CHAPTER XV
A DAVID FOR A GOLIATH
From his pockets the big fellow brought out a coil of stout cord. Without much trouble he slipped a noose over one of Tom's wrists. Then began an active fight, the object of which, on the black man's part, was to make the other wrist secure.
But here Tom developed an amount of agility and a skill in fighting that angered Sambo.
"Doggone yo', ef yo' won't take it peaceable-like, den yo'll get it do odder way."
With that, Sambo delivered a blow that made young Reade see stars. His head swam dizzily. Now, the black man secured the other wrist, making a turn and a knot that would have done credit to an expert.
But about that time something else happened. Whack! A blow from a club landed across the negro's head.
"Who doin' dat?" demanded the negro, blinking and half turning.
"I did eet, you miser-r-r-rable black smoke, and I do eet again!" rang the voice of Nicolas, as that valiant Mexican circled around the negro.
"Yo' blow away, yaller baby!" jeered Sambo, whose head had been not at all hurt by the blow.
"I show you eel I run away!" bridled up Nicolas.
Tom now began to recover enough to know that his faithful servant was on the scene.
"Scoot, Nicolas!" urged Tom, in a gasping Voice. "Run for all you're worth. This fellow will eat you up. Run and bring help."
"Senor, I can wheep him with one hand!" vaunted the little Mexican.
"Run, I tell you, and get help. Be like a flash, man!"
"As you say, Senor, but—-"
Nicolas turned, speeding away.
His escape, however, would interfere, possibly, with the plans of Sambo.
The big black leaped up, racing after Nicolas.
As the Mexican was a little fellow, and short of leg, it was not long before the pursuer caught up with him.
"Hol' on, yo' yaller rascal!" laughed Sambo, reaching out for the Mexican.
Nicolas wheeled about, dancing out of reach of the negro's massive hands.
"Stand still, yo' li'l' Greaser!" laughed Sambo.
"Now you have insult me, and I show you what I do to you!" snarled Nicolas, his brown face aflame at the taunting word, "Greaser."
"Come heah!" jeered Sambo, making a bound and reaching for the small man.
Nicolas dodged, but he did not run away. Instead, he bobbed up inside of the negro's reach. The Mexican thrust out his slim, sinewy right-hand forefinger. A vicious poke he gave with it, landing sharply on a spot just about an inch and a quarter below the base of the negro's breast bone.
"Woof!" panted Sambo, half doubling, for Nicolas had touched a tender spot.
"You have insult me! You call me mean name!" raged Nicolas. "Stand steel, you big black smoke!"
Again Nicolas ducked and rushed in. Once more he employed his forefinger tip in the same fashion, and with more power.
"O-o-o-o-o-h! Wow!" gasped Sambo, this time doubling nearly to the ground.
"Get away, chile! I doan' wan' no mo' ob yo'!"
"You have insult," insisted Nicolas angrily, "and I do much more yet to you."
This time the negro appeared almost helpless. Nicolas danced about, looking for an opening. In desperation Sambo struck out with his powerful left. It gave the Mexican the chance he wanted. Darting in, he repeated his trick for the third time.
The bulky negro lay down, groaning. He had too little breath left to be dangerous.
While this was going on Tom Reade had rolled over on his face. From this position he succeeded in getting to his knees. Then he rose and hastened toward the Mexican.
"Nicolas, you're surely a little terror!" Reade admitted, admiringly.
"Now, untie my hands and we'll take care of Sambo."
"Wait—-jus' one leetle moment, Senor," begged the Mexican. He turned back to Sambo, that forefinger ready for another jab.
"Fo' de lub ob goodness—-" gasped Sambo. But Nicolas was determined. He made the jab, and Sambo all but lost the little breath that was in him.
"Now, Senor, we do it all in one second," proclaimed the Mexican. From his pocket he drew a knife, springing the blade open. Snip! snip! and the young engineer was free of his lashings.
"There's plenty of this cord left," declared Tom. "We'll fix up our black friend."
"Do not use that word, Senor," implored Nicolas. "He is no good! He is scoundrel! He call me Greaser, an' I will keeck off his head for eet!"
"Wait until we get him tied," Tom proposed.
Sambo, by this time, had gained strength enough to sit up. He was wondering whether he could rise to his feet and sprint away from this dangerous little fury of a Mexican.
"Wait, you black cloud!" cried Nicolas. "I will put you down again!"
"Yo' get away from me—-please do!" begged Sambo, recoiling in terror.
"Sambo," laughed Tom, "Africa shouldn't have stirred up Mexico as you did. Now, lie down on your face, place your hands behind you, and I will persuade him to let you alone."
Sambo hesitated.
"Let me at him, Senor!" begged Nicolas, maneuvering forward, his right hand ready. "He is no good, I tell you! But I feex him!"
With a yell Sambo Ebony flopped over on his face, placing his hands behind his back.
"Let him alone, Nicolas, as long as he minds," ordered Reade, catching the excited Mexican by the collar. "Only, if he shows signs of making trouble then sail into him fast."
No sign of trouble, however, was there in Sambo. He lay as meek as a lamb while Tom used a lot of the spare cord in taking sundry hitches around the negro's wrists.
"I don't believe he'll get out of that," said Reade grimly, "Now, we'll fix his feet."
This, too, was done, and Sambo lay helpless on the ground.
"You'll make a fine-looking jailbird, my friend," mocked Tom, looking down at the prisoner. "Nor did any man ever better deserve the striped suit that the State of Alabama will present you. Now, Nicolas, I'll stay and watch this black treasure while you run and find help."
"Senor, you go yourself," begged the Mexican. "The men will obey you more queeckly than they would me."
"Oh, you find some of the men and tell 'em to come here to get the fellow who has been blowing up the wall, and they'll come fast enough," smiled Tom.
"But, Senor, suppose thees scoundrel free himself?"
"I won't let him, Nicolas."
"But eef he do?" persisted the Mexican. "Then, as I have shown you, Senor,
I can take fine care of heem!"
