“Who is he?” he mused. “Where did I see him before? Where—”
“Say, Ray,” he said aloud, “who is that big man with a beard over there? See he’s looking this way now—why—why— What’s the matter, Ray?”
Ray had looked, at Jack’s request, and the moment he set eyes upon the big man his face paled and he became thoroughly frightened.
“Jack, that’s Uncle Vance,” he said in a husky whisper. “I wonder if he saw us. I was almost certain that was his yawl that nearly ran us down last night. That’s what I was worrying about this morning. Come on, let’s— Oh, Jack, he’s recognized me! Here he comes! Run! Run! Please run!”
Jack gave one glance across the street again and saw the bearded giant headed for them at top speed and the look on his face was enough to make the boys run, whether they wanted to or not. Like a flash Jack turned, but Ray had already bolted and was twenty feet away and running like the wind. Up the center of the crowded street went the chase, Ray in the lead and Jack right at his heels, with the big man in full cry not thirty feet behind.
Ray dodged into the first cross street he came to and this being comparatively free of pedestrians he let out a burst of speed that astonished the young Vermonter, who was no slow runner himself. The lad from Drueryville had hard work to keep up with his chum, and as he raced along at Ray’s heels he could not help but picture how Ray would look in moleskins with a football tucked under one arm, going across a gridiron at such a pace.
But he had no time to conjure up such pictures, for presently Ray dodged around another corner into a street that ran parallel to the main street and led toward the wharves. Jack risked a glance backward at this point and saw that while they had not shaken the uncle off their tracks they were outdistancing him fast.
“Hit it up faster and dodge once more, Ray, and we’ll shake him,” he panted to the young swordfisherman. And hit it up Ray did until Jack’s legs fairly ached with the pace. Down to the docks ran the boys, upsetting a clam digger with a basket on his head, and leaving chaos and a crowd of angry looking natives in their wake.
But in a moment the lads reached the long dock at the end of which the Betsy Anne was moored. At a distance they could see Old Mitchell standing on the very end of the wharf, looking in their direction. And when he saw the boys racing down the pier at full speed his eyes grew round with wonder.
Ray could not stop to explain, however: