It was late in the afternoon when our hero and his friend,
Taylor, stood on the shore of another one of the several
famous bays that indent Long Island's sea shore; and, what
seems still more startling, about half a mile off shore lay
the yacht "Nancy."
Our hero and his companion were at the point when the taut
little smuggler ran down from the inlet, and came to an anchor
oft the shore.
At the time the place had not become as great a resort as at
present, and the hordes of pleasure-seekers, who now, during
certain seasons of the year dwell on the coast, little dream
of the wild scenes, and wilder orgies that occurred
thereabouts a few years back.
Taylor and the detective had crossed the bay to the island and
were hidden in the brush that fringed the bluff overlooking
the shore, when the "Nancy" ran down as described and came to
an anchor.
"There's the smuggler!" exclaimed Taylor as he first caught
sight of the yacht.
"Yes, there's the 'Nancy' as sure as you are born," returned
the detective.
"Ah, you know her?"
"I reckon I do."
"There's a bad lot on that boat."
"There is a bad lot; they are a crew of murderer and bandits."
"They do great harm to our legitimate business, and good
honest men are constantly annoyed by the cutters who hail and
search them almost daily."
"We will soon put that crew out of harm's way," remarked the
detective.
"She's loaded," said Taylor.
"How loaded?"
"She's got contraband cargo beneath her decks.
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