"There's something in that, too," laughed Tom. "Nicolas, I don't believe it will be risking you any if I leave you here. Besides, I won't have to be gone very long."
"If this black scoundrel he get restless, Senor, I will amuse heem with my forefinger."
Sambo groaned; Nicolas grinned.
"All right," Tom Reade laughed. "I'll be back as soon as I can."
Away he raced at a dog-trot, chuckling. The contrast between bulky Sambo and little Nicolas and the big negro's comic fear of the slim little fellow kept Reade laughing.
"But where on earth did Nicolas learn that trick?" Tom wondered. "I shall have to get him to show it to me. Plainly that trick is worth more than all the muscle that I spent so many years in piling on."
Tom headed his course for the shore end of the wall. Here he would find men in abundance. Moreover, now that the big black was a prisoner the men would hardly be needed on the wall.
"I think I know just how Sambo worked it, too," the engineer reflected, as he ran. "He swam out into the Gulf, towing that little scow behind him. Neither his black head nor the little scow would be seen far on the water on a dark night. Sambo, when he got near enough, could take one of the metal tubes, swim in under water to some point where no watchman was near, and stick the tube fast into the wall. Then another tube, and another—-all under water where they would not show to a passing watchman.
"Then, when he had all in place, and while no patrolling watchman was too near, Sambo could begin to attach the wires. That would take but a few minutes. Whenever any one came too near Sambo had but to swim out a little way and tread water until he could return to his job. When, at last, all was complete, Sambo would attach a wire from the bombs to a wire moored at a stated point under water, and then swim in, work his magneto, and touch the whole thing off from a safe hiding place on shore. The explosion itself would shatter the last length of wire. Oh, but it was all slick and easy!"
Not increasing his speed, but keeping steadily at the jog-trot, Tom was at last near enough to the wall to raise his voice and shout.
"Hullo!" came back the answer.
"This is Reade, the chief engineer," Tom answered, through the night. "We've caught the fellow that has been blowing up the wall. A half a dozen of you men hurry over here with your lanterns. Come on the run."
The man who had answered summoned several of his comrades as quickly as he could. As the men had to come in from the wall, however, it took a little time. Then six men reported, almost breathless, to Reade. Still behind them came Corbett on the run, summoned from the boat.
"What's this I hear, Mr. Reade?" puffed the foreman. "You've solved the mystery and caught the fellow who has been dynamiting the wall?"
"Got him and he's tied up, waiting for his ride to jail," Tom chuckled.
"How did it happen, sir?" asked Corbett, staring with his eyes very wide open.
"I caught the fellow—-a huge giant of a negro, the same fellow who got Hazelton the other night," replied Tom. "But before the fight was over the black 'got' me, instead, and had me tied up. Then Nicolas came along and put the negro out of the fight, and—-"
"Nicolas?" demanded Foreman Corbett incredulously.
"Yes. Nicolas proved himself to be the most fiery little bunch of fighting material that I have ever seen," laughed Reade, as they walked rapidly along.
"How could that Mexican wallop a giant?"
"I'll ask Nicolas to show you, to-morrow," Tom laughed mischievously. "But, Corbett, I believe that four bombs are even now attached to some part of the retaining wall, ready to be set off.
"Great Scott!"
"They won't be set off, though," continued Reade. "I found the firing magneto, and had a chance to cut the wires."
The foreman wanted to ask more questions, while the half dozen workmen trudged along close at their heels, eager to hear every word. Tom, however, suggested that they save their breath in the interest of speed, until they had Mr. Sambo Ebony in safe custody.
"Here we come, Nicolas!" Tom called, as the party neared the spot where captor and captive had been left.
There was no response.
"Nicolas!" Tom called again, with a start.
Still no answer.
"I don't like the look of that," Reade uttered. "Let's get there on the sprint!"
Tom himself caught at one of the lanterns, leading the way. Neither the negro nor the Mexican was where the young chief engineer had left them.
Feverishly, Tom began to search the ground, holding his lantern close.
"Hang the luck!" he quivered, pointing to fragments of cord on the sand.
"That negro simply burst his bonds—-and now where is he? Where is
Nicolas, for that matter? I thought the little fellow, with his trick,
could easily take care of the big black."
But, though they spread out and searched, there was no sign of either the negro or the little brown man.
"I can't understand what has happened," quivered Tom Reade, thinking more of the staunch little Mexican than of the loss of the prisoner.
CHAPTER XVI
A TEST OF REAL NERVE
"What an idiot I was not to stop to consider that Sambo Ebony could snap those cords!" groaned Tom, staring disconcertedly about him. "Yet, if Nicolas were safe I wouldn't so much mind the escape of the black. I shall see him again, and I shall know him wherever I see him."
"Let's look for the trail," proposed Foreman Corbett, holding one of the lanterns close to the ground.
The trail, however, was easy neither to distinguish nor to follow.
"We may as well leave here and search farther," concluded the young engineer. "Before we go, though, we'll get the magneto and take it with us."
Then the procession turned toward the land end of the retaining wall.
"If Nicolas doesn't show up soon," Tom murmured to the foreman, "I shall notify the Blixton police and offer a reward for news of him. That little fellow is too faithful to be left to his fate."
"What would the negro want of Nicolas?" queried the foreman.
"Revenge," Tom replied. "It makes a big bully like him furious to be handled the way Nicolas treated him. But I can't understand how Nicolas failed to repeat his clever trick with the black."
Arrived at the water front the magneto was dumped into the motor boat.
"Seems to me I would smash that thing all to pieces," Suggested Foreman
Corbett. "It has done harm enough around this wall."
"I don't believe in destroying anything that is useful," Reade answered, shaking his head. "Besides, we are going to capture Sambo yet, and then we shall want that magneto for evidence."
"What are you going to do to find Nicolas?" Corbett wanted to know.
"I wish I had even an idea," Tom sighed. "Corbett, I wish you would hurry over to Blixton and rout out the police. I've an idea that Sambo may have a hiding place in the town. Nicolas, too, may have been taken that way. I'll sit down and write out a good description of the rascal."
This Reade did, handing the paper to the foreman.
"Who'll take charge here? Corbett asked.
"I will, until you get back, but hurry."
As soon as the foreman had gone Tom stepped into the motor boat, taking the wheel.
"Tune up the engine, Conlon," Reade directed the engine tender. "I'm going to take a run around to the west side of the wall. I'm going to try to find the tubes of high explosive that I'm satisfied were planted in the wall."
"That's a fine job for a dark night, sir," grumbled Conlon. "Suppose we run into the bombs, and they prove to be contact exploders, too?"
"That's one of the risks of the business," Tom retorted grimly.
Before the motor boat had gone far Tom called one of the men aboard to take the wheel. Then the young chief engineer began to experiment with the searchlight.
"What's the idea, sir?" asked Conlon, looking on.
"I want to depress the light, so that we can use it to look down into the water."
"And try to find the bombs?"
"Exactly," Reade nodded.
"Lucky if we don't find the bombs with the keel of the boat," observed
Conlon.
Tom succeeded in rigging the light so that he could use it. By the time that the boat was around at the west side of the retaining wall Tom ordered the boat in close alongside. Then, with the depressed searchlight he discovered that he could see the sides of the wall to a depth of some eight feet under the surface.
"That may be enough for our needs," Reade murmured. "Now, run the boat along, slowly and close. I want to scan every bit of the wall."
Less than five minutes later Tom Reade, one hand controlling the searchlight and peering steadily into the water, sang out:
"Stop! Back her—-slowly. There, come back five feet. So! Hold her steady!"
As the engine stopped Conlon stepped forward, kneeling by Reade's side.
"There are the bombs, man!" cried Tom exultantly. "See them—-the two upper ones?"
"I see something that gleams," admitted Conlon.
"Well, we'll have them up and aboard in a hurry. Then you'll see just what they are."
"You're not going to try to raise the things with the boathook, are you?" queried the engine tender, a look of alarm in his eyes.
"That might be risky," admitted Reade. "I'll go over the side after them and bring them up.
"Don't, Mr. Reade!" urged Conlon with a shiver. "That'll be worse still.
You're likely to blow yourself into the next world!"
"I think not—-hope not, anyway," answered Tom steadily. "Have you a pair of pliers in your tool box that'll cut small wires?"
"Yes," replied Conlon.
"Get them for me."
Reade removed his coat, shoes and socks, then took the pliers.
"Let one of the men jump ashore with the boathook and hold the boat steady," was Reade's next direction.
This being done, Reade deflected the searchlight for one more look into the water. Then, the pliers in his right hand, he mounted to the rail of the boat.
"Be careful, sir—-do," begged Conlon. "What I'm afraid of is that the bombs are contact exploders."
"It's likely," nodded Reade. "I'll be as careful as I can."
Tom did not dive; the distance was too short. Instead, he let himself down into the water slowly. Then his head vanished beneath the surface of the water.
"Whew! The nerve of that young fellow!", thought Conlon with shuddering admiration.
"Ob co'se Massa Reade done got nerve," nodded the negro at the wheel.
"Dat's one reason why, Misto Conlon, Massa Reade is boss."
"There are other reasons why he's boss," grunted the engine tender. "Mr. Reade has nerve, but he also has brains in his head. Any man with brains and the sense to use 'em goes to the top, while I stay down a good deal lower, and you, Rastus, are still lower."
"Ah reckon Ah got a two-bit hat on top o' only two cents' wo'th o' brains,
Misto Conlon," grinned the darkey.
Conlon was an Irishman, and naturally, therefore, no coward. Yet with the possibility that Tom would run afoul of a contact-exploding bomb and send them all skyward, the engine tender waited at the rail with drawn breath.
Finally, there was a ripple on the water. Then Tom's head appeared; next his shoulders.
"Conlon!"
"Here, sir."
"Here is one of the bombs. Handle it carefully."
"Trust me, sir."
Conlon drew the metal tube, with a piece of wire pendant from it, as carefully as though it had been a royal baby and heir to a throne. Into the boat the engine tender lifted the thing, and laid it carefully in a locker. By the time that Conlon was back at the rail Reade had gone below again.
"Down dere, aftah mo' death!" grinned the darkey. A colored man can usually be brave when serving under a white leader in whom he has full confidence.
Presently Tom came up with another metal tube, like the first.
"I'll hang on and get my breath," Tom informed the men in the boat, as he rested one hand on the rail. "The other two bombs are about three feet lower, and it's going to be hard to work at the lower depth."
"Be careful, won't you, sir?" urged Conlon, in a somewhat awed voice. "Mr. Reade, we can't afford to lose you until this job is completed. Men with all the nerve you show are scarce in the world."
"I know where there are forty thousand men with at least as much nerve, many of them having several times as much as I," laughed Tom.
"Where on earth are they?" demanded the Irishman.
"In the United States Navy. If there were a battleship here the jackies would be fighting for the honor of going down after these bombs."
Then Reade dropped out of sight, once more. Nor was it long before he had the third and the fourth bombs aboard the boat. Then he climbed in himself, dripping like a shaggy Newfoundland dog.
"Put in at the dock now," the young chief ordered, and the boat started on its way.
"Some one signaling from the wall lower down," Tom soon informed the negro pilot. "Put in where you see the signaling."
"It is I, Corbett," called the foreman of that name. "Mr. Reade, these two men with me belong to the Blixton police."
"Perhaps you had rather walk down to the dock, then, instead of getting into the boat," laughed Reade. "We have four bombs aboard, just taken out of the wall above here."
Accordingly the three turned and walked. At the landing the policemen gazed curiously at the bombs.
"Do you want to take charge of these?" Reade queried.
"Not particular about it," replied the policeman, with a shrug. "We'd be scorched for endangering the town if we took those things into Blixton. Your foreman, Mr. Reade, called us out here to see if we could get trail of your missing Mexican servant."
