“Why, to our floating palace. Maybe—who knows—maybe it’ll turn out to be a treasure hunt, after all. In that case the boys’ll welcome it for a change from hi-jacking!”
“Hi—hi—” Cliff gasped.
“Hi—jacking, he said,” Tom explained.
“I know it,” Cliff shivered, “and that makes it worse.”
“Worse than being in the hands of rum-runners?”
“Worse! I’d say so! Hi-jackers are pirates if ever anybody was. The rum-runners bring contraband, and illegal liquor, into the States against the law. But the hi-jackers are men who hold up their boats and trucks and steal from them.”
“I hadn’t heard about them,” said Nicky.
“Well,” said Cliff under his breath as their boat scudded over the waters of the Sound toward a small island near the upper end, “well, it would be bad enough to be caught by people who break the law; but the ones who prey on them are about the roughest and toughest people in the world. They are modern pirates and no mistake!”
“Well,” said Nicky, shrugging his shoulders, “we’ll get through somehow, and anyway—we eat!”
Behind the island they found a trim, beautifully built, low, rakish craft. She was a power boat, about sixty feet long—a little more, perhaps. She lay low in the water and was of such a dull color that she could scarcely be seen in the dark.