CHAPTER SEVEN
THE DEAD MAN SPEAKS
Somewhere beyond the mist-enshrouded marshes the whistle of a grain ship boomed, to be answered a moment later by the metallic scream of a siren. Vague and mysterious filaments of sound drifted in with the eddying night wind.
“Damn such a country!” the “Kid” snarled, as he turned from the door and tramped back into the house. “How long you going to keep us rusticating out here, Chief? I’m fed up on nature!”
Monte Jerome scowled at his assistant.
“We’re going to stay here till we get what we came for!” he replied. “If Martin doesn’t show up by morning, we got to decide what he’s up to!”
An uncanny silence gripped the four Wolves. Nearly twenty-four hours had passed since Louie Martin went on duty, and nothing had been heard from him. An uncomfortable idea was developing in the minds of the various members of the “mob.”
Suddenly the “Kid” voiced this general suspicion. With a snarl, he pointed accusingly at Monte.
“Fact is, Louie ain’t coming back, Chief, and you know it! He’s grabbed something—maybe the sparklers—and he’s beat it. Don’t blame him a damn bit, neither. We’re going to set around here with our mouths open till the dicks get after us. But Louie ain’t coming back, and you just put that down in your note-book!”
Monte turned toward the speaker.
“Is that your opinion, you lump-head? Well, keep it till I ask you for it. The trouble with you is you’ve been thinking of cutting loose, yourself. Louie will show up all right. Don’t you worry about him.”