"That's a vastly more important thing to do," Tom replied with enthusiasm.
"I want to find Nicolas before I do another thing."
"Come here, Bill," called one of the officers.
Out of the shadows near the shore came a youth leading a dog on a leash.
"This dog is a bloodhound," announced one of the policemen with visible pride. "Take him to where the scent of the Mexican starts, and the dog will follow as long as there's any scent left. But, first, we'll have to have something that the Mexican has worn, so that the hound will know the true scent."
"That will take but a few minutes," declared Reade energetically. "Come up to the house, and I'll find something that Nicolas has worn."
Corbett remained behind to take care of the bombs. Tom led the officers and the youth with the hound on a brisk walk up to the house.
"Wait out here," murmured Tom, "and I'll bring something out. If we all go into the house we'll wake my partner, Hazelton, and he has enough work to do in the daytime, without being kept up at night."
While the others remained outside Tom stole into the house. There was a room in the rear, off the kitchen, where Nicolas slept. Into that room Reade stepped noiselessly.
It was not necessary to strike a match, for, in the very faint light there, Tom espied an object on the foot of the bed that he recognized—-one of the Mexican's white canvas shoes.
Tom snatched it up quickly. Then, despite his steady nerves, he staggered back.
CHAPTER XVII
TOM MAKES AN UNEXPECTED CAPTURE
For an unearthly scream pierced the air. There was a wrench, a bounding figure—-and then Tom Reade felt a jolt near his solar plexus that made him gasp.
"Stop that!" gasped the young chief engineer.
"You, Senor?" demanded an incredible, drowsy voice.
"Yes; it's I—-Reade."
"A thousand pardons, Senor!"
"So this is you, Nicolas?"
"Yes, Senor."
"What are you doing here?"
"The negro got away from me."
"I know that, but—-"
"I could not help it, Senor. I assure you I was not careless."
"I never knew you to be careless, Nicolas."
"Thank you, Senor. But I stood over that black scoundrel, watching for the slightest move on his part. I had my forefinger ready, and he did not dare move."
"I can quite believe that," agreed Tom, dryly, "after the poke you just gave me."
"Again a thousand pardons, Senor, but in the dark, and awaking so suddenly,
I did not see you or know you."
"I can quite believe that, Nicolas."
"As I was saying, Senor, I was watching over the black man when some one came up behind me—-so softly that I did not hear. But I felt. Ah! What I felt! It was a fist that seemed to break in the top of my head. Down I went, and I heard a voice. I knew that voice, too. So would you have known it, Senor!"
"Whose voice was it?" asked Tom, curiously.
"The voice of Evarts."
"The discharged foreman?"
"Yes, Senor. But I am delaying my story. While Evarts was speaking I heard another sound. At one effort the negro snapped the cords that held him. Ah, he is a powerful brute."
"He is," Tom affirmed solemnly.
"I knew it was my task to keep the negro from getting away," continued the little Mexican excitedly. "So I leaped up, extended my forefinger and rushed at him. But thees Evarts—-hees feest catch me between the eyes. I do not have to guess the spot where he struck me, Senor, for I can feel it yet. Down I went, and knew no more. When next I opened my eyes I found myself lying in the middle of a theecket of bushes. I theenk, perhaps, the scoundrels believed they had killed me, and so they hid my body. But I have fool' them. I am still alive—-much alive!"
"What did you do when you came to, Nicolas?"
"Senor," protested the Mexican, "there was no more need of me. You had gone after men. Eef you came back, you have many men with you, so you do not need me. For that reason I come home."
Even in the dark the young engineer could "feel" Nicolas's shudder. Tom could not repress a smile that threatened to become a chuckle.
"I was varee sleepy," continued Nicolas, "and so I lay down. I forgot to undress, or even to take off my shoes. I fall asleep, and I dream much. I see the big negro again, and I dream that I have more fight with heem. Then, when you pull my foot, I wake up in one gr-rand sweat, for I theenk the big black attack me once more. I am glad—-so glad that it is not true."
"Nicolas," cried Tom, "you have done fighting enough for one night. Yet tell me, how did you happen to be at hand to-night in time to save me from Mr. Sambo Ebony?"
"Because I see you start away to-night," replied Nicolas, "an' I see that you go alone. I know that you mos' likely run into trouble, an' so I follow you. Sure enough, Senor, you find trouble—-and I heet heem with my finger!"
"You surely did 'hit him with your finger,' Nicolas," laughed Tom, grasping the little Mexican's hand and wringing it. "But now come outside. I had sent for the police to find you, and now I must show them that you are already found."
Together they went out on the porch. Tom explained the situation.
"Then you don't need us, after all?" asked one of the policemen.
"Not to find Nicolas," Tom Reade admitted. "But do you know Evarts?"
"Used to be your foreman?"
"Yes."
"We know him," nodded the policeman.
"Then," Reade continued, "I wish you would search through Blixton for him. If you find him, be good enough to lock him up and notify me."
"Is there a warrant out against him?" asked one of the policemen, cautiously.
"You don't need one," Tom replied. "I will make a charge of felony against Evarts, to the effect that he is concerned in the outrages against our wall. On a felony charge you don't need a warrant. Then, too, try to find the big negro."
"What's his name?"
"I don't know his name," Tom answered. "I've dubbed him 'Sambo Ebony.' You have the description of him that I wrote out. Arrest Sambo, by all means, if you can find him, and I'll make a felony charge against him, too. The negro is the one who has been blowing up the sea wall."
"We'll look for the pair all through the town, Mr. Reade," promised the officers.
"Do! And, on behalf of the company, I'll offer a two-hundred dollar reward for the arrest of each man!"
With that prospect to spur them on the policemen hastened away, followed by the young man with the bloodhound.
"Now, Nicolas," pressed Reade, turning around at the faithful little brown man, "you tumble back into bed."
"But you, Senor?"
