NANTUCKET ***




Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net.





                    THE MOTOR BOAT CLUB AT NANTUCKET


                                   OR


                    The Mystery of the Dunstan Heir


                                   By


                           H. IRVING HANCOCK


             Author of The Motor Boat Club of the Kennebec,
               The Motor Boat Club Off Long Island, Etc.


                              Illustrated


                              Philadelphia
                         Henry Altemus Company




                 Copyright, 1909, by Howard E. Altemus




[Illustration: “Help! I Drown!” Came in a Muffled Voice.]




Contents


    CHAPTER I—THE PAIR IN THE SEAT AHEAD
    CHAPTER II—BOUNCER WAKES UP
    CHAPTER III—THE LUCKIEST BOY IN THE WORLD
    CHAPTER IV—SIGHTING THE “PIRATE”
    CHAPTER V—A JOKE ON THE ENEMY
    CHAPTER VI—TOM HAS A BAD QUARTER OF AN HOUR
    CHAPTER VII—“THE QUICKEST WAY OF WALKING THE PLANK”
    CHAPTER VIII—TOM DISCOVERS THE HEIR
    CHAPTER IX—TED HURLS A THUNDERBOLT
    CHAPTER X—OVERHAULING THE MYSTERY
    CHAPTER XI—WHERE THE WATER TRAIL ENDED
    CHAPTER XII—JOB HAS HIS COURAGE TESTED
    CHAPTER XIII—A CAPTURE IN RECORD TIME
    CHAPTER XIV—HEADED FOR THE SUNKEN REEF
    CHAPTER XV—IN THE TEETH OF DEATH
    CHAPTER XVI—FOLLOWING UP THE CLUE
    CHAPTER XVII—JOE PLAYS JUSTICE A SCURVY TRICK
    CHAPTER XVIII—THE MESSAGE UNDER THE ROCK
    CHAPTER XIX—THE SIGHT BEHIND THE ATTIC LIGHT
    CHAPTER XX—BLIND MAN’S BUFF IN FEARFUL EARNEST
    CHAPTER XXI—THE LAST DASH TO WIN
    CHAPTER XXII—JED RUNS A NAVAL BOMBARDMENT
    CHAPTER XXIII—SPYING ON THE FILIBUSTERS
    CHAPTER XXIV—CONCLUSION




CHAPTER I—THE PAIR IN THE SEAT AHEAD


“Is the ‘Meteor’ a fast boat?”

“Very fast, indeed.”

“But can she beat anything along this coast? That’s what I want to
know.”

“Judge for yourself. On her trial trip she made within a small fraction
of twenty-eight miles an hour.”

“Whew! That’s tremendous speed, even for a fast and costly boat such as
the rich build to-day. But how long has she been in the water?”

“Since last March.”

“She may have fouled a good deal since then, or her machinery may be a
good deal below the mark by this time.”

“Humph! For that matter, something could be made to happen to the boat,
I suppose.”

Of the two men carrying on this conversation in a day-coach seat on a
railway train, one was five-foot-seven, florid and somewhat stout, with
a bull neck and keen, twinkling eyes. His whole appearance hinted that
he had spent most of his forty years of life on the open sea. The other
man, who was short, slim and swarthy, with narrow, piercing black eyes,
might have been a few years older. His every motion betokened great
activity. One might have guessed him to be a Spaniard. His general
attire, though it was somewhat careless, would place him in the
business-man class.

At the first mention of the name “Meteor” two American boys, seated
immediately behind the men, started slightly and immediately were all
attention. Each boy was about sixteen years of age. Tom Halstead was
fair, brown-haired and blue-eyed with a naturally merry look. Joe Dawson
was darker, somewhat more reserved in manner and was Tom’s fast chum and
great admirer.

Yes; readers of the preceding volume in this series will recognize Tom
and Joe at once as the young Americans who became the original members
of the Motor Boat Club of the Kennebec. It was they who put Broker
Prescott’s fast motor boat, the “Sunbeam,” once more in commission; they
who went through some most lively adventures along the coast near the
mouth of the Kennebec and who rendered tremendously important services
to Revenue Officer Evans, a cousin of the broker, in penetrating the
secret of Smugglers’ Island.

