The Motor Boat Club off Long Island; or, A Daring Marine Game at Racing Speed

“Arabian Nights! Fairy tales!” smiled Captain Tom Halstead, showing his teeth. “Who is putting this up on me, and what is the joke, I wonder?”

He was about to toss away the piece of paper, after tearing it up, when a new thought stayed him.

“There may be something real in this,” thought the boy. “Mr. Delavan and his friend certainly appeared a bit worried over that racing craft. If there’s anything behind this note Mr. Delavan will want to know what it’s about, and so shall I.”

Young Captain Halstead was already on his feet, his shrewd, keen eyes looking over the veranda crowd. Yet he saw no one upon whom he could settle as a likely suspect. He could only conclude that whoever had casually slipped the paper into his hand had already purposely disappeared.

“I believe I’ll accept this invitation to take a walk,” mused the young skipper. “If there’s anything real behind the note I may as well find out what it is. If there’s nothing but a hoax in it I’ll be willing to admit that I snapped at it.”

There was plenty of time to take the walk and be back before Mr. Delavan’s return was looked for. Asking one of the hotel employes where to find the Bridge Road, young Captain Halstead set out briskly. Nor did he have to go far before he came to the bridge that gave the road its name. A little way past the bridge in question the road became more lonely. Then Halstead came to the edge of a forest, though a thin one of rather recent growth.

“I’ll walk on for five minutes, anyway,” decided Captain Tom. “After that, if nothing happens, it’ll be time to think of turning back.”

“Hist!” That sound came so sharply out of the dark depths that the boy started, then halted abruptly.

“Halstead! Captain Halstead!” hailed a voice.

“Where are you?” Tom asked, in a louder tone than that which greeted him.

“You’re Captain Halstead, are you?” insisted a voice, not much above a whisper, which the young skipper now located in a clump of bushes between two tall spruce trees.

“Yes; I’m Halstead. Who wants me?”

“Step in this way, please.”

So Tom stepped unhesitatingly from the road, and walked toward the voice, at the same time demanding:

“Are you the one who handed me a note?”

“Yes, but not quite so loudly, please.”

“Why not?” challenged Halstead, simply.

“Well, because our business is to be—er—well, confidential.”

Tom Halstead found himself standing before a tall, slim, well-dressed young man. More than that he could not see in the partial darkness, so the young skipper struck a match and held it up.

“Here,” exclaimed the stranger, hastily, “what are you doing?”

“Trying to get a better idea of you, and whether you are in the least ashamed of your business with me,” Tom replied, quietly.

The stranger, who proved to be red-haired, stood more quietly, gazing intently at this composed young motor boat boy.

“Well,” inquired the stranger, at last, and speaking more pleasantly, “are you satisfied with my appearance?”

“I’ll admit being curious to know what your business with me can be,” Halstead replied.

“You read my note through?”

“Yes, of course. But that did not tell me your business, or your name,” Tom answered.

“Oh, I can tell you all about my business with you, in a few minutes,” the other assured the young skipper.

“And your name, too?”

“Why are you so particular about my name?”

“Why, you see,” smiled Captain Tom, “down in our little country town, the place where I was raised, we always rather wondered at any man who seemed ashamed or reluctant to give his name.”

“Oh, I see,” laughed the other. “And, on the whole, captain, I think your point is rather well taken. So, to begin with, my name is Calvin Rexford. Now, as to my business, you are willing to make a little money now, and a great deal more later on, are you not?”

“How much money?” asked Tom Halstead, bluntly.

“Can you guess how much there is here?” inquired Rexford. He took from one of his pockets and held out a small, compact roll of bills. Tom coolly struck another match, scanning the roll, and discovering that there was a twenty-dollar bill on the outside of it.

“There’s five hundred in this little pile,” observed Mr. Rexford. “Half a thousand dollars. That’s just the starter, you understand. If you obey certain orders you’ll get another little lump of money like this. In the end there’ll be a sum big enough for you to live on the rest of your days. Like the sound of it? And this half thousand goes to you at once, in return for a promise or two. Now, can we undertake business together?”

Though Captain Tom Halstead’s eyes had momentarily glistened at the tempting sight of so much money, he now asked, composedly:

“What’s the business?”

“You’re skipper of Francis Delavan’s ‘Rocket,’ aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You expect to continue to hold the position?”

“Probably all through this summer.”

“Then see here, Captain Halstead, all you have to do is to follow certain orders. One of them, for instance, is, whenever you see another craft near that hoists a red pennant, crossed diagonally by a single white stripe, you’re to have something happen to your boat so that you can’t proceed for some time. You can make believe something happens to the boat, you know.”

“You’ve got hold of the wrong party, my friend,” answered the young skipper, as quietly as ever. “The fellow you want is my chum, Joe Dawson, the ‘Rocket’s’ engineer.”

Rexford looked Tom Halstead over as keenly as was possible in the darkness.

“Do you mean, captain,” he demanded, finally, “that we’ll have to let your friend in on this?”

“Of course,” Tom nodded, “if there’s really anything to be done along the lines you’re describing.”

“What kind of a fellow is this Joe Dawson?”

“Well,” replied Tom, reflectively, “Joe’s hot tempered once in a while. If you proposed anything to him that he considered crooked, he’d most likely hit you over the head with a wrench.”

“So you call my offer a crooked one, do you?” insisted Rexford, a curious note in his voice.

“You’re proposing to buy us out—to pay us to sell out our employer, aren’t you?” asked Halstead, directly.

“Why, I am trying to show you how you can make a very handsome sum of money by being accommodating,” said the young man, slowly.

“You’re asking us to sell out our employer and our own sense of honor, aren’t you?” persisted the young motor boat captain.