"Don't worry about me. I've probably done all I need to do to-night. I shall probably sit here on the porch and think until daylight. Then I'll call Hazelton, and go to bed for a few hours' sleep before I appear in court against the gamblers and the bootleggers. Go to bed, Nicolas, and sleep! That's an order, remember!"
The Mexican therefore went to his bedroom without protest. Presently Reade became aware of the fact that his clothing had not by any means fully dried. He went to his room, took a vigorous rub-down, donned dry clothing, and then went out on the porch.
Though the night was dark the air was delicious. The combined odors of many flowers came in on the faintly stirring breeze.
Tom leaned back in a chair, his feet on the porch railing. His senses lulled by the quiet and repose of the night he was in danger of falling asleep.
Of a sudden he came to with a start. Off among the trees to the eastward, near the road, a human being was stirring.
Reade rose, moving swiftly back more into the shadow. Then he watched, every sense alert. Yes; some one was moving, out there amid the trees. What he could not see, Tom discovered by his acute sense of hearing.
"I'll put a hot pebble in that fellow's bonnet, whoever he is!" Tom muttered vengefully. Entering the house, he left at the rear, then made a stealthy, roundabout trip that brought him at the farther edge of the litte grove of trees.
Now the young engineer crouched close to the ground as he listened. Once more he heard that some one moving, not many yards away. It was pitch-black in there amid the trees. Guided by his ears, Tom moved closer and closer without making a betraying sound. Suddenly he found the tall figure looming up almost in his path.
"Now, I've got you!" cried Tom exultantly, making a bound that should have carried his hands to the throat of the prowler.
But the other, like a flash, went on the defensive. Tom felt himself parried, then clutched at. The next instant the prowler had the young engineer in a tackle that carried Tom Reade back to the good old high school days at home. The young engineer was dumped on the ground as though he had been a sack of flour.
"Great Scott!" quivered Tom Reade. "No one but Dick Prescott ever had that tackle down fine!"
"Well, you blithering idiot!" came the indignant answer. "That's who I am—-Prescott!"
CHAPTER XVIII
THE ARMY "ON THE JOB"
"You, Dick?" gasped Tom, stumbling ruefully to his feet. Then he leaped at his late foe, throwing his arms around him. The two fairly hugged each other, Yes; here was Dick Prescott, not so many weeks a graduate of the Military Academy at West Point, and now, if you please, Second Lieutenant Richard Prescott, United States Army!
"Well, of all the strange things that the Illinois Central Railroad brings into Alabama!" grunted Tom, now gripping Dick by the hand and holding on as though he never meant to let go.
"If the Illinois Central had built its tracks through to Blixton I probably would have arrived at a civilized hour," laughed Dick. "As it was, I had to come in on a wood-burning, backwoods road and the train was only five hours and a half behind schedule. Then, from a sleepy policeman I got directions that enabled me to find this place after an hour's hard work." To what effect? Only to be pounced upon by you as though you had caught me in the act of stealing all the water in the Gulf of Mexico!"
"Stop your roasting," laughed Tom joyfully. "But say, it does seem good to set eyes on you again, after two years."
All of our readers who have read the "High School Boys Series" and the "West Point Series" know all about Dick Prescott, the famous leader of Dick & Co.
"What are you now?" Tom asked eagerly. "A general, or only a colonel?"
"Nothing but a shavetail," laughed Dick. "Shavetail is the army nickname for a second lieutenant."
"I've got to join my regiment, the Thirty-fourth Infantry, out in Colorado very soon," continued Prescott. "But I came down here to spend a few days with you, if you can stand me."
"If we can stand you!" chuckled Tom, patting his old high school chum on the back. "Say, where's Greg?"
Greg Holmes had been another member of Dick & Co., and Dick's chum and comrade at West Point.
"Well, you see," laughed Lieutenant Prescott, "Greg has been falling in love with six girls a year regularly ever since he entered West Point. Now that he's in the army he has started in to increase the yearly average. He's visiting a Miss Deering, who lives near Chicago."
"Greg's likely never to marry," wisely remarked Tom. "These fellows who catch a new love fever every few weeks always end up by finding that no girl wants them. But say, Dick you hardly look the soldier."
"Why not?"
"Well, one would expect to see an army officer in uniform, you know."
"An officer rarely travels in uniform, unless on duty with troops," explained Dick.
"How did you like West Point?"
"Fine!" said Dick, grimly. "It was like four years in prison, only more so. When I look back I shudder at the incessant grind I had to endure there. Yet I'm going to be happy, now I'm through, for I couldn't be happy anywhere except in the United States Army."
"What crazy notions some folks have of happiness," murmured Tom, mockingly. "However, old fellow, we're not going to fight, are we? Now, hustle over to the house. Harry is sleeping at the present moment, but I won't let him have a wink more of sleep to-night. It's getting toward daylight, anyway, and too much sleep isn't good for a fellow. But don't talk above a whisper, Dick, when we get near the house. I don't want Harry, by any chance, to catch a sound of your voice until he comes out on the porch and runs into you."
Chatting away in low tones the two old-time high school chums gained the porch.
"Now, just stay here," whispered Tom, then strode into the house. He entered his partner's room, gripping the slumber-seized Hazelton with a strong clasp.
"Oh, quit your fooling!" protested a sleepy voice from the pillow.
"Time to get up, you slant-eyed rations stealer!" muttered Tom gruffly.
"Come on. You're needed, and there's no time to be lost. Up with you!"
Tom dragged his drowsy partner from the bed, seating him on the edge of it.
"Now, shed your pajamas and pull on something decent," Reade commanded grimly. "Hustle! There's a conference going on outside, and you're wanted. Hurry! Want me to dump the pitcher of water on you? I'll do it if you give your eyes another rub!"
Hazelton was now fully convinced that something important was in the air. If not, he knew that his chum never would have hauled him out of bed in the darkest hours of the night.
"If you throw any water I'll shave you with the bread-knife," retorted Harry. "But you can keep on talking to me, so that I won't fall asleep while I'm trying to dress."
