The sun streamed into the miserable old shanty. It had looked unattractive enough by night. Seen by day it was ten times more shabby and ramshackle. Old fish nets, ragged, frayed lines, all the paraphernalia of a river fisherman lay scattered about.
On the crude table stood some unwashed tin dishes, great shad-flies and eel bugs buzzing about them with a whirring sound. Against the wall hung some of old Whey’s clothes, queer, homemade garments, half patches and half the original material; it was hard to tell where one began and the other ended. The sunlight that streamed into the squalid place, which had an untidy, dirt floor, came from the same window through which Ralph had observed the light the night before.
The place was the typical home of a St. Lawrence River fisherman. In one corner stood the old man’s most cherished possessions, his sturgeon spears and a big jack lantern for night fishing. A crude attempt at taxidermy, too, was above an open fireplace at one end of the hut—a stuffed “butter-ball” duck. It stood wobbling on one leg, the seams of its sewn-up skin bursting through with the cotton that stuffed it.
In the opposite corner was a rusty stove with three legs, the place of a fourth support being supplied by a log. A few tin plates, clumsy knives and forks, bags of flour, potatoes, onions and other staples about completed the furnishings of the hut. The roof was leaky, as some muddy pools on the floor and the sunlight streaming through sundry holes into the room, amply testified.
Ralph’s eye took in all this in a few seconds. Then his mind reverted to his loss. Beyond a doubt, old man Whey was the thief. The old rascal must have decided to search his guest in the night and abstract whatever of value he found. The boy could not help an indignant exclamation as he thought of the almost priceless collection of gems the old man’s rapacious fingers had gathered in.
“Just to think,” exclaimed Ralph indignantly, “that an old, half-senile man should have robbed me of precious stones that I thought nobody could take from me!”
Angry at his lack of caution in not having hidden them before he entered the hut, Ralph went to the door. It was ajar, and a touch threw it open. Outside, the morning sparkled brightly. The hut was on the river’s edge. On the shore was drawn up a St. Lawrence skiff, a narrow, double-ended craft of a type peculiar to the great river.
Its oars lay on their fixed thole pins and the line that lay up on the beach was bone dry. Plainly, if this was the old man’s only boat, which, considering his poverty-stricken state, was likely, old Whey had not been out that morning.
This rather puzzled Ralph. He had made up his mind that the old man had risen as soon as the storm died out—or perhaps he had not gone to bed at all—and had looted his garments and bed and then made off with their valuable contents. If the venerable thief had decamped, however, it was plain he had not gone in his own boat; that is, unless he was possessed of more than one, which, for the reasons mentioned, was highly improbable.
Some bacon was in a frying-pan on the rusty stove in which a fire was smoldering. A pot of coffee, also, stood there; and with some bread from one of the corner cupboards Ralph managed to make a rough breakfast. Then, refreshed and invigorated, he set out for the scene of the wreck. Naturally, the desire to see how badly the River Swallow was damaged was uppermost in his mind. It outweighed even his worry over the losing, or, rather, the theft, of the leather wallet.
He had not proceeded very far when his steps were arrested by a low cry from a clump of brush back from the beach.
“Don’t strike me again! Don’t!” came in a trembling voice from whoever was concealed there.
“Somebody hurt,” said Ralph to himself, and began to hasten up the beach toward the clump of bushes.
As his footsteps crunched on the gravel the voice broke out afresh:
“It’s the boy’s wallet, I tell you. You mustn’t steal it! Give it back! Give it back!”
Much mystified at this mention of the wallet, Ralph parted the bushes. He had hardly done so, when he started back with an exclamation. Old man Whey lay there in a crumpled heap. Apparently he was injured. But Ralph soon discovered that although the old man’s face had been bruised by a brutal blow he was not badly hurt.
Old man Whey lay there in a crumpled heap.
“What’s the matter, Mr. Whey?” asked the boy, blaming himself for his suspicions of the old man. “What has happened?”
“Oh, is it you, my boy?” asked the old man, opening his eyes. “Three men came to the hut while you were asleep. I had dozed off and opened my eyes in time to see them taking something from under your pillow.”
“Those men!” cried Ralph, guessing the truth. “Were there three of them?”
“Yes. I saw them take your wallet. I chased them and told them to give it back, but they laughed at me and then struck my face as you see, and threw me into these bushes. I’m not much hurt, but I’m half dead from fright.”
