n palm, Jim
was buried in thought. In a short time, he knew, Brittler and his gang
would sail away in the _Barracouta_. They would land their human cargo
and probably scuttle the sloop. Somehow they must be thwarted; but how?

The boys had no weapons to match those of their armed guard. Without
ammunition, the shot-gun was but a bar of iron. How could they cope with
the bullets in the automatics? Undoubtedly every smuggler carried a
revolver, and would use it in a pinch; possibly some might not wait
until the pinch came. It was a knotty problem. The drops oozed out on
Jim's forehead as he wrestled for its solution.

A low whistle fell on his ear. He glanced toward Percy's bunk and saw
the latter's hand raised in warning; he was taking off his shoes,
quickly and noiselessly. Why? Jim and the others watched.

Soon Percy stood in his stocking feet. He pulled out his knife and
opened the large blade. Stooping low, he stole toward the farther end of
the cabin. The window there was open and covered with mosquito netting.

Steps grated on the pebbles outside. One of the guards was making a
circuit of the camp. Percy flattened himself on the floor directly
beneath the window. The others, hardly daring to breathe, looked away.
The man paused for a moment; Jim knew that he was peering in. Apparently
satisfied that all was well, he resumed his patrol.

Without delay Percy rose. He drew his knife along the netting near the
sill, then cut it from top to bottom on each side, close to the frame.
So skilfully did the keen blade do its work that the screen hung
apparently undisturbed.

The guards began talking again. Placing one of the boxes silently under
the window, and stepping upon it, Percy slipped through the opening. His
light build enabled him to drop to the ground without making any noise.
The netting fell back and hung as before.

Outside, it was thick fog; a slight drizzle was beginning. It was
impossible to see further than a few feet. But the last two months had
familiarized Percy with every square yard of the beach, and he could
have found his way along it blindfold. Cat-footed, he stole down toward
the water.

Steps approached, voices; he halted, ready for a hasty retreat. But the
feet receded toward the cabin, and he had no difficulty in recognizing
the tones of Dolph and Brittler. The latter was in a bad humor.

"Now," he growled, "we've got a long way to go, and none too much time.
Every minute we waste here