Young Butts quickly obeyed, though his own wrench he dropped into a hip pocket. He came on deck bearing the same heavy hitching weight that had been shied at the boat’s young skipper on the pier a few nights before.
“Like that better, do you?” asked Tom, his gaze lighting on it as Hank sprang on deck.
“Well, it might come handy,” replied the freckle-faced one, speculatively.
The three men left on the schooner had already hauled in their sheets and headed around in the effort to reach their own boat’s crew. But the “Rocket” ran swiftly up alongside.
“You keep away from us!” yelled the man at the schooner’s wheel.
“Don’t you believe it for a minute,” Captain Tom retorted. Joe and Hank were already at their stations with the grappling hooks.
“You’re acting like pirates, if you try to come aboard us,” shouted back the fellow at the schooner’s wheel.
“A fine lot you are, to talk about piracy,” retorted Captain Halstead, ironically. Then, by a piece of neat steering, he ran the motor boat up so close alongside that she almost grazed the other vessel.
“Let go the hooks!” he ordered. Hank and Joe threw the grapplers so that both made fast over the schooner’s rail. In the same instant Halstead shut off power. The schooner, if it remained under sail, could tow the “Rocket” now.
The instant that Joe Dawson and Hank Butts let go of the hooks they sprang to board the schooner. A sailor brandishing a belaying pin ran to intercept Hank, but that freckle-faced youth bounded to the sailing vessel’s deck, bearing the hitching weight before him in both hands.
Just as the sailor was about to close in with him Hank, almost as if by accident, dropped the heavy iron weight. It fell, just where he had intended it should, on the sailor’s advanced left foot.
There was a roar of pain as the sailor doubled up and sat down on the deck. But Hank, who had sidestepped before the downward stroke with that belaying pin, now regained his weapon and straightened up, grinning.
“Sorry, matey,” observed Hank to the squatting sailor. “But didn’t your father ever tell you that you oughtn’t to run into anyone who’s carrying too much weight for his age.”
Joe, a heavy wrench in one hand, and fire in both eyes, had leaped forward to meet the other sailor half-way. But that fellow, though armed with a length of stout rope, knotted at the end, prudently retreated, snarling all the while.
Tom Halstead was followed by Eben Moddridge as the young skipper made his way aft to where the helmsman stood.
Hank, seeing that the sailor with the crushed foot was really out of the running, followed Halstead aft. Butts, holding his iron weight, perched himself on the cabin house, his feet dangling over the hatchway.
The helmsman had hastily made a few turns of rope fast around the wheel, to hold the vessel to its course. Now, his eyes glaring, he stepped in front of Halstead.
“What on airth d’ye mean by these pirate tactics?” he bellowed.
“Keep cool, and keep your distance,” ordered young Halstead, holding the wrench so that he could use it in a twinkling at need. “You have a friend of ours on board here. Where is he?”
“There ain’t no one on board ’cept you pirates and us three of the crew,” retorted the late helmsman. “And you fellers ain’t going to be aboard but a few seconds more.”
“If you won’t help me out, I’ll go below and search the cabin,” proposed Captain Tom.
Just as the helmsman sprang forward to intercept this move Joe darted between them, shoving the fellow back and threatening him with a wrench. The sailor who had first moved to engage Dawson was now stepping stealthily aft.
“Jorkins,” yelled the engaged helmsman, “don’t you let no one go down that companionway. Stop it!”
“Ya-ah!” sneered Jorkins, sulkily. “With that feller balancing his ton of iron for a crack at my head?”
For Hank Butts had suddenly risen to a standing position on the cabin house roof, and was holding the hitching weight in a way that did not look remarkably peaceful.
Halstead sprang down the companionway. Moddridge started to follow, then turned, feeling that he might be wanted on deck. In his present excitement he actually forgot to be nervous.
Below were two staterooms and a small saloon. Captain Tom quickly explored these rooms, searching also the lockers and cupboards. Just as he was finishing he heard sounds of a tussle above, then a heavy fall. Like a flash the boy was on deck, fearing mischief. The troublesome helmsman had made a spring at Dawson, only to be tripped by that agile youth. Now Mr. Moddridge was seated on the helmsman’s chest, while Hank Butts had taken up a new post from which he could drop the weight, at need, upon the helmsman’s legs. The latter fellow, therefore, was now keeping quiet. Turning, Joe, wrench in readiness, had driven the other uninjured seaman forward. The fellow whom Hank had first encountered was limping about, though he did not look likely to cause any trouble.
One swift glance Halstead shot out over the water, at that small boat, still more than half a mile distant. Then the “Rocket’s” young skipper ran forward, looking in at forecastle and galley. He even looked down into the water butts, but no Mr. Delavan was to be found.
“I am afraid we’ve boarded the wrong ship,” declared Mr. Moddridge, hesitatingly.
“Ye’ll find out ye have, afore ye’re through with the law,” growled the prostrate and now prudent helmsman, from his “bed” on the deck. “Boarding a craft forcibly, on the high seas, is a crime.”
“Aw, be a good well, and run dry,” advised Hank.
There remained, now, only the holds to be investigated. Oppressed by the shortness of the time that was left to him, and fearing, also, that his guess had not been a good one, Tom Halstead sprang down the ladder into the forward hold. Here there was nothing beyond a miscellaneous cargo of supplies. The after hold was empty. With a white face Halstead reached the deck.
Here the young skipper beheld Joe and the seaman whom his chum was holding at bay.
“See here, my man,” Tom uttered hastily, turning to the sailor, “tell me just where to find the man that’s a prisoner on board, and, on behalf of Mr. Moddridge, I’ll offer you five hundred dollars in cash and a safe passage ashore on our boat.”
“There ain’t no one on this boat a prisoner, unless it’s us fellers of the crew,” returned the sailor, sulkily.
Yet, as he spoke, there was a cunning gleam in his eyes that made Halstead believe him to be lying.
