"Then you wouldn't mess around in Cape Cod Bay. You'd set a course as far from other craft and harbours as you could. If they went south they'd be among boats right along, and they'd know that we'd work the wires and that folks would be on the lookout."
"Then where," began Steve.
"Let's look at the chart from here north," said Phil. The cover of the chart box was thrust back and the lamp lighted and as many as could do so clustered about it. Phil traced a finger across Massachusetts Bay past the tip of Cape Ann. "There's clear sailing for ninety miles or so, straight to Portland, unless—How much gas has she aboard, Harry?"
"Only about twelve gallons." It was Tom Corwin who answered. "We were going to fill again in the morning."
"How far can she go on that?"
"Not more than seventy at ordinary speed, I guess. She's hard on gas."
"Good! Then she'd have to put in at Gloucester or Newburyport or somewhere."
"Unless she ducked into Boston Harbour," said Steve. "I dare say she could tuck herself away somewhere there quite safely. A coat of white paint would change her looks completely."
"That's possible," agreed Phil, "but painting a boat of that size would take a couple of days, wouldn't it? It doesn't seem to me that they'd want to take the chance."
"Then your idea is that they're on their way to Portland?"