“Getting late,” she told herself. “Have to go in.”
Rising on her knees, she cupped her hands to utter the old familiar call, “Whoo-oo-ee.”
A call came echoing back. She listened for the sound of Ruth’s shoving off. Instead she caught low exclamations of surprise.
“Oh, Pearl,” came in troubled tones, “the punt’s gone! Did you see anybody?”
“No.” The girl was on her feet, fumbling the sail. “But I heard them. They were headed for Portland Harbor. They must have stolen it. Quick! Get some boat and come out. There’s a stiff breeze. We’ll catch them yet.”
“Right!” Ruth went racing down the beach.
For a girl Pearl displayed an astonishing amount of skill with sail and rigging. Before Ruth in a borrowed dory bumped alongside she had the sail up and was winding away at the anchor rope. A minute more and they were gliding silently through the night.
“Nothing like a sailboat for following a thief,” Ruth whispered. “Silent.”
“Not a sound. Slip right onto them.”
“Hope we can!” The older girl’s work-hardened fingers gripped a long oar. If they overhauled the thief there’d be no tardy justice. He’d get it good and plenty right on the side of the head. It was the way of the bay. They were heartless wretches, these Portland wharf rats. On the sea boat stealing is bad as horse stealing on land. Yet if one of these men missed the last ferry he took the first rowboat he came upon, rowed across the bay, then cut her adrift. The owner was not likely to see his boat again.