Skippy got the most out of his commandeered kicker. He opened it wide and raced her down the river and the closer he got to the bay the more apprehensive did he feel about Big Joe’s flight. He tried not to attach any special significance to his good friend’s shouts, but he could not help remembering Tully’s earlier veiled threats about Skinner.
His fears grew as he chugged out into the bay and something urged him on still faster. Then he spied the glistening hull of the beautiful Apollyon, her anchor lights gleaming like stars against the night and a single light amidships.
Funny, the boy thought, how much it seemed like that night when he and his father had come for the showdown with the older Flint. Now there was to be no showdown, but he must warn Skinner against Big Joe’s sudden maniacal fury. Queer that he should go to such trouble for a man who had given them no quarter in anything. But he was not thinking of doing Skinner a good turn beyond that it might prevent Big Joe from killing the Flint agent and being sent to jail.
He approached the yacht with his old feeling of awe. The deck was almost dark as he scrambled aboard but up forward he saw the rotund form of the second mate asleep and snoring in a luxurious swing. The boy could not help remember a very solemn resolve that night long ago, when the mate had sworn to be more faithful to his duties during his night watches.
With silent tread, he hurried along the deck and stopped before the lighted cabin amidships. Once, twice, he knocked softly, and waited.
“Come in!” Marty Skinner’s cold voice commanded.
Skippy stepped in, his heart bounding. He was thinking of the last time he had been in this room and closed the door, determined he would not be driven out again until he had had his say.
“Well?” Skinner snapped but this time he did not order Skippy out.
“You seen Big Joe Tully?” Skippy asked bravely. “He been here yet?”
“What d’ye mean—yet? I have no business with Tully and I haven’t any with you that I know of.”