“Look here, Halstead, you don’t want to be foolish,” remonstrated the red-haired one. “I’m willing enough to let your friend into this matter, and I’ll make it highly profitable for you both. But don’t get too stiff about it. I’m only making a very handsome offer to buy some of your interest and time.”

“Oh,” smiled Halstead, quizzically. “Pardon me. I thought you were trying to buy my soul.”

The irony, however, was wasted on the other. “Well, now you understand that I’m not,” laughed Rexford, easily. “So we can begin to talk real business. Let us begin by dropping this money into your pocket.”

He attempted to slip the roll of banknotes into one of the boy’s coat pockets, but Halstead quickly side-stepped, receiving the proffered money in his right hand.

“Oh, very well,” laughed Rexford, “do just as you please with the money. It’s yours, you know.”

“Thank you,” acknowledged the young skipper. Then, before Rexford could even guess what he meant to do, Tom Halstead swung back his right arm, bringing his hand up over his shoulder.

“Here, stop that!” quivered Rexford, darting forward and clutching the young skipper’s arm. But the move was too late, for Captain Tom had already hurled the compact little mass of banknotes as far as he could through the forest. On account of Rexford’s sudden movement neither of them heard the money drop to earth.

“What do you mean by that?” demanded the red-haired one, hoarsely, his breath coming fast, his eyes gleaming angrily.

“You told me to do as I pleased with the money,” retorted Tom. “So I got it out of my hands as quickly as possible. I don’t like that kind of money.”

“Do you mean to say that you throw our business over?” cried Rexford.

“Of course I do,” smiled Tom. “Are you so slow-witted that it cost you all that money to find it out?”

“Confound you, I’ve a good mind to give you a good beating,” came tempestuously from the other’s lips.

“Try it,” again smiled Halstead, undauntedly.

“Then we can’t get you on our side?” demanded Rexford, his tone suddenly changing to one of imploring. Still smiling, Captain Tom shook his head. There was a quick step in the bushes behind him, and a sturdy pair of arms wound themselves about the young skipper, while Rexford leaped at him from in front.

“If we can’t count on Halstead,” declared a new voice, from the rear, “then we can’t let him get away from us, either—not when there are millions at stake!”

CHAPTER IV
TOM HALSTEAD’S FIGHT AGAINST ODDS

TOM’S sea-trained muscles could always be relied upon to stand him in good stead at need. He strove, now, like a young panther, to free himself. But this was a battle of one boy against two men, and one of the latter had the boy’s arms wrapped close to his body in a tight embrace.

There was a short, panting struggle, after which the young skipper was bent over. He lurched to the earth, face downward, while his yet unseen assailant fell heavily upon him.

“Fight fair, can’t you?” growled the captain of the “Rocket.”

“This isn’t a fight,” retorted the voice of the newcomer. “It’s a matter of self-preservation. Lie still, can’t you. I don’t want to have to club you out of your senses. It isn’t a gentleman’s kind of work.”

“You’re right it isn’t,” gritted Halstead, though he now lay more quietly, for the auburn-haired Rexford had thrown himself, also, upon him. “There isn’t anything about this business that smacks of the gentleman,” the boy added, tauntingly.

“Hold your tongue, will you?” demanded the unknown one, angrily.

“When it pleases me most,” growled Captain Tom, fast getting into an ugly, reckless mood.

“Rexford, I can hold him,” went on the man. “Station yourself by the youngster’s head. Go as far as you like, if he tries to make any noise. Now, young man, I think you would better listen, while I do the talking. We’re sorry enough to treat you in this fashion, but it’s all your own fault.”

“How is that?” challenged the youthful skipper.

“We gave you a fine chance to make your fortune. You wouldn’t have it. Now, if we let you go, you’d spoil all our plans by repeating what has happened to your employer.”

“Right!” snapped Captain Tom. “That’s just what I’m going to do.”

“Just what you’re not going to do,” retorted the man. “It’ll be many a day before you’ll see anyone we don’t want you to see.”

“What are you talking about?” demanded Halstead, gruffly.

“You’ll find out. Rexford, get out some cord, and we’ll tie this young Indian up. If he tries to yell, hit him as hard as you like, and after that we’ll gag him. Remember, Halstead, you’ve got to keep quiet and go with us. If you behave quietly you won’t be hurt at all. You’ll only be held for safe keeping for a few weeks. Then you’ll be turned loose, with a little purse to console you for your present loss of liberty.”

That didn’t sound very dangerous, but the young motor boat skipper was not one who would tamely submit to any such proposition. Yet he said nothing as the unknown man rose from his back, to kneel beside him while Rexford tied his hands.

Just as that shifting was accomplished, however, Tom Halstead rolled swiftly over on his back. With a cry of anger the man made a swift movement to bend over the lad. It was an unfortunate move. One of Halstead’s flying feet caught him squarely in the face. Another kick was aimed at Rexford, who sprang back out of the danger zone.

“Now I don’t care what you do to the boy!” snarled the unknown, after venting a groan of pain and raising his hands to his face, which, however, had not been struck hard enough to mark it. “Sail in, Rexford, and help me teach the young idiot a lesson.”

But Captain Tom had made brisk use of that moment of freedom. As his heels struck the earth again he threw his arms and body forward, leaping to his feet. In the instant he started running.

“Here, you can’t get away—don’t attempt it!” growled the unknown, bolting after the boy.

Rexford, being at one side, ran so as to head off the young skipper ere he could reach the road. And Rexford at once showed signs of being a sprinter.

If either of the pair caught hold of him Tom Halstead knew that capture would be swift enough. Well ahead of the unknown, Halstead veered enough to give him another momentary start on Rexford.

