And Henry had discovered them. More, he recovered them!
“So that’s where they went!” he cried furiously red, holding the fat bottles aloft and shaking them toward the other boat. “Which one of that boatful did that—threw my stuff away?”
No one answered.
Suddenly he turned on Tom, about twenty feet away, in the larger canoe. “I’ll bet you—” he snarled, “you was the one. ’Cause why? ’Cause you was hollerin’ about it!”
Tom’s face turned red. Henry saw it and, in his sudden rage, he drew back his arm and flung one of the flasks—or almost did!
With Henry’s arm at the point of coming forward, Bill, a marksman of no mean ability, caught up the rifle with which he had armed himself, and almost at the instant that it appeared above the gunwale, there came the spit of its bullet and the shivering of glass as the bottle broke in Henry’s hand. So close was the shot, so perfect the aim, that only the neck of the bottle remained.
Henry dropped it, staring in rage and disappointment at the roiling spot where his good “tonic” was blending swiftly with the Caribbean water.
“Drop that other one!” snapped Bill.
Henry did so—but into the canoe; and, so furious and beyond reason was he that his hand groped for and brought out his own rifle.
“You drop that rifle,” snapped Bill. “You crazy coot! Don’t you know I mean business!”