Slowly, at first, then more rapidly, Hazelton got his clothes on. Pouring water into the basin he sopped a towel in it, then liberally applied it to his face. The water waked him rapidly.
"Now, lead me forth to where duty calls," mimicked Harry.
"Run along out on to the porch," ordered Tom. "I'll be there in a moment."
Still yawning, Hazelton groped his way out into the hall, along the dark passage, and thence out into the night. Some one stood there, and Harry walked curiously toward him.
"Howdy, whoever you are," was Hazelton's greeting.
"Halloo, Harry, old chum," came Dick Prescott's laughing answer.
"Dick Prescott!" gasped Harry delightedly.
"I suppose you think I might have waited until daylight," laughed Dick, as their hands met.
"I'm heartily glad you didn't wait," said Harry. "How long can you stay with us?"
"Not as long as I'd like to, for I'm due at Fort Clowdry in a very few days."
"And Greg?"
Lieutenant Prescott gave the same explanation he had furnished Tom.
"How does it seem to be an army officer?" Harry continued.
"I believe it to be the finest career on earth," Prescott answered. "Still, as you can guess, I'm utterly without experience so far. After a few days more I shall have my first day as an officer on duty with troops. But do you and Tom continue to find engineering the grandest career on earth?"
"We certainly do," affirmed Hazelton.
"It must be very interesting," agreed Dick. "Still, I imagine there is yet enough of the primitive savage in the average man to make him enjoy a real fight once in a while. That's an experience you're denied in your calling, but an army officer may always look forward to the chance of seeing a little fighting."
Hazelton glanced humorously at his partner before he replied:
"At present there's a very good chance of a fight right here at this camp."
"So?" Dick Prescott asked, sitting up with a look of interest.
"Not so much chance as there was," said Tom gravely. "The fight came off to-night. Harry, I met the big black—-caught him redhanded."
"You did?" cried Hazelton, leaping up. "And you never called me?"
"There wasn't any chance," Tom assured him. "The meeting and the fight didn't take place on this porch."
Tom now had two very interested auditors. For Prescott's benefit Reade first sketched a brief outline of the troubles that had led up to the present, including an account of the wrecking of substantial portions of the retaining wall. Then he came down to the events of the night.
"Oh, and I had to miss it," sighed Harry, disappointedly. "I'd have missed a week of sleep just to have been in to-night's doings. And, if I had been with you, Tom, we'd now have Mr. Sambo Ebony in jail."
"I think we've blocked the black rascal's game on the wall, anyway," said
Tom.
"There's just a fair chance that you haven't yet blocked it," remarked the young army officer thoughtfully. "Of course this Sambo of yours merely represents a well-organized gang. This gang may have more ways than one of damaging the property of the Melliston Company. From all I can see, Tom and Harry, you're likely to need to be more vigilant than ever. Whew! But I'm glad that I can be with you a few days. I'm likely to come in for a choice lot of excitement. Also, I may very likely be able to help out a lot."
"We wouldn't put you to that trouble, Dick," protested Tom. "You're to be our guest—-not our policeman."
"Are you going to try to keep me out of all the excitement and fun?" Lieutenant Dick demanded, indignantly. "Sleep? Can't I get enough of that when I go aboard a Pullman again and am riding out to Colorado? Of course I'm going to help—-and I'm going to have my share of all the opportunities for excitement here—-or else I'm going to cut your acquaintance."
"Why, of course we'll be delighted to have your help, Dick, if you want to stand the racket," Reade made haste to say. "It will surely seem like doubling—-or trebling—-our forces, to have Dick Prescott working hand in hand with us."
"Then that's settled," cried Dick, with an air of satisfaction.
"You haven't had any sleep lately, have you, Dick?" inquired Tom, after they had chatted a little longer.
"No; I haven't."
"Then you must turn in and get a few hours," proposed Reade. "I must have a little myself, as I shall have to be up and go into court during the coming forenoon."
"I'm wide awake now," said Harry. "So I'll sit right here on the porch and dream of Dick and Greg, and good old Dave Darrin and Danny Dalzell, and the good times we had in old Gridley. What time do you want to be up, Tom?"
"Not later than eight," Reade answered.
"Trust me," said Harry promptly. Harry went to his own bedroom, pulled his bed apart, remade it with fresh linen, and with a final grip of Dick's hand, he left the army officer to turn in there.
At eight o'clock Hazelton called both Tom and Dick. They turned out promptly, to find that Nicolas had laid an appetizing breakfast on the porch.
Then Tom had to hurry over to Blixton, Dick going with him, while Hazelton went down to the breakwater to superintend the day's work there.
Only a little time had to be spent in the justice's stuffy court. Hawkins and his fellow gamblers and bootleggers were arraigned and held in one thousand dollars' bail each for trial. As none of them had the money the eight men were sent to the county jail pending trial.
"That's queer," mused Tom, aloud, as he and Dick walked back to camp. "You'd think that professional gamblers would have money enough to put up small bail."
"Not if they're working for other people," suggested Dick. "These men may be merely the agents of some larger crowd."
"Meaning that the larger crowd may be a sort of vice trust, operating in many fields at the same time?" queried Reade.
"Something of the sort," replied the young army officer. "To-day nearly everything has been capitalized on a large scale of combined capital. Why shouldn't vice be?"
"I begin to think you're more than half right in your guess," Tom admitted. "Your explanation is about the only way to account for a fellow like Hawkins not having a thousand at his instant disposal. However, if these fellows represent a vice trust, then I suppose it will be a question of only a little time when the trust sends down money enough to put up the needed bail."
"That will undoubtedly happen," nodded Dick. "And then you'll have to look out for that fellow, Hawkins, and all the men he can command. Hawkins looked at you, in court, as though he'd enjoy pulverizing you."
"I'm ready, when he is," laughed Tom. "If he'd only fight in the open I wouldn't be at all afraid of him."
Tom now led the way down to the retaining wall. Prescott gazed with great interest at the signs of activity. On a closer inspection he was even more interested. He was capable of understanding very fully what was being done here, for every graduate of the United States Military Academy is supposed to be a capable engineer.