Tom darted to a young oak tree, one of whose branches hung low. This gave an opportunity not to be overlooked at such a moment. Leaping at the branch, grappling with it with both hands, Halstead drew himself up with a sailor’s speed and surety. From that he stepped like a flash to the next higher branch. Now, he grinned down at his enemies.

Rexford and the unknown collided with each other just beside the trunk of that tree.

“I hope you won’t either of you try to follow me up here,” hinted Captain Tom, mockingly. “If you do, I shall have to kick one of you in the face.”

Holding on above him, he swung one foot suggestively. It was not too dark for the pair below to realize how much bodily risk there would be in attacking this gritty youngster in his present place of advantage.

“You’re all right up there,” admitted Rexford, coldly. “We can’t come up after you without getting damaged heads. But, my boy, what is to hinder us from throwing enough stones up there to make it pretty warm for you?”

Tom’s grin of confidence suddenly vanished. He had overlooked the possibility of being dislodged by a volley or two of stones. Had the field been clear for a six-foot start from his tormentors he would have felt like taking the chance of leaping down and taking to his heels once more. But they were right at hand, below. The boy felt himself trapped.

“Don’t let him get away,” advised Rexford. “I’m going into the road after a few stones.”

The unknown got even closer to the base of the tree. Rexford, after a careful look at the relative positions of trapper and trapped, ran out to the road.

“Who are we? Who are we? C-o-l-b-y! Rah! rah! rah!”

Down the road came volleys of ringing yells, as though from the throats of a lot of happy savages.

“Rah! rah! rah!”

“College boys, or a lot of young fellows masquerading as such!” flashed jubilantly through Tom Halstead’s brain.

“Rah! rah! rah! Wow! Right here! Trouble! Hustle!” roared Tom, as huskily as his lung power permitted.

“Stop that, you infernal imp!” snarled Rexford, leaping back from the road.

“Colby! Here on the run! Trouble!” roared Halstead at the top of his voice.

“What’s that? Who’s there?” came a hail from up the road.

Whizz-zz! Thump! A stone, guided by Rexford’s hand, came through the air, glancing from one of Halstead’s shins.

“Hustle here quick! Follow the voice!” roared Tom.

He ducked his head just in time to avoid a stone propelled at his face by Rexford.

“Rah! rah! Hold on! We’re coming. Trouble, you say? Colby to the mix-up and the happy ending!”

“Come, Rexford! We’ve got to sprint,” advised the unknown.

Up the road the sound of charging feet came nearer. Rexford and his companion sprang into the woods, running as fast as they could go. But Halstead wisely concluded to remain treed until he beheld more than a dozen athletic looking young men under the tree. Then he slid to the ground.

“Did you call ‘trouble’?” demanded one of the newcomers.

“I did,” the young skipper admitted.

“Then hand over the goods! Show us the face of trouble, or take your punishment as a raiser of false hopes!” insisted the leader of the boys.

“And be quick about it. We haven’t seen any trouble in an hour,” proclaimed another of the boisterous crowd.

“Come into these woods with me,” begged Halstead. “Scatter and sprint. There are two men trying to get away—the rascals! If you can find them for me I’ll try to have them held by the police for assault.”

“What do they look like?”

Halstead gave a quick description of Rexford. Of the unknown one the young skipper could say only that he was a dark-haired man of thirty, clad in a gray suit.

The spirit of adventure being upon these young fellows, they scattered, dashing through the woods on a chance of finding anything that might look like a scrimmage. Five minutes of strenuous chasing, however, failed to discover Rexford or his companion, who must have known these woods well. Then the rah-rah boys, hot and disgusted, came back to the road.

“See here, young man,” remarked one of their leaders, severely, “you haven’t been trifling with our young hopes, have you?”

“On my word of honor, no,” Tom replied, earnestly. Then a happy, somewhat vengeful thought struck him.

“See here, fellows,” he went on, “I know pretty near the spot where a roll of five hundred dollars lies in the woods yonder. If you can find it I guess it will be yours, for frolic or dividing, just as you like.”

But that proved an almost dangerous piece of information to offer.

“Five hundred—what?” scowled the leader of the young men.

“We’ve found a crazy boy!” roared another.

“To the asylum with him!”

“No! Drag him along and duck him—that will be enough!”

Whooping, these irresponsible young fellows charged down upon Halstead. But he knew better than to run. Laughing, he stood his ground.

“Oh, well, if you won’t believe me,” he said, with mock resignation, “let it go at that. But what are you going to do?”

“Listen, child!” roared the leader of the crowd. “We are pushing forward for the surprise and capture of East Hampton. Willst go with us, and witness scenes of military glory?”

“I’m gladly with you for going to town,” replied the young skipper.

“Then come along. Preserve the utmost silence and stealth, all ye, my brave men,” ordered the leader, leaping out into the road.

“Rah, rah, rah!” they answered him, roaringly, and turned their faces townward. Tom glad to get out of it all so easily, stepped along with them.

“What was that about trouble, younker?” one of the supposed college boys asked Halstead. “Did you think you saw a shadow among the trees?”

“It was a good deal more than a shadow,” insisted Halstead. “I was attacked by two men.”

Tom’s questioner looked at him searchingly, then replied good-humoredly:

“Oh, well, say no more about it, and I guess the fellows will forget. It gave us a good excuse for a sprint, anyway.”

To Halstead it looked as though these college boys suspected him of some hoax, but were good-naturedly willing to overlook the joke on them. The young skipper was willing to accept the protection of their boisterous, husky companionship on any terms until safely out of the woods and over the bridge once more. As he found himself entering the town again Tom slipped away, unobserved, from the noisy dozen or more. Two or three minutes later he was back at the hotel.