“By gracious, there’s one place I overlooked,” ejaculated Captain Halstead, turning from the seaman and heading again for the hold ladder. Down he went, as fast as he could travel. With the wrench he tapped along the floor.
“Oho! It’s hollow here,” muttered the young skipper, halting in the middle of the fore hold, right over the keel. His keen eyes moved fast as he looked for some indication of unfastened planking. Finding one crack that looked suspicious, he pried in an edge of the wrench. The plank yielded, came up in Tom’s nervous, ready, strong fingers, and——
There lay Francis Delavan!
“Good gracious! What have they done to him?” gasped the young motor boat skipper.
The Wall Street man lay on his back, his arms under him, as though tied behind him.
The plank he was holding fell to one side as Tom Halstead’s first glimpse of his employer revealed that much.
There was a gag in Mr. Delavan’s mouth, but the startling signs were the purplish blue in his face and the queer, lifeless look in his partly-open eyes.
“Have they killed him? Is it spite work, or all part of their fearful plot?” shuddered Tom Halstead.
Then, his heart pounding against his ribs at a fearful rate, the boy bent down to rest an inquiring hand on that unnatural-looking face.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE JEST THAT BECAME GRIM EARNEST
“WHATEVER you’re doing, old chap, hustle!” sounded Joe Dawson’s warning voice from the deck overhead “The boat’s getting uncomfortably near with its load of scoundrels!”
“I’ve found Mr. Delavan!” Halstead shouted up.
Upon receiving that startling information Dawson, for the moment, forgot all caution, darting forward. The sullen helmsman seized upon the opportunity to shake himself free of Mr. Moddridge, for Hank Butts, too, forgot himself long enough to turn and run a few steps.
“Look out, Butts!” called the alarmed Mr. Moddridge.
Hank wheeled about just in time to find the sullen helmsman coming face to face with him.
There was time to do but just one thing, and Hank did it. Leaning toward his would-be assailant, Butts dropped the weight squarely across the toes of the scoundrel’s advanced foot, then jumped aside.
“You young villain!” roared the sullen helmsman, sinking to the deck, and reaching both hands out toward his injured foot.
“Much obliged,” said Hank meekly. But he had picked up his iron weight again, and, with it, he advanced upon the one able-bodied seaman left.
“Won’t you oblige me by aiming a blow of your fist at me!” Hank begged. “Then you’ll have your own troubles, and we can attend to our own business.”
But this sailor, who was the least courageous of the three, retreated aft, using some explosive language as he went.
Joe, in the meantime, had gained the fore hatchway, and stood looking down with the keenest interest at his chum, one of whose hands rested on Francis Delavan’s face.
“I think he’s alive,” Halstead reported, feverishly, “for there’s still quite a bit of warmth to his skin. But,” sniffing, “I’m sure he was chloroformed when the scoundrels saw us coming, for I can smell it here. Joe, hustle down a rope.”
Dawson turned, snatching up the nearest bit of cordage that would serve. Tom, with nervous haste, but tying good, seamanlike knots, made one end of the rope secure under his employer’s shoulders.
“Now, I’m coming up. Be ready to give a strong hand on the haul,” called the young skipper.
Eben Moddridge also had both hands on the rope by the time that Halstead stepped up on deck. A hard, quick haul, and they had the financier on deck.
From out on the water, close at hand, came an ugly roar. In a hurried glance over the rail the young captain saw the boat’s crew not more than two hundred yards away.
“Pick Mr. Delavan up. Over the rail with him,” called the young skipper. “Seconds now are as good as hours later!”
Between them the three bore the heavy form of the Wall Street magnate. Moddridge, though not strong, could, under the stress of excitement, carry his few pounds.
As they reached the rail with their human burden, the sullen helmsman rose, hobbling, despite the pain in his foot. He snatched up a marlinespike to hurl at the rescuers, but a warning yell from Hank made him drop it harmlessly to the deck.
“Wait a second,” directed Tom, releasing his hold on the senseless body as they rested it against the schooner’s rail. Leaping over to the motor boat’s deck, he turned like a flash.
“Now, pass Mr. Delavan over carefully,” he ordered.
“And you get in and help,” commanded Hank, poising his weight so as to menace the seaman he was watching.
Butts looked so wholly ready and handy with that hitching weight that the seaman sprang to obey.
The instant that Francis Delavan rested flat on the deck of his own craft Captain Halstead leaped forward to one of the grappling hooks.
“Hank, throw off the hook astern—lively!” he shouted.
Joe Dawson had darted to the wheel, starting the speed and giving the steering wheel a half turn to port. Nor was the young engineer a second too soon, for the small boat, with its eight rough-looking fellows, almost grazed the port side of the “Rocket’s” hull. Hank, having brought the after grappling hook aboard, rushed to port, poising his hitching weight over his head.
“It’s a headache for one of you, if you get alongside,” declared Butts. Nevertheless, the boat-steerer attempted to reach the motor boat. Had Joe been ten seconds later in starting there must have been a hand-to-hand fight on the “Rocket’s” deck, with the odds all against the Delavan forces.
With that timely start, however, Joe Dawson left the boat’s crew nothing to do but to board their own vessel. The motor boat glided easily away.
“Keep the wheel, Joe,” called Captain Tom. “Now, Hank, lay by and lend a hand in trying to bring Mr. Delavan around. First, off with the cords that bind him, and out with the gag.”
“Er—er—hadn’t we better take Frank below to a berth?” inquired Mr. Moddridge.
“No,” replied young Captain Halstead, decisively. “Mr. Delavan has been chloroformed, and almost had his breath shut off by that trick. We must keep him in the open air. Mr. Moddridge, kneel behind your friend, and support him in a sitting position. Hank, get around on the other side and take hold of the left forearm and wrist. We’ll pump-handle Mr. Delavan, and see if we can’t start more air into his lungs.”
Then, looking up, Captain Tom inquired:
“Joe, what’s the matter with our speed?”
