“Surely, surely. Splendid here, isn’t it, boys!” a cultured voice answered. “Delightful coast, this.”
“We got work ahead of us next week, I hear, Boss.”
“Yes. Cowboy Nevada wants thirty per cent or nothing doing. Robbery, I call it. Guess we can take care of things without Cowboy. You boys better oil up your guns. And keep sober. I don’t want any drunken babbling.”
“Yes, sir! You bet!”
“We’re with you, Hegarty!”
There was more to it, and Stan gathered that something of prime importance was to take place Thursday at midnight, evidently a raid being planned on Porpoise Island and the entrenched Mr. Nevens!
“Cowboy’s got a new gunman,” said Hegarty’s voice. “The name is Gallagher. Take particular pains to remove Mr. Gallagher, won’t you?”
“Gallagher!” thought Stan. Was it possible that his father had already worked into that gang as a gunman, just as he had done once before with another gang during the Hogan case? He was not sure, but he had a hunch that that was right, and if so he must warn Mr. Sandborn at once!
Cold from his enforced loafing in the water, Stan swam softly away now from the brightly lighted Sea Hawk and, by a roundabout way, swam back to the Staghound. He knew that John was still off the bows of the big yacht, and he had to let his chum know that it was time to return. He lit the cabin lights and left the porthole curtains drawn back. Then he got into warm, dry clothes, slipped a sweater on, and went on deck. In a short time he saw the dark blob of John’s head and the glint of broken water as the rangy lad came back to the Staghound.
“Schools of flying porpoises, and pods of gooseberries!” cried John, shivering like a shaken tube of jelly. “Why didn’t you go to bed and forget me?”