The party went on to the room and, the moment they had gone there, the boys rushed Gagnon for the entrance! It was now or never. The outcry of voices in the room back there drowned out the hurrying footsteps of the lads and their prisoner. Gagnon was no trouble. He was as anxious to get away now as were the boys to have him and he voluntarily took them away from the entrance and on the trail towards the cove where the boat was moored as he had been told they would go over the hilltop trail to the western end of the island. They doused the flashlight, of course, and apprehensively followed the hurrying prisoner through the black fog. It was an eerie journey and towards the end Stan took the lead as he knew just where the boat was. The trail seemed somewhat unfamiliar as he neared the end but he laid that feeling to the darkness and hurried on.
They came out upon the beach and he went to the right, leading Gagnon by the arm so that he would not lose contact with him.
“Don’t worry, boy,” said Gagnon; “I ain’t gonna skip. I’d rather live in a fed jail than get burnt with slugs!”
An astonished outcry from Stan was the first warning that all was not well.
“The sloop—gone!” cried Stan.
John groaned.
“By all the bluefish ankles in this—where?” John begged.
The sloop was gone and that was that!
They had to put the flashlight on and then Stan gave a hopeful exclamation.
“Say, this isn’t the rock where the Staghound was moored! Maybe——”