“I just can’t help it,” grinned Dawson. “I’m running slowly just to tantalize that rascally crew back there. It makes them want to dance and swear to see us going so slowly, and yet to know that, if we want to, we can run away from them like an express train.”
Captain Tom and Hank continued their pump-handling until Francis Delavan’s eyes fluttered more widely open, the bluish color began to leave his cheeks, and his chest started to rise and fall gently.
“He’s coming around all right,” cheered Halstead. “And he’s naturally as strong as a horse. His vitality will pull him out of this.”
“The schooner has put about and is following us,” called Joe.
“Let ’em,” muttered Halstead, glancing up and astern. “I wish they’d follow us until we meet the police boat at New York. But don’t let ’em get too infernally close, Joe. Something might happen to us. If our motor stopped, where would we be then?”
Joe Dawson laughed easily as the “Rocket” stole lazily over the waters, her speed just a trifle faster than the sailing vessel’s.
In a very few minutes more Francis Delavan’s eyes took on a look of returning intelligence. His lips parted as he murmured, weakly:
“Thank you—boys.”
“And now you’re all right, sir,” cried Tom Halstead, gleefully. “All you’ve got to do is to keep on breathing as deeply as you can. Mr. Moddridge, is your strength equal to bringing up an arm-chair from the after deck?”
Apparently Eben Moddridge didn’t even pause to wonder about his strength. He ran nimbly aft, then came struggling under his armful. He deposited the chair where the young skipper indicated. They raised Mr. Delavan to a seat, Hank stationing himself in front of the chair to keep the boat’s owner from pitching forward.
“Now, old fellow, you’d better kick up more speed,” advised Halstead, stepping over beside his chum. “You know, we’ve got to make the coast in record time, for several fortunes are hanging on our speed.”
Bending forward, Dawson swung the speed control wheel around generously. The “Rocket” forged ahead through the water.
“This will leave the schooner hull-down before we’ve burned much gasoline,” smiled Halstead. “Hullo, there they go about again. They realize the point, and have left off the chase.”
Joe still had the wheel, but he turned to look.
The “Rocket” was more than a mile away from the schooner when a jarring thump shook the motor boat.
In an instant Joe Dawson’s face went white. His chum looked scarcely less startled. The extra vibration ceased almost as soon as it was felt, for the engine had stopped running.
“Hank, take the wheel. The engine might start again,” called Tom Halstead, barely pausing in his chase after Joe, as the former jumped down into the engine room.
“What on earth has happened?” gasped Eben Moddridge, but there was on one to pay him heed.
For a few moments the two white-faced chums looked over the “Rocket’s” powerful engine together. Then their eyes met as Halstead’s lips framed the startled words:
“Joe, my boy, it’s one thing to play at broken-down engine, but the reality, at a time like this, is simply awful! This time the engine is truly out of business!”
CHAPTER XIX
THE MOTOR THAT WOULDN’T “MOTE”
IT was Eben Moddridge who, marine glass in hand, now devoted the most attention to the schooner, which was once more in full chase.
Francis Delavan was now doing so well that there was no doubt in anyone’s mind of his full recovery.
“How—how’s the stock market?” he ventured at last to ask.
“Don’t know, sir,” retorted Butts. “Neither does anyone else. We’ve got you and the engine to fix. When you’re both going fine, then we’ll try to find more time to talk.”
Mr. Delavan smiled, good-humoredly, but next inquired:
“How do you happen—to be aboard the ‘Rocket!’”
“Walked aboard,” admitted Hank. “Had to sir. Nobody ever took the trouble to shanghai me.”
Joe, in the meantime, made two or three frantic efforts to make the motor “mote,” though without success.
“It’s all on account of this valve,” Dawson explained to his chum, pointing. “I knew it wouldn’t last forever, but the last time I inspected it, it looked all right.”
“You’ve another valve in the repair chest that will fit,” replied Tom. “And, in goodness’ name, hurry up. I’ll help you.”
“One more try at this old valve, for a few miles anyway,” cried Dawson, desperately. “Tom, the new valve is just a shade too large at the screw-thread end. It’ll take a few desperate minutes to make it fit.”
By the time he had finished speaking the young engineer was industriously engaged in forcing in packing around the worn old valve.
“Hank,” Captain Tom roared from the companionway, “shake out that solitary sail and hoist it. Get all the speed you can out of it.”
No one had thought of the sail up to this moment. It wasn’t much of a sail. Rigged to the single signal mast of the “Rocket,” the sail was intended only to enable the boat to reach port if ever the engine should give out.
Butts, with an exclamation of disgust at not having thought of the canvas before, ran forward. Almost before he stopped running, his fingers were at work on the knots that held the canvas furled. In surprisingly quick time this Long Island boy had the sail hoisted, set, and was back at the wheel.
Eben Moddridge, without waiting to be called, had taken his place as attendant by the side of his friend’s chair.
What Hank Butts didn’t know about motors he made up by his knowledge of sailing craft He handled the “Rocket” now as though she were a catboat, watching the fill of her canvas and making the most out of the steady light breeze that was blowing.
As he steered, Hank looked back often at the schooner. That craft, with all canvas hung out, was coming along at something like seven knots. The “Rocket” was making barely four under her small spread.
The answer? Hank Butts knew it well enough, and groaned as he watched his own tiny sail.
Down below Joe Dawson, the perspiration standing out in great, cold drops, was working against time. After another trial he had abandoned the idea of making the old valve work even for a few miles. He had opened the repair chest and had taken out the substitute valve that had to be fitted over. The young engineer was now bending over the repair bench, rapidly turning the shank of a thread-cutter. Captain Tom stood by, anxious, useless for the present, yet ready to lend an instant pair of hands as soon as he could help.
“Thread still a bit too large,” reported Dawson, after the second attempt to make it fit.
Back to the work-bench he sprang, while Halstead bounded up into the open so that he could take a brief look astern.
Behind them trailed the schooner, now a bare third of a mile astern, and gaining visibly.
