“Ah! You are out of gas? Very unfortunate. Your line, please. We shall escort you to our ship.”
“But we don’t want to go to your ship,” MacGregor protested. “All we want is gas.”
“Ah, yes, a thousand apologies. But here there is no gasoline, only at the ship. Your line, please.”
“Say, you—” Johnny’s angry voice was stopped by a heavy pressure on his arm.
“Give him our line, son,” said MacGregor.
Grudgingly Johnny obeyed. A moment later, with the two boats in tow, the bright, little craft went rolling back toward that broad, black bulk.
“It’s no use to quarrel with ’em,” MacGregor said in a sober whisper. “We’ve fallen into their hands. I think that chap recognized me. I’ve been along the Pacific waterfronts for many years. So have these Orientals.”
“But—but what will happen?” Rusty asked.
“Who knows?” was MacGregor’s sober reply. “Let us hope for the best. They’ll not let us go now. When they’re well beyond the three-mile limit they may give us gas and let us go.
“In the meantime, Rusty,” he warned, “don’t forget you’re a boy. It’s a good thing you’ve got on knickers instead of a dress.”