The heavy iron door closed behind them with a slight grating sound. Jack turned his head. The door could not be distinguished from the wall. Hangings of thick silken stuffs covered it.
“Black George” continued to smile unpleasantly, the Chinaman to regard them inscrutably. Neither spoke. The atmosphere was close and heavy, and pungent with strange Oriental odors and scents. The boys waited for Mr. Temple to take the initiative, and he was sizing up the situation.
Obviously they were trapped. And not for money. The presence of “Black George,” whom they had overheard on the train and who had spied on them since at the Palace Hotel, meant only one thing to Mr. Temple. That was, that the underworld leader suspected them of having learned something of his plans.
Why had he brought them here? Again, there could be only one answer. He wanted to prevent them from informing on him to the authorities. Either he would hold them prisoner, or intimidate them with threats so that, when released, they would fear to betray him.
How much did he know? Was he aware that they already had conferred with Inspector Burton? Had he shadowed the boys to the inventor’s store? Did he know or suspect the plan to utilize Inventor Bender’s device for locating the radio station at the smugglers’ cove?
Mr. Temple told himself it was not possible that “Black George” knew to what lengths they had gone already. Otherwise, of what use to him to capture them? The damage already was done. And, if he did not know that they already had laid their information before the authorities and that even now the move to locate the smugglers’ radio was launched, then it behooved him and the boys not to tell. For, if they told, “Black George” would be forewarned, and Inspector Burton’s plans to round up the smuggling band would be thwarted.
Mr. Temple glanced quickly at the boys. Would they tell? Each in turn caught his eye and gave him a scarcely perceptible nod of reassurance. It gave him something of a shock, for he realized that their active minds also had been sizing up the situation and, probably, had arrived at the same conclusions as he. They were letting him know that they could be counted upon.
Good boys! For a moment, a little mist obscured his eyes. He had been accustomed to thinking of them only as youngsters. But this summer was opening his eyes. They had played men’s parts on the Mexican border. They could be counted on in this unfortunate business, too.
All these thoughts, which require some time to record, had passed through Mr. Temple’s mind with lightning-like rapidity. Not a word had been spoken since their entrance.
“Black George” continued to smile at them evilly, the Chinaman to regard them with the impassive and inscrutable countenance of his race, their false guide to stand motionless to one side.
“What is the meaning of this outrage?” demanded Mr. Temple angrily.
He determined to adopt the attitude that the ordinary citizen not in possession of the key to the situation would be likely to adopt under similar circumstances. It would not do to let “Black George” see they suspected his reason for entrapping them. That would indicate to him that they already had taken action against him.
“If it is money you want,” he said, “say so and be done with it.”
“Black George” spoke at last.
“My dear Mr. Temple,” he said, “perhaps we may get some of your money, too, before we finish with you. But that isn’t our first object.”
Turning to their attendant he commanded:
“Bring some chairs and then leave us.”
Silently but swiftly, the man brought lacquered stools without back supports, placed one behind each of the four, then lifted the hangings and disappeared.
“Sit down,” said “Black George” in a suave voice, “and let us talk things over.”
They complied.
“I hope,” said “Black George,” “that my men did not handle you roughly. They had instructions not to, and if they disobeyed they shall be punished.”
“Come, come,” said Mr. Temple, “drop this note of hospitality and come to the point. We are prisoners, we have been foully entrapped. What is your object?”
Dropping something of his suavity and letting more of his true character show, “Black George” leaned forward.
“I think you know, Mr. Temple,” He said, “my reason for bringing you here.”
“What do you mean?”
Mr. Temple was determined to maintain an attitude of outraged innocence.
“I mean,” said the other, his voice growing more harsh, “that you have been meddling in matters that did not concern you.”
“Explain.”
“Your young men”—with a sweep of the hand that indicated the three chums—“overheard words not intended for their ears on the Flyer from the East. They sat on the observation platform while I was in conversation with a companion.”
“Well?”
“No, it’s far from well,” said the other menacingly. “You called Inspector Burton to your apartment at the Palace.”
He paused and looked fixedly at Mr. Temple.
“Now,” he resumed, “I want to know just how much of my conversation these boys overheard, and just what they told Inspector Burton.”
Further pretence of innocence was useless.
“And if we refuse to tell?” queried Mr. Temple.
“Black George” grinned evilly. He looked long at Mr. Temple and the boys in turn. Then he addressed the silent old Chinaman.
“Would your men like to play with them?” he asked.
“Um.”
“Would they like to torture those young boys?”
“Um.”
“Would they like to apply the water cure and the red-hot needles?”
“Um.”
“And pull out fingernails?”
“Um.”
The old Chinaman never changed expression.
In spite of their courageous spirits, the boys shivered. Mr. Temple thought only of the boys, not of himself. Would these scoundrels really torture them? It was unbelievable. Yet if they should——
“Look here,” he said gruffly, “quit this nonsense. This is the twentieth century, and such things are not done. We are not children to be frightened by such talk.”
“Ah,” said “Black George” smoothly, “but this is San Francisco’s Chinatown. Don’t forget that. You probably thought it was not possible to trap you, either. But you notice it was done. Your presence here ought to be sufficient indication to you that torture is not impossible.”
“You, scoundrel,” blazed Mr. Temple, “you’ll pay for this. Others know where I have gone. My original guide from the restaurant is waiting for me, and——”
“One of my men,” said “Black George” succinctly. “And your chauffeur, too.”
“Well and good, but the head waiter at the restaurant has my name and——”
“My man, too,” said “Black George.” He rose suddenly, walked close to Mr. Temple, and leaned over and glared into his face.
“Furthermore,” he added, “supposing you get out of this scrape, don’t try to make trouble for them. My agents don’t know all I do, but I protect the men useful to me. Understand?”
As Mr. Temple kept silence, controlling his features, but in reality sore at heart, “Black George” started to move backward slowly.
Suddenly big Bob, who all the time had been quietly working his hands free from the hastily tied bonds, leaped upon him. Bob’s hands went around the other’s throat, throttling him and preventing him from crying out.
At the same moment, Frank and Jack, who also had been working at their bonds and with equal success, leaped for the old Chinaman. The latter moved with surprising swiftness for one of his age. Springing from the chair, he waved a long dagger which mysteriously appeared in his talon-like hand and began to shout a shrill jabber of Chinese words.
Jack leaped in low, arms extended, making a flying tackle as he so often had done on the football field at Harrington Hall Military Academy. The old Chinaman started to move backward, waving his dagger.
Frank swung the lacquered stool upon which he had been seated aloft and sent it hurtling through the air. His aim was deadly. The heavy stool caught the Chinaman square on the side of the head, just as Jack pinned him around the knees.
