“Sheriff,” and Fulsom put up one hand to display his star. “All right, Hardrock.” As the two craft came into each other, Hardrock jumped aboard the larger boat and made fast a line. The sight of the officer’s badge had disconcerted the trio, and they offered only sullen curses as he swiftly went through them. From two of them he removed heavy automatics, which he tossed into his own craft. The third man was unarmed. Crawling through the forward opening of the deck-house, Hardrock paused in surprise. There was no lifter in sight, no nets were aboard, nor fish. Under him was a pile of a dozen whisky-cases, the white wood all brown and soggy with water, which had evidently been picked up at some other point in the course of the afternoon. A quick search sufficed to show that no rifles or other weapons were in evidence, and he returned to the foredeck. “Nothing aboard but whisky, Sheriff, and plenty of that,” he called. “They loaded another cache aboard before coming here.” “Right thoughtful of ’em,” said Fulsom grimly, and moved back into the stern, after tossing the captured weapons ahead of him. “You three birds hop down into the bow, here. Come along, now, and no talk.” “Can’t we fix this up, Sheriff?” demanded the leader. “We got some money--” “Now I’ll soak you for attempted bribery,” snapped Fulsom. “Git down!” * * * * * Cursing anew, the scar-faced leader got into the bow of the open launch, and his two comrades followed him. Fulsom looked up at Hardrock. “Cast off that anchor in her bows and make sure the line’s fast. Give her the len’th. Good holdin’ ground here, and she’ll drift in toward the shore and set pretty. No wind comin’ up tonight, anyhow. I got two pair o’ handcuffs at camp, and when we get these birds fixed up and have supper, we can figger what to do next.” The three “birds” looked decidedly unhappy. The two Greeks began to talk in their own language, until the Sheriff peremptorily shut them up. Hardrock, meantime, dumped the big anchor over the bows of the green fishboat, watched the line run out until it drew taut, and then climbed back into his own borrowed craft. The sun was just sinking from sight. “Back to camp?” he asked, and Fulsom nodded assent. The engine started up, and the boat circled out for the point, the Sheriff standing amidships with his shotgun ready. The three prisoners, crowded on the bow thwart, showed no symptoms of putting up any fight, however. “Simplest thing on earth,” said Fulsom calmly, “is to handcuff a gent with his arms around a sapling. We’ll do that with two of these birds, and interview the third--give ’em turn and turn about at it. And we’ll keep ’em at far separated trees. And no supper. Make ’em talk better, hungry.” As they were perhaps meant to do, these words reached and stung the trio. After a rapid-fire exchange of Greek, the leader turned around. “This aint legal!” he exclaimed savagely. “You aint got no warrant--”