Ralph’s mind was busy reconstructing things. There were three men. That, then, made it plain that La Rue had not perished, but had managed to get ashore through the shallow water. He must have met Malvin and the Norwegian sailor when they landed, which accounted for the prompt disappearance of the latter two.
Apparently, then, they had watched him (Ralph) come ashore, and had tracked him to the hut of old man Whey. Having done this, they had awaited an opportunity to recover the gems, which Hansen had evidently seen Ralph transfer from the coat pocket of La Rue’s discarded garment to his own. It may be said here, that this is precisely what had happened and Ralph’s guesses were not a whit short of the whole truth of the matter.
Despite his anxiety to reach the scene of the wreck, the boy felt that his first duty lay to old man Whey, who was in a pitiable condition of shakiness over his fright. But when Ralph had helped him to his feet, he rallied and began to grow quite angry.
“Ah! If I’d been young and strong like I was once this wouldn’t have happened,” he quavered. “I’d have given them something to think over. Yes, I would. But I’m old and all alone since Jimmie left me.”
“Who was Jimmie?” asked Ralph, more to keep the old man’s mind off his brutal treatment than anything else, as the two advanced toward the hut.
“Jimmie! Why, he was my grandson. He was a fine little lad, Jimmie was, but he was lost in his boat two years ago, and I’ve never got a trace of him since.”
“Lost? You mean that he was lost in a storm?”
“Yes. Jimmie was out fishing when one of those storms we call a twister came up. The last I saw of him he was being blown round that point yonder. I’ve never seen him since. He’d be about twelve years old now, Jimmie would. He was a fine boy,” garrulously went on the old man, “and after his father, my last living son, died, Jimmie meant a lot to me.”
His voice broke and his dim old eyes grew dimmer.
“You don’t think it possible that he may have been saved?” inquired Ralph, with a vague hope of comforting the old man.
Old Whey shook his head mournfully.
“No, sir. Jimmie’s dead and gone, he is, and the old man is left alone. All alone.”
After he had had some strong coffee and breakfast, however, the old man rallied. He said he would accompany Ralph to the scene of the wreck. He suggested taking the row boat, as it would be easier than walking. Just as a westerner catches up a pony rather than walk a quarter of a mile, so a denizen of the St. Lawrence always travels in a skiff or a punt or a “put-put” (St. Lawrence for motor boat), if he is lucky enough to possess one.
But when they came out of the hut, imagine the surprise of the old man and the boy when they saw that the boat had gone!
There was no question about it, the skiff had vanished utterly without leaving a trace.
They hurried to the beach, the old man almost tearful over this new calamity. Ralph bent and examined the ground in the vicinity of the place where the boat had lain. Then he straightened up with an angry exclamation.
“La Rue’s work again!” he cried. “Three men have been here and, beyond the shadow of a doubt, it was La Rue and his companions. They have escaped from the island with the gems in your stolen boat.”
The old man was more than angry. He was furious. He wept and wailed and tore his hair. The loss of the boat affected him like some great disaster, which, in fact, it was to him. But Ralph succeeded in allaying somewhat his fury and grief by promising him a new skiff as soon as he should be able to procure one.
“I feel that I am partly responsible for the loss of your skiff,” said the boy, “as, if it had not been for me, those three men would not have come near your hut. So I’ll see to it that you get another one.”
“A Guerin skiff?” quavered the old man. “That one they took was built by him. He is dead and gone now, but nobody on the St. Lawrence ever built skiffs like Amie Guerin. That one of mine was thirty years old and better than when she was new.”
After Ralph had promised that if possible one of the skiffs from the workshop of the redoubtable Guerin should replace the missing one, the old man grew calmer.
“I am selfish,” he said. “After all, perhaps your beautiful motor craft is ruined, and what is one poor skiff to the loss of a fine craft like that?”
“Let us go and see how badly she is damaged,” said Ralph; and together the old man and the boy set off for the point upon which the luckless River Swallow had driven her bow. In a short time they reached it.
The River Swallow lay on the placid river, apparently unharmed. The stern lines that Ralph had had the foresight to order out had held, and her after part was swinging clear of the sand-spit on which she had rammed her bow.
Ralph waded out to the craft and examined her as well as he could. To his joyous amazement, so far as he could make out, she had suffered no great damage. One or two of her rivets might be strained, he thought, but beyond that the River Swallow appeared to be in good order.