He went down like a log, his dagger clattering to the floor.
The old Chinaman, whose name they came later to know as Wong Ho and who was a very evil man with many ruffians at his command, was unconscious but breathing heavily. When Frank ascertained that, their fears that they had killed him passed away. While Jack attended to tying him up, Frank turned his attention to Bob and “Black George.”
Mr. Temple was out of the fight. He had recovered from his amazement and dashed in to help his son with more valor than discretion. “Black George,” threshing about wildly in the endeavor to break Bob’s grip on his throat, had lashed out with his feet. A tremendous kick had caught Mr. Temple in the stomach and sent him reeling and gasping to the floor, where he was very sick, indeed.
Like a bulldog, Bob held on. Yet in “Black George” he had an opponent worthy of his mettle. That underworld leader had not gained his supremacy by his wits alone. He was a tremendous rough-and-tumble fighter.
Back and forth they threshed on the floor as Frank paused above them, uncertain where to strike to aid his comrade. Bob still gripped “Black George” about the throat, but the gangster had so powerful a grasp on his hands that he was unable to bring a fatal pressure to bear.
Suddenly, and by an almost superhuman effort, “Black George” heaved himself up to his feet with Bob clinging to him. He must not be allowed to win. Frank swung aloft another lacquered stool, remembering the execution wrought previously on Wong Ho by the same method, and brought it down on “Black George’s” head.
The stool splintered in his grasp. “Black George” relaxed, went limp, then collapsed.
“Whew,” said Bob, panting. “I guess I’d have gotten him, Frank, but I don’t know. He’s a tough fighter.”
Jack’s voice behind them rose in a scream.
“Look out. Here they come.”
They whirled to face the new danger. And in through the doorway behind the hangings poured a dozen ruffians. Jack bounded to the side of his companions. The newcomers were Chinese, and evil looking they were in the dim light of that subterranean room, with their glaring almond eyes and yellow faces. They gripped revolvers and long knives, and as their eyes took in the two figures of their leaders on the floor a hoarse murmur arose and they started to surge forward.
It was a tense moment. The boys resolved to sell their lives dearly.
Then two things occurred. The leader of the newcomers and only white man of the group—the same man who had acted as their guide and betrayed them—halted the onrush with a gesture of authority. And Mr. Temple, pallid from the effects of the kick in the stomach, pulled himself to his feet and stood swaying in front of the boys.
“We surrender,” said Mr. Temple, “but I warn you not to ill-treat us.”
The leader nodded, turned to the group behind him, bade two of their number step aside, and the others to leave. Grumbling and unwilling but evidently cowed by his authority, they obeyed.
As the hangings fell behind the last to leave, the guide, whom later they came to know as Matt Murphy, turned to them, his face grim enough.
“Ye showed sense,” he said. “They’d ha’ killed ye.”
Stooping over “Black George” he examined him hastily. Then he did the same by Wong Ho.
“Here,” he said to the two Chinese attendants, “one of you get Doctor Marley at once. The other help me.”
With the man who sprang to his aid, Murphy started to lift the unconscious form of “Black George.” Then he bethought him of his prisoners, and addressed Mr. Temple.
“Stay in this room,” he said, “and I can protect ye. The only way out is the way you come, an’ nothin’ could save ye from these yellow devils if ye get started. I’ll be back.”
Without more ado, he and his silent assistant disappeared with their burden, returning almost at once for the still unconscious Wong Ho.
After his second departure the three boys and Mr. Temple were left undisturbed for a long period. Their first act was to take account of injuries. Frank and Jack had come off unscathed. Bob was sore about the shins from kicks delivered by “Black George,” but otherwise unhurt. Mr. Temple’s kick in the stomach had been the most serious injury received, but he was rapidly recovering.
“I’m not blaming you boys for your gallant attempt to win freedom,” said Mr. Temple, “but our position now could hardly be worse.”
“I’m sorry, Dad, if you think I made matters worse by jumping on that rascal,” said Bob. “When I saw him threatening you I saw red.”
“Anyhow,” declared Frank, “if we had captured them, Uncle George, without being surprised by these others, we might have used them as hostages to obtain our freedom.”
Mr. Temple shook his head.
“Perhaps,” said he, “but it was a very long chance. However, we shall have to make the best of it.”
“At least we have won a respite,” said Jack. “We have pretty well laid out their two leaders. They won’t recover for some time to come, if I’m any judge of broken heads. And meantime it isn’t likely, is it, that this other fellow, who seems to be one of their lieutenants, will do anything to us?”
“Probably you are right, Jack,” said Mr. Temple, “and we will be kept prisoners but not harmed, pending the recovery of this ‘Black George’ if not the Chinaman. But afterward——”
He left the sentence unfinished, but Bob took up his thought.
“We can face that when we have to, Dad,” he said. “We’re safe enough.”
“Yes, I presume we are safe for the present,” said his father. “Nevertheless, do you realize there is no friend at large who has any idea of our whereabouts, or knew that we came sightseeing to Chinatown tonight? We did not tell the clerk at the hotel. The only persons who know are the people that villain declared are his creatures—the head waiter at the restaurant, and the chauffeur and our original guide.”
“But surely,” expostulated Frank, “when we fail to return to the hotel, there’ll be a big uproar. You are a man of importance, and your business representative here as well as the hotel people will get the police on the case.”
“Very true,” said Mr. Temple, thoughtfully. “Yet this is evidently a well-organized gang that has captured us, and we might be hidden away forever in such a place as this without being found.”
“But you forget Inspector Burton,” said Frank. “When he hears of our disappearance, he will put two and two together and will realize that we have fallen into the hands of the man whose plans we thwarted—namely, this ‘Black George’.”
“Yes,” admitted Mr. Temple, “there is a little hope for us there. Yet Inspector Burton planned to leave for southern California tonight to watch Handby as well as try to locate the smugglers’ radio with Inventor Bender’s sound detector. He may not hear of our disappearance for some time.”
“But, Dad,” said Bob, “it’ll be in all the papers in a day or two. The news will be telegraphed to the papers in southern California, and probably he will read it.”
“There is some hope of that, of course,” admitted his father.
For some time longer the discussion continued along this vein. Then Murphy again made his appearance, and put an end to it.
“You’re to write a note to the Palace,” he said, “telling the hotel people to cancel your rooms an’ give your baggage to bearer. Send a check, too, for your bill. An’ don’t write nothin’ phony. Tell ’em you’re goin’ for a sea voyage with a friend. That’ll fix it if there are any questions asked about you by friends you may have in the city. Here’s paper an’ pen,” he added, laying the articles on the table. “Git busy an’ write.”
“And if I refuse?” demanded Mr. Temple.
