“Wait till I speak to father. We mustn’t go without telling him. Get out the motorcycles, Billy.”
“Betcher!” responded his brother, unlocking the kitchen door.
Five minutes later they were astride their machines and were wheeling for the crossroad that led down to Bromley’s dock. The wind cut like a knife and it was pitch dark. Without their headlights they would not have dared venture along the black road. Now and then—it seemed to Dan—a flake of snow stung his cheek. The long-gathering storm was about due.
They shut off the noisy engines as they slid down the hill to the river’s brink. The Flying Feathers rattled a little over the ruts; but they approached the dock rather quietly, after all.
There wasn’t a light anywhere about the premises—not even in Old John’s little green painted shack where he had lived alone so many years.
“Let’s go easy, Billy,” advised Dan.
They hopped off their wheels and stood them carefully under the trees by the roadside. They quenched the light of their lamps, too; but Dan removed his lamp and carried it in his hand against emergencies.
“Don’t see a soul around,” breathed Billy. “Shall we hail the old man?”
“Not yet,” returned Dan, quite as disturbed now as was his brother.
They were almost at the door of the cabin when Billy suddenly clutched Dan’s arm. He pointed toward the outer end of the dock.