straining his ears to catch every word.

The men spoke in low voices so he could not hear everything, but
he heard enough to convince him that they were indeed smugglers.
They were arranging to convey a cargo of dynamite from a point near
the mouth of the little stream Sandgate on the peninsula (Florida)
over to this retreat on the island. This was to be done on the
first night when there was no moon and the wind was blowing off shore.

"There's a guy named Durgan lives over yonder in a little clearing
'bout a hundred yards up from the mouth of the creek," said one
of the men. "Lives there all year 'round alone, fishin' an' raisin'
turtles fer market. Queer ol' cuss, kind-a looney,---but he's
friendly to us and willin' to oblige us by showin' a light in his
cabin winder when the coast is clear."

"You theenk dat will be next-----"

The rest of that question was lost to Hugh, because the man who had
first spoken muttered a warning of silence, then added something in
a still lower tone. In vain Hugh tried to catch the words. Then
the man whose accent indicated that he was either a Creole or a
Haytian spoke again.

"Eet is not alway so easy to tell when dere will be no moon," he said.
"And der wind, eet blow effery way---in one day."

"Never mind,---just wait," came the answer. "One o' these nights,
perhaps to-morrow, we'll-----"