“If you’re a man of sense,” said Murphy roughly, “ye’ll do as you’re told.”
All thought of that devious passage which was the only entrance to the room, of the barred doors across it, and of the villainous, armed Chinamen along the route. Murphy was right. Mr. Temple would have to obey.
“But, look here,” he said, taking up the pen and preparing to write. “What are you going to do with us?”
“The Big Boss is gonna take ye to sea with him while he recuperates,” said Murphy. “Ye give him a fractured skull that’ll take him a while to get over. But the minute he opens his eyes he plans what to do with ye an’ tells me. He says he’ll save ye up to deal with when he recovers. He’s savin’ ye up for himself. See?”
They saw. Only too plainly. “Black George” was a vengeful man who meant to exact full measure for his injuries. With a sinking heart, Mr. Temple wrote the note demanded. Note in hand, Murphy paused at the door for a last word ere departing.
“I wouldn’t like to be in your shoes,” he said.
This was a blow. Decidedly, a blow.
As the door closed behind Murphy, Mr. Temple and the boys looked at each other with dismay written plainly on every countenance. They were to be taken to sea at once, and to an unnamed destination. Furthermore, Mr. Temple had been compelled to write to the Palace Hotel management a note which would prevent suspicion being aroused by their failure to return to their rooms. Mr. Temple’s business associates would inquire for him at the hotel next day, when he failed to keep appointments, and would be told of the explanation contained in the note. They might consider his departure abrupt and unusual, but certainly they would not be likely to consider it so strange as to demand investigation by the police.
What hope was there that their disappearance would cause a police investigation that might, possibly, lead to their relief? Or that at least would be heralded in the papers, and so come, perhaps, to the attention of Inspector Burton, who could guess the solution?
None.
Without a word spoken, these thoughts passed through the minds of all. They realized they were in the hands of a very shrewd scoundrel, who had foreseen the possibilities of the situation and had taken care to guard against the arousing of public suspicion over their disappearance.
There was this other phase, too, to be considered—namely, that “Black George” might vent his anger against them for their attack upon him in fiendish tortures. As Mr. Temple thought of this, he groaned aloud.
“Boys,” he said, without raising his head from his hands, “I’ve certainly gotten you into a terrible situation.”
Big Bob laid a hand on his father’s shoulder.
“Don’t take it so hard, Dad,” he said. “We aren’t dead yet.”
“No,” said Frank, his spirits rebounding, “and we are not likely to be dead, either, for some time to come. Why, Uncle George, we have bested this rascal at every turn so far. It’s true, we are his prisoners. But, without his knowing it, we already have set the machinery of the government in motion to put an end to his smuggling of Chinese coolies. And in the fight, we most certainly got the best of him and his Chinese friend.”
Mr. Temple raised his head, and looked a bit more hopeful.
“Besides,” declared Jack, “we were in some pretty tight places on the Mexican border, and yet came through with flying colors. And I’m confident we will do so again.”
Mr. Temple even essayed a trace of a smile, as he regarded the tall, handsome, curly-haired lad. Jack was a year older than Bob and, though not so stout of frame, was fully as tall. Both were an inch under six feet. And Jack, like his companions, was hard as nails.
“Why, Jack,” said Mr. Temple, “I believe you like to be in a bad hole. Actually, I believe you are enjoying yourself.”
“Bob and Jack had most of the fun on the Mexican border, flying to the Calomares ranch and rescuing Mr. Hampton, while I was left behind at the cave with nothing to do but——”
Big Bob thwacked his chum on the back resoundingly.
“Yes, with nothing to do but save the day and half kill a husky Mexican officer,” he said. “You certainly were out of luck!”
“Oh, that’s all right,” said Frank. “Just the same, you fellows had more fun out of that adventure than I did. Now it looks as if I was declared in. And I can’t say that I’m entirely grief-stricken.”
Mr. Temple shook his head.
“You boys will be the death of me,” he said.
Nevertheless, their sturdy courage and optimism cheered him greatly.
For some time the talk went back and forth, the boys doing their best to cheer Mr. Temple. They realized dimly how great was his anxiety, far more on their account than on his own. And by belittling the dangers and persisting in regarding the whole matter as a lark, they hoped to dispel his gloom to some extent.
The various objects of the room came in for attention. The room itself proved to be steel-walled, and circular, the walls covered with heavy Oriental hangings. No lights were suspended from the ceilings. The only light came from several tinted bowls on a massive walnut table, very low and stained with age. Investigation disclosed electric light bulbs within the bowls.
“Let’s find the switch and throw the room into darkness when they come for us,” cried Frank eagerly. “Then we can jump them and gain the upper hand.”
The big door close to where he stood grated slightly and swung open and Matt Murphy stood in the aperture.
Had he heard, wondered Frank. He gave no sign.
“Come,” he said.
Mr. Temple and the boys regarded each other gravely. Without a word spoken and without premeditation, they clasped hands. Then Bob sprang to take the lead from his father. If danger threatened in the corridor, he would receive the brunt, rather than let his father accept that exposed position. Jack forced Frank to fall in behind Mr. Temple, and then himself brought up the rear.
But nothing unexpected occurred in the corridor, and they reached the dark courtyard, after passing through the guarding doors, without mishap. If any of them thought to cry out for help now that the outer air was gained, that thought speedily was dispelled. Matt Murphy leaned close, revolver in hand.
“One word and you are all dead men,” He said. Then he waved toward a clump of shadowy figures ahead, which the boys and Mr. Temple could discern as their eyes became more accustomed to the darkness.
“Chinese,” he said, “an’ awful quick with their knives. I’m warnin’ ye. That’s all.”
Thereupon Murphy fell silent, standing beside Mr. Temple. And the group ahead, between the prisoners and the dark mouth of the alley exit to the streets of Chinatown, also was motionless. A slight sound, sibilant, as of whispering, came from it. Murphy, however, vouchsafed no conversation.
“What are we waiting for?” whispered Frank, the irrepressible.
“Ye’ll see in a minute,” answered Murphy, shortly.
Out of the doorway behind them, a moment later, debouched a little cavalcade. In the center of a group of six or eight bobbing heads rose a dark object that swayed perilously as it lurched through the door. Murphy sprang toward it with a low-voiced curse.
“Careful there, ye haythens,” he commanded.
The object steadied and came closer. Then the boys could see it was a closed palanquin, borne by eight Chinese.
“Whew,” whispered Frank, impressed in spite of himself. “I didn’t know there were any of those things left in existence.”
“Must be that old Chinaman we laid out,” ventured Bob.
The burden bearers passed the little group. Silken curtains were drawn tightly about the palanquin, and the boys could not see within. It disappeared with its bearers, looking in the darkness like some gigantic spider, into the mouth of the alley across the court. Murphy joined them.