Now these same two members of the Motor Boat Club were traveling on
business that they believed to be wholly commonplace. They were headed
for the island of Nantucket, south of Cape Cod. The experiences ahead of
them, they imagined, were to be of the most ordinary kind. They had no
glimpse, as yet, of the new excitements that Fate had in store for them.
They had no hint of the startling adventures into which they were soon
to be plunged.

But that mention of the name “Meteor” had aroused their instant
attention. That was the name of the motor boat that they were to join
and take charge of at Wood’s Hole. The craft was the property of Mr.
Horace Dunstan, one of the wealthy residents of the island of Nantucket.

An ordinary boy might not have heard the low-toned conversation of the
pair in the seat ahead. But Tom and Joe, attuned to the life of the sea
and with ears trained to note the slightest irregularity of the sound of
machinery, possessed acute hearing indeed.

At the first words of that conversation between the unknown pair Tom
gave Joe a slight nudge in the side. Dawson’s eyes promptly closed, his
lips parting, his head sinking slightly forward. He appeared to be sound
asleep. Halstead seemed to be wholly interested in the newspaper at
which he was glancing. Not even when the possibility of foul play to the
“Meteor” was mentioned did either youngster betray any further sign.
Indeed, the men in the seat ahead were evidently confident that the boys
could not hear their low-pitched talk. None of the other seats near by
was occupied.

The accommodation train from Boston, rolling slowly along late in this
July afternoon, had just left Falmouth for its run of a few miles to
Wood’s Hole, the last stop, as this would be the end of the mainland
route. Across the meadows the hot breath of July came through the open
car windows. The brightness of the sunshine inclined one to close his
eyes, so that Joe Dawson’s slumber seemed the most natural thing in the
world. Indeed, Tom Halstead’s eyes were narrowing; he seemed the next
candidate for a doze. Yet, depend upon it, neither boy had been more
awake in his life. The slightest hint of possible mischief to the boat
that was soon to be intrusted to their care was enough to set their
nerves a-tingle.

“That was a queer rumpus on Boston Common the other day,” began the
florid-faced man. The subject had been changed. No further mention was
made of the “Meteor.” Tom Halstead felt tremendously disappointed. He
had hoped to hear more that would be of interest to himself. But the
pair in the seat ahead did not again refer to the “Meteor.” So Tom,
after stealthily making a few pin pricks in his newspaper, settled far
down in his seat, holding the paper before his face as though reading.
In reality he was studying what he could see of the faces of the men who
had so suddenly aroused his interest. With the paper close enough to his
face the pin holes were almost as good as windows.

Over those last few miles droned the train. Tom felt cheated in not
hearing more, but to all appearances the strangers had forgotten the
existence of the “Meteor.” When the train was yet a mile out from Wood’s
Hole the two men arose, going to the forward end of the car. The train
slackened in speed, the two men dropping off on the further side of the
car from where the boys sat. By the time that Halstead deemed it prudent
to slip across to a window opposite, the two men were out of sight.

“Now what on earth can be the reason for those two fellows desiring any
injury to a gentleman’s private yacht?” muttered Tom, rejoining his
chum.

“At all events, it’s handy to be well warned in advance,” returned Joe
with a quiet grin.

“Yes, if we run across that pair within twenty cable lengths of the boat
we’ll know ’em and be on our watch,” answered Halstead with a meaning
flash in his eyes.

They had little more time for puzzling their heads, for the train was
now rolling in at the little station at Wood’s Hole. There were less
than a dozen people to disembark. Out of such a small crowd anyone
looking for two young motor boat experts would have little difficulty in
selecting the two boys with weather-tinted faces, who wore suits of
strong, serviceable navy blue, soft brown canvas shoes and straw hats.
So a tall, slender man of forty-five, dressed in outing gray and wearing
an expensive fine-straw hat, came at once toward them.

“Captain Tom Halstead?” he inquired, looking from one boy to the other.

“That’s my name, sir,” Tom answered. “You are Mr. Horace Dunstan?”

“Yes. And heartily glad that you did not disappoint me.”

“There was no good reason why we should, sir,” Halstead rejoined, then
presented his chum. Mr. Dunstan shook hands with both very cordially,
although he was not able to conceal entirely his astonishment at their
youthfulness.

