As he neared the island he noticed that his motor was behaving in a peculiar manner. Every now and then it would miss an explosion. Then it would cough and wheeze a bit, after which it would go on again.
“What’s the matter, old girl?” asked Tom, for to him machinery was almost something alive and he talked to it as he would to a human being. “Are you getting tired?” he asked.
He looked over the working parts. They seemed to be all right. But again came a miss—then several of them. And finally, with a last cough and wheeze, the motor stopped altogether.
“No more gas!” exclaimed Tom. Well he knew that last wheeze when there is nothing more for the carburetor to feed on. He had used up the last drop of gasoline.
“Guess I’m done for,” mused Tom. “They must have known there wasn’t enough gas in the tank to carry me far. That’s why they kept on.” He looked back. The pursuers were perhaps five hundred feet astern, and Tom’s boat was so close to the island that he knew, with the headway still on, he could reach the shore.
He turned the prow toward the little cove and as soon as he was near enough he leaped over the bow, landing on the rocky shore, and ran up into the fastness of the island, which was covered with scrubby trees and bushes.
He looked about for a good place where he might conceal himself. He was sensible enough to know that to try to fight four men was taking on odds that were too heavy. He saw a little recess in the rocks, and squeezed into it.
A moment later he heard the voices of the men as they steered their boat up against the one he had deserted. Then he heard them jumping out on the gravelly beach.
“We’ve got him now!” one remarked.
“He can’t get away,” added another.