The boy could not resist the temptation to see if he could get her off the sand-bar. This was not as difficult as it sounds. The wind of the night before had held the craft on the sand-spit. But now she appeared to be about to glide off into deeper water of her own volition. Almost her entire hull was afloat, the exception being the foot or two of bow that was embedded in the sand.
“I believe I could do it,” mused Ralph, as he sized up the situation critically. “Wouldn’t it be fine to come cruising along into Piquetville under my own power with old man Whey for a crew!”
He turned to the old man.
“Mr. Whey, can you steer a boat?”
“What kind of a boat?” croaked the old man, who had been lost in admiration of the shapely lines and finish of the River Swallow.
“Why, this boat. The River Swallow. Do you know anything about handling a wheel?”
“He! he! he! What a question!” chuckled the old man. “Why, Enos Whey was skipper of a Montreal packet afore rheumatiz crippled him up. D’ye want me to help you get her off the shoal?”
“That’s just what I do. If you will ship as wheelman and run her to Piquetville I’ll pay you well for it.”
“I’ll do it! By gum, I’ll do it!” cried the old man. “I haven’t had a wheel in my hands for fifteen years, but a man never forgets how to steer. Help me aboard, lad, and I’ll show you what I can do.”
Ralph clambered on board the River Swallow and then proceeded to help the old man up the rope ladder, sometimes used by the boys in debarking in a rough sea. With many grunts and groans, old Whey was at last safely on deck.
“What now, lad?” he asked.
“I’ll get the engines started and then we can cast off the stern lines. Then you’ll take the wheel and I’ll throw my clutch into the reverse and give her full power. I think, that with both propellers tugging at her the River Swallow will back off into deep water just as nicely as anything.”
“She ought to,” agreed the old man, “that sand is soft and she is not up on it very far. You go below, lad, and tell me when you are ready.”
Ralph hastened to his cabin, jumped into overalls and descended to the motor room. Everything was in apple-pie order, except that Hansen had left tools untidily lying about. Leaving the cleaning-up process till some future time, Ralph turned on the gasoline, set the sparks on both motors and then pulled the lever that started the compressed air apparatus that spun the engines till they picked up their power.
There was a whirr and a buzz and then a volley of explosions.
“Fine!” exclaimed Ralph, as the big motors began to revolve. He adjusted the mixture and then the powerful machines settled down to a rhythmic hum. The clutch was not in and they were running free—that is, the propellers were not yet revolving.
“All right!” cried Ralph, hastening on deck. “All ready when you are!”
The old man and the boy cast off the stem lines, and then Ralph, without loss of time, for there was danger of the freed hull swinging with the current, hastened below once more. Old man Whey took up his position on the bridge. A flash of fire came into his aged eyes as he felt the spokes of a steering wheel in his grip once more.
He seized the engine-room signal lever with a hand that shook but was still determined.
“Full speed astern!” flashed up on the indicator below, on which Ralph’s eyes had been glued.
“The old man sure does understand his business,” murmured the boy, as he grasped the reverse lever.
There came a rattling, grinding whirr as the cogs of the gears engaged. Then a tremor and a convulsion of the hull.
“Is she moving?” wondered Ralph excitedly.
He speeded up the engines to their full capacity. The sharp pitched propellers “bit” the water, exercising a tremendous backward drag on the River Swallow.
Unable to restrain himself, Ralph rushed up on deck. What he saw caused him to utter a shrill whoop of joy, which was echoed in a feeble croak by old man Whey.
“We’re off!” shouted the boy.
“See here, you get below and mind your engines,” chuckled old man Whey. “I’m the temporary skipper of this craft.”
It was some two hours after the floating of the River Swallow, which proved as staunch as ever, that a group of persons on board a speedy, trim little motor tender spied the craft coming toward Piquetville with a “bone in her teeth.”
Joy that verged on the delirious ran riot on the tender, which was the River Swallow’s own boat, when, from the side of the fast motor craft, came a puff of white smoke, a loud report and then the stars and stripes fluttered out in all their glory on the after flagstaff.
“Whoop-ee! Zing! zang! zabella!” cried Harry Ware exultingly. “It’s good old Ralph! The old bull-dog has won out!”
“I knew he would. I’ll bet he’s got that gang imprisoned on board there right now!” cried Percy Simmons.
“Look! There he is on the bridge!” cried Jennings, indicating a figure at the wheel.
“Is that Ralph?” questioned Percy hesitatingly.
