The man shook his head stubbornly.

"How far is it to the mainland?" he asked.

Jim could hardly believe his ears.

"The mainland!" he exclaimed. "A good twenty-five miles."

"Well, we've got to be there before morning."

"You're crazy, man! Twenty-five miles across these waters in the night, with thirteen men in each dory! You'd never make it in the world. You can't do it."

"Well, maybe we can't," retorted the other, impatiently, "but we're going to. There's more ways to kill a cat than by choking her to death with cream."

He walked back to the smaller group, and soon they were in heated, but indistinct, argument. Jim noted that the men with handkerchiefs over their faces seemed now to have no difficulty in bearing their share of the conversation. Captain Sykes, in especial, was almost violent in his gestures.

Presently they seemed to have reached an agreement. The spokesman walked back to Jim and came directly to the point.

"What'll you take to set the crowd of us over on the mainland near Owl's Head before daylight?"

Jim was equally direct.

"No number of dollars you can name. I don't care to risk my boat and twenty-five or thirty lives knocking round the Pen.o.bscot Bay ledges on a night like this. But I'll be glad to take you all over to Matinicus to-morrow for nothing."

"That won't do. We've got to reach the mainland to-night. I'll give you fifty dollars. Come, now!"

Jim shook his head.

"Seventy-five! No? A hundred, then! What d'you say?"

"No use!" replied Jim. "I told you so at first."

The stranger eyed him a moment, then stepped aside to parley again with the others. The colloquy was even more spirited than before. Captain Sykes swung his arms like a crazy man. He pointed to the sky, then to the sea, then to the voiceless score, huddled together, sheep-like, on the beach. Back came the speaker again, a nervous decision in his manner.

"If you won't set us over yourself, what'll you sell that sloop for?

Give you two hundred dollars!"

Reading refusal in the lad's face, he raised the bid before Jim had time to open his lips.

"Three hundred! We've some pa.s.sengers who must get to a certain place at a particular time, and they can't do it unless we can land 'em before daylight to-morrow. Say four hundred!"

"That sloop isn't for sale."

"Wouldn't you take five hundred for her?"

"No; nor a thousand!"

Jim's jaws came together. Back in his brain was forming a suspicion of these fishermen who raised their bid so glibly. Why were they so eager to reach the mainland that night, and why did the twenty have no voice in the discussion? He scrutinized them searchingly.

"What are you staring at?" demanded the man, angrily.

Jim did not reply. Percy pa.s.sed by on his way to the cabin. He had been using his eyes to good advantage. He nudged Jim.

"Those fellows are Chinamen," he whispered. "I've seen too many of 'em to be mistaken."

His words crystallized Jim's suspicions into certainty. The whole thing was plain now. The crew of the _Clementine Briggs_ (if, indeed, that was her name) were no fishermen, but smugglers of Chinese!

He remembered a recent magazine article on the breaking of the immigration laws. Chinamen would cross the Pacific to Vancouver, paying the Dominion head-tax, and thus gaining admission into Canada. A society, organized for the purpose, would take them in charge, teach them a few ordinary English phrases, transport them to New Brunswick, and slip them aboard some fast schooner. The captain of this vessel would receive three hundred dollars a head for landing his pa.s.sengers safely here and there at lonely points on the New England coast, whence they could make their way undetected to their friends in the large cities. Thus were the exclusion laws of the United States set at naught.

The destruction of the schooner had made it necessary for her pa.s.sengers to be landed somewhere as secretly and as quickly as possible. Twenty men at three hundred dollars a head meant six thousand dollars. That explained the anxiety of the six white men to reach the mainland that night. They were criminals, breaking their country's laws for money.

Jim decided that they should never make use of the _Barracouta_.

The spokesman dropped his conciliatory mask and turned away defiantly.

"All right, young fellow! You've had your say; now we'll have ours."

"Throppy," said Jim in a low tone to Stevens, who was standing with Lane beside him, "these men are smugglers. Call the cutter!"

He had time for nothing more. As Stevens slipped quietly back into the cabin there was an angry outburst among the group on the beach.

"I've done my best, Cap," protested a voice. "He won't listen to reason.

Now take that rag off your face and handle this thing yourself. It's up to you."

There was a sudden rush of enraged men toward Lane and Spurling. As they came, two wrenched the handkerchiefs from their faces, revealing to the astounded boys the features of the would-be sheep-thieves of the first of the summer, Dolph and Captain Bart Brittler!

The latter was white with rage. His voice rose almost to a screech.

"No more fooling! We need that sloop and we're going to have her! Will you sell her?"

"No."

"Then we'll take her!"

Brittler's hand shot into his pocket as if for a revolver.

"Stop there, Cap!" warned Dolph's voice. "No gun-play! 'Tisn't necessary. We can handle 'em."

He flung himself suddenly on Spurling; another man leaped upon Lane.

Though taken completely by surprise and almost hurled backward, Jim quickly recovered his balance. A sledge-hammer blow from Dolph's fist grazed his jaw as he sprang aside. He returned it with interest, his right going true to its mark; down went Dolph, as if hit by a pile-driver. He lay for a moment, stunned.

Strong and active though Jim was, he could not bear the brunt of the entire battle. Lane's a.s.sailant had proved too much for him; they were struggling together on the gravel, the older man on top. Percy and Filippo came running; but their aid counted for little. A stocky smuggler turned toward them. A single blow from his fist sent the Italian reeling. Percy lasted longer; but his skill was no match for the brute strength of his foe. His lighter blows only stung his antagonist to fiercer efforts. Little by little the boy's strength failed and his breath came harder. He slipped on a smooth stone; with a sudden rush his foe pinioned his arms and held him struggling.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "WE NEED THAT SLOOP AND WE'RE GOING TO HAVE HER!"]

Dolph recovered, staggered to his feet, and entered the fray again. It was four to one against Jim; he fought manfully, but it was no use.

Presently he lay flat on his back on the gravel, bruised and panting, one man kneeling on each arm, and a third on his chest.

"Take him up to the camp, boys!" puffed Brittler.