“I’m not going to say a word to hurry you, Joe,” he remarked, dropping below again. “I know you’re working to save even seconds.”
“Ain’t I just, though!” gritted Dawson, as he turned.
“Eb,” demanded Delavan, of his friend, “you’ve simply got to tell me how the stock market is going.”
“I—I—er—haven’t had the least idea for more than forty hours,” replied Mr. Moddridge, embarrassed.
“Hey, there,” called Hank, officiously, from the wheel, “just at the present moment I’m skipper here, and boss. My orders are that no Wall Street slang be talked on board until after the steward has found a chance to serve something to eat. Mr. Delavan, be glad, sir, that you are able to get some of your breath.”
“Are the rascals gaining on us?” was the owner’s next question, as he endeavored to turn himself around in the chair for a look astern.
“Not much,” replied Mr. Moddridge. “Besides, in a moment or two more the boat’s engine will be doing its duty again. The engineer has his repair work almost finished.”
Francis Delavan smiled good-humoredly, though he did not by any means believe this reassuring information.
The schooner was less than an eighth of a mile away when Joe Dawson made one more effort to adjust the substitute valve.
“I think it’s going to fit,” he murmured, a world of hope in his voice, though he squinted vigilantly, watchfully, as he continued the twisting. “By Jove, Tom, I believe it’s O. K. It seems fast and tight. I’ll let a little oil in; give the wheel a few turns.”
A few breathless seconds passed. Then the pistons began to move up and down, slowly, all but noiselessly. Seized with a kind of fearful fascination, both motor boat boys watched the engine, almost afraid to breathe lest the driving cease.
Then Captain Halstead, still looking backward, while Joe’s chest heaved at last, yanked himself up into the hatchway, glancing out over the water.
The schooner was now almost upon the “Rocket,” though hauling off a bit to windward as though intending to make a sudden swoop and bear down crushingly against the motor boat.
“Safe?” Halstead almost whispered down into the engine room.
“Try it, awfully easy,” replied Joe.
“Hank, give the speed-ahead control just a bare turn,” called Halstead. “Easy, now!”
The propeller shaft began to revolve. At that same instant the schooner came around on a starboard tack, so steered as to intercept the shorter craft.
Captain Tom himself sprang to the speed control, letting out just a notch more, praying under his breath that the motor might stand by them in this moment of greatest crisis.
At them, heeling well over, her crew at the rail ready to board the “Rocket,” came the schooner. Her first manœuvre had been to board by the bows. Now it looked as though the sailing vessel must strike amidships. Halstead gave a quick turn to the speed-ahead control. Answering, the motor boat took a jump ahead, then settled down to steady going. The schooner, left astern, jibed with a noisy flapping of sails.
“I think we can make it,” called up Dawson.
“We have made it,” called back Captain Halstead, joy ringing in his voice. “The only question is whether we can keep it up.”
“Let her out a bit more,” called Joe.
One hand on the wheel, the other on the speed control, the young skipper increased the speed by slow degrees until the “Rocket” had settled down to a steady twelve-mile speed.
Hank, relieved of the helm, ran aft. Standing on the stern rail, one arm wrapped around the flag-pole, young Butts made a lot of gestures at the crew of the schooner. Those gestures were eloquent of derision and contempt.
Five minutes later the schooner had given up the chase, heading off to the southward.
“Ev—everything is all safe now, isn’t it?” asked Eben Moddridge, shakily.
“Trouble seems to be all behind us,” replied Halstead.
“Then—er—I’m—I’m going below and lie down,” quaked Mr. Moddridge. “I never felt more nervous in my life!”
“Go below and enjoy yourself, sir,” laughed Tom, without malice, but without thinking. “You’ve done yourself proud, Mr. Moddridge, and you’re entitled to the best attack of nerves you can find.”
Hank sprang quickly to aid Mr. Moddridge, for the latter was really shaking and tottering as he started aft.
“Still no one seems able to tell me about the thing I want most of all to know about—the condition of the market, and of securities in particular,” complained Francis Delavan, in a much stronger voice.
“No one knows well enough how to tell you,” laughed Skipper Tom, “except Mr. Moddridge. If you only knew, sir, what a trump he’s been lately, you wouldn’t begrudge him one first-class nervous fit now.”
Mr. Delavan laughed, though he added, with a comical sigh:
“I don’t see but I shall have to wait.”
“Something to eat, did you say, sir?” asked Hank, suddenly appearing at the owner’s elbow. “Yes, sir; as fast as possible for all hands. Why, we’ve been so rattled this morning we didn’t even think about food. And now my stomach is reading the riot act to my teeth. O-o-oh!”
Hands clutched over his abdomen, Hank made a swift disappearance into the galley. There was an abundance of food in the “Rocket’s” larder that could be prepared hastily. But as Mr. Moddridge was “enjoying” himself in his own especial way, and Mr. Delavan was still feeling the effects of the chloroform too much to have any appetite, the crew fell in for the first chance at table.
When that food had been disposed of, Joe cautiously worked the engine on until the boat was making twenty miles an hour. The new valve proved fully equal to the strain put upon it.
Mr. Moddridge remained below more than two hours. When he came on deck again he appeared to be in shape to tell Mr. Delavan the latest news he had of the state of their affairs.
The owner listened with a face that became graver every moment.
“It looks black for us, Eben, and we may be wiped out by this time, or, anyway, by the time we can get back to the battle-field. But it was grand of you, Eb, to throw in the last dollars of your private fortune to save us both. Whatever happens, I won’t forget your act. But, good heavens, how we must hustle and move now! Captain Halstead, just where are you heading?”
“As straight as the crow flies, sir, for New York harbor. But I can change the course if there’s any other point you’d rather make.”
“No; keep straight on, captain. New York is our battle-field. And, by all that’s sure, we’ll win out yet if there’s a fighting spar left standing when we hit Wall Street!”