“I—er—really expected to find you a little older,” Mr. Dunstan admitted
with an easy laugh. “However, it’s all right. My friend, Prescott, told
me he had found, among the seacoast boys of Maine, some of the best
material for motor boat handlers in the world. I asked him to send me
the best pair he knew, so, of course, it’s all right, for Prescott never
goes back on a friend.”

“We’ve handled Mr. Prescott’s boat in some rather tight places,” said
Tom quietly.

“You have your suit cases, I see. There’s no need to carry them down to
the water front. Come over here and hand them to the driver.”

Mr. Dunstan led the way to the solitary hack at the station, though
neither sturdy boy would have thought anything of walking and carrying
his baggage.

“Now we’ll drive down at once and you’ll see the ‘Meteor’” proposed
their host. “Perhaps you will be able to tell, very soon, what ails the
craft. I have had one or two local machinists look her over and the
owner of one small motor boat who thought he knew all about such craft.
Yet the engine doesn’t work well enough for me to be satisfied to try to
use the boat.”

In a few minutes the three alighted near a pier that jutted some hundred
feet out over the water. At the further end lay as jaunty a fifty-foot
craft as either boy had ever laid eyes on.

“So that’s the ‘Meteor’? Oh, she’s a dandy!” cried Tom in a burst of
enthusiasm.

“Say, look at the beauty of her lines! What speed she ought to be good
for, with a strong, well-behaving engine!” came from quiet Joe.

Horace Dunstan smiled with pardonable pride as he led the way down the
pier. As far as first impressions went the boat was worthy of extended
praise. Though only five feet longer than the “Sunbeam,” she had the
look of being a much larger craft. There was more forecastle. The space
of the bridge deck seemed better arranged. There was an awning over the
bridge deck and another over the cockpit aft. The cabin looked roomier.
From davits at the starboard side swung a natty-looking small boat.

“Gr-r-r-r!” came a warning sound from the closed forecastle as the trio
stepped aboard.

“In the absence of crew I’ve kept my bull pup down in the engine room,”
explained Mr. Dunstan.

“A mighty good idea,” muttered Tom with a swift recollection of the
fragments of conversation he and Joe had overheard on the train.

“Stand back a moment, until I let him out and present you to him,”
requested the owner. “Don’t be afraid of him. Bouncer is a very
intelligent dog. Hell understand an introduction as quickly as a human
being would.”

One of the forecastle windows was open, to give air to the dog, though
it was not large enough to let him out.

“It’s all right, Bouncer,” called Mr. Dunstan reassuringly, as he fitted
a key at the forecastle door. “Now come out like a four-footed gentleman
and meet some friends of ours.”

Bouncer came nimbly out, a low-built, thickset bulldog of the finest
fighting type. He had a square-set pair of jaws that looked capable of
taking a tremendous grip. His look, however, under the prompt petting of
his owner, was kindly and curious.

“These young gentlemen are all right, Bouncer,” spoke Mr. Dunstan. “Go
over and get acquainted with them. Let them pet you.”

Bouncer contented himself with a brief sniffing at each boy in turn.
Then he submitted to caresses, wagging his short stump of a tail.

“He understands. You’ll never need to be afraid of this dog, unless you
do some such extreme thing as to attack me or a member of my family,”
Mr. Dunstan assured them. “Now come down into the engine room.”

“Say, this is something like!” uttered Joe enthusiastically, as he
stepped below and stood looking about him. Here there was an abundance
of room, for much of the engine was housed back under the bridge deck.
The engineer had plenty of space in which to move about. Forward of the
engine room, shut off by a curtain, was the galley. Here were stove,
sink, ice box, dishrack and room for a goodly supply of foods.

Through a passageway Mr. Dunstan led them under the bridge deck.
Curtained off from the passage was a wide berth.

“We generally call this the captain’s berth,” explained the owner.

“I guess my berth will be on one of the engine room lockers with Joe,”
smiled Halstead.

The cabin proved to be spacious and handsome. The four locker seats
could be fitted into berths when cruising. The cockpit aft was large and
contained, besides side seats, half a dozen comfortable armchairs.

“Now suppose we go back to the engine,” desired Mr. Dunstan, turning
about. “I’m anxious, indeed, to know whether you can locate the trouble
that has tied this craft up here.”