“Come,” he said. “An’ remember. One cry out o’ ye an’ ye are all dead.”
“Was that the old Chinaman?” whispered Frank.
Murphy, a talkative man himself, already had noted that irrepressible quality in Frank. He chuckled grimly.
“Ye’d talk in hell, youngster, wouldn’t ye?” he said. “No old Wong Ho stays here. That was the Big Boss.”
They were moving across the courtyard, obedient to Murphy’s command. The guard of Chinamen had closed around them.
“But, say,” asked Frank, “will they carry that thing through the streets?”
“Shut up,” growled Murphy, “an’ do what you’re told. Here we are. Now in with you.”
They had emerged upon the dimly lighted street of Chinatown whence they had approached the courtyard trap under the impression they were being taken to a Joss House. Not a shuffling sandal slithered up or down the block. All was deserted as a graveyard. There was a reason. Guards at either end of the block, unostentatiously loitering on the sidewalk, had dropped a word, and in that quarter it was sufficient. No whites happened to be passing, and as for the Chinamen they scurried away without looking back.
“In with you,” repeated Murphy, pushing the boys and Mr. Temple into a taxicab with blinds drawn, which stood at the curb. It was the same in which they had approached Chinatown, although they did not realize that fact.
A motor van stood behind. The palanquin had been placed in it with the ends of the supporting poles resting in leather thongs dependent from the sides. This was calculated to break any shocks of the passage to the pain-wracked form of “Black George.”
Murphy swung in with his prisoners, as did one of the Chinese guards. The taxi started downhill. Behind lumbered the van.
“What did you say your name is, Mister Enemy?” questioned Bob of Murphy who sat next to him.
“Murphy’ll do,” grunted the other. “Matt Murphy.”
“Well, Mr. Matt Murphy, you don’t mind if I talk a little, do you? It relieves my feelings.”
“Talk all ye please,” said Murphy, “so long as I hear ye. But don’t shout. An’ don’t try any funny business, because ye have no weapons, none of ye, while I an’ my little Chinee friend have ’em to spare.”
“Then,” said Frank, impudently, “why don’t you spare us some, and make matters more even?”
“Gwan wid ye,” said Murphy, secretly amused at the boy’s daring. “None o’ yer lip.”
Frank was not speaking thus without cause or merely from folly. He cherished the hope that perhaps their two captors could be thrown off guard and overpowered, whereupon they could proceed to overawe the taxi driver outside. But he quickly realized Matt Murphy was on the alert, while the Chinaman, whose head showed in the little light coming in from the front window, undoubtedly also was ready to cope with any attack. It was difficult for Frank to realize that in a great city they could thus be carried away captive. Yet he was forced to admit to himself that such was the case. A similar realization of the hopelessness of their position, had he only known it, was being borne in on his companions, too.
If he alone were in danger, thought Frank, he would shout for help, attack his captors, and run the risk of being shot or stabbed. But when he thought that such an attempt to gain freedom might result in Bob or Jack or Mr. Temple being killed, he shuddered, and could not bring himself to make the attempt. Similar considerations restrained each of the others.
All this time the auto had been making good progress, although the boys from their sketchy knowledge of San Francisco’s topography were unable to make any surmise as to the direction in which they were being driven. They had climbed and descended several hills and were now on a stretch of level going which, however, was rutted and uneven and far from smooth.
Abruptly the auto was brought to a stop. The chauffeur tapped on the window in front. All but a small oval of the partition was boarded up, and the Chinaman’s head obscured that. At the signal, Murphy reached for the door, but the chauffeur was ahead of him and opened it from the outside.
“Here we are,” said Murphy. “Climb out.”
Mr. Temple and the boys descended, the Chinaman bringing up the rear. The motor van drew up behind them at almost the same moment, its rear doors were swung open and the palanquin was thrust out and lowered to the shoulders of its former bearers.
They stood in a lonely spot on the northern shore of the peninsula where San Francisco is built. The nearest habitations were rusty ship chandleries and homes of Italian fishermen on a ragged street some distance in the rear. A suspended street lamp, swinging in the wind, cast strange shadows over the rough frame structures as the boys looked back. Not far away rose Telegraph Hill, with other lights starring it in irregular pattern.
About them were scattered odds and ends of the waterfront, broken oars, tarry barrels and even the skeleton of a long boat from which the boards had been ripped away, exposing the curved ribs half buried in the sand.
Ahead and not far distant lay an unroofed wharf with a steam craft of considerable size beside it. Toward this the palanquin was borne, and up a gangplank to the deck of the boat. Beyond the bow of the craft, pointing into the stream, showed the dark waters of the Straits, with the wooded and mountainous Marin County shore opposite, and the lights of Sausalito shining in the distance.
A last desperate hope of escape was in each boy’s mind as they glanced anxiously about. But the surroundings were not prepossessing. Who was there to hear a cry for help in those desolate surroundings? Who to lend a helping hand? No, it would be folly to make a dash for freedom now. Especially, inasmuch as not only did they have Matt Murphy, his Chinese satellite and the chauffeur to reckon with, but also a half-dozen others indistinguishable in the gloom, who stood a little to one side, prepared to deal with them if necessary.
Obedient, therefore, to Murphy’s command, they followed toward the vessel, trod the loose boards of the wharf with lagging feet, passed up the gangplank beneath the light and stepped aboard. Not giving them any time for looking about, Murphy immediately led the way to a small salon from which opened a number of cabins. Mr. Temple and Bob were given one, Frank and Jack another. Their bags from the Palace Hotel already were in the rooms, and on a bunk Mr. Temple found a small heap of silver and bills with a brief note of explanation that this constituted change from his check. A receipted bill was with the money.
“This looks bad, boys,” said he, pocketing the money. “This scoundrel Folwell evidently has a tremendously effective organization. The way in which we were brought here, this steam trawler—for such I take her to be, and that means a ship that can weather heavy storms, the expedition with which our belongings were brought from the hotel, even the careful accounting for my money—all these give convincing proof that it is no common desperado with whom we have to deal.”
Frank yawned. They were all gathered in the little cabin assigned Mr. Temple and Bob.
“Ho, ho,” said Frank, stretching, “I’m sleepy.”
The older man regarded him enviously.
“I wish I could feel like that,” he said.
“Well, I don’t see anything much to worry about,” said Frank. “We’re going on a sea voyage, and I love the sea. We are on what practically amounts to a pirate ship, and pirates always have fascinated me. We don’t know where we’re going, but I’ll bet it’s to the smugglers’ cove. And we don’t know what dark and dreadful fate is being reserved for us, but we can cross that bridge when we come to it.”