With a vigorous bound this fighting Wall Street man was on his feet again, pacing the deck, not a glimpse of fear in his strong face.
Then, a little later, he and Moddridge found their appetites, and Hank Butts served them enthusiastically.
As the afternoon passed, and all hands gathered near the wheel, the stories of all were told.
Mr. Delavan, for his part, explained that, on that morning when he had taken the “Rocket’s” port boat and had gone out for a row, he had gone past the inlet. While out beyond, he had been overtaken by the nameless racing launch. A hail from the deck of the other craft had followed, and then an invitation to take a look aboard. Thinking that he might possibly penetrate the mystery as to who was really running that craft, Mr. Delavan had rowed alongside, intending only to stand up in his own little boat and look aboard the launch.
But, while doing so, he had been seized by both the boat handlers and dragged aboard. There he became mixed in a fight with two others who, from their descriptions, must have been Rexford and Ellis. When the fight stopped Francis Delavan was under the hood, his hands tied behind him. He remembered that, later on, the small port boat had been overturned and set adrift, and that his own hat and coat had been taken from him and cast into the water.
“Later, that forenoon,” continued Mr. Delavan, “I saw my own ‘Rocket’ following us. By stealth I had succeeded in freeing my hands. Now, I made a dash for freedom, intending to leap overboard and try to swim to you. But I was caught and held, just at the edge of the hood. I found chance only to snatch my wallet from an inner vest pocket and hurl it out into the water. I was in hopes you’d see it, pick it up, and understand.”
“We did,” nodded Mr. Moddridge.
Mr. Delavan went on to explain how, after the throwing of the wallet, he had been more carefully bound, hand and foot, and gagged. When taken ashore at Cookson’s Inlet he had also been blindfolded, his removal from the boat not taking place until a carriage had been brought.
Then the story of the final chase was told, even how Hank Butts had done so much to carry the day aboard the schooner by his artless trick of dropping the hitching weight where it would do the most harm to the enemy.
“Say, Hank,” put in Joe Dawson, who had taken little part in the talk, “wherever did you learn the easy way that you drop that weight?”
“A feller from New York taught us that last summer,” Butts replied. “Some of us fellows over in East Hampton practiced it until we couldn’t miss.”
“But how did you learn to land it on another fellow’s foot so easily that it looks almost like an accident?”
“I’ve been telling you,” Hank insisted. “We kept on dropping weights on each other’s toes until we got the trick down fine.”
“What?” ejaculated Dawson, opening his eyes wider. “You practised by dropping iron weights on each other’s feet? You fellows must be wonders, if you could stand that!”
“Oh, no,” Hank confessed. “We practised with small sandbags.”
CHAPTER XX
THE COUNCIL OF WAR
IT was Saturday morning when the “Rocket’s” crew boarded the schooner out on the high seas. Late Sunday evening the motor boat moved in through the Narrows of lower New York Bay. The cruise had been at racing speed, without a single hitch after Engineer Joe had fitted that new valve.
On the way Francis Delavan, who had thoroughly recovered, formed his plans in case his fortunes had not gone entirely to smash in Wall Street. But it was still needful to consult Broker Coggswell and others, in order to learn just how far the plans were likely to succeed.
As the “Rocket” was intended, in ordinary times, to be a “one-man” boat—that is, to be handled from the bridge by the helmsman, the three members of the crew had managed to divide up the watches so that all had had plenty of sleep.
As Captain Tom dropped anchor at ten o’clock that August Sunday night, near Bedloe’s Island, and Hank hung out the anchor light, all three of the boys were wide awake and eager to see what was to follow.
Hank was to row Mr. Delavan ashore in the same little port boat that had figured in the Shinnecock Bay affair. The owner intended going to one of the cheapest of the downtown hotels, whence he would telephone Broker Coggswell and some others.
“Expect a party of us back by midnight,” was the last word the owner left with the young skipper. “We’ll want a little cruise out to sea, to-night, where we can talk things over with no danger of any eavesdroppers about.”
Mr. Moddridge and the two remaining members of the crew stretched themselves out comfortably in arm-chairs on the bridge deck.
“It’s hard to realize that we can rest,” sighed Captain Tom. “It seems to me that I still hear the throb-throb-throb of the engine and hear the continual turning of the propeller shaft. Still, we really are having a brief rest.”
“Rest?” snorted Eben Moddridge, getting up and pacing within the short limits of that deck. “What does rest mean, I wonder? I feel as though this Wall Street game I’m in had been going on, night and day, for ten years, with never a pause for breath. Rest! Is there such a thing?”
A few days before Halstead would have been either amused or bored by this exhibition of nervousness. But he had seen Mr. Moddridge come out with surprising strength when things had been darker. There was a good deal of hidden manhood in this undersized, nervous little fellow who had had the hard luck to be born with too much money.
“You can feel pretty easy, sir, with a man like Mr. Delavan,” Captain Tom went on, after a few moments. “If there’s a single foot of ground left for him to fight on, you can feel pretty sure that he’ll pull at least a goodly portion of both your fortunes out of the panic that has struck the money market.”
“I can hardly believe that we have a dollar left in the game,” rejoined Mr. Moddridge, shaking his head moodily. “Of course, Coggswell is capable and honest, and he has done his best, whatever that was. But with such a terrific run on P. & Y. stock, and with such an overwhelming part of our assets bound up in that stock, I haven’t the least belief that Coggswell has been able to hold our heads above water for us. This long suspense, this awful wait for news, is killing me,” went on the nervous one, sinking weakly back into his chair. “Oh, why didn’t I go ashore with Frank, the sooner to know how we stand?”
“Mr. Delavan thought it would be better for him to go alone, and to move quickly,” hinted Tom Halstead, gently.
“Oh, yes, I know,” retorted Moddridge, with a sickly smile. “Frank was certain that my nerves would go to pieces on shore, and that I’d make a fool of myself and be in the way.”
Hank came back at last, alone in the port boat.
“What’s the news ashore, Butts?” cried the nervous one, anxiously.