“Yes—no, by hookey! It’s an old man with a white beard!”
“Well, what under the sun!” burst from Harry Ware.
“I rather fancy, young men, that your comrade will have an odd story to tell when we meet him,” struck in Prescott. “By Jove, he appears to be as efficient on the St. Lawrence as he and his chums proved to be on the Mexican border.”
“You bet Ralph’s on the job wherever he is!” said Percy Simmons fervently.
“I’m anxious to hear his story,” said Adams, the third customs man. “It’s few men, let alone boys, that could bull-doze La Rue and two other men as bad, and come back home with flying colors and an old Santa Claus for helmsman.”
“The man at the wheel looks like old Father Time,” laughed Harry.
“He’s right on time, anyhow,” declared Percy Simmons.
Not long after an interested group, gathered in the inspector’s office at Piquetville, heard Ralph’s story. The official was visibly chagrined over the loss of the gems, but he concealed this as well as he could and complimented Ralph on his excellent work.
“If you would accept a position I’d like to have you in this service,” he said; “but you can at least do us one favor. Lend the government of the United States your River Swallow for to-night.”
“I’ll do a lot more than that,” said Ralph quickly. “But, if I may ask, what is the plan, Inspector?”
“Just this. I think that La Rue and his companions, after they stole the old man’s boat, made for some rendezvous of the gang. They are there now, according to my best judgment.”
“Yes; that’s about right,” agreed Jennings. “But they’ll make a break as soon as possible.”
“Just my idea, Jennings,” rejoined his chief; “and that ‘break’ will be made on that fly-by-night boat of theirs. They’ll try and dispose of the gems, smuggle them across the line, that is, in some other point along the river; or they may even try to get to the Great Lakes. It’s our job to head them off.”
“A man’s-size job,” muttered Adams.
“All of that,” said the inspector; “that is the reason why I asked this young man for the loan of his boat. My idea is, first to descend on Windmill Island, which, from Master Stetson’s story, I believe to be the hiding place of the gang. The old island would make an ideal hang-out for them. It is full of passages and galleries and then, too, that old windmill tower would make a fine meeting place for such scamps. Folks around here believe it is haunted and wouldn’t be likely to bother them. Young men, we will start for Windmill Island at dusk.”
“You want us along?” asked Ralph delightedly.
“Why, of course,” was the astonished reply. “You didn’t think we could get along without you, did you?”
“Well, I must say that I’d like to be in at the finish,” rejoined Ralph.
“Same here,” put in Harry Ware.
“Me for that cruise, if I never take another,” grinned Percy Simmons delightedly.
“And if I kin come, I’d like ter take a good swat at ther feller what stole my skiff, by gum!” chortled old man Whey, at which they all laughed; and the inspector promised the old fellow that he should be a member of the party that hoped to tout the gem smugglers out of their last stronghold and bring them to book for their misdeeds.
It was just at the conclusion of this arrangement that a messenger boy broke into the room.
“’Sage fer Ralph Fetson!” he burst out.
“No such——” began the inspector.
“I guess he means me,” said Ralph, taking the message.
Sure enough, the dispatch was for him. He tore it open and scanned it eagerly. It was from his father.
“Arrest, annoying mistake. Trip here useless. Made on a forged message. Tell all about it on my return.
Dad.”
“Well,” said Ralph, after he had communicated the news, “I guess we know almost as much about that as dad. He can’t get here before to-morrow morning, and by that time——”
“We’ll be able to confront him with the men responsible for his unpleasant experience,” promised the inspector confidently.
“Well, Harry, this is going to be some cruise!”
“Humph! I’ve a notion it will be all of that and then some,” replied Harry Ware, as he and Ralph Stetson stood side by side on the bridge of the River Swallow. The dusk was deepening into night and the River Swallow lay at the Piquetville dock tugging at her hawsers, as if anxious to be off on what was to prove the most memorable trip of her career.
“We’re going to try conclusions with that Artful Dodger at last, and tie her up hard and fast, and certain members of her crew as well.”
“All well and good,” said Harry, “but just the same my advice would be to stay far away from that craft. She’s a bad one. I don’t like the idea of coming up with her.”
“More ghost shivers, eh?” laughed Ralph. “Stay ashore if you like, Harry.”
The Ware boy flushed crimson.
“What are you talking about? I’m not scared. Don’t you dare say I am, Ralph Stetson.”
