Part 51 (1/2)

CHAPTER XXIX

WHEN THE TIDE TURNED

The wind fell as the tide drained out, and belts of mist hung motionless about the sands when the whammel boat crept slowly down to the mouth of the channel. The sail lay on deck, and d.i.c.k panted as he pulled an oar while his companion sculled astern. He felt faint, and the heavily ballasted boat was hard to move, but he thought the tide was turning now and he knew that he must hold out. Occasionally he turned and looked ahead, but saw nothing except the mist. There were no birds about, the water was smooth, and everything was very quiet.

At length, a tall mast grew out of the haze and d.i.c.k stopped rowing.

”The _Rowan_. Scull her in to the bank,” he said. ”I want to see where the dinghy is.”

They could not find her, but presently came upon a whammel boat lying near the edge of the sand.

”It's the _Nance_ that Tam Grahame selt awa',” the fisherman remarked.

”I canna' see what she's doing here with naebody on board.”

”We'll pull off to the yacht,” d.i.c.k replied.

The dinghy was not astern when they boarded the _Rowan_; and when d.i.c.k went below and lighted a lamp, his companion looked puzzled.

”It's queer! There's seeven feet o' watter, and Mr. Andrew wouldna'

swim ash.o.r.e.”

”Not when he had the dinghy.”

”But she's no' on the bank.”

”I imagine she's out at sea, by now,” d.i.c.k said grimly. ”How long do you think the _Nance_ has been here?”

”Maybe half an hour. Her keel's weel in the ground and the tide doesna' fall much on the last o' the ebb. They're no' expecting to be back until the flood makes, because her anchor's up the bank.”

”That's what I thought,” said d.i.c.k. ”Now, I will tell you that Andrew is in danger. I had meant to find him, but I don't feel well enough. I suppose you can use a gun?”

”We get a shot at a whaup or sh.e.l.lduck whiles. Ye're no' looking weel.”

d.i.c.k lifted a big 10-bore gun from a rack and searched a locker for cartridges.

”Fours,” he said, putting down a packet. ”I think you'd better have B's. Here they are.”

The fisherman looked at him curiously as he took the cartridges, which were loaded with large shot; and d.i.c.k smiled.

”You may meet the man who set the punt adrift,” he explained. ”I want you to go to the wreck and find my cousin. Tell him to be careful, because one of the gang has come down the channel after him. If there's trouble going on when you get there, do what you think best; but bring Andrew back. The police won't blame you afterward if you have to use the gun.”

The man nodded quietly, and d.i.c.k knew that he could be trusted.

”Ye'll be for staying here. Will I light the stove?”

”No,” said d.i.c.k. ”I imagine it would be safer if I waited in your boat. She'll be needed when the tide flows, and I can make myself comfortable in the den.”

The fisherman sculled the boat ash.o.r.e and put out an anchor; and then he went away across the bank and d.i.c.k crept into the forecastle. The stove was still burning, and the small, dark place was warm. It had been a strain to hold out until all that was necessary had been done, and now he was glad to lie down among the ropes and sails. There was a weight on his chest, his breathing was hard, and his pulse seemed to be getting sluggish. He wished he had some brandy or there was somebody about; but he must not give in yet. The boat would be needed when Andrew came back and it might be tampered with.

While the fisherman and d.i.c.k had been hurrying to them, Andrew and Whitney, well armed, crossed the bank toward the wreck and then separated at a short distance from her. Andrew went straight forward while his comrade made a round so as to approach her from the other side. Hitherto, their visits had led to nothing, but Rankine seemed to think it would be different this time.