“If you mean the stock market news,” Hank replied, as he brought the port boat around under the davits, “I don’t know. Mr. Delavan left me at the pier where I landed him. Told me he’d get a launch to bring his friends out here in.”
So Mr. Moddridge took to another long stretch of pacing the bridge deck.
Almost punctually as the “Rocket’s” ship’s bell tolled out the eight bells of midnight the lights of a small launch were to be seen approaching. It came alongside, bringing Mr. Delavan and three other gentlemen. One was Coggswell, the broker. A second was Lyman Johnson, a middle-aged man and managing vice-president of the P. & Y. The third stranger was a banker named Oliver.
“What news?” was the quaking question that Eben Moddridge shot over the waters as soon as the little craft was within hail.
“Things right down to the bottom,” replied Broker Coggswell, plainly.
“But there’s a fighting chance, Eb,” broke in Francis Delavan, “and a chance to fight is all I want for winning.”
As soon as the party had boarded, and the launch was speeding back to town, Mr. Moddridge began to shake again.
“Look at that little boat scoot,” he shivered. “That boatman is going back as fast as he can, to trade the information he has overheard.”
“Nonsense,” laughed Mr. Delavan. “A passenger boatman like that fellow hears all kinds of talk in twenty-four hours. If he tried to remember a hundredth part of what he hears it would drive him into an insane asylum. Captain Halstead, get up anchor and take us outside, anywhere. We’re going to sit up and talk for a while. Then we’ll turn in below and sleep. We don’t want to berth the boat in New York earlier than eight in the morning, but must be there sharp at that hour.”
Tired of the motion of the boat so long at racing speed. Captain Tom got under way at a speed of about eight miles an hour. The newcomers and Mr. Moddridge sat in a close group on the bridge deck, to hold their council of war for the morrow.
“In the first place, Moddridge,” began Mr. Coggswell, “P. & Y. closed yesterday noon, on the Stock Exchange, at 68.”
“We must be closed out, then—ruined!” cried the nervous one, aghast. “You figured, you know, that the stock touching 71 would wind us up.”
“And so it would have done,” replied the broker, “but Steel and the other stocks that are traveling with it behaved rather better than I had expected. So, as things stand to-night you and Delavan have, perhaps, a few hundred thousand dollars left out of the game. But if P. & Y., at the opening on the Board to-morrow, goes down to 65—well, Oliver, as the head of the bankers’ syndicate that has been furnishing money to the Delavan-Moddridge interests, suppose you tell what must happen.”
“If the stock drops to 65 to-morrow morning,” took up the banker, “our pool will have to call in the loans, Mr. Moddridge. Delavan and yourself will have to heave all your P. & Y. stock overboard in order to meet the call of the loans. Then, but not until then, as I understand Mr. Coggswell’s statement, you will both be cleaned out.”
“But that isn’t going to happen,” declared Francis Delavan, coolly lighting a fresh cigar and puffing slowly. “There have, of course, been all sorts of stories out that I’ve been robbing the P. & Y. railroad and that I’ve smuggled the money out of the country. But Johnson, our vice president, has had a firm of the most respected and trusted accountants in New York going over all the railroad’s accounts. By to-morrow forenoon the reports of the accountants will be ready, and will show that every dollar of the P. & Y.’s money is safe.”
“That will help,” replied Mr. Coggswell, “if the buying and selling public believe the statement at once. But you never can tell how small dealers in stocks will accept any report. They may think the move only a trick to bolster up confidence until the inside operators can slip out of their holdings in P. & Y. If that view is taken, the stock may fall off a dozen points in the first half hour that ’Change is open.”
“It can all be summed up in these words,” announced Banker Oliver, gravely. “Delavan, start P. & Y. going up in the morning, and you’re safe for a while, with a big chance for fortune left. But let the stock start downward at the opening to-morrow morning, and you won’t be able to get the stock up again in season to do you any good.”
Breathing hard, shaking all over, Eben Moddridge rose and left the council, tottering below and seeking his berth.
“Now that the poor, shaken fellow is gone,” murmured Francis Delavan, sending a sympathetic glance in the direction his friend had taken, “I’ll tell you, gentlemen, the plan I have for to-morrow.”
The council did not break up until an hour later.
CHAPTER XXI
THE BATTLE OF THE DOLLARS
ALMOST at the minute of eight o’clock next morning the “Rocket” was made fast in berth at an East River pier.
Just about three minutes later a closed automobile rolled out on the wharf. Tom Halstead and Joe Dawson had been invited to go on shore and see the finish of this notable battle of the dollars. Hank, of his own choice, remained behind as watchman over the boat.
The two motor boat boys had changed their uniforms for ordinary street dress, straw hats included. It would have taken a very close friend, indeed, to have recognized Francis Delavan as that gentleman stepped ashore from his boat. Over his natty suit he wore an enveloping linen duster. His eyes and much of his face were obscured behind a pair of automobile goggles. A cap, the peak pulled well down over his eyes, completed the concealment. Few of Mr. Delavan’s most intimate friends would have known him at first or second glance.
The employer and his two young men entered the closed car, which, first of all, rolled away to the bank of which Mr. Oliver was president. Here there were some papers that required the signature of the “Rocket’s” owner.
From the bank the automobile went straight down to the big, grim-looking building in which the New York Stock Exchange is located. Here they arrived five minutes before the opening hour, nine o’clock. Mr. Delavan was already provided with three tickets admitting strangers to the visitors’ gallery.
As they entered the trio found that, at this hour, they had the gallery to themselves. Down on the floor, however, some two or three hundred members of ’Change were already present, gathered in little groups. Though these men talked mostly in undertones, it was evident that there was much excitement.
P. & Y. had not alone suffered. Many other stocks had gone down, “in sympathy.” The outlook was for a gloomy week in financial circles. Many of the more cautious investors of the country at large were watching Wall Street and dreading a panic.