“That’s all right, Harry,” soothed Ralph, with a laugh. “I know that when we catch the Artful Dodger you’ll be just as courageous as any one else. But till then——”
“You’ll please quit teasing me about that craft.”
“All right, if that’s the way you feel about it.”
“What if they threw a bomb or something at us while we were chasing them?”
“No danger of that. I shouldn’t wonder, in fact, if we miss the craft altogether. Of one thing I’m glad, though, we are going to explore the mysteries of Windmill Island.”
“Umph! That’s a nice, cheerful job. We saw one explosion there. How do we know that there won’t be another? That fellow Rawson was thinking of making a mine with that dynamite that blew up when the hut caught fire. How do we know he mayn’t have some such cheerful little contrivance planted off the island that may blow us sky-high?”
Ralph lost all patience.
“Say, if you don’t stop croaking, I’ll ask the inspector to have you put ashore. Why, old man Whey is far more courageous than you are.”
Harry walked off with his hands in his pockets. He was indignant, but Ralph only smiled.
“He’ll be back in a while,” he said to himself, “and when he does come he’ll be ashamed of himself.”
He was right. Shortly after the customs inspectors boarded the boat and found the boys and old man Whey all ready for them, Harry stole up to Ralph.
“I hope we don’t sight that Artful Dodger,” said he, “but if we do, nothing will suit me but to bring her back with a double half-hitch in her nose.”
“I knew that was the way you’d feel about it, Harry,” said Ralph, and then turned to greet the customs inspectors.
All was in readiness. Nothing was to be gained by waiting, and the word to cast off soon came. Through the fast falling gloom the River Swallow slipped out into the St. Lawrence, while a thrill ran through all of those on board as they thought of the night’s work that depended upon them.
“Want the search-light?” asked Harry, as they moved along.
Old man Whey, who acted as pilot, from his thorough knowledge of the river, had just told them they were not far from Windmill Island.
“Not on your life,” snapped the chief inspector; “we don’t want to herald the fact that we are coming. I would suggest, captain, that you extinguish even your side-lights.”
“Taking a chance,” said Ralph, scanning the compass card.
“Never mind. We’ll have to risk it.”
The next instant a sharp click showed that the lights were out.
Stealthily as a shadow the River Swallow crept over the dark water, not a light showing on board her. With her under-water exhaust, too, her engines were perfectly silent. Like a ghost ship she crept along, with old man Whey guiding Ralph’s steering.
After a while the old man signaled to the chief inspector.
“Better take to the small boat here,” he advised, “and anchor the River Swallow. I’m not sure of the rocks and shoals, and Windmill Island lies right off there.”
“Very well,” said the inspector, “anchor as noiselessly as possible.”
The anchor chain was slipped out slowly with hardly any of its customary whirring and rattling. The engines ceased to revolve. The River Swallow swung noiselessly at her moorings. Then came the command to lower the launch tender.
When this was done, they all descended into it and, using the oars—for they did not want to announce their coming by the popping of the engine—they set off through the darkness for the shore.
Presently, like a tall ghost, the white finger of the windmill tower upreared itself through the surrounding gloom.
Ralph, who sat next Harry, felt the lad give a shiver.
“Goose flesh?” he laughed, nudging the boy.
“Goose flesh nothing!” exclaimed Harry indignantly. “It’s fighting flesh.”
The bow of the tender grated on the beach. It was after ten o’clock. No light or other evidence of human habitation was visible.
“Maybe our birds have skipped,” said the chief inspector, in disappointed tones.
“Hold on a minute!” whispered Ralph, in a low, tense voice. “What’s that coming?”
“It’s a motor boat,” cried Harry.
“Heading this way, too,” declared the inspector.
“Lie low, everybody,” cautioned Jennings the next instant. “It’s the Artful Dodger, for a thousand dollars!”
The tender was a light one. It was no very hard task for the party to draw the little craft up the beach and into the concealment of a clump of bushes.
Hardly had this been done, when around the point behind which they had landed, came the craft they had heard. The night was starlit, and in the dim radiance they could see her dark outlines coming on at a good speed.
Beyond the little cove into which they had drawn the tender was a fairly high cliff, rocky and threatening. The motor boat crossed the little cove and kept straight on. No lights burned on her. Plainly her errand was not one which those on board cared to advertise.
“Great Scott! what is she going to do?” exclaimed the inspector, in a low whisper, as the motor boat kept right on across the little cove without altering her course in the least. Not one degree did she swerve from the route she was steering.
