“Let them come,” came in a low, even tone. “We’ll take care of that.” He patted the tommy-gun on his knee. “We—”
“Sh—” Patsy placed a finger on his lips. Her young ears were sharper than his. Had she caught the low murmur of voices? She could not be quite sure.
“People talking,” she whispered, after a moment of intent listening.
Another moment of breathless silence and then: “Sounds like water splashing.”
“Paddles.” The old man gripped his gun tight.
Old for her years, Patsy knew this meant a boat of one sort or another. Without saying a word, she glided down the slope of Bald Head until her face was a scant two yards from the water that gently lapped the shore. Then, dropping flat on her stomach, she looked straight out across the dark surface of the sea. If a boat was out there it would show against the dull gray of the night sky.
A full five minutes passed without a sound. Then she whispered back:
“Not a boat, but three men sitting on the sea.”
“A rubber boat!” Without a sound the grandfather slid down the dock to her side. Then, bidding her lie quite still, he put his gun across her slender body. She did not flinch.
He could see the men. There were three or four of them. They came slowly shoreward, pausing now and then to rest.