“We don’t want him,” declared Mr. Grant. “Why didn’t you signal to the shore? The place is stiff with warders and other people searching for him. Well, what happened?”
While Craddock was relating the somewhat alarming incident Brandon got busy with his electric torch. It was not long before his “general call” was acknowledged, and a message to the effect that the convict had been recaptured and was on board was flashed for the information of the search party.
Back came the reply: “Thanks. Will send boat to fetch him at once.”
“And what happened to you chaps?” asked Heavitree.
“We got stuck in the mud—properly,” admitted Brandon ruefully. “I never saw such a place for mud. We tried to land at one place and couldn’t. Then we went on and found an old wharf. Talbot remained as boat-keeper for both dinghies while the rest of us tramped into Shalfleet. By the time we had looked round and Mr. Pendennis had bought the petrol we found both boats high and dry. Talbot did his best to keep them afloat, but it was of no use. In fact, he stuck twenty yards from shore, and the mud was so soft that he couldn’t get back. He’s been sitting in the dinghy for hours. We had had some grub, and now we’re frightfully hungry. Talbot hasn’t had anything to eat since we pushed off from the Kestrel.”
Already the stove was lighted and preparations under way for a belated meal. Presently, following a hail of “Yacht ahoy!” a large rowing boat with two boatmen and four armed warders came alongside.
The convict, who was now conscious, was transhipped. The head warder asked for particulars.
“Smart bit of work,” he declared admiringly, when Craddock had told his plain, unvarnished tale. “He’s a desperate character with a black record. Well, young man, you’ve jolly well earned the reward offered for his apprehension.”
Peter shook his head.
“We don’t want it, do we, Heavitree?” he replied. “It’s too much like blood-money.”