“What on earth do they mean to do?” breathed Ralph. “Run the boat smack into that cliff?”
“Looks as if they are bent on suicide,” commented Jennings uneasily.
“I told you it wasn’t any ordinary kind of boat,” said Harry Ware. “It wouldn’t surprise me if——”
“Jumping Jupiter!” burst from the inspector.
The rest of the party could only gasp their amazement. At the moment articulate speech was impossible.
The motor boat had reached the cliff—and vanished without sound or sign.
“She’s gone down!” cried Ralph, the first to recover from his astonishment.
“Gone down, nothing!” retorted Harry scornfully. “She’s just melted into air, that’s what.”
“Don’t be so foolish,” chided Inspector Jennings. “Depend upon it, that is another of their tricks, like the ones they played on you, boys.”
“We’ll start for that cliff and examine it,” declared the chief inspector. “There’s some clever sleight of hand in all this mummery.”
“We’re going to that cliff!” gasped Harry, in affrighted tones. Nevertheless he set off with the others, but he might have been observed to hang some distance behind them. The boy was now more firmly convinced than ever that there was something supernatural about the mysterious craft.
“The Fenians had all sorts of secret ways of landing upon and leaving this island,” said the chief inspector; “and I’ll wager that the motor boat just used one of those to work the trick we’ve just seen.”
The night was warm and there were occasional flashes of summer lightning. To Harry’s thinking, this made the strange quest they were engaged on all the more uncanny.
At last they reached the cliff.
“I wish another flash would come,” said Ralph, “we daren’t light matches. But I brought along an electric torch.”
“A good idea. We may need it later,” said the inspector. “Hullo! Look there! I guess that explains the mystery of the motor boat’s vanishing.”
Another flash had revealed a tunnel-like hole in the cliff which could hardly be observed from the water side, on account of several thick bushes which grew, either by accident or design, about its mouth.
“There’s a path,” said Ralph presently, as another flicker of lightning revealed a rough trail leading up the cliff face.
“We’ll follow it. Easy, now, boys, we don’t want to give the alarm,” warned the chief inspector.
Through the darkness the intruders on the gem smugglers’ realm crept up the slippery track. At last they gained the top. Below them, as the flickering flashes showed, was a big pool of water, either natural or artificial. Doubtless the tunnel through the cliff led into it, for moored to one side of the pool could be seen the mysterious motor boat.
There were no lights on board her. Apparently those who had arrived at the island had made their way up the hill to the windmill tower, for a light could now be seen gleaming, like an angry eye, half-way up the structure.
“They’re all up there. Collecting their effects preparatory to leaving the island forever, I imagine,” whispered the inspector. “Let’s have a look at their boat.”
It was a rather risky business, but still they were a strong party and the government officers were well armed. The descent to the side of the pool was made by a rocky path very like the one by which they had ascended the cliff.
Harry hung back while the others inspected the boat. But Ralph rallied him after a short time.
“She’s all solid, Harry,” he declared; “come on and see for yourself. Nothing ghostly about this fellow, unless a sixty horse-power motor of the best and speediest design appeals to you as being spookish.”
Harry came forward and soon satisfied himself that it was all as Ralph had said. Inside the boat they found tubs of phosphorus, for producing the ghostly effect that had so scared Harry, plenty of spare lanterns to work the stern-light trick and a stern search-light of great power, evidently intended to be thrown full in the eyes of the helmsman of any pursuing craft and dazzle his vision.
In a locker, too, were sheets with holes for heads and a number of masks painted to resemble grinning skulls.
“Quite a paraphernalia,” grinned the chief inspector. “All this would make a regular eight-hour-union ghost turn green with envy.”
In a small shanty which stood close by they found more evidence to show how the operators of the Artful Dodger had been practicing on the credulity of the islanders. All sorts of rigs and canvas frames by which the outlines of the motor boat might be altered at will were discovered. For instance, one frame was found which could be hooped on to the boat’s stern, changing her whole appearance. A false cabin top was also found, by means of which the Artful Dodger could be speedily converted to a cabin cruiser, in case any one was looking for a motor boat of another type.
“Well, this is the most complete layout we have uncovered for some time,” spoke the chief inspector. “I think——”
But Ralph interrupted him.
“Somebody with a lantern is coming this way!” exclaimed the boy.