Clang! As a sonorous stroke of a gong opened the morning session the scene became instantly one of turmoil. Bellowing voices broke loose. At that instant Broker Coggswell slipped into the gallery, taking a seat behind Mr. Delavan. The entire little party was well out of range of vision from most of the floor.
“Watch the board,” whispered the broker. “There’s the first quotation—a thousand shares of P. & Y. at 67—and, by Jove, no taker!”
A few moments later information was posted that ten thousand shares of P. & Y. had been offered and sold at 66.
“That’s the work of Dimitri & Clark, and Weeks & Bond,” whispered Coggswell. “My partner has sent me word that those two firms are doing the selling for Justin Bolton. He’ll sell, through his brokers, a hundred thousand shares short in the next hour, if need be, to keep the downward course of the stock in motion. Ah, what did I tell you?”
Ten thousand more shares of P. & Y. had gone at 65½.
“He’s a reckless bear, that fellow, Bolton!” ground out Coggswell, between his teeth. “He’s selling short at a furious rate. Mr. Delavan, your enemy, Bolton, expects to close your interests out this forenoon. If he can bear the stock low enough he’ll begin to buy in for his own account, as well as to cover his sales. If he can only keep this going for a while he’ll control the P. & Y. through his bona-fide buyings of the stock.”
Francis Delavan merely smiled, and Tom Halstead, looking covertly at him, admired the difference between his employer and Eben Moddridge.
A “bear” is one who is trying to lower the selling price of a stock. Often, in order to accomplish this, the “bear” “sells short.” That is, he offers to sell large blocks of the stock in question, at a lower figure than the market price. This “short operator,” as he is called, does not actually own the stock that he sells, but he hopes to drive the price of the stock still lower, and thus be able to buy and fill his sale at a lower price than he has made the sale for.
When a stock is headed downward in price, the offer of another large block at a lower price than yet offered has a strong tendency to force the price still lower, for scared investors who really own large blocks of the stock may become panic-stricken and close out their holdings of that particular stock at any price they can obtain.
Thus, a “short operator” may offer, in a falling market, ten thousand shares of a certain stock at 67. If he makes a sale at that price the fact may induce some real owner of stock to offer his holding of ten thousand shares to be sold at the best price offered, say 65. The “short operator,” who has just disposed of ten thousand shares at 67, but does not possess those shares, may be able to buy back again enough shares at 65, which under the terms of his sale, he has disposed of at 67. Thus, he has cleared two dollars a share, or $20,000 in all, by the operation. If the “short operator” who sells at 67 is able to cover his sales by buying at the still lower price of 63, his profits would be $40,000. But if our “short operator” buys at 67, and then the market rallies, it may be that the “short” cannot buy lower than 71. Having made his sale, he must fill the order, anyway, and thus he would lose $40,000.
If a “short” sells stock he does not own, and a sudden rally in that stock carries the stock up so high that he has not money enough to make good his sales, then he is ruined and becomes a bankrupt.
If a “bear” sells short, and then the stock continues to drop and drop in price, it is a happy day for that “bear.” On this Monday morning Justin Bolton, though not yet actually present, but operating through brokers whom he instructed by telephone, was prepared to sell short at a furious rate. First of all, Bolton’s purpose was to “bear” down P. & Y. to a point where he could buy all the stock he wanted for himself, and enough more to cover his “short orders” at a profit.
As the four watchers in the gallery looked on, a howl suddenly went up from the floor:
“P. & Y. at 65!”
“No takers at that price!”
“Bring it on at a lower price!”
“It’s going to smash!”
In lower tones men on the floor of the Exchange below were talking over the latest information supplied by the newspapers. It was believed by many that Francis Delavan had looted the railroad of which he was president, and that a vast sum of the stealings was hidden securely abroad.
“It’s a bad stock to deal in anyway, at present,” muttered one of the brokers below. “I have advised all of my clients to keep away from it.”
“If the run is based on false information, someone is going to reap a heavy profit when the stock begins to soar again,” remarked another broker.
“It won’t soar in a year. There’s something peculiar and rotten behind the whole business. The road won’t amount to anything until it has been reorganized by another crowd.”
Just then an agile young man hurried out on the floor, holding in his hand the earliest edition of an evening paper. He called out something to those nearest him. Instantly there was a rush, others crowding about the bearer of the newspaper.
“Accountants have just finished going over the statements of the P. & Y. There’s not a dollar short anywhere. The road is as sound as a good nut.”
That information, backed by the reputation of the accountants, sent a small squad scurrying off to buy if more P. & Y. were offered at low prices.
“A thousand shares at 67!” shouted one of those who offered to buy.
“Wanted, two thousand, at 67½!” called another.
“Bosh! That’s only a trick played by those who are ‘long’ to get a little more for their paper!”
Thus belief and disbelief eddied and surged backward and forward.
Some small sales were made at a fraction above 68. Then, like a thunderclap came the offer:
“Ten thousand P. & Y. at 66!”
Five minutes later the stock was being offered at 65½ with few takers.
A man entered the visitors’ gallery, taking a swift, careless look at the others. It was Justin Bolton, but, as he had reason to be sure that Francis Delavan was hundreds of miles out to sea, Bolton nodded coldly to Coggswell, merely glanced at the boys, and turned to a seat at some distance.
Now the Bolton brokers were hurling short stock in, in thousand, two-thousand and five-thousand lots, trying to break the price below 65. There were takers, for the newspaper report made many buyers look upon P. & Y. as a fair bargain at 65.
Coggswell took a sidelong look at Justin Bolton, whose gaze was turned unceasingly upon the floor below.
“Your enemy is smashing things the best he knows how,” whispered the broker to the “Rocket’s” owner.
“It’ll be rough on him if anything happens to prevent his covering his sales, won’t it?” smiled back Mr. Delavan.
Another evening newspaper reached the floor below, then half a dozen appeared, each being glanced over by excited groups of men.
