The wharf edge seemed to open in little, crackling jets of flame, came the roar of reports like a miniature battery in action, then the FLOP, FLOP, FLOP, as the lead tore up the water around him, the duller thud as a bullet buried its nose in the boat's side, and the curious rip and squeak as a splinter flew.

Then Mittel's voice, high-pitched, as though in pain: "Can't any of you run a motor boat?
He's got me bad, I'm afraid.

That other one there is twice as fast." "Sure!" another voice responded promptly.

"And if that's right, he's run his head into a trap.

Cast loose, there, MacVeay, and pile in, all of you! You go back to the house, Mr.Mittel, and fix yourself up.