Advancing through the darkness was a single bright disc of light. It was swinging violently, as if whoever was carrying it was walking fast.
“Quick, get in here behind this hut,” ordered the chief inspector.
“Why not arrest them now?” asked Ralph.
“’Twould never do. We want to get the diamonds and other stones. You can depend upon it, that if we were premature they would find some way to destroy that evidence.”
From their place of hiding the party watched the approach of the men with the lantern.
There were four of them. Two were recognized as Malvin and La Rue. Another, a big, beefy man with a flaring red face and a pair of huge black moustaches, was identified by the inspectors as Rawson; and the fourth was a slight, delicate-looking little fellow, undersized and narrow-chested.
“Slim Shiner,” whispered the chief inspector, “the cleverest gem smuggler at large! It was he who secured the gems in Europe and saw to it that they reached the gang over here safely. Then Malvin and the rest disposed of them across the line. Malvin was of invaluable use to the gang, for he worked from your father’s boat, which, of course, was not once suspected till we learned of the Artful Dodger being seen off Dexter Island.”
“Well, everything’s cleaned out,” La Rue was saying, “and now for a clear getaway. A lucky thing that the water was shallow when I jumped from that blamed River Swallow, or I wouldn’t have been along to-night.”
“No, nor the gems, neither,” growled Rawson. “We think a heap more of them than we do of your bones, La Rue.”
“That’s right,” chuckled Slim. “A good thing for you you managed to get them away from that kid while he was asleep, La Rue, or you wouldn’t have dared face the gang again.”
“Well, I guess not,” laughed Malvin. “But our troubles are over now, boys. We’ll move on to the Great Lakes and try our luck there. That gang of young whelps on the River Swallow broke up our game here, all right, bad luck to them.”
“We’ll take care of them later on, never fear,” snarled La Rue. “I’ve a score to settle myself with that Stetson brat. Ha! ha! that was a good joke, though, having his old man clapped in jail in Montreal. That was your trick, Slim.”
“Oh, these Canadian officials are such softies they’ll believe anything you tell ’em,” modestly declared Slim. “A telegram to the chief at Montreal was enough to turn the deal.”
“It was a good one, all right,” snorted Rawson.
“Well, let’s get aboard. We’ve got lots of gasoline. What’s our first stop, Rawson?” asked La Rue.
“Buffalo,” was the gruff rejoinder; “and you fellows want to lie low, too. I’ll bet there’s a hue and cry out after us right now.”
“You bet there is, and closer than you think,” exclaimed Ralph to himself.
The men climbed aboard. Rawson bent over the engine, and the next instant the craft began to move across the placid pool.
“Run hard now and cut ’em off,” cried the inspector. “Run as you never ran before for the small boat.”
At top speed they raced over the cliff path and launched the tender just as the Artful Dodger, a mystery no longer, emerged from the cliff face.
“Start the engine at top speed,” ordered Inspector Jennings. “No use for concealment now.”
Percy Simmons spun the wheel. The tender shot forward, headed so as to intercept the Artful Dodger as she came out of the cove.
At that instant those on board the smugglers’ craft saw the swift little tender cutting across to head her off. They dashed ahead at full speed.
“What’s their game now?” demanded Ralph excitedly.
“Heading for the Canadian line,” was the chief inspector’s brief response. “Give her more speed, boy, she mustn’t slip through our fingers now.”
“I’ll burn up the engines,” declared Percy.
“Never mind that,” shot out Ralph; “burn up the boat, but we’ve got to get them!”
The fever of the chase was in his veins. He felt as if his life depended on catching the other craft. The tender was now on a course which must bring her across the craft’s bows. As they drew near, the chief inspector stood up.
A revolver was in his hand. His two aides drew close to him with grim, determined looks.
“Stop that boat!” hailed the chief inspector, in round, ringing tones.
There was no reply.
“Heave to, or I’ll send a shot into you!” he cried threateningly.
“Who in blazes are you?” came back a shout from the other craft.
“Inspectors of the United States Customs Service!” came the sharp response. “Heave to!”
“Go to the dickens! You can’t bluff us! We’re for the Canadian line!” came back a taunting shout.
Bang! A shot whizzed across the bows of the fleeing motor boat.
“The next will come closer,” warned the inspector.
There was a hurried consultation on board the other craft. Angry voices arose. It was plain that some were counseling surrender, others flight. In the midst of it all came Malvin’s voice.
“All right. We give up and be hanged to you.”