"More likely to pick us up! No, no, he'll be down on the
bottom before the cutter gets around, and she will not run
within five miles of where he went over, if she heads her
course to overhaul us."
"It's not a cutter," said Sol Burton.
"Well, let it go so; that man Ballard is with the angels by
this time," came the response.
Meantime the detective was moving like a fish through the calm
waters toward the shore.
It was a smooth sea, and only a fifteen-mile swim, and he had
gone aboard the yacht prepared for the venture.
When Spencer Vance sprung overboard, he was oiled from his
ears to his heels, and his clothing was ready to be peeled
down to an oil-skin under-suit, lined in the inner side with
soft wool.
Like a fish he cut through the waters, and his heart was as
brave as his sweeping stroke, as he propelled himself forward
toward she shore.
"It's all right, Johnny," he muttered, as he spurted some sea
water from between his lips. "I'll keep my word. I'll
interview Ike Denman when he is not looking for me; and, as to
Sol Burton, I'll catch that man some day!"
The detective swam along merrily, and, in less than four hours
after having leaped from the yacht, he crawled upon the beach,
and lay down in the warm sand to rest, burying himself like a
mole; and there he lay for over an hour, when he rose to his
feet, and started to walk down the coast. He was not sure of
the distance he would be compelled to travel, but was assured
as to the direction he was to take.
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