“For my part,” he added, lowering his voice, “I’ll bet that before he’s through with us Mr. ‘Black George’ Folwell will wish he had let us alone. Such trusty adventurers as Bob and Jack here, to say nothing of myself—notice my modesty—are liable to take his ship away from him before we’re through with this business.”
Jack clapped him on the back, and Bob roughed his hair.
“Attaboy.”
“That’s the idea.”
Frank merely had given an expression to their own sentiments.
“If we only had a weapon or two,” mourned Jack.
Mr. Temple, with an exclamation, reached for his bag. Then he groaned dismally.
“No use.”
“What’s the matter, Dad?” asked Bob.
“Oh, Jack made me think of an automatic which I carried in my bag. But you see the bag’s open. These fellows foresaw the possibility of their containing weapons and probably have gone through them all.”
“Let’s have a look, anyhow,” said Bob, starting to rummage. He was unsuccessful. The revolver had been taken from the receptacle.
“Oh, well,” said Jack, “we’ll have to keep our eyes open and our wits about us, that’s all. In a shipload of armed men, it would be strange if we couldn’t come by a weapon somehow.”
“Or, maybe, make a friend who will come over to our side,” said Bob suddenly. The big fellow was slower in his mental processes than his two chums, but when he spoke it usually was to the point.
“That’s right, Bob,” said his father, brightening, “of course, of course. Why hadn’t I considered that possibility before? A cruel man like Folwell must make some enemies among his men, especially if they have finer instincts and are not content merely to get their pay and carouse.”
“I was thinking of Matt Murphy,” said Bob.
“Speak of the devil,” said Frank, but so low his words were not heard.
For at that moment, Murphy put his head in through the door.
“We’re off,” he said. And it was true. The engines began to clank, the screw to churn. The trawler quivered and headed out into the channel. “In ten, fifteen minutes, we’ll be passin’ through the Golden Gate,” said Matt Murphy. “Them portholes ain’t big enough to jump out, so I ain’t worried. But put your eye to ’em an’ ye’ll see.”
Abruptly then, as if half sorry for his display of interest, he closed the door and they were once more alone. They looked from one to the other, and Mr. Temple nodded satisfaction.
“You’re a discerning lad, Bob,” he said.
The others nodded. That was all. But, rightly or wrongly, the impression was beginning to grow upon them that in Matt Murphy, “Black George’s” right-hand man, they might eventually find a friend.
“How fast do you imagine this boat is going, Mr. Temple?”
Jack asked the question at the breakfast table next morning. None of the four were seasick. At their homes on the far end of Long Island they maintained a speed boat. Bob and Frank, in addition, owned an airplane. All, as a consequence, were long since seasoned to the pitch and toss to which they were now subjected.
Breakfast had been served in the salon by several Chinamen under the eye of Matt Murphy. The room, as well as their cabins, they saw had been refitted luxuriously. The quarters were considerably larger than one would expect to find aboard a trawler, and the furnishings were those of a wealthy sportsman’s yacht. In addition to the two cabins opening from one side of the salon and which they occupied, two others were similarly located opposite. One was occupied by Matt Murphy who, apparently, was captain of the vessel, and the other by “Black George.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Mr. Temple in answer to Jack’s question. “But a boat such as this is not built for speed. Its especial quality is staunchness.”
“Well, but how fast do you imagine it is going?”
“About eight knots an hour or thereabouts,” said Mr. Temple, considering. “That would be nine to ten miles. A nautical mile, or knot, you know, is between one and one-sixth and one and one-seventh land miles. But, why, Jack? What have you in mind?”
Jack glanced at “Black George’s” door. It was closed. The other, he knew, lay there helpless to move, under care of a man whom they had not yet seen. So much had been gathered from Matt Murphy. The latter had disappeared above deck. Leaning closer, Jack lowered his voice. Instinctively, to hear him better, all put their heads together.
“It was midnight when we came aboard,” said Jack. “It is ten in the morning now. That means we have been at sea ten hours. We have gone one hundred miles, if you are correct about our speed. Now we are heading south. Our cabins are on the port side and the sun from the east is in our portholes.
“Do you know what?” He leaned closer.
“What?” asked Frank.
“I believe we are heading for the smugglers’ cove. And that’s in the south somewhere.”
The others nodded.
“Well,” continued Jack, “I’ve been thinking this over. San Diego is about six hundred miles south of San Francisco, isn’t it, Mr. Temple?”
“Roughly that. Go on. What have you in mind?”
“Just this. The smugglers’ cove is either above or below San Diego, said Inspector Burton, and not far from it in either direction. We shall reach San Diego in forty-eight hours more, at this rate, or about this time day after tomorrow. If the cove is this side of it, probably we would make it tomorrow night. If it is below San Diego, probably we would reach there the following night.
“Now, hold your horses, Frank,” Jack interrupted, good-naturedly, as he saw Frank growing impatient. “I’m coming to the point.
“What I have in mind is simply this: With ‘Black George’ hors de combat, and Matt Murphy lukewarm, we may have a chance to seize the ship before we reach the smugglers’ headquarters. If we don’t do it before landing, our chance to gain our freedom later will be slim. And the way I figured it out, we can’t reach the smugglers’ cove until tomorrow night at the earliest, which gives us the best part of two days in which to see what we can do.”
Warm approval was voiced by Frank and Bob. Mr. Temple, however, spoke of the almost insuperable handicaps—their lack of any sort of weapons, their ignorance as to the numbers or composition of the crew, or even as to the physical characteristics of the ship. He pointed out they had been forbidden to go above deck and, consequently, would know nothing beforehand of their field of battle.
“I agree with you, boys, of course,” he added, in conclusion, “that, if we can seize the ship, we must do so. But it is one thing to conceive an idea, and a far more difficult matter to work out the details. However, let us go into my cabin and leave the door open into the salon. There we can discuss the situation from every angle with less fear of discovery.”
“There is one thing I haven’t mentioned yet,” said Jack. “I’ve been so excited that it slipped my mind this morning. That is, I have a radio receiving set that may come in handy.”
“Yes. That ring set which Inventor Bender showed us. I persuaded him to sell it to me, you remember?”
The boys nodded.
“Well, when we went out sightseeing last night, I wore it on my left hand, and there it still is.” And Jack held up the device for inspection. “The inventor said it had a receiving radius of ten miles. It may mean a lot to us before we see the end of this adventure.”
The ring-radio of Inventor Bender is worthy of more extended mention and, inasmuch as later it was to play a noteworthy part in the adventures of the boys, perhaps it would be well to describe it at this time.
In the first place, Inventor Bender’s ring-radio was not, strictly speaking, his own invention, but rather an adaptation of a similar device earlier invented by Alfred G. Rinehart, a young radio wizard of Elizabeth, N. J.
