“What’s that—ahead?” queried Nicky, standing, carefully balanced, in the stern. He sat down and helped Mr. Neale to steady their craft while Brownie rose at the bow and spied over the grass at one side.
“I swan!” exclaimed Brownie under his breath, turning to his companions. “It’s—a boat.”
He turned and stared, under his cupped hand.
“I can make out—why! It’s the Senorita, printed on the bow.”
“The Senorita!” exclaimed Nicky softly. “That’s the tender we had taken away by Mr. Coleson and Don Ortiga’s brother—the one they called Senor Ortiga.”
“Then they must have rowed in at the Harney yesterday, and come around behind the Shark,” stated Mr. Neale. “I wonder what they intended to do?”
“Oh, I’m not worrying about what they intended,” Brownie answered, “I’m anxious about what they’re doing now—what has happened to them. We ought to know. It might upset our plans.”
“There’s nobody in the boat, or in sight,” Nicky whispered as they very slowly worked the dory closer. The empty tender lay with its nose to the rock and heavy fringe of underbrush, grass and small trees at the ’Glades’ rim.
“I know what!” Brownie said, when they were quite dose. “That boat is moored to a root on the rim-line. It’s about opposite an old Indian trail, too. A trail leads down beside the Shark. You can’t hardly make out the mouth where the water escapes from the ’Glades, the trees and brush is so thick. But it’s there, and the Indians have a sort of portage, about opposite where the tender lays.”
“We ought to do some scouting,” suggested Nicky. “Let me!”