“We’ve got to get out of this cove right off, John!” Stan explained. “No time to lose and—”
“—The tide, Stan!”
“The tide is o.k., dropping towards low, but still high enough to float us out into the cove where we can lower our centerboard! Main thing is—where’s the cove entrance?”
“Here’s your chart!” said John, putting it on the table and handing the skipper a pencil. “I’ll get the sails up and ready and the lines aboard.”
“O.k.,” said Stan, even as he started studying the chart and laying a compass course that would clear the rocks at the cove’s entrance. “Let her drift away from the rock so we can get the centerboard down to stop sideways.”
The tall youth was on deck by now and raising the sails. He was grateful for the Marconi rig now, for the mainsail was up by pulling one line instead of the two required for the old rig. There was one jib to raise instead of two. The sails were up in a minute or two and he was ashore releasing the lines holding her to the big rock. Luckily the cove had been very quiet and the single old tire used as a buffer between the Staghound and the rock had kept the sloop from damage by chafing.
The boat drifted away from the rock with the tide and a vagrant puff or two of wind, while John slacked the sheets so that the sails were not curved yet to the breeze. He lit the little electric light in the binnacle and studied the compass as it swung slowly while the boat drifted.
“Steer W.S.W. a bit to the south, John,” came Stan’s voice.
“Hey, you kids!” came a raucous and cursing voice out of the dark. “Stop, do you hear, or we’ll slug you plenty!”
In the cabin of the Staghound a trembling gangster opened his mouth in terror. Stan knew that Gagnon was about to scream for help on the theory that, when captured, his friends would think he’d been carried away forcibly! But the skipper of the Staghound gagged the prisoner instantly with a length of towel!