Returning to the engine room, the boys opened their suit cases, taking
out overalls and jumpers. Clad in these they were soon armed with
wrenches and other tools, exploring the mysteries of that engine.

“This machine hasn’t had very good care,” spoke Joe after a while.
“She’s fouled with dirt and thick oil at a good many points.”

“Has the motor been overheated?” asked the owner.

“I don’t believe so, sir; at least, not to any serious extent,” Joe
stated as his opinion.

“Any repairs to parts going to be necessary?”

“A few, but simple ones, I guess. We ought to be able to make ’em from
the materials at hand.”

“You—er—couldn’t run out to-night, I suppose?”

“We shall be very fortunate, sir,” Joe answered, “if we can take this
boat out to-morrow forenoon.”

“We’ll stay aboard to-night and work as late as we can,” Tom explained.
“Joe can’t really tell, until we get started, just how much will have to
be done. But the motor is not hurt past ordinary repair.”

“I was going to ask you over to the hotel for dinner to-night,” hinted
the owner.

“There seems to be plenty of everything to eat in the galley,” Tom
answered seriously. “So, if you don’t mind, sir, we’ll stay right by our
work and help ourselves to food as we can.”

“Make yourselves at home, then. Do you mean to sleep aboard to-night?”
inquired Mr. Dunstan, as he started up the steps to the bridge deck.

“I think we’d better, for more reasons than one, perhaps,” Halstead made
answer as he, too, stepped to the bridge deck. “Mr. Dunstan,” he went on
in a lower voice, “do you know of anyone who could have a good reason
for wanting to injure your boat?”

“Why, no,” replied the owner, though nevertheless he gave a slight
start. “Why?”

Tom described the men and the conversation aboard the train. Mr. Dunstan
listened with interest, though he shook his head when the two men were
described.

“There might be a shadow of reason for their talk in one direction,” he
admitted, slowly and reluctantly. “But, pshaw, no; I’m dreaming. No,
there can’t be any reason for wanting to ruin my boat. Very likely you
didn’t hear quite right.”

“At any rate,” Halstead went on, “Joe and I will be aboard to-night, and
probably every night as long as we’re in your employ.”

“You seem to take this thing seriously, Halstead.”

“I don’t believe, sir, in throwing away what seems like a very valuable
hint. It won’t do any harm for us to be watchful, anyway. By the way,
sir, do you mind letting the dog stay aboard, too?”

“Certainly you may have him,” nodded the owner. “He won’t interfere with
you and he’ll sleep with one eye and both ears open. Well, make
yourselves at home here, boys. Do whatever you please in the galley and
feed and water Bouncer. I’ll be at the hotel this evening in case you
should want me for anything.”

After impressing upon Bouncer that he was still to remain aboard, Mr.
Dunstan strolled leisurely down the pier. Both boys went hard at work.

“What do you make of our new employer?” asked Joe after a while.

“He seems like an ordinary, easy-going man,” Tom replied. “I don’t
believe he ever startled anyone by doing anything very original, but
he’s a gentleman, and we’re going to find him considerate and just.
That’s all we can ask in any man.”

After that there wasn’t much talk, except the few words now and then
that related to taking the motor to pieces, and repairing and replacing
its parts. At the close of day they helped themselves to a bountiful
meal and made a fast friend of Bouncer by catering to his healthy
appetite. Then, by the light of lanterns, they went to work again. It
was after eleven o’clock when they found themselves too drowsy to do
further justice to their work.

“Let’s go up on deck and get some air. After that we’ll turn in,”
proposed Halstead.

“I wonder if we’re going to have visitors or any trouble?” mused Joe.
“Somehow I can’t empty my head of that talk in the car this afternoon.”

“If we _do_ have any trouble,” laughed Tom nodding down at the dog
dozing on the deck at their feet, “I’ve a private notion that we’re
going to be able to pass some back—to someone.”

Twenty minutes later the motor boat chums had made up berths on the
engine-room lockers and had undressed and gone to bed. Both were soon
sound asleep. They relied on Bouncer, who lay on the deck just outside
the open hatchway, to let them know if anything threatening happened.




CHAPTER II—BOUNCER WAKES UP


While our two young motor boat enthusiasts lie wrapped in the first
sound slumber of the summer night, lulled into unconsciousness by the
soft lapping of the salt water against the sides of the “Meteor,” let us
take a brief glimpse at the events which had brought them here.

