Part 11 (2/2)

”I know just what a sardine feels like, anyway, after the packer gets through with it,” reflected the boy, dryly. He stretched a little, to avoid as much as possible the cramping of his body.

Then he had a wait of many minutes, though at last the hail of Alvarez was heard from the sh.o.r.e. It took a second call to rouse the sleeping Pedro.

”Now, quick out of this,” ordered the Spaniard. ”Get up the anchor. Then take your place by the engine.”

Alvarez himself went forward to the wheel at the bow. The launch was soon under way, moving at what appeared to be its usual speed, about six miles an hour.

”Neither one has seen me in here,” thought Tom, tensely. ”Oh, what huge luck if they go through the trip without seeing me!”

Though Halstead could not even guess it, from where he lay, the launch took a north-easterly course along the coast, and was presently about two miles from sh.o.r.e.

”Pedro,” chuckled the Spaniard, at last, looking back at the negro who squatted by the engine, ”if my own father saw me now would he know me for Emilio Alvarez? Would he?”

”He'd be a wondahful smart man if he did, fo' shuah,” grinned the negro.

”In this disguise I would hardly be afraid to walk about in Nantucket,”

continued Senor Alvarez. ”I doubt if any of my enemies would recognize me. They--”

Alvarez's lips shut suddenly with a snap. While he was speaking he had been looking astern. Tom Halstead now squirmed as he saw the Spaniard's startled gaze fixed directly on him.

”Pedro!” shouted the swarthy one. ”Look sharp, man. There's some one in that cubby astern!”

Alvarez had started himself to leave the wheel. Then, realizing that the boat would run wild without some one at the helm, he pointed dramatically.

Though Halstead had trusted to the darkness and the shadow in that cubby, the discovery that he dreaded had happened. Not willing to be caught in there, like a fox in a trap, he made a lively scramble to get out. He was on his feet in the c.o.c.kpit by the time that Pedro, staring as though at a ghost, leaped up and faced him.

”Grab the boy!” shouted Alvarez in glee. ”Nab him and hold him fast.

Pedro, you shall have a present for this!”

As Halstead scrambled out he had looked for some object with which to defend himself. There was nothing at hand. He was obliged to face his bigger a.s.sailant with nothing but his fists.

”Keep off!” warned Halstead, throwing up his guard.

As the negro leaped for him Tom shot out his left fist, landing on the side of the black man's head. The blow had no effect, save that it angered Pedro, who struck out with his own right. It was a powerful blow. Halstead dodged so that he received it only glancingly, but the act of dodging threw him off his balance. He toppled, then plunged swiftly overboard, sinking from sight.

”Stop the engine! I want him alive!” screamed Alvarez, leaping away from the wheel.

Pedro responded swiftly, stopping the speed, then reversing the engine briefly. The launch was brought to, almost stationary, close to the place where Tom Halstead had fallen overboard.

”Get the boat hook,” commanded Alvarez. ”Jump in after him if necessary.

I want that meddling boy. I've a score to settle with him.”

But, though both remained at the rail for some time, peering down into the water, Tom Halstead did not reappear.

”Fo' goodness' sake,” chattered the black man soberly, ”dat boy done sink, fo' shuah. He ain't gwine come back, boss.”

”The propeller must have struck him on the head,” declared Alvarez thoughtfully. Then, with a white face and an attempt at a light laugh, he added:

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