"Power tender," said Barcus. "Coming to call, I presume. Sociable lot. What I can't make out is why do they tow our dory back. Uneasy conscience, maybe—what?"
Alan grunted his disgust, but said nothing.
"Don't take it so hard, old top," Barcus advised. Then he rose and dived down the companion-way, presently to appear with a megaphone and a shotgun.
"No cutting-out parties in this outfit," he explained, grinning amiably. "None of that old stuff, revised to suit your infatuated female friend. Once aboard the lugger and the man is mine!"
Stationing himself at the rail, he bellowed through the megaphone.
"Keep off! Come within gunshot and I'll blow your fool heads off!" Putting aside the megaphone, he sat down again. "Not that I'd dare fire this blunderbuss," he confided, "with this reek of gasoline. Phew-w! I've inhaled so much gas in the last few hours, I'm dry clean down to my silly old toes!"
For thirty minutes nothing happened. The fishrman's launch was resting motionless on the water, two figures mysteriously busy in its cockpit, the Seaventure's dory trailing behind it.
Gradually these details were blotted out by the closing shadows. Far up the coast two white eyes, peering over the horizon, stared steadfastly through the dark: "Chatham Lights," Barcus said they were.