"You've a difficult task on hand, but your basic principle is sound, and you're doing the work finely and economically," Dick declared with emphasis.
Harry came in from the outer end of the wall and joined them. He listened with pride to the praises that the army officer showered on the engineers.
"I wish Mr. Bascomb, the president of the company, could hear you," said Harry. "He isn't altogether sure that we know what we're about in anything that we're doing."
"Then I've a very good mental picture of Bascomb," declared Dick, bluntly. "Bascomb is something of a chump. By the way, if you want to get square with Mr. Bascomb, why don't you coax him down here to help you look out for the evil-doers who are combined against you?"
"He wouldn't be much use," sighed Tom. "He's an impossible sort of chap. He wanted us to stop our crusade against camp vice. Said it was hurting business."
"What craft is that?" inquired Dick, looking toward a sailboat that was moving lazily along about a half-mile to the eastward.
"I don't know," Tom answered, after a look. "Never saw the boat before.
Regular cabin cruiser, isn't she, about forty feet long?"
"About that," nodded Dick. "What interested me in her was the fact that a fellow on board has been watching us with a marine glass. I caught the glint of the sun on the lenses."
"Why should he want to be watching us?" demanded Hazelton.
"That's just what made me curious," replied Prescott. "As an army officer, if this were a fort that I commanded in troublous times, I'd want to look into any strange craft that I caught cruising lazily in the offing and holding a marine glass on us."
"I wonder if that boat can be in the service of those who are annoying us?"
Tom muttered.
"It's an even chance that it is a 'hostile ship,'" Prescott suggested. "You have a motor boat here. I'm inclined to think you ought to use it in overhauling that suspicious craft. Of course you'd have no right unless there was a police officer along. Can you get one?"
"The authorities in Blixton would send a policeman on request."
"Then send a messenger to request them to send over a policeman in citizen's clothes," proposed Dick.
Tom promptly despatched Foreman Dill on that errand.
"Now don't let the men on the boat see that you're paying any more attention," Prescott advised. "Leave it to me, and I'll contrive to keep the boat and its people under observation without looking too plainly in their direction."
In due time the plain clothes policeman arrived. He, the young engineers and the army lieutenant boarded the "Morton," which put out from the landing as though on a trip of inspection of the wall.
"Don't anyone look over at the sloop," Prescott urged. "I'll do the watching. A fellow on that craft is holding the glasses on us right now. Officer, do you demand the assistance of all present in any police duty that may come up?"
"I do," replied the Blixton policeman, a man named Carnes, returning
Prescott's wink.
"All right, then," laughed Dick. "That demand makes policemen of us all. Tom, you can turn, now, when ready, and put on full speed in going after that craft."
Reade gave the order for full speed, then took the steering wheel himself.
"Guilty conscience!" laughed Prescott. "There's the sloop putting about at once and heading away from us."
"They can't get away from us, in this light wind," chuckled the young chief engineer.
A few minutes later the "Morton" came up within easy hailing distance of the sloop, aboard which only one man now appeared.
"Sloop ahoy!" called the policeman. "What are you doing in these waters?"
"Looking for a good fishing ground," answered the dark-faced man at the tiller.
"Then you're too far in by some three miles," answered the policeman.
"Thank you, cap'n," acknowledged the sailing master of the sloop.
"You're welcome," the policeman continued, "but ease off your sheet and lay to. We want to come aboard."
"You can't!" flatly retorted the skipper.
"You're wrong there," retorted the policeman. "This is a police party, and I tell you that we are coming aboard. Lay to, or we shall have to start a lot of trouble for you."
In the policeman's hand suddenly glistened a revolver. Tom ran the motor boat close alongside. With a snarl the man left off his sheet. The policeman and Dick Prescott leaped aboard the craft, Tom and Harry following.
"This is a cheeky outrage!" snarled the skipper, scowling at the invaders.
"Then keep the change, and welcome," laughed the policeman, taking his stand close to the skipper.
Dick Prescott made a dive at the cabin door, which was closed.
"Open this door!" he summoned.
As the door did not open Dick placed his shoulder against it.
"Open the door, or I'll break it down," Dick insisted.
There was still no answer. Thereupon Prescott proceeded to put his threat into execution. Harry bounded forward to help. Under their combined assault the door gave way.
Lieutenant Prescott was the first to enter the dark little cabin. Poor as the light was his eyes caught sight of something that made him gasp.
"This is the big capture of the season!" cried Dick jubilantly.
CHAPTER XIX
A NEW MYSTERY PEEPS IN
"Get out of here, or you'll get something you don't want," roared an ugly voice at the farther end of the cabin.
At sound of that voice Tom Reade started. He thrust his head in the open doorway.
"Hullo, Evarts!" called the young chief engineer.
"Get out of here!" came the furious order.
"So you've openly joined the enemy, Evarts?" demanded Tom, as his eyes fell upon the object that had first claimed Lieutenant Dick Prescott's attention.
"You've no business here! Get out, or I'll shoot," cried Evarts, defiantly.
"Don't be too quick on the shoot," warned the Blixton policeman, who still had his own revolver in his hand. "This is a police party, and you're under arrest. Start any shooting trouble, and the air will be full of it."
"Clear out, and I'll come outside and talk with you," proposed Evarts, for it really was the discharged foreman.
"All right," nodded the policeman. "Gentlemen, let him step outside."
The others left the entrance to the cabin, As Evarts, his pistol now back in his pocket, stepped sullenly outside, Harry Hazelton dropped back into the doorway.
"Glad to meet you, Mr. Evarts," grinned the police officer, deftly slipping handcuffs on the fellow's wrists.
"This is treachery!" stormed the prisoner. "I didn't surrender to you.
I only came out to talk with you."
"If you didn't surrender, then excuse me, and go ahead and put up a fight," laughed the policeman, handily removing Evarts's revolver from a hip pocket.
"Now, look in here, Tom," urged Dick. "Do you see what caught my eye?"
