Mentally, Tom summed up the situation quickly; if he tried to swim out to the cutter he would interfere with the lieutenant’s plans, and perhaps be in the line of fire if the white vessel continued to approach. He would surely be in line of fire from her stern if he tried to swim to the cutter.
Yet, naked and white against the dark foliage, he would be just as much of a target, and quite as noticeable, on his root.
Hastily, but warily, remembering saw-tooth grass and snakes as very real menaces to unshod feet and an unprotected body, Tom melted into a thicket of heavy creeper and leaves, and with his eyes peering through his green lattice, he saw the white boat crawl out into view.
Then he saw something more. Nicky, still gagged and bound, was up on the after deck, held there by the arm of a man who cleverly kept as much of his person below the coaming of the after cockpit as he could.
Tom compressed his lips to hold back his first impulse to call out.
How had Nicky gotten into that predicament? What was he doing in the hands of the enemy? He was prompted to shout to Nicky; then sober second thought told him that this might endanger Nicky, and it would certainly draw attention to himself, not very desirable to a white-skinned boy, minus his clothes, and menaced by a pack of men evil enough to treat his chum so rudely.
Evidently it was the intention of the hi-jackers to have Nicky discovered and recognized by the crew of the cutter. Such was, in fact, their aim. Mr. Coleson, compelled to expose a portion of his arms in order to keep Nicky in view, did not like his place nor the rough treatment the boy had received. While he had, it is true, helped to tie the boys on a previous occasion, and had then deserted them in their tender, and, later, with Senor Ortiga, had stolen the tender in order to chase the hi-jackers, he had not in any of this actually intended any violence toward his youthful captives or—as they later became—rescuers!
It irked him, and went against his sense of decency, weak though that was, to have Don Ortiga cold-bloodedly crouch beside the engine with a pistol in his hand, holding it trained on Nicky, and, as Mr. Coleson made no doubt, ready to fire with deadly aim.