Johnson, the managing vice-president of the P. & Y., had been found and interviewed. He had confirmed the news given out by the accountants. P. & Y. went up two points. A messenger entered the gallery, handing a note to Mr. Coggswell.
“Oliver sends word he likes the looks of things better, and that he won’t desert you just yet in the battle of the dollars, Mr. Delavan,” whispered the broker. “Oliver has a million of his own money placed in this game. He’s buying on the ‘bull’ side of the market.”
“Oliver may be a much richer man, then, by the time night comes,” smiled the “Rocket’s” owner. This seasoned financier had not, during all the storm below, shown the faintest trace of excitement. His face was calm, his voice even. One would have thought him almost bored with dulness.
“Justin Bolton must be wondering hard why your holdings of P. & Y. haven’t been dumped into the market,” suggested Coggswell.
“That’s what he’s here for, sitting over yonder,” replied Mr. Delavan. “As soon as the dealings denote that my holdings are being dumped Bolton will know that the day and the game are his.”
Some other stocks were being traded in briefly, now. Steel, among them, was going up a couple of points. Bolton found time to look over curiously at Coggswell, whom he knew to be directing the fight for the Delavan-Moddridge combine. Bolton also studied the man behind the goggles rather attentively, though not once did it occur to the arch-plotter to connect that half-hidden face with the countenance of the man he was moving heaven and earth to ruin.
“Twenty thousand P. & Y. offered at 65½!”
That was the next challenge hurled on the floor below. There were no takers at the moment.
“Twenty thousand at 65!”
Within the next few minutes this offering was traded off in smaller lots.
“Watch Bolton fidget,” whispered Mr Coggswell. “There’s a bigger hammering coming, and of course Bolton knows it’s near. We’ll see his biggest plunge within the next few minutes.”
Within two minutes by the big clock the pounding came.
“Forty thousand P. & Y. offered at 62!”
There was instant pandemonium. While there were those on the floor who rushed forward to get in on some of the buying at this price, there were many more who believed that P. & Y. would quickly slump far worse than it had yet done.
Justin Bolton’s eyes were gleaming. Most of the color had left his cheeks. His breath was coming in quick, short gasps. It was near the moment when he hoped to reap millions from his operations, and also to become the largest owner of P. & Y. Yet this schemer, knowing full well that the sales below were being made mainly on his own account, realized also that the Delavan-Moddridge stock had not been sprung.
“Does Delavan think he’s at a moving-picture show?” whispered Joe Dawson, in Tom Halstead’s ear. “Is he going to do nothing but sit here and smile?”
“Perhaps there’s nothing he can do here yet,” was Halstead’s answer. “I am wondering whether he’s going down to ruin, or whether he hopes to find the way out yet.”
A messenger from one of the brokers on the floor now darted through the gallery, handing a sheet of paper to Justin Bolton.
That worthy, after glancing over the sheet, penciled a few words upon it. The messenger hastened back to one of the brokers below.
Bolton’s own face, after the messenger had gone, was of a ghastly pallor. He looked unsteady, worried—or else as though he were about to take the most daring plunge of all.
“Watch out for what’s going to happen,” nudged Mr. Coggswell. That broker had now a pad on his own knee, a fountain pen in hand, as though prepared to dash off written orders in a hurry.
“Look out for a thunderclap,” whispered Coggswell, as one of the Bolton brokers on the floor hurried forward.
Then it came:
“Forty thousand P. & Y. at 60!”
CHAPTER XXII
SPRINGING THE MONEY MINE
IN an instant all seemed mad frenzy on the floor of the Stock Exchange.
Members ran about, waving slips of paper, bawling themselves hoarse, colliding with each other in efforts to reach desired parts of the floor.
Junior members of brokerage firms rushed to their private telephones to call for instructions.
Many thought that the day would go out in widespread panic, for now much more seemed involved than merely the P. & Y. Railroad.
At the first crack of this new firing on the battle line Broker Coggswell, a written order in his hand, bounded from his seat in the gallery, making his way frantically to the floor below.
Justin Bolton turned for an instant to follow the broker with his eyes. Then down below he looked to see Coggswell hurl himself into the wild chaos of the ’Change floor.
Broker Coggswell snatched up the entire offering of forty thousand shares like a flash. That held the market steady at that price for a moment. There was even talk among the excited operators that P. & Y. might be good for some rise. Gradually the hubbub lessened. Quiet followed. Every operator interested waited to see what the next move in the great game was to be.
Justin Bolton, shaking all over in his excitement at this crisis in the daring battle he had waged, stood up, leaning forward over the railing.
“Coggswell, your clients must be crazy to go in so heavily on a dropping stock,” one “bear” operator called to Delavan’s broker.
“I don’t believe it,” smiled the broker.
“But P. & Y. will be at 40 by to-morrow,” insisted the other.
“Bosh, man!” returned Coggswell, serenely.
“You think you have inside information, do you, Coggswell?” demanded the “bear,” banteringly.
“My principal client believes he has,” laughed Coggswell, good humoredly.
“Your principal client?”
“Yes.”
“I wish I knew who he is,” admitted the “bear,” moving closer to the bold broker.
“Why, I might tell you,” came the smiling retort.
It would be news of great value to many operators to-day to know who was behind the purchase of forty thousand shares of a falling stock. A crowd surged around Coggswell.
“Tell us who your client is,” dared the same “bear,” while the size of the gaping crowd increased. A hush had again fallen over everything.
“My principal client——” began Coggswell, then paused, smiling in a tantalizing way.
“Name him!” insisted the same “bear.”
“Yes, name him! Name him!” came the fevered demand from all sides, though probably not one expected the broker to comply.
“My principal client, for whom I just made the big purchase,” announced Broker Coggswell, “is Francis Delavan himself.”
“Francis Delavan?”
The cry was taken up and repeated all over the floor. Scores of men came running to get as near as possible to the talking broker.
“I made that purchase on behalf of the Delavan-Moddridge interests,” continued Coggswell, showing a still smiling face.