a soft air song over the wings, to a point beyond the island, whereas the boat was heading toward the center of it, the dock being there on the sea side.
The plane ripped softly over the tips of the waves, then settled. The shore of the island was quite close. The wind was steady from the southwest—a factor The Avenger had counted on.
“Stay with the plane, Josh,” Benson said. “Let it drift north and to sea until the island is at least five miles away. Then take off and stay around the mainland, nearby, till you get a radio message from us.”
Josh Newton’s dark face registered disappointment at leaving the place where a great deal of excitement was probably going to occur. But The Avenger’s orders were obeyed to the letter by his indomitable little band.
Smitty and Benson and Mac stepped on a wing, put most of their clothes in waterproof bags, and slid into the water. They started swimming toward the dark shore while the plane, already only an indistinguishable dark patch in the night, began drifting slowly north and east till it should get out of earshot.
The three waded silently ashore and put on their clothes. Dick began walking down toward the dock. Smitty’s vast hand suddenly clutched his arm.
There had been a faint sound behind them.
They turned, and the sound continued and became louder. It was a scratching noise, and then it was followed by a snarling to make a man’s hair stand up on the back of his neck.
“Dogs,” whispered Mac.
The owners of the snarls came into view.
“Not dogs,” Mac corrected himself in a low tone as he got a good look at the two mastiffs racing over a clear bit of beach at them. “Mon, they’re prehistorrric monsters!”
The Avenger whipped Mike out of the slim leg holster. But he didn’t think he’d have to use the little special gun, for Mac’s bony right hand was fishing in a large coat pocket.
The two dogs were near enough to leap. Mac made two quick, deft casts. With each flick of his hand something small and shining shot out, to burst on the ground just ahead of the two dogs.
The things were lead-foil capsules containing the deadliest gas Mac had ever contrived. Considering he had invented over fifty quick-dispersing gases of varying deadliness, this was saying a great deal.
One of the dogs stopped as suddenly as if he had run into a stone wall. His barrel-like head went up, neck straining back in silent agony as his wet muzzle picked up the gas and death filtered swiftly into the brain. Then the dog dropped.
The other came on. The gas capsule hadn’t burst in quite the right spot to get it.
Smitty came a step ahead of the other two. He waited, great arms spread, and the dog leaped.
Hands like steam dredges closed on the dog’s throat. Arms like walking beams held the writhing canine body out straight.
The mastiff’s clawing paws ripped up and down in an effort to disembowel this grim enemy, but they couldn’t quite reach. The muzzle quivered and strained, but no sound came out.
Smitty held the violent hundred-and-forty-pound bundle of four-legged death at arm’s length for over a minute, long past the point where the struggling had ceased. Then he dropped it.
“Poor devils,” said Mac, gazing at the two dogs.
But it had had to be done.
The four went on down the shoreline toward the dock.
The dock jutted from the shore at a point where there was only a five-yard strip between the water, at high tide, and a cliff that went up fifty feet or more like the side of a house. There was no chance to get near the dock without being seen, so The Avenger began climbing the cliff two hundred yards above the dock.
The boat was just drifting in when they reached the top, next to a zigzag flight of steps leading from the water to the top of the cliff. They could barely hear the boat bump and see men leap out and secure her.
The things that happened in the next few minutes had the unexpected and dreadful qualities of a nightmare.
The men got off the
The plane ripped softly over the tips of the waves, then settled. The shore of the island was quite close. The wind was steady from the southwest—a factor The Avenger had counted on.
“Stay with the plane, Josh,” Benson said. “Let it drift north and to sea until the island is at least five miles away. Then take off and stay around the mainland, nearby, till you get a radio message from us.”
Josh Newton’s dark face registered disappointment at leaving the place where a great deal of excitement was probably going to occur. But The Avenger’s orders were obeyed to the letter by his indomitable little band.
Smitty and Benson and Mac stepped on a wing, put most of their clothes in waterproof bags, and slid into the water. They started swimming toward the dark shore while the plane, already only an indistinguishable dark patch in the night, began drifting slowly north and east till it should get out of earshot.
The three waded silently ashore and put on their clothes. Dick began walking down toward the dock. Smitty’s vast hand suddenly clutched his arm.
There had been a faint sound behind them.
They turned, and the sound continued and became louder. It was a scratching noise, and then it was followed by a snarling to make a man’s hair stand up on the back of his neck.
“Dogs,” whispered Mac.
The owners of the snarls came into view.
“Not dogs,” Mac corrected himself in a low tone as he got a good look at the two mastiffs racing over a clear bit of beach at them. “Mon, they’re prehistorrric monsters!”
The Avenger whipped Mike out of the slim leg holster. But he didn’t think he’d have to use the little special gun, for Mac’s bony right hand was fishing in a large coat pocket.
The two dogs were near enough to leap. Mac made two quick, deft casts. With each flick of his hand something small and shining shot out, to burst on the ground just ahead of the two dogs.
The things were lead-foil capsules containing the deadliest gas Mac had ever contrived. Considering he had invented over fifty quick-dispersing gases of varying deadliness, this was saying a great deal.
One of the dogs stopped as suddenly as if he had run into a stone wall. His barrel-like head went up, neck straining back in silent agony as his wet muzzle picked up the gas and death filtered swiftly into the brain. Then the dog dropped.
The other came on. The gas capsule hadn’t burst in quite the right spot to get it.
Smitty came a step ahead of the other two. He waited, great arms spread, and the dog leaped.
Hands like steam dredges closed on the dog’s throat. Arms like walking beams held the writhing canine body out straight.
The mastiff’s clawing paws ripped up and down in an effort to disembowel this grim enemy, but they couldn’t quite reach. The muzzle quivered and strained, but no sound came out.
Smitty held the violent hundred-and-forty-pound bundle of four-legged death at arm’s length for over a minute, long past the point where the struggling had ceased. Then he dropped it.
“Poor devils,” said Mac, gazing at the two dogs.
But it had had to be done.
The four went on down the shoreline toward the dock.
The dock jutted from the shore at a point where there was only a five-yard strip between the water, at high tide, and a cliff that went up fifty feet or more like the side of a house. There was no chance to get near the dock without being seen, so The Avenger began climbing the cliff two hundred yards above the dock.
The boat was just drifting in when they reached the top, next to a zigzag flight of steps leading from the water to the top of the cliff. They could barely hear the boat bump and see men leap out and secure her.
The things that happened in the next few minutes had the unexpected and dreadful qualities of a nightmare.
The men got off the
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