“I wish we had that man with us,” observed Kennedy musingly, as he gazed down at Nick. “He’s a great fighter! Wouldn’t he have been in his element as skipper of a windjammer in the old days, when the captain was expected to straighten out every row that came up in the fo’c’s’le. However, there is no time to lose. Let’s see how these boys of ours are.” Three out of the seven were in bad shape. Two had been shot through the arm by Nick--for he had been careful not to plant his bullets where they would be fatal--and the third had been knocked out by the detective’s fist on the point of the chin. A strong dose of whisky from Kennedy’s flask administered to each, together with some vigorous rubbing of the forehead of the man who had been laid low by the knock-out punch, brought them all around, and the first mate turned to Mike Corrigan. Hastily bandaging his wounded leg, Kennedy told him to stay where he was for a while, and then to crawl out into the open, where some of the people going to the golf links would be sure to see him. The three men who had been hurt managed to stagger into the boat. But it was evident that they would not be any particular use. The two who had remained uninjured, besides one who had been left in charge of the boat and prisoners, and had not taken part in the fight, would have to row and steer, leaving Kennedy to take general charge. “Now, boys,” directed Kennedy, when everything else had been arranged, “pick up this man who has given us all the trouble. We’ll take him along.” Mademoiselle Valeria--to call her by her real name--smiled approvingly as two of the sailors stooped and picked up the seemingly helpless detective and lifted him into the boat. “Shall we bend a rope around him?” asked Groton. “Not necessary!” said Kennedy. “He can’t do any harm now. Let’s hurry back to the _Idaline_.” The detective made no sign. He suffered his eyes to close a little more, and when he was lifted and placed in the bottom of the boat, he allowed himself to drop limply just as he was put. Valeria saw the boat shoved off from the bank toward the middle of the bay, and then swing around in the direction of the yacht. “I wonder what Colonel Pearson will say to me when I go aboard the _Idaline_ to-morrow,” she murmured, as she made her way back to the hotel. She was still thinking this when she went to bed, and this time dropped into a sleep that lasted till morning. Meanwhile, the two unwounded sailors took the oars and rowed hard toward the yacht, while the two other men, who were not shot--including the one who had been knocked out by Nick Carter, but who had now practically recovered--were ready to relieve their shipmates when they should grow tired. Kennedy sat in the stern, steering, and apparently in a reverie. He was thinking what a good stroke of work he had accomplished that night.