The young inventor had not patented his device, but to an interviewer representing The Radio Globe of New York he had given a sketchy description of its operations, suppressing details. This had come to Inventor Bender’s attention. With no desire to steal another’s idea, but merely for his own amusement, he had taken up the matter and devised his own ring-radio, and this it was which he had sold to Jack.
The head phones and connecting wires from the ring to the phones and to aerial and ground were intact in his traveling bag, Jack already had ascertained. Whoever had searched the bag for possible concealed weapons had not considered it important to take them.
“Even my umbrella is strapped to my bag,” said Jack. “You remember Inventor Bender said I could connect a lead to the metal stem of the umbrella for aerial and stick a screwdriver into the earth for my ground connection. Of course, there is no earth here, but salt water will do even better.”
The ring of this set was the coil, slender, only slightly more than an eighth of an inch in diameter, and encircling the finger. The mounting comprised the controls and measured only 1 × 1-2 × 7-16 of an inch. These measurements included the brightly polished bakelite panel on which were mounted a diminutive crystal detector and small switch control connected with the coil by nine taps, permitting of nine different tuning adjustments by means of a movable band making connections in the heads of nine tiny brass studs set in the panel in the form of a semicircle. The whole was no larger than many ornate rings, and resembled one in appearance.
“Mr. Bender said it would receive on wave lengths up to and including 550 meters,” Jack explained. “This trawler undoubtedly has radio. In fact, I saw the aerial when we came aboard. Probably, sooner or later, it will open communication with the radio at the smugglers’ cove, and we can hear it.”
“But any conversation would be in code,” protested Frank. “Besides, they might use a very high meter wave length, and your set would be unable to receive.”
Jack looked thoughtful.
“I’ve considered that,” he said. “Naturally. Nevertheless, I have the feeling that this little radio ring will be mighty handy, indeed.”
Meanwhile, the party had adopted Mr. Temple’s suggestion and retired to his cabin. The conversation now was directed by the older man into a consideration of the possibilities. If they were to make an attempt to capture the ship, he declared, it was vitally necessary to their plans to know something of the composition of the crew and the physical aspect of the vessel itself.
Frank, Mr. Temple believed, seemed to have won Matt Murphy’s regard to some extent by his breezy manner. To him, therefore, was delegated the delicate task of sounding Murphy in an effort to learn how strongly he was attached to “Black George.”
“Be careful, however, not to give him any indication of what we have in mind,” warned Mr. Temple. “If you report that you saw any sign in Murphy’s words or manner that we could construe favorably, why then, I’ll have a talk with the man if possible.”
It was Mr. Temple’s thought that he might appeal to the cupidity of Matt Murphy by the offer of a substantial reward and to his fear by letting him know how close upon his leader’s trail were the officers of the government.
Like many well-laid plans, however, this was to come to naught. All that day the barometer acted queerly and Matt Murphy kept the deck. And at nightfall, after a growing mugginess that made it almost unbearably hot below deck, the sky which had been growing steely, as they could see from their cabin portholes, became entirely overcast. Soon the entire patch of sky visible from the portholes was black as ink, and had it not been for the switching on of the lights by a Chinese attendant sent down by Matt Murphy it would have been similarly black in the cabin.
“Isn’t a storm in this part of the ocean at this time of year unusual, Dad?” asked Bob. “I understood never a storm occurred along the California Coast between June and late September.”
“Yes, Bob, it is unusual,” answered his father, occupied in reading a sea story which he had found on a shelf of books in the salon. “Listen. What’s that?”
A sound as of a vast drum being beaten, a drum bigger and more sonorous than anything ever conceived of, suddenly filled the salon. The walls seemed to quiver. So great was the noise, so shattering, that all put their hands to their ears, as if their very eardrums were threatened. The boys and Mr. Temple who were alone, looked at each other in alarm.
The next moment the trawler, which until then had been riding on even keel, heeled far over, so far, indeed, that it seemed as if she could not right herself. Caught off guard the boys were tossed against the doors of their cabins and bruised badly by the impact. Then slowly, like a swimmer coming to the surface after a dive, the ship righted herself only to begin a tossing motion that was frightful.
“First the rain,” shouted Mr. Temple, who by clutching the table had maintained his equilibrium, “and now the wind. That’s all.”
The door of the companionway was thrust back rudely, admitting a cascade of water that washed across the floor and the reeling form of Matt Murphy. His head hung low and there was that in his attitude which told Frank, the most sensitive of the boys, that he was in trouble. Frank sprang to his assistance.
“Good boy,” said Murphy, thickly. “Shut the door or the whole Pacific Ocean will be in here.”
Frank slammed the watertight door and then turned to Murphy. His companions also had gathered around. Murphy grasped the table with his left hand. The right arm hung useless.
“Me arm’s broke I guess,” he said. “Git that doctor out o’ the Big Boss’s room. Calls himself a doctor, anyhow.”
Frank hastened to pound on the door of “Black George’s” cabin. At first there was no answer. Then a weak voice began to curse, the sounds barely audible to Frank above the roar of the storm.
He was uncertain what to do and turned to appeal to Murphy. The latter, reeling and clutching the table, interpreted his action aright.
“Open the door,” he said.
Frank complied.
On a tumbled berth lay the form of “Black George,” with head bandaged, recumbent, relaxed, breathing heavily. In a corner on the floor, as if tossed there by the action of the ship, half lay, half crouched a little fat man with gray hair and ragged gray mustache. As Frank opened the door he looked up, through bleared eyes, ceased mumbling and stared in fright.
“Don’t take me, Mr. Devil. Please don’t take me,” he pleaded piteously.
Frank was thrust aside by Matt Murphy, who had come to investigate. Despite his broken arm, which must have been giving him great pain, the latter advanced to the cowering form in the corner.
“Why, you’re not even drunk,” he said, after a moment’s scrutiny. “I believe you’re just scared. Come. Out wit’ ye.”
Seizing the other’s collar with his sound arm Murphy started to drag him into the salon. It was the boy’s first sight of the man taking care of “Black George.” Since they had come aboard he had not left the cabin to their knowledge. Chinese servants had taken his food to him. For that matter, they had seen nobody in authority except Matt Murphy. First mate? Second mate? Engineer? If the vessel owned them, at least they had not been seen.
Now the frightened little fat man grasped Murphy by a leg and almost pulled him to the floor. He babbled incoherently. Murphy tugged at him a moment, then tossed him back into his corner in disgust and started to withdraw. His eyes fell on the still form of “Black George.” He stooped over him, raised his eyelids, let them fall, and with an oath of disgust quit the cabin for the main salon, slamming the door behind him.
Dispiritedly, he slumped against the table.
