“When he drops the pilot, don't I—”
“How can he drop the pilot?” yelled the youth. “The pilot's got to stick by the boat. So have you.”
David clutched the young man and swung him so that they stood face to face.
“Stick by what boat?” yelled David. “Who are these men? Who are you? What boat is this?”
In the glare of the search-light David saw the eyes of the youth staring at him as though he feared he were in the clutch of a madman. Wrenching himself free, the youth pointed at the pilot-house. Above it on a blue board in letters of gold-leaf a foot high was the name of the tug. As David read it his breath left him, a finger of ice passed slowly down his spine. The name he read was The Three Friends.
“THE THREE FRIENDS!” shrieked David. “She's a filibuster! She's a pirate! Where're we going?
“To Cuba!”
David emitted a howl of anguish, rage, and protest.
“What for?” he shrieked.
The young man regarded him coldly.