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beam of a searchlight, guns pop-popping behind in the dark and bullets that horribly pinged and plopped in the darkness around, while he wished himself safe back on board till he nearly burst with the wish.
    The Gilberts of this world only cross oceans in liners, with visas and all the right introductions: they pass through Customs, and never neglect to sign Embassy books. They would surely take it amiss if they learned of one of the family landing as he had one pitch-black night on a lonely Long Island beach from a sinking launch with a gunwhale-high load of the stuff under gunfire, and knocking a coastguard for six.
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    The effect of fear his first time out on a topsail yard had been near-paralysis, causing the strength to run out of Augustine’s muscles like water out of a bath. But the night that unlucky beach-landing fell straight in the arms of ambush, fear caused catalysis rather: it lent him the strength of ten, and his muscles themselves took charge. His fist had shot out of its own accord, and before that unfortunate coastguard surfman could up with his carbine, had caught him precisely on point in the dark—the smiter was gone twenty feet ere ever the smitten had slumped to the ground.
    Then had come searchlights and shouting and shooting; but self-propelled legs which jinked like a hare’s in-and-out the leaping shadows of seven men after him carried him into dead ground in a two-three seconds, and dropped him flat on his face well below the beam of the light. Thus pursuit had blundered right over him....
    Only then did his brain wake up and begin to inquire what all this was about. It had plenty of time to wonder: for dawn was a long way off, and his trousers were soaking.
    All night he had lain in a berry-bush, longing for Alice May . Then morning came, and he crept out at last. Since the contact-boat he had come in was sunk and its skipper in clink, he’d got to find other means somehow to get back on board; but the gunfire and general brouhaha had so scared the locals that no one would run him back to his ship. This guy who alleged he belonged on the Row.... He wasn’t a Rum Row type— and these men were born suspicious. Clearly that Coastguard Patrol knew more than they ought; and word started getting around that maybe this was the unknown stooge of the coast-guards.... On which Augustine had had to make himself scarce pretty slippy.
    Amagansett was hopeless; and even the quiet East Hampton (where last night’s fleeing trucks had rattled the birds from the sleeping elms as they streaked through the streets) had proved too hot for him. More by chance than anything else he had legged-it across to Sag Harbor, and there had written that only letter to Mary (no wonder it hadn’t said much!) while waiting the plush old Shinnecock ’s pleasure to ferry him over the Sound to New London.
    Reaching New London, at first he had still had hopes that he might get back to his ship; but he soon abandoned all such, for the place was full up then for the boat-race and lousy with coastguards. Indeed it had seemed too risky to linger about near the sea any longer, and so he had taken the inland road with nowhere to go in particular—just thumbing lifts. This had brought him in turn to Hartford, Torrington, Litchfield and lastly the New Blandford fork, where a rustic sawbones bound for some kitchen-table appendix had finally dropped him. So here he was now at New Blandford—and much good it did him! For even here lying low in the woods he reckoned the Law must sooner or later catch up with him. Even taking the commonsense view that the police had so much else on their minds they were hardly likely to bother with him, he was in effect an outlaw: he hadn’t a passport, nor without telling his tale any hope of getting one—therefore no hope at all of escaping out of the country.
    As for money.... Thank heaven the Captain insisted he took some earnings with him “in case!”