Inquiry showed that Messrs. Delavan and Moddridge had not yet returned. Captain Tom again sought a veranda chair, and, sitting down, awaited their coming.

CHAPTER V
MR. MODDRIDGE’S NERVES CUT LOOSE

UP in Mr. Delavan’s suite of rooms Eben Moddridge paced the floor in great excitement. For Captain Tom Halstead had just finished his story of the night’s queer happening.

Francis Delavan, on the other hand, drew slowly, easily, at his cigar, his outward composure not in the least ruffled.

Yet, at the outset, Moddridge had been the one to doubt the young motor boat skipper’s strange yarn. Delavan, on the other hand, had believed it implicitly. At the end the nervous smaller man was also a believer.

“Frank,” declared Eben Moddridge, “this is a simply atrocious state of affairs. There is a plot against us, and a desperate, well-organized one.”

“Let them plot, then,” smiled Delavan. “It’s all right, since we are warned. Yet, Halstead, I’m just a bit disappointed that you didn’t pretend to fall in with the schemes of your strangers. You would have learned more of what is planned against us.”

“I don’t believe they intended to tell me anything definite, sir,” Captain Tom answered, slowly. “They spoke of a signal, on seeing which I was to pretend that the ‘Rocket’ was disabled and unable to proceed. I have an idea, Mr. Delavan, that all their other instructions would have been as vague, as far as real information is concerned.”

“I dare say you are right, my boy,” nodded the “Rocket’s” owner. “You did best, after all, no doubt. I must confess myself puzzled, though. Your descriptions of the two men don’t fit any possible enemies that I can call to mind.”

“They were most likely agents, acting for someone else, don’t you think, Mr. Delavan?”

“Undoubtedly, captain.”

“Frank,” broke in Eben Moddridge, in a shaking voice, as he halted, looking the picture of nervous breakdown, “you must engage detectives instantly.”

“Nonsense, Eben,” retorted his friend.

“Or at least, two or three strong, daring men who will remain with you, to defend you against any possible attack.”

Mr. Delavan laughed heartily.

“Eben,” he demanded, “what on earth ails you?”

“Oh, I am so nervous!” moaned the other. “I see dangers, horrors, ahead of us!”

Francis Delavan grinned. Then, noting the ashen-gray look on his friend’s face, he stepped over, walking with the nervous one and laying a kindly hand on the other’s shoulder.

“Eben, you always let yourself get unduly excited. What you need, just now, is a good, sound night’s sleep.”

“Sleep?” shuddered the nervous one. “I couldn’t think of it. My nerves——”

“You’ve let them cut loose again, Eben, and make life a burden to you. There’s no need of it.”

“But you know, Frank, the big money deals we’re engaged in. You know well that some men would give their souls to possess our information, both that which we have and expect to get.”

“True, perhaps,” admitted Mr. Delavan, nodding. “But the only way they have tried to reach us is through the bribing of our young captain. Halstead and his friends can’t be bribed, so the rascals can’t hope to do anything. I have full faith in our crew.”

“Something terrible is almost certain to happen, just the same,” insisted Mr. Moddridge, his voice quaking.

“Oh, nonsense, man! Go to sleep. Your nerves need rest.”

“Laugh at me,” muttered Moddridge, his face now showing a sickly smile. “But the day will come soon, Frank, when you will wish you had listened to me.”

“But haven’t I listened to you?” inquired Mr. Delavan, with a mock-injured air. “Eben, are you going to be disappointed because I won’t let my nerves rule me, too?”

“I wish your nerves did get the upper hand once in a while,” groaned the smaller man. “Then you’d know what I feel. I tell you, Frank, the immediate future looks dark—dark!”

Mr. Delavan laughed jovially.

“Something fearfully unfortunate is going to happen,” insisted the man of nerves.

“Something very unfortunate,” assented Delavan. “We’re going to add something in the way of millions to our fortunes, and those millions will have to be looked after. Eben, a rich man’s lot isn’t a happy one, is it?”

“Happy?” groaned Moddridge. “I should say not.”

“Then I’ll tell you what to do,” proposed Mr. Delavan. “Turn your miserable fortune over to Halstead, and then sit by to watch him going to pieces with worry.”

Mr. Moddridge, however, refused to be comforted, or to take a humorous view of anything.

“Halstead,” said Mr. Delavan, going over and resting a hand on the young captain’s shoulder, “I don’t expect to need the ‘Rocket’ for any purpose to-morrow, but I can’t tell definitely yet. Go back on board. To-morrow keep all hands on board or close by, so that you can take the boat out if needed. Enjoy yourselves all you can. Eat the best that you can find aboard. Don’t bother about to-night’s happenings—my friend, Moddridge, will attend to all of that. If it happens that you, or Dawson, are approached again by strangers, let them think that you might be induced to fall in with their plans, after all, and then you can let me know what follows. Moddridge and I are playing a peculiar and big game with the money market, and I’ve no doubt that others would like to steal or bribe their way into it. But I trust you. Good night, my boy.”

So Captain Tom strolled back to the pier, thinking over a good many things. As he came in sight of the “Rocket” at her berth he noted that the only lights showing were one deck light, aft, and the gleam that came through the port-holes of the crew’s quarters forward. It looked as though Joe Dawson and Jed Prentiss had turned in for the night, or were about to do so.

One of the small Shinnecock Bay freight boats lay in at the other side of the same pier. A good many cases and barrels were piled up, as though awaiting shipment. Captain Tom stepped over to his own side of the pier, still thinking intently.

Just as the young skipper turned toward the “Rocket’s” gang-plank a heavy object came up over one of the freight piles, flying through the air. Some instinct of danger made young Halstead leap aside. Bump! An iron hitching weight struck the gang-plank with a bang.

