“Don’t say it, Big Joe!” Skippy pleaded earnestly. “It scares me, ’cause that’s just what Pop said the night he went to see old Mr. Flint on the Apollyon! It’s sorta——”
“And ’tis all right, kid, so ’tis.” Tully smiled. “Now ye be forgettin’ it.”
Skippy tried to; certainly he had forgotten that he himself had wished Marty Skinner a like fate only that morning.
CHAPTER XXV
DAVY JONES
Tully’s game worked successfully for the next few weeks, for he had distributed his activities among various club houses dotting the shore. It had become an enterprise apparently without threat of untoward incident—so much so that Skippy, with his uncanny knack of presaging ill, came to feel that they must not go on with the distasteful business.
He had hated the treachery of it from the very beginning, partly because of his innate honesty and also because in fairness to himself, he knew he had no real grudge against his rich fellow men. And in his vague, ignorant way Skippy knew that Skinner and Crosley represented something which hate could never successfully combat.
He felt it particularly one early morning when Tully, swaggering out of the shanty of the Minnie M. Baxter, rubbed his large hands in gleeful anticipation of the next victim.
“’Tis up to the Riverview Yacht Club we’ll be goin’ this mornin’, kid,” he said confidently. “We’ve worked aroun’ to it agin. Me pal, the boat tender what tipped me off on Crosley’s Minnehaha, ain’t there no more, but the new guy was aisy pickin’. He fell for a little split, without battin’ an eye, so he did, and sent word down last night that a little fishin’ party headed for Snug Island would push off at dawn.”
“Snug Island, huh?” Skippy asked fearfully. “That means Watson’s Channel for us again?”
“Sure,” laughed Tully, “’tis a spot I like. Nobody goes through Watson’s Channel ’cept they’re headed for Snug Island. And nobody goes to Snug Island fishin’ but a coupla rich guys what own the whole place. It’s aisy pickin’ so ’tis.”