“Master down an’ out wit’ drugs,” he said. “That’s what comes av association’ wit’ these Chinee people. You get to be a dopefiend. An’ doctor so scared he’s av no use. Uh.”
Frank advanced.
“Look here, Mr. Murphy,” he said. “If your arm’s hurt, let us examine it. Bob here is a pretty good hand at rough surgical work. He took a course in first-aid, so he could help out in football accidents at school.”
Murphy looked up hopefully.
“That so? Well, have a luk, lad. Here”—addressing Frank—“ye’ll find bandages an’ splints an’ iodine in that cabinet in my cabin. Go an’ git ’em. An’ bring me that bottle o’ licker ye’ll find there, too. I nade somethin’ to put sperrit in me this night.”
One long pull he took at the bottle of liquor, then ordered Frank to take it away, after Mr. Temple had declined his offer of a drink.
“One’s enough,” he said. “I’ve got work to do an’ must kape my head. Now lad”—extending his arm and addressing Bob—“go ahead.”
Murphy was without a coat, and Bob’s first move was to cut away the left sleeve of his flannel shirt. Deftly Bob worked, aided now and then by his companions, while Murphy sat without a groan throughout the whole operation. Beads of perspiration dotted his forehead. At the end, however, his arm was neatly and stoutly bound in splints and lashed across his chest.
“That’s wan I owe you, boys,” he said, when the operation was completed. “Matt Murphy don’t forgit. Now I’ll be on me way to the bridge, or that Chinee at the wheel will be droppin’ away from the wind an’ there’ll be the Divil to pay.”
As he rose to his feet and started for the door, Frank intervened.
“Won’t you let me come up to have a look around, Mr. Murphy?” he begged.
“I will not,” said Matt Murphy, violently. “Don’t ye know why I kept ye below all day? ’Tis because the Chinees have it in for ye for half-killin’ Wong Ho. There’s only two I kin trust an’ them’s the wans as cooks for ye an’ serves the food. Stay where ye are an’ be safe.”
With that he opened the door, reeled back before the force of the wind and the swirling gray hail of rain, then lowered his head and charged through, pulling the door to behind him.
“So that explains why we’ve been kept below here,” said Mr. Temple thoughtfully. “Well, the prospect if we fall into the hands of the Chinese crew doesn’t look pleasant.”
“I’ve heard,” said Jack, “that the Chinese idolize certain leaders, and will go to any lengths to obtain revenge for injury to them.”
Mr. Temple nodded.
“Nevertheless,” he said, hopefully, “this man Murphy seems a pretty good sort, rough as he is. He’ll do his best to protect us.”
“Yes,” declared Frank, “it seemed to me tonight that he was beginning to regret being a party to our captivity. He doesn’t want us to fall into the hands of the Chinamen. And he’s disgusted, too, with his employer. Maybe, we’ll get him on our side yet.”
“He’ll protect us from the Chinamen all right,” said Bob. “But when his boss, ‘Black George,’ recovers, he will be powerless. If this scoundrel is saving us in order to exact vengeance on us for the way we laid him out, we’ll be in a pretty fix.”
“Listen,” said Jack. “I have an idea.”
“What?”
“Why, here is ‘Black George’ helpless, with only a fright-crazed little pudding of a doctor to help him. Let us take possession of ‘Black George’ and gain the whip hand over Murphy. Then we can compel Murphy to come over to our side, perhaps.”
“How?”
“Why, we’ll buy our freedom with the freedom of Murphy’s master.”
“I don’t believe it can be done, Jack,” said Mr. Temple thoughtfully. “It isn’t only Murphy with whom we have to reckon, but these Chinamen, too. With them above all. ‘Black George’ probably doesn’t mean much to them. They would rather see him killed than see us escape their clutch. They probably feel that when we reach the smugglers’ cove they can compel ‘Black George’ to turn us over to their tender mercies, and that is the only reason they have been content to keep hands off so far.”
Jack was silent. The force of Mr. Temple’s reasoning was apparent to him.
“Well, then,” he said presently, “we’ll have to capture the ship in some way. That’s all. And, perhaps, we can persuade Murphy to give us weapons and help us overawe the Chinese crew.”
“Perhaps we can,” said Mr. Temple. “Meantime, let us all turn in and get some sleep. Tomorrow will be the day on which we must make whatever attempt we decide on. And we’ll need all our strength and alertness then. Frank, do you and Jack be sure to lock your cabin door again as you did last night, and we will do likewise. Let us each take a heavy chair into our rooms, too. In case of a night attack, we can at least pull the chair apart for clubs. And now, good night.”
Mr. Temple thereupon turned in. For some moments, more, however, the boys chatted and tried to read, but at last they, too, retired. As far as they could tell, the storm continued to rage undiminished.
“I wonder what tomorrow will bring forth, Jack,” said Frank, just before going to sleep.
“I wonder,” said Jack. “Good night.”
Jack waked early the next morning and lay in his berth wondering drowsily for several moments as to what caused his feeling that there was something unusual in the situation. Then he jumped alertly to his feet and ran to the porthole.
The trawler was motionless. When he retired it had been tossed about by the storm. Now its engines were stilled, its screw was not turning, and except for a slight rolling motion it lay as calm as in a harbor. Could it be they had reached the smugglers’ cove during the night? It was this alarming thought which sent Jack to the porthole.
But a look at the outer world convinced him to the contrary. There was no land in sight. And as he was on the landward side, he considered this a pretty good indication that they were not in port anywhere. Of course, the trawler might have swung about, so that her starboard side lay toward the land. He sniffed. There was no land smell in the salty air. He listened. No land sounds came to his ears.
Perhaps the trawler had broken down in the storm, perhaps something had happened to engines or screw. Jack had the natural curiosity of a young fellow in his ’teens and wished that he might go on deck and investigate. He thought of Matt Murphy’s prohibition, of the Chinese crew thirsting for the blood of himself and his comrades.
But, after all, he reassured himself, if he merely poked his head up the companionway nobody would see him. He would be safe enough. And at the recollection of that clean sunshine flooding all the world outside, which he had seen through the porthole, and of the magically calmed sea, he decided he would have to obtain a glimpse of the world above decks, get a lungful of fresher air, no matter what happened.
All this time he had been hurriedly getting into his clothes. A look showed him Bob slept on. Unlocking the cabin door, he stepped soundlessly into the salon.
It was empty of human occupants other than himself. The door of the Temples’ cabin was closed. “Black George’s” cabin door was closed. So, too, was that of Matt Murphy. Jack gave fleeting thought to the question of how that worthy had survived the stress of the night. Was he still on deck? Or had he retired to rest? If the latter, who was in command?