Readers of the preceding volume in this series are aware of how the
Motor Boat Club came to be organized. It now numbered fourteen members,
any one of whom was fully qualified to handle a motor boat expertly
under any ordinary circumstances.

Every member was a boy born and brought up along the seacoast. Such
boys, both by inheritance and experience, are usually well qualified for
salt-water work. They are aboard of boats almost from the first days of
life that they can recollect. Seamanship and the work required about
marine machinery are in the air that surrounds their daily lives. It is
from among such boys that our merchant marine and our Navy find their
best recruit material. It was among such boys that broker George
Prescott had conceived the idea of finding material for making young
experts to serve the owners of motor cruisers and racers along the New
England coast.

Tom and Joe were undoubtedly the pick of the club for skill and
experience. More than that, they were such fast friends that they could
work together without the least danger of friction. Though Halstead was
looked upon as the captain, he never attempted to lord it over his chum;
they worked together as equals in everything.

Mr. Dunstan had long known Mr. Prescott in Boston, where both had
offices. So, when trouble happened in the “Meteor’s” engine room, Mr.
Dunstan had sent the broker a long telegram asking that gentleman to
send by the next train the two most capable experts of the Club. He had
added that he wanted the boys principally for running the boat on fast
time between Nantucket and Wood’s Hole, for the owner had a handsome
residence on the island, but came over to the mainland nearly every day
in order to run in by train to his offices in Boston. The “Meteor,”
therefore, was generally required to justify her name in the way of
speed, for Mr. Dunstan’s landing place at Nantucket was some thirty-five
miles from Wood’s Hole.

Further, Mr. Dunstan’s telegram had intimated that he was likely to want
the young men for the balance of the season, though his message had not
committed him absolutely on that point. The pay he had offered was more
than satisfactory.

Wood’s Hole is a quaint, sleepy little seaport village. The main life,
in summer, comes from the passing through of steamboat passengers for
Martha’s Vineyard and Nantucket. The night air is so quiet and the sea
scent so strong that even the city visitors at the little hotel find it
difficult to stay up as late as eleven o’clock.

On this night, or rather morning, at one o’clock, there were but two
honest people in the whole place awake. Over at the Marine Biological
Laboratory, Curator Gray and an assistant were still up, bending
drowsily over a microscope in one of the laboratory rooms. But that
building was too far from the “Meteor’s” pier for the scientists to have
any hint of what might be happening near the motor boat.

It was the night before the new moon. The stars twinkled, but it was
rather dark when the figures of two men appeared at the land end of the
pier. On their feet these men wore rubber-soled canvas shoes. Not a
sound did they make as they started to glide out on the pier.

But Bouncer woke up.

“Gr-r-r-r!” the bull pup observed, thrusting his head up, his hair
bristling. All this required but a few seconds. In another instant
Bouncer was at the rail, his nostrils swelling as he took a keen look
down the length of the pier. Then an angrier growl left his throat. It
ended in a bound and Bouncer landed on the pier. His short legs moving
rapidly under him Bouncer rushed to meet the soft-shoed gentlemen.

That last, angrier note from the bull pup roused Tom Halstead as a bugle
call might have done. He leaped to his feet, snatching at his trousers.
Joe stirred, half alertly. When he heard his chum’s feet strike the
engine-room floor Dawson, too, sprang up.

“Mischief, just as we thought!” breathed Tom.

Down at the land end of the pier there was a sudden mingling of startled
human voices.

“_Por la gracia de Dios!_” sounded an excited, appealing wail.

“Get away, you beast, or I’ll kill you!” roared another voice in
English.

Bang! That was the noise from the throat of a big-calibered pistol. It
was followed, just as Tom bounded to the deck, pursued by Joe, by the
rapid pounding of a horse’s hoofs and the rattle of wheels.

“There they go!” cried Tom, leaping to the pier in his bare feet and
racing shoreward over the boards. But it was too late for the boys to
overtake the prowlers, who were now behind a fast horse.

“Did they shoot that fine dog?” growled Joe, his voice rumbling with
indignation. Bouncer answered the question for himself by running to
meet them, his tail a-wag, guttural grunts of satisfaction coming from
his throat, while a signal flag of information fluttered from his mouth.