Prescott pointed to a sharp-nosed cylinder, some eight feet long. Just as it lay the propeller at the other end was invisible to one at the doorway of the cabin.
"It's a home-made imitation of a Whitehead torpedo," Lieutenant Dick went on, in explanation. "If it proves to be charged with explosives then the mere having of it aboard this sloop will prove embarrassing to these two prisoners to explain in court. If it isn't loaded, that will be almost as bad, as such a torpedo can be rather easily loaded, and then set in operation by clock-work machinery that will control the propeller."
"Young man, you seem to think you know a good deal about torpedoes," sneered Evarts.
"He ought to," Harry retorted quietly. "He's a West Point man and an army officer. Therefore, he's a specialist in some kinds of explosives."
Evarts's face turned somewhat paler at this information of having an army officer on hand as a witness.
"Do you call me a prisoner, too?" asked the man at the tiller uneasily.
"Something like it, I guess," nodded Dick.
"Say, but that's a pretty rank deal against an honest man," protested the skipper hoarsely. "I hired this boat out to that man, the one you call Evarts, but I didn't know what he was up to."
"You didn't know that torpedoes are used for wicked work either, eh?" pressed Lieutenant Dick.
"I'll swear that I didn't know what it was that he brought on board," cried the skipper. "Evarts said it was a new device for killing fish at wholesale."
"You may be telling the truth," Tom broke in.
"I am," declared the skipper eagerly.
"Then explain it to the court," Reade continued. "If you can prove to a judge and a jury that you're an honest man, and always have been one, you may get off on the charge that will be made against you."
"Then you don't believe me?" asked the skipper anxiously.
"It isn't for me to say," Tom replied crisply. "It's a job for a judge and a jury."
"Then I'm to be a prisoner?"
"That's for the policeman here to say."
"You're a prisoner, my man," nodded the policeman. "Now, sail your boat into the landing over yonder."
"Some one else will sail it," retorted the skipper, angrily, as he abandoned his tiller.
"I'll take the tiller," Harry suggested, and did so. He hauled in the sheet, brought the boat around and headed for the landing with the skill of an old sailor.
"My man, since you don't want to sail the boat you'll have to go as a real prisoner," announced the policeman. He produced a pair of handcuffs, snapping them over the man's wrists.
In a short time Harry brought the sailboat up to the landing. The motor boat had followed, but did not come all the way in. After the sail had been lowered and made snug the party took up its way, on foot, to the nearby town of Blixton.
Justice Sampson was found, and consented to open court immediately. Officer Carnes brought his prisoners forward, stating the charge. The young engineers and the army officer gave their testimony.
"The prisoners are held for trial, and bail fixed at five thousand dollars in each case," decided the court.
The torpedo had been left on the sloop, in charge of a foreman. The justice now ordered two officers to go back and bring over the torpedo, which was to be held until a chemist could examine and take samples of whatever explosive might be found inside.
As Dick was a United States Army officer, under orders to proceed to his post within the next few days, the court reduced his testimony to writing, and permitted Prescott to sign this under oath.
It had been a busy forenoon. Now it was time for luncheon, and the three chums returned to the house to eat. In the afternoon they visited the wall, remaining there until four o'clock. On their return to the house Tom and Harry were greeted by Mr. Prenter, who had been waiting for them.
"I heard the news of last night's doings, and to-day's, and came right down," explained the treasurer of the Melliston Company. "Reade, I'm glad to be able to say that you appear to have brought us to the end of the explosion troubles."
"Or else we're just starting with that trouble," Reade smiled wistfully. "Mr. Prenter, I must say that there appears to be no end to the surprises with which our enemies are capable of supplying us."
Tom then nodded to Dick to come forward and presented him to the treasurer.
"An army officer?" asked Mr. Prenter eagerly. "Then I'm doubly glad to meet you, Mr. Prescott. You've seen the breakwater work? As an army officer and an engineer what do you think of it?"
"It's great!" said Dick, though he added laughingly: "Reade and Hazelton are such dear old friends of mine that any testimony in their favor is likely to be charged to friendship."
"I'll believe what an army officer says, even in praise of his best friends," smiled Mr. Prenter.
Foreman Johnson, who had been over in town, now came along. He halted some distance away, beckoning to Reade.
"Mr. Reade," murmured the foreman, in an undertone, "over in Blixton I just heard some news that I thought would interest you. Evarts is out on bail."
"He furnished a five thousand surety?" queried Tom.
"Yes, sir, and who do you suppose went on his bond?"
"I can't imagine who the idiot is."
"The man who signed Evarts's bond," continued Foreman Johnson solemnly, "was Mr. Bascomb, president of this company!"
"Whew!" muttered Tom aghast. "And that's all I've got to say on this subject."
"I thought you'd like to know the news," remarked Johnson, "and so I came to tell you."
"Please accept my thanks," Tom answered. Then, as the foreman passed along, Reade went back to his friends.
"You seem staggered about something," remarked Mr. Prenter, eyeing him keenly.
"Possibly I am," admitted Tom. "Evarts is out on bail."
"Now, what fool or rogue could have signed that fellow's bail bond?" demanded Mr. Prenter in exasperation.
"Careful, sir!" warned Tom smilingly. "I've just been informed that the bail bond was signed by Mr. Bascomb, president of the Melliston Company."
"Well, of all the crazy notions!" gasped Mr. Prenter. "But there! I won't say more. Bascomb is a queer fellow in some things, but he's a good fellow in lots of things, and a square, honest man in all things. If he signed Evarts's bond, there was a reason, and not a dishonest one."
"But Evarts won't behave," predicted Harry dismally. "After all our trouble we shall still have to remain on guard night and day."
"It'll be an airship next," laughed Dick Prescott.
"Unless Sambo Ebony comes forward once more, and finds out how to lay wires by a new submarine route," retorted Tom Reade.
All the present company felt unaccountably gloomy just at this moment. There could be no guessing what would occur next to hamper or destroy the fruits of their hard labor.