For just an instant Captain Tom stood gazing at that heavy missile almost in a daze.

“That was aimed at my legs. The intention must have been to cripple me!” leaped to his lips.

Then, in a lustier voice, he roared:

“Joe! Jed! Tumble out on deck! lively, now!”

CHAPTER VI
THE SIGN OF MISCHIEF

THE next instant after that rousing hail there was a sound of scrambling below. Halstead did not wait. Turning, he raced around the end of that pile of freight. He was in time to hear a loud splash in the water astern of the little freight steamer, though not in time to see who or what jumped. Then he heard Joe and Jed on the “Rocket’s” deck.

“Over here, fellows!” he called. “And come quickly!” Then as his two friends, partly disrobed, rushed to his side, Captain Tom pointed to the water.

“Someone threw a weight at me,” he explained. “He jumped in. Watch to see him rise. Jed, you watch from the other side of the pier. Joe, take the end—and hustle!”

Thus distributed, the crew of the “Rocket” watched and listened for the rising of Tom Halstead’s recent assailant. Time went by, however, until it was certain that no human being could any longer remain under water. Yet no head showed, nor was any being heard making the shore. Then the two other boys came back to their young leader, who was looking extremely thoughtful.

“I wonder,” mused Tom, aloud, “whether I’ve had a good one played on me? You see that weight resting yonder on our gang-plank. That was thrown at me from behind this pile of freight. After yelling for you fellows, I rushed over here just in time to hear a splash. And now it has struck me that some mighty smooth chap may have pitched another weight into the water, then doubled around the freight and so got ashore and away.”

“That was the trick, I guess,” nodded Joe Dawson, thoughtfully. “But what on earth was it all about, anyway, Tom?”

“We’ll take a look over this freight tub first, and then I’ll tell you,” proposed Halstead, swinging himself on board the little steamer. But every door and hatchway on that craft had been made fast for the night, and there appeared to be no one aboard. Then the young skipper led his friends back to the “Rocket.”

“Now, let’s have the yarn,” begged Jed, who, from being sleepy ten minutes before, was suddenly very much awake.

After they had seated themselves on the top of the cabin, Halstead, in low tones, described his brief adventures of the evening.

“Whatever someone’s plan is,” he wound up, earnestly, “it seems to be a sure thing that they don’t want this boat to keep in commission. That weight, if I hadn’t jumped, would very likely have broken one of my legs. So, fellows, do you believe we’ve any right to sleep all hands at the same time, while tied to this pier?”

“Though I’m soon going to be pretty drowsy,” admitted Joe Dawson, “I honestly don’t believe we’ve any right to go below without a watch. I’m ready to stand my share of watch.”

“Me, too,” pledged Jed, ungrammatically.

“Then we’ll divide the night, to six in the morning, into three watches,” concluded the young motor boat skipper, looking at his timepiece. “You fellows go below as soon as you like. I’ll take the first third of the night.”

Joe and Jed were not long in going below, but the former was soon on deck again.

“Here’s something from the engine room that may come in handy, in case of need,” hinted Dawson, laying two wrenches on top of the deck-house beside the young captain. “You can use ’em for clubs, or throw ’em, if you see anything more’n shadows about.”

Tom Halstead laughed, though he held the wrenches, balancing them and figuring on what sort of missiles they would make at need.

The night grew late as Captain Tom still watched. Even the lights in the nearby hotels began to go out. All life on the water had stopped some time before. Halstead had already brought the weight aboard and stowed it in the cabin below. He wanted to show it to his employer in the morning.

Once or twice Halstead thought he heard suspicious sounds near the pier. Each time, gripping a wrench in his right hand, he went boldly to investigate. No real sign of a prowler, however, appeared as the time glided by.

“It’s so quiet I could almost think I had been dreaming things to-night,” thought Tom, musingly, as he looked out at the few lights that shone over the water. “We fellows will have to try to keep this weight-throwing affair from Mr. Moddridge, or the poor fellow will have another heavy nervous attack. I don’t believe Mr. Delavan will tell him, if we don’t.”

At two bells past midnight (one o’clock) the young skipper called Jed on deck, then turned in. The crew’s quarters on the “Rocket” consisted of two tiny staterooms, each containing two berths, and little else. Tom and Joe berthed together. Joe was breathing soundly, in deepest sleep, when Halstead turned in. The latter, later in the night, was so deep in slumber that he did not know when Jed called Joe to take the last night watch on deck.

Captain Tom, in fact, knew nothing until Joe Dawson stepped into the little stateroom and shook him by the shoulder.

“It’s nearly eight o’clock, old fellow,” rang Joe’s cheery voice, “and Jed has nearly finished cooking the best breakfast he could find on board. Can’t you smell it?”

“Indeed I can,” answered the young skipper, turning out hastily, and with an almost guilty feeling over having slept so long. What if the owner should come aboard, wanting an immediate start made? While dressing he made a remark of that kind to Dawson, who only smiled.

“Where’s the boat that belongs at the port davits?” asked the young skipper, as he stepped on deck and immediately noted the absence of the small boat.

“Oh, a fellow came along and asked if he could have the boat for a little while,” said Joe, dryly.

“And you let him have it?”

“I figured that I had to,” laughed Joe. “The fellow was our owner.”

“Mr. Delavan? What did he want the boat for?”

“He said Mr. Moddridge was sound asleep, for a wonder, and that he had slipped down for a little early morning exercise.”

“What time did he take the boat?” questioned Captain Tom.

“About six o’clock. He rowed out south over the bay, and I haven’t seen him since.”