“He took hold of one of ’em,” chuckled Tom. “Good old fellow, you’ve
brought us a sample of their cloth. Good boy! May I have it?”

Tom bent down to stroke the dog, who submitted very willingly. When
Halstead took hold of the large, irregular fragment of cloth the bull
pup grunted once or twice, then let go.

Back all three went to the boat. Tom lighted a lantern, then held the
cloth forward.

“Brown, striped trouser goods,” he chuckled. “Joe, whom have we seen
with trousers of this pattern?”

“That Spanish-looking chap in the seat ahead on the train,” muttered
Dawson grimly.

“_Now_ if Mr. Dunstan doubts that some one wants to put his boat out of
commission we’ll have something definite to call to his attention,”
uttered Tom excitedly. “Bouncer, you stocky little darling!”

Joe looked the dog over carefully to make sure that a bullet had not
even grazed that reliable, business-like animal.

“If they had touched you, old splendid,” growled Joe, “we’d have had a
good clew or two for avenging you. But those rascals didn’t even hurt
your grit. You’re ready for ’em again—if they come!”

For some time the boys were too excited to lie down again. When at last
they did, they kept their trousers on, ready for any further surprise.
Bouncer took up his old post on the deck above, seemingly free from any
trace of excitement.

It was nearly half-past six in the morning when Joe next opened his
eyes. In a hurry he roused his chum. Donning bathing trunks and shirts
both dropped over the side for a refreshing swim. Then after drying and
dressing, Halstead went forward into the galley, while Joe snatched a
few minutes at the work left over from the night.

Breakfast was a hurried affair, for there was still much to do about the
motor. It was after nine o’clock when Tom stood back, looking on
inquiringly while Joe put on the finishing touches.

“Now I’ll turn on the gasoline and see if we can get any news,” proposed
Joe. A few moments later he started the ignition apparatus and gave the
drive wheel a few turns.

Chug! chug! the engine began slowly. Joe, oil can in hand, looked on
with the attention of a scientist making an experiment. Bit by bit he
increased the speed of the engine, smoothing the work with oil.

“Give us a little time and the old motor’ll mote,” observed Dawson
quietly.

“Yes,” nodded Tom equally observant.

Had they been more of amateurs at the work they would have felt elated,
for the engine responded to all increased speeds that were tried. But
these two had worked enough about motors to know that such an engine may
come to a creaking stop when everything appears to be running at the
best.

Chug! chug! It was a cheery sound as the minutes went by and the motor
did better and better.

“I’m almost hopeful that everything is in shape,” declared Dawson at
last.

“Good morning, boys!” came a pleasant hail from the pier. “I see
everything is in fine trim.”

“It looks that way, Mr. Dunstan,” answered Tom, stepping up above and,
by way of salute, bringing his hand to the visor of the Club’s uniform
cap that he had donned this morning. “But motors are sometimes cranky.
We don’t dare begin to brag just yet.”

“This morning’s mail brought me a letter from Mr. Prescott,” went on the
owner, holding up an envelope. “He has written me seven pages about you.
It seems that you are great pets of my friend’s. He tells me that I can
place every confidence in you.”

“Why, that’s mighty nice of Mr. Prescott,” replied Tom quietly. He was
greatly pleased, nevertheless, for he could now see that Mr. Dunstan’s
opinion of them had gone up several notches.

“Well, well,” continued the owner, as he glanced smilingly down into the
engine room; “are you going to cast off now and take me over to
Nantucket? It’s four days since I’ve seen my home and that lucky little
rascal, Ted.”

Tom didn’t know or inquire who Ted was or why that “rascal” was so very
fortunate. Instead he replied:

“We were thinking of a little trial trip first, sir, just to see how the
craft will behave under way.”

“Good enough,” nodded the owner. “But I’m aboard, so why can’t I go with
you?”

“Of course you can, sir.”

Tom ran ashore to cast off while Joe did some last fussing over the
motor. Having cast the stern-line aboard and coiled it, Tom now came
forward, throwing off the bowline, boarding with it.

“Start her up at very slow speed ahead, Joe,” called down the young
captain, taking his place at the wheel and throwing it over a little.

With the first throbs of the propeller the “Meteor” began to glide away
from the pier. Mr. Dunstan had taken his post at Halstead’s right. The
water being deep enough, the young captain moved out confidently.

