You had a few old wrenches there, and some rags. Well, I
owe you a wrench. It was the biggest one, which means it isn't used very
often on an outboard, anyway."

"Just so long as it wasn't my size seven-sixteenths wrench," Steve said
with a grin. "Go on."

"It wasn't. I wrapped rags around it and tied them with a hunk of line,
then searched for matches. I finally found a paper folder in the glove
compartment. I had to open the gas tank and let out pressure to get any
gas on the rags, and it wasn't easy, standing on my head in the cockpit.
What I really needed was a Coke bottle. I could have made a Molotov
cocktail by filling it with gas and using the rag for a fuse. Well, I
made another run inshore and watched for the boys with rifles. They
didn't show up. I got as close as I could without grounding, touched a
match to my bomb, and heaved it into the marsh grass. My eyebrows took a
beating." Scotty rubbed the slightly scorched areas.

"I wanted to set the marsh on fire, but the blaze was only a small one.
I figured if the grass would burn, the riflemen would have to run
upstream to safety. But the stuff only charred in a circle. Anyway, it
scared them. They came running to stamp it out, and one of them took a
shot at me. But I was nearly a mile out from the creek by then, and he
didn't even come close."

"Let's hope I never have you two for enemies," Steve said fervently.

Scotty concluded, "I decided Rick probably had been in and out of the
cove by that time, so I moved to where I could watch with binoculars,
putting the sunrise behind where I thought he would appear. I knew I
could see him better against the light. Finally up he popped, and away I
went, and here we are."

Rick ended their recital. "We got back and took off our diving suits,
then went for a swim with a bar of soap. When we were clean, except for
my hands, which got stained by the mud, we dressed and came into the
house. We were sitting down enjoying coffee and trying to keep awake
when the phone rang. How did those hoods get the number, anyway?"

"That's not hard," Steve said. "It's probable that Camillion's boys
started checking up on you the moment you showed interest. My car is
known at the local gas stations. It would be just a matter of asking who
owns a convertible of that description. Name and telephone directory add
up to the right number. Watching you enter Martins Creek would cap the
information. You could be seen easily with glasses