“Well, I suppose it’s the owner’s business if he wants to borrow his own boat and go for a row on the bay,” replied Tom.

“Breakfast!” hailed Steward Jed. The chums disappeared below decks forward, and for the next half hour gave most of their thoughts to the enjoyment of the morning meal. Then the young engineer and captain returned to the deck.

“Mr. Delavan said he wasn’t likely to use this craft to-day, and I’ll be as well pleased if he doesn’t,” said Halstead. An August morning mist was just more than barely visible as it formed out on the ocean, rolling slowly inward. The remainder of the forenoon was likely to be as foggy as on the day before.

“The rest will do the engine good,” said Dawson meditatively. “These engines that are made for racing speeds are all right at the trick if the speed isn’t pushed too often. We did quite some speeding yesterday, so I’m glad if the engine does get a rest.”

“That’s right,” nodded Tom. “No matter if you take the finest care possible of a gasoline motor, if the engine is pushed too hard and some little thing goes wrong, the average owner is likely to think he has an incompetent engineer.”

“That wasn’t the way, though, with Mr. Prescott,” argued Joe. “Nor with Mr. Dunstan, either. They both trusted everything about the boats to us. They’d sooner blame the boat or engine-builders than blame us.”

“From all indications,” pursued Captain Tom, “Mr. Delavan is likely to prove the most indulgent owner of all. Say, I wonder what Mr. Delavan would look like, worried?”

“It would be easier to guess what Mr. Moddridge would look like,” laughed Joe.

“‘Speaking of angels——’” quoted Captain Tom, dryly. Joe wheeled about to look up beyond the shore end of the pier. Eben Moddridge was coming toward them on a nervous, jerky run. He reached the pier and boarded the boat, all out of breath.

“Is Mr. Delavan aboard?” he demanded, pantingly.

“Mr. Delavan took the small boat from the port davits and went for a row, sir, at about six this morning,” reported Captain Tom.

“And hasn’t returned?” asked Mr. Moddridge, eyes and mouth opening wide at the same time. “Which way did he go?”

“Out toward the inlet, sir,” Joe answered, pointing southward.

“And the fog rolling in there now!” exclaimed Moddridge, looking more nervous every instant. “Then what are you doing here? Why aren’t you out yonder trying to find your employer?”

“We will start, if you wish,” Captain Tom agreed.

“Wish?” echoed the nervous one, “I command it!”

Eben Moddridge, not being the owner, could issue no order that the young skipper was bound to obey. But Halstead himself thought it would be wholly wise to go out in search of his employer. The “Rocket’s” bow and stern hawsers were quickly cast off by Jed, while Joe gave the wheel a few vigorous turns in the engine room. The craft fell off from the pier, then, at slow speed, nosed straight out for the inlet.

“Jed, take a forward watch, at port side,” called the young skipper. “Mr. Moddridge, do you mind keeping a lookout at starboard?”

The nervous one stationed himself on the side indicated, not far from the young helmsman.

“Something has happened to Frank! I know it, I know it!” muttered Eben Moddridge, in deep agitation. “Oh, why did I sleep so late? Why didn’t I keep an eye open to watch that reckless fellow? But he’ll never consent to be governed by me.”

Tom, though he said nothing, smiled a bit grimly, at thought of what it would be like for one to be ruled by Eben Moddridge.

At first, despite the growing fog, the searchers could see for a few hundred feet to either side of them. This gradually narrowed down to two hundred feet, or so, at the inlet. A little further out they could make nothing out distinctly at a distance greater than sixty feet Captain Halstead sounded the whistle frequently, now.

“Stop the boat!” yelled Eben Moddridge, frantically, after a while, as he peered ahead at starboard. “Don’t you see it? Don’t you see that?”

He was pointing, jumping up and down, staring wildly. Tom caught sight of the object, too. He did not stop the boat, but slackened her speed down to little more than bare headway, throwing the helm hard over and bringing the boat’s nose sharply around to starboard.

“Jed, a boat-hook!” shouted the young skipper. “Be ready to make fast as soon as we get alongside.”

Joe Dawson sprang up from the engine room for a brief look. No wonder he started, for the “Rocket” was slowly, cumbrously, describing a circle around an object that proved to be the port boat, bobbing up and down on the light waves. The small boat was keel up. Eben Moddridge, as he stared at it, became speechless from dread and terror.

Jed, at the right moment, made fast with the boat-hook, drawing the small craft in alongside. While he was doing so Joe suddenly cried:

“And say! Look there!”

Coming in on the start of the flood tide, floated a straw hat and a coat—beyond a doubt those lately worn by Francis Delavan.

“Now, what do you say to that?” gasped Eben Moddridge, turning deathly pale and looking as though he must sink to the deck.

A great fear was tugging at the heart of Captain Tom Halstead, though he managed to reply, calmly enough:

“I don’t know just what it means, Mr. Moddridge, but it’s surely the sign of mischief of some sort.”

CHAPTER VII
WORKING OUT THE PUZZLE

JED, amid all the excitement, deftly captured with the boat-hook the painter of the small boat, then towed that little craft astern, making it fast.

Captain Tom now manœuvred the “Rocket” alongside of the floating coat. The straw hat was also recovered and pulled aboard.

“They’re his—both the hat and the coat!” cried Moddridge, in shaking accents. “See, here are even letters belonging to Delavan in this pocket!”

The nervous one never looked nearer to swooning than he did at that moment. He tried to rise, but would have tottered backward had not Joe Dawson caught him and steadied him.

“Easy, sir. You’ll best keep your wits now, all of ’em,” counseled Joe, quietly. “If there’s any work to be done, you’ll have to direct it, you know.”