“Certainly is a queer layout, anyhow,” Jack mused. “Murphy and the doctor the only white men we have seen other than ‘Black George.’ Aren’t there any officers? Are all others aboard Chinamen? Well, here goes.”
And trying the handle of the outer door, and finding it turn soundlessly, he opened it inch by inch. The companionway was empty. A short flight of steps led to the deck. Mounting several, he found his head on a level with the deck and started to raise it cautiously to peer out.
The sound of low-voiced conversation came to his ears, and instinctively he bent down again. Listening a moment, he decided that he had not been seen, for the whispering went on. It came, he believed, from a point not far to the right, on the other side of the wooden bulwark of the companionway.
He held his breath, straining painfully. Whoever they were, they were speaking in English. Yet neither voice was that of Matt Murphy. Who could they be? He had to see.
Slowly, slowly, scarcely moving, yet edging forward all the time, Jack peered around the bulwark. Presently he saw them. They were two in number, and one was the little fat doctor who looked after “Black George.” The other was a sodden-looking man of middle age, with a smudge of grease over one eye and his face generally dark with grime and coal dust. He was in his undershirt and carried a wrench in his right hand.
“We’ll soon have her fixed now, Doc,” this latter individual was saying, “nothing wrong but a couple of bolts shaken loose in the storm. Thought I’d better lay up and tighten things generally. That’s all. Well, so long, I have to keep them Chinks moving or we’ll never get the work finished.”
The engineer, Jack correctly surmised. He started to move on. The fat little doctor laid a detaining hand on his arm, and glanced around nervously. Jack hastily withdrew his head, only to advance it again cautiously a moment later. The doctor’s back was turned.
“Mr. MacFinney,” he said to the engineer. “You don’t know what’s happening to your engines while you’re away, do you?”
“Not with them Chinks around,” said the other, laughing a little. “They don’t know much about machinery.”
“The Chinamen,” said the doctor, darkly. “That’s just it.”
“What’s the matter with you, Marley?” said MacFinney, thrusting his face closer to the other’s. “Out with it, man. Have ye something on your mind? Or is it just the drink again?”
Doctor Marley drew his fat little form upright, as if to resent the rough remark. He was cursed with the habit of secret drinking, and it was on that account he had lost his practice and had fallen into the state of a creature to “Black George.” But resentment did not last. He was frightened. The next moment he laid a trembling hand on MacFinney’s arm.
“Mr. MacFinney,” he said, low and hurried, “I’m afraid the Chinese may have put your engines out of commission, or may be doing it now while you are absent. You know our Chinese cook is a strange fellow, hates the others, or at any rate has little to do with them. And he said something——”
MacFinney started forward with an oath.
“If they’re up to any monkeyshines, I’ll fix ’em.”
Doctor Marley ran after him, laying a hand on his arm.
“Oh, do be careful, Mr. MacFinney,” he pleaded, all a-twitter with fear, as Jack could observe. “Please be careful. What—what would I do, if anything happened to you?”
MacFinney regarded him scornfully.
“So it’s yourself you’re thinking of. What might happen to me doesn’t matter on my account. But you need me for protection, hey?”
“Oh, Mr. MacFinney. Oh. You mustn’t think that. But it’s those boys that Mr. Folwell brought aboard. They injured Wong Ho. I bound up his head before I left. And he’s their leader, he’s——”
“Yes, yes, I know,” interrupted the engineer, impatiently. “But don’t delay me. If what you suspect is true, and I wouldn’t put it past them Chinks, it’s high time I was gettin’ below.”
Jack waited to hear no more. He did not want to be discovered by Doctor Marley, if the latter chose to return at once. Retreating noiselessly down the companion, he re-entered the salon. It was just as he had left it. But when he opened the door of his cabin, he received a surprise.
Frank was at the porthole with his back turned and the headphones of Jack’s ring-radio set clamped to his ears. Jack’s thoughts flew at once to the ring, and he remembered having taken it off before retiring and placing it on a stand against the wall. He looked. It was not there. Obviously, Frank, on awaking, had noticed it and had been impelled to take the parts from Jack’s bag and make an attempt to listen in on the ether.
On tiptoe Jack crossed the cabin and peered over Frank’s shoulder. His chum had one arm through the porthole, clutching the extended umbrella. One wire led to the wire stem. Another wire dangled downward to the sea, although Jack could not, of course, observe more than the fact of its direction. Here were aerial and ground. Jack tapped his chum on the shoulder, but Frank, with serious face, frowned at him, and Jack interpreted the look to be a request for silence. Perhaps Frank was hearing something of moment. He stood to one side, waiting for Frank to speak.
Evidently his chum was straining hard to hear. He even closed his eyes, the better to concentrate. What could it be? Jack had news of his own to impart, important news, but in Frank’s attitude he sensed something that bespoke importance too. Suddenly Frank opened his eyes.
“That’s all,” he said. “The conversation grew fainter and fainter. Now I can’t hear at all any more.”
“What was it? What did you hear?”
“Just two ships talking, Jack. That’s all.”
Frank smiled teasingly, as he folded the umbrella and pulled it back through the porthole, then laid off the headphones and began hauling in the ground wire.
“Just two ships, that’s all. You don’t mind my taking liberties with your toy, do you, Jack?”
“Of course not. But, look here, you heard something that excited you, Frank. Quit joshing. What was it?”
Frank turned a serious face, his eyes gleaming.
“Jack, the funniest thing. I heard two ships talking, or rather, only one ship talking to another. The replies of the second I couldn’t hear at all.”
“That ring-radio has a radius of about ten miles,” said Jack. “Perhaps not quite that much. That accounts for it. You heard the ship that was within our radius, but not the other because it was too far away to be heard. But what was said? Business, I suppose?”
“Business, my eye,” said Frank. “The one nearby was the U. S. Sub Chaser X-51. And as far as I could gather, it was talking to a coast liner bound north for San Francisco aboard which was Inspector Burton. He was asking the sub chaser to run alongside the liner and take him off. Remember, I could only hear what the sub chaser replied. I gathered from something said that the liner could not be so very far away. The sub chaser started for it, however, and as it drew away from us the radio got fainter and fainter until I lost it altogether.”
“A sub chaser that close to us,” said Jack, highly excited. “That decides me. We’ve got to act at once. Come on.”
He seized Frank by an arm and propelled him toward the door.
“But here. Wait a minute. I’m not half dressed yet. What’s the matter with you?”
“Jump into your clothes quick. Meantime I’ll get hold of Mr. Temple and Bob and bring them back here. We have got to talk to that sub chaser and turn her this way.”
“Talk to her?” said Frank, perplexed. “You must be crazy. With this little receiving set, I suppose.”
“No, with the trawler’s radio. But I’ll explain when I return. Jump into your clothes.”