“What was that?” asked Toby.
“Sounded like a shot, didn’t it? Over that way. There!”
Two tiny yellow flashes of light pricked the darkness of the further shore, followed by as many sharp reports, and then, more faintly, a shout. Instinctively Toby swung the launch shoreward.
“Some one on that houseboat, I guess,” he said. “Probably shooting at a bottle or something in the water. That’s about where she’s moored.”
“Anyway, it was a pistol, all right,” murmured Arnold. They listened, but heard no more shots, and Toby was straightening the Frolic out again for the run around the Head when the sound of a muffled exhaust reached them. Toby looked intently into the shadows of the Head.
“That’s funny,” he muttered. “There’s a launch just kiting along over there and not a light showing. Can you make her out, Arn? She’s about half-way to the Head, from the sound.”
But nothing was visible in the darkness there. Only the throb of an exhaust reached them. And then, startlingly loud, came a cry across the bay:
“Thieves! Thieves! Stop them!”
Some one on the houseboat had seen the Frolic’s lights and was shouting through a megaphone. And at that moment a shadow seemed to detach itself from the shore and slip away into the moonlight beyond the point. The cry from the houseboat was repeated.
“What shall we do?” cried Toby.