With Joe’s aid Eben Moddridge reached the rail. Then Joe brought a chair and Mr. Moddridge sat down.

“You can’t see the—the—poor Delavan?” fluttered Moddridge, in the greatest agitation, as he stared out over the waters.

“We haven’t sighted Mr. Delavan as yet,” Captain Tom replied. “But you may be sure, sir, we’re going to make a most thorough search.”

“Prentiss, help me below,” begged Moddridge, his face still ashen white and his teeth chattering. “I—I can’t stand any more of this.”

Indeed, the poor fellow’s looks fully bore out his words as Jed helped him below.

“Put him in a berth,” Tom murmured after them. “Better stay with him for the present, Jed.”

Then the “Rocket” was started on a very slow cruise over all the waters nearby. After a few minutes Captain Halstead began to feel that further search, especially in the fog, would be useless. Yet he continued the hunt for more than an hour. No further traces, however, were found of the boat’s owner—or late owner. Which?

Every few minutes Jed was sent up to deck to ask uselessly for news.

“How’s Mr. Moddridge getting along?” queried Captain Tom, at last.

“If he does any worse,” confided Jed, “he won’t live to reach the pier. I never saw a man more unstrung. He keeps insisting that he knows Mr. Delavan is dead—drowned.”

“And I’m almost equally positive that nothing of the sort has happened to Mr. Delavan,” Tom Halstead retorted.

“You——?” gasped Jed, wonderingly, but could go no further, his astonishment was so intense.

“I’m of the same opinion as Tom,” Joe Dawson added, quietly.

“You two have been talking it over, then?” Jed queried.

“Not very much,” Joe replied. “But there are some things about this case that look mighty queer for a drowning.”

“But it looks,” protested Jed, “as though Mr. Delavan had accidentally tipped the boat and gone overboard.”

“When you once begin to think,” retorted Joe, stubbornly, “it looks like nothing of the sort.”

Jed Prentiss looked wonderingly from one to the other, but Tom cut in with:

“Take the wheel, Joe, and keep the whistle sounding, for the fog is still thicker than I like to see it. I’m going below to talk with Mr. Delavan’s friend. Jed, you’ll be more useful on deck, at present.”

Moddridge was lying in a berth in the cabin, moaning and holding a handkerchief over his eyes.

“I’ve come to ask you what I’m to do, sir?” Tom called briskly, thinking thus to rouse the nervous one to action.

The only response was another moan.

“Come, rouse yourself, please, and think what’s to be done in your friend’s interests,” urged the young skipper.

There was another moan, before Moddridge answered, in a sepulchral voice:

“Don’t ask me, Halstead.”

“Right! I guess I won’t,” Tom rejoined, thoughtfully. “You’re so utterly upset that I guess I can furnish better instructions myself.”

“Oh, yes, please,” begged the other, helplessly. “And leave me alone, Halstead, or else keep quiet.”

“But I’ve got to ask some questions, sir, and you’ll have to answer them,” Tom went on. “So, sir, it seems to me that you will do best to come on deck, into the open air.”

“Do you—you—really think so?” faltered the stricken one.

“It will be much better for you to be in the air, Mr. Moddridge.”

“I’d go if I could, but I feel that I simply haven’t the strength to get there,” mumbled the nervous man.

“I’ll show you how,” responded Captain Tom, briskly, almost cheerily. “Steady, now, sir. There; it’s as easy as can be.”

Tom Halstead lifted the little man bodily out of the berth, getting a good hold on him and carrying him out to the after deck, where he deposited the collapsed burden in one of the wicker arm-chairs.

“Now, in the first place, Mr. Moddridge,” began Tom, “try to get it fixed in your mind that your friend isn’t drowned—that there isn’t the least probability of any such fate having overtaken him.”

“Nonsense!” declared Eben Moddridge, feebly.

“Perhaps you think Mr. Delavan stood up in the boat, and it tipped and let him over,” argued Tom. “But that was next-door to impossible.”

“How impossible?” demanded Moddridge, taking notice sufficiently to sit up a little more.

“Why, the port boat, Mr. Moddridge, on account of her heavy keel, her comparatively broad beam and other peculiarities, belongs to a class of what are called ‘self-righting’ boats. It would take a deliberate effort, by a very strong man, to capsize such a boat. She’s towing astern now. After a good deal of effort we righted her.”

For a moment Eben Moddridge looked hopeful. Then he sank back once more, all but collapsing.

“Nonsense,” he remonstrated. “Any little boat of that size can be easily tipped over.”

“The boat can’t be capsized easily, I assure you,” Tom argued. “I know the type of boat, and understand what I am talking about. Now, we found the boat capsized. It probably took more than one man to do it. Mr. Delavan could hardly have done it alone. If it took others to help in capsizing the boat, what is more likely than that others have seized him, and then upset the boat in order to make it appear that he had fallen overboard and been drowned? Mr. Moddridge, are there, or are there not, men who would be glad to seize Mr. Delavan for a while, for the benefit of what information they might expect to frighten or torment out of him?”

“Yes, yes, yes!” cried the nervous man, firing up for the instant and rising to his feet full of new, brief energy. Then he sank back into the chair.

“But I don’t believe that happened,” he went on, brokenly. “I am quite convinced that my friend was drowned by the capsizing of the small boat.”

“Wait a few moments, Mr. Moddridge, and we’ll show you, then,” proposed Captain Tom, turning and making a signal to Joe Dawson. “Jed, keep the bridge deck, and sound the whistle regularly.”

Captain and engineer disappeared below, going to their room. They were quickly back, clad only in their bathing suits.

“Now, you keep your eyes on us, Mr. Moddridge,” young Halstead requested. “Mr. Delavan is a heavy man, but Joe and I, together, are much heavier than he. We’ll show you how hard it is to upset a boat of this type.”

