“Yes,” said the first voice, “I guess that’s so. He’s due back on Thursday, Whipple says. Then Thursday night—?”
“Thursday night, unless something happens meanwhile. Only thing I’m afraid of is that the local police will blunder on to a clue and spoil the whole job.”
“Not them! I know ’em all and—”
The voices suddenly died away to a faint murmur, and while Chub was trying to explain this the creak of boom came to him. That was it! The two men had been in a sail-boat on their way either up or down the river in the main channel and very near the island. There was almost no wind where Chub was, but there was probably enough on the water to keep a boat moving. But the odd part of it all was the fact that Chub was almost certain that he had heard both voices before, although, try as he might, he couldn’t place them. If the voices were familiar it disposed of the theory that the men were merely traveling the river. Perhaps they were going to land on the island! Perhaps—! Chub started, forgot his injured ankle and sank back on the bench with a groan. Supposing one of the men was—he uttered a sudden exclamation.
“Billy Noon!” he whispered. He knew the voice of the second speaker now; there was no doubt about it. And yet Billy had left them at half-past eight in the direction of his boat, declaring that he was going to turn in. Still, that didn’t signify anything. The voice was Billy Noon’s voice without a doubt, and very probably the boat was his as well. At that moment, from below the island, came again the creak of a boom. Then they were bound down-stream, thought Chub. In that case—but it was all an unfathomable mystery, and although Chub sat there for the better part of the next hour and tried to explain it he was at last forced to give it up. By this time he was very sleepy, and so, hobbling back to the tent, he threw himself down on his bed and dropped off to slumber on the instant.
When he awoke Roy and Dick had finished breakfast and it was nearly nine o’clock! Roy explained that they thought maybe he hadn’t slept very well, and so they didn’t awaken him. The ankle was almost well, and after giving it another sousing with cold water Chub ate the breakfast which they had left on the stove for him with hearty relish. Dick was out in the launch bailing the water out with a saucepan. The sun was shining brightly and almost every cloud had been swept aside by the westerly breeze that rumpled the surface of the river.
“Say, this is Sunday, isn’t it?” Chub asked. And Roy replied that it was. Chub groaned.
“That means letters to write,” he sighed.
“How did you sleep?” asked Roy.