CHAPTER XVII
“Crocker, old man, Crocker, what the devil does that mean?”
I turned with a start to perceive a bare head thrust above the cabin roof, the scant hair flying, and two large, brown eyes staring into mine full of alarm and reproach. A plump finger was pointing to where the sandy reef lay far astern of us.
The Mackinaws were flecked far and wide over the lake, and a dirty smudge on the blue showed where the Far Harbor and Beaverton boat had gone over the horizon. But there, over the point and dangerously close to the land, hung another smudge, gradually pushing its way like a writhing, black serpent, lakewards. Thus I was rudely jerked back to face the problem with which we had left the island that morning.
I snatched the neglected glasses from the deck and hurried aft to join my client on the overhang, but a pipe was all they revealed above the bleak hillocks of sand. My client turned to me with a face that was white under the tan.
“Crocker,” he cried, in a tragic voice, “it's a blessed police boat, or I never picked a winner.”
“Nonsense,” I said; “other boats smoke beside police boats. The lake is full of tugs.”
I was a little nettled at having been scared for a molehill.
“But I know it, sure as hell,” he insisted.