Though the boat’s own oars had not been recovered, there was another pair aboard that would serve. Joe brought these, while Halstead brought the port boat alongside of the barely moving motor boat. Both boys stepped down into the smaller craft. Joe applied himself at the oars. A slight lifting of the fog now made objects visible for a radius of some two hundred feet.

“Watch us,” called Tom, when the port boat was some forty feet away from the “Rocket.”

Both boys stood up, each resting a foot on the same gunwale of that little port boat. They bent far forward. The boat heeled; they even forced it to take in some water from the gently rolling sea. Then, as they stepped back, the little craft quickly righted itself.

“Now, come on, Joe,” proposed the young skipper. “We’ll both stand with our backs to the gunwale. We’ll tip the boat, and then fall backward into the water, just as though it were a real accident.”

Wholly at home on or in the water, the two chums went through the manœuvre with reckless abandon. Once more they succeeded in making the little craft heel over and take in some water.

“Now!” shouted Halstead.

Both boys lurched heavily backward, striking the water and causing the port boat to heel more than it had done. Both splashed and disappeared under the water, but the boat righted itself as soon as relieved of the weight of their bodies.

Clutching the port rail of the “Rocket,” Eben Moddridge looked on in almost a trance of fascination. A slight gasp left his lips as he saw the young captain and engineer vanish under the waves; but they quickly reappeared, swimming for the port boat, and climbing on board after recovering the oars.

“Now, you ought to be convinced that this boat couldn’t have been capsized and left floating keel-up by any accident to Mr. Delavan,” hailed Tom Halstead, as Joe rowed in alongside.

“I—I am convinced—almost,” chattered Moddridge, excitedly.

“Then please take our word for whatever you can’t quite realize,” begged the young skipper, as he clambered aboard the “Rocket.” “Come on, Joe, we’ll get into dry clothes. Mr. Moddridge, be sure of one thing: if any accident happened to Mr. Delavan, there were others present when it happened.”

With that parting assurance Halstead and his chum vanished below. Almost incredibly soon they were once more on deck, appareled in dry clothing. Jed then went to bale out the port boat, which was next hoisted to her proper davits.

As Captain Tom, still thinking fast and hard, took his place at the wheel, Eben Moddridge, even though he moved somewhat shakily, managed to climb the steps from the after deck and take the chair nearest to the young skipper.

“Halstead,” he queried, hoarsely, “you even went so—so—far as to declare that you d-d-don’t believe Frank Delavan to be drowned.”

“I don’t believe it in the least,” Captain Tom declared, stoutly. “Now, Mr. Moddridge, if we’re to be of real help to you, you must answer some questions, and you must answer them fully and clearly. Will you do so?”

“I—I’ll try.”

“On your honor as a man, sir, do you know of any reason why Mr. Delavan should want to disappear, leaving behind the impression that he had been drowned?”

“G-g-good heavens, no!” shuddered the nervous one. “Want to disappear? Why Frank Delavan has every reason in the world for wanting to keep in close touch with New York, and with me, his associate in some present big deals.”

“Then, if he has disappeared, as seems evident, it must have been through the compulsion of some other parties?”

“Yes—most absolutely, yes!”

“Mr. Moddridge,” pursued the “Rocket’s” young skipper, impressively, “have you any idea who those other persons are?”

Moddridge’s face worked peculiarly for a few seconds, before he replied, slowly, hesitatingly:

“I might suspect any one of a score of men—perhaps almost the same score that Frank Delavan might name under the same conditions. But I pledge you my word, Halstead, that I do not know enough to suspect any one man above all others. It would be all guess-work.”

Hesitatingly as this response had been delivered, Tom, watching his man, felt certain that Eben Moddridge was trying to speak the truth.

“Then,” said the young skipper, at last, very deliberately, “since it’s a pretty sure thing, in our minds, that Mr. Delavan wasn’t drowned through accident, there can’t be much sense in trying further to find his body. Instead, our search must be after those who may be holding him, against his will, aboard some craft in these waters.”

Joe, listening nearby, nodded his approval of this decision.

“We can’t do much, though, until this confounded fog lifts,” groaned young Halstead.

Just as he was reaching to sound the whistle once more Captain Tom’s hand was arrested by a sound that made Joe and Jed also start slightly.

Then out of the fog, three hundred feet away, going at fifteen miles an hour, or more, glided swiftly the same long, narrow racing craft they had encountered the day before.

That strange craft crossed the “Rocket’s” bow, at least a hundred and fifty feet away.

“Racer ahoy!” bawled the youthful skipper, in his loudest voice.

But the swift craft vanished into the fog on the other side.

Was it fancy, or were all three of the young motor boat boys dreaming when they believed that back from that swift-moving racer came a sound of mocking laughter?

“Get into the engine room, Joe,” shouted Captain Tom. “Jed, up forward, on lookout!”

With that the young skipper swung around his speed control. The “Rocket,” obeying the impulse, leaped forward, then gradually settled down into a steady gait, while the young skipper strenuously threw his steering wheel over.

“What are you going to do, Halstead?” demanded Eben Moddridge, leaping to his feet as he caught the infection of this new excitement.

“Do?” uttered Captain Tom. “That’s the same craft that hung about us yesterday, plainly trying to nose into our secrets. The same craft that afterwards tried to play a trick on us to make us reach East Hampton late. And just now the fellows aboard the stranger laughed at us. What am I going to do? Why, sir, we’re going after her, going to overhaul her, if there’s the speed in the ‘Rocket.’ We’ll even try to board that stranger, Mr. Moddridge, and see whether Francis Delavan is aboard against his own will!”