greyhound. The night was certainly favorable for the execution of dark deeds. The midnight assassin, the incendiary, or the burglar would have rejoiced in its darkness, its dense black clouds, and its fitful winds.
Richard Grant still felt the cowhide of his enemy tingling upon his legs, and still felt its iron piercing his soul. The injury he had received a week before, rankled in his bosom as it had the hour after it had been inflicted. Neither the time that had elapsed, nor the peril attending his present enterprise, in any degree moderated the spirit of revenge that burned in his soul.
As soon as he had secured the skiff at the buoy to which the sail boat was moored, he opened the door of the stern locker, and drew forth a small bottle. He shook it to satisfy himself that the contents were safe, and then restored it to the place from which he had taken it. He then examined his pockets to assure himself that some other article necessary for his purpose was all right. No mistakes or omissions had been made, and he proceeded to hoist the mainsail. He then cast off the moorings, and hoisted the jib. The wind was too fresh to permit the Greyhound to carry all sail, and even with what he had set, she put her rail under the water at the first forward impulse.
One less skilful and courageous than Richard would have been terrified by the fierce waves and the gloom of the night, especially if bound upon an errand of evil and crime; but he held the tiller with a steady hand, and heeded not the spray that broke upon the half-deck of the Greyhound. A few moments in such a breeze were sufficient to carry him over the river to the place of rendezvous. The point was as familiar to him as the pier at Woodville; and as soon as he could obtain a view of the dark outline of the shore, he ran the boat alongside the point, with as little difficulty as though it had been broad daylight.
Sandy Brimblecom was not there, and an expression of anger escaped from the lips of Richard, when he found that the partner of his iniquitous scheme might possibly fail him. He gave the signal whistle with which they were in the habit of calling each other; but there was no reply. The clocks on the churches in Whitestone struck one, and Richard waited half an hour after he heard them—half an hour, which seemed like half a day to him.
He was afraid that Sandy's heart had failed him, or that his father had discovered him; and Richard decided to proceed alone with the enterprise. Disgusted at the failure of his associate, he pushed off from the point. As he did so, he discovered another boat a short distance up the river, moving off from the shore. He watched it for a moment, till it disappeared in the gloom. It was not a common thing to see sail boats out at such an hour, and on such a night as this was; but he concluded that it was some gardener taking his produce to an early market, and he gave himself no uneasiness.
Just as he lost sight of the boat, he heard the familiar whistle of Sandy. Putting the Greyhound about, he ran under the lee of the point, and his friend leaped on board. Richard immediately put off again, and shaped the course of the boat for the inlet near the garden of "Old Batterbones."
"You are late, Sandy," said Richard, in reproachful tones.
"Can't help it. I got asleep, and didn't wake up," replied Sandy, with a long gape.