Turning parallel with the river, Brick went on until the lights of the town were some distance behind. By the dim glow of the starlit sky he could see that the beach sloped upward to a pretty steep bluff, and that tall stacks of lumber lay in all directions. The sullen slapping of the waves drowned his crunching footsteps.
“It’s all as Tom described it,” he said, half-aloud, as he paused to look about him. “The dug-out ought to be near by, but I can’t see a glimmer of light. Hullo! what’s that?”
A sharp sound had fallen on his ear, and he wheeled around in time to see a dusky figure within ten feet of him.
“Hold on there,” cried a stern voice. “Stop!”
Brick, having started forward, only ran the faster, and in the darkness he collided with a tall stack of lumber. He grabbed the projecting slabs and climbed to the top.
He was now eight or ten feet from the ground, and looking down he saw his pursuer standing directly beneath.
“No use, my lad,” whispered the man. “I’ve got you safe. Pass down that pocketbook.”
With a thrill of surprise, Brick recognized the voice.
“This is nice missionary work, Mr. Pendergast,” he replied. “I’m willing to donate five dollars to the heathen if you’ll be satisfied with that.”
“No chaffing, young feller,” growled the ruffian. “I’m not in the missionary line now. If I don’t get your pocketbook and watch and chain in about ten seconds, I’ll fix you.”