“Just a little more speed, Joe,” Tom called, when the pier end was some
two hundred yards astern.

A little faster and still a little faster the propeller shaft turned,
until it settled down to good work. The “Meteor” was moving at about
twelve miles an hour.

“Fine!” cried Mr. Dunstan joyously. “We’re all right now.”

“We’re not yet quite out of the—well, I won’t say woods, but sea woods,”
smiled Tom quietly.

“I’m forgetting my duty,” cried Mr. Dunstan in sudden self-reproach. “I
must act a bit as pilot until you know these waters better.”

“Why, I studied the chart, sir, nearly all the way from Portland,”
replied Tom. “I think I am picking up the marks of the course all
right.”

“You can’t see Nantucket from here, but can you point straight to it?”
inquired Mr. Dunstan.

“I’m heading straight along the usual course now,” Tom replied.

“Right! You are. I guess you know your way from the chart, though you’ve
never seen these waters before. Keep on. I won’t interfere unless I see
you going wrong.”

“Shall I head straight on for the island?” asked Halstead. “Or would you
rather keep close to the mainland until we see how the engine behaves?”

“Keep right on, captain, unless your judgment forbids.”

Tom, therefore, after a brief talk with his chum through the open
hatchway, held to his course, to the south of which lay the big island
of Martha’s Vineyard, now well populated by summer pleasure seekers.

Notch by notch Joe let out the speed, though he was too careful to be in
a hurry about that. He wanted to study his machine until he knew it as
he did the alphabet. Every fresh spurt pleased the owner greatly.

“Your Club has some great fellows in it if you two are specimens,” said
Mr. Dunstan delightedly. “Prescott knew what he was writing when he told
me to stand by anything you wanted to do.”

By the time when they had the Vineyard fairly south of them and the
craft was going at more than a twenty-mile gait, Tom judged that he
should inform the owner of the happening of the night before. He
therefore called Joe up from the motor to take the wheel. Then Halstead
told Mr. Dunstan what had taken place, exhibiting the fragment of cloth
secured by Bouncer and connecting this, in theory, with the swarthy man
they had seen aboard the train.

Bouncer, looking up in his master’s face and whining, seemed anxious to
confirm Tom Halstead’s narration.

“Why, there’s something about all this that will make it well for us all
to keep our eyes open,” said Mr. Dunstan.

Tom, watching the owner’s face, felt that that gentleman had first
looked somewhat alarmed, then much more annoyed.

“There’s something that doesn’t please him and I shouldn’t think it
would,” the young captain reflected. “Yet, whatever it is he doesn’t
intend to tell me, just yet, at all events. I hope it’s nothing in the
way of big mischief that threatens.”

“Of course I’d suggest, sir,” Tom observed finally, “that Dawson and
myself sleep aboard nights.”

“You may as well,” nodded the owner, and again Tom thought he saw a
shadow of worriment in the other’s eyes.

“Are you going to let Bouncer stay aboard, too, sir?” Tom asked.

“Ordinarily I think I’ll let the dog sleep at the house nights,” replied
Mr. Dunstan, immediately after looking as though he were trying to
dismiss some matter from his mind.

Joe, too, had been keen enough to scent the fact that, though Mr.
Dunstan tried to appear wholly at his ease, yet something was giving
that gentleman a good deal of cause for thought. Mr. Dunstan even went
aft, presently, seating himself in one of the armchairs and smoking two
cigars in succession rather rapidly.

“We’ve put something into his mind that doesn’t lie there easily,”
hinted Joe.

“But, of course, it’s none of our business unless he chooses to tell
us,” replied Halstead.

A little later Joe Dawson went down into the engine room to get the best
reasonable work out of the motor. Even at racing speed the “Meteor’s”
bow wave was not a big one. There was almost an absence of spray dashing
over the helmsman. Tom did not need to put on oilskins, as he had often
done on the “Sunbeam.” The “Meteor’s” bow lines were so beautiful and
graceful, so well adapted to an ideal racing craft, that the bridge deck
in ordinary weather was not a wet place.

As they neared cool, wind-swept Nantucket, Mr. Dunstan came forward once
more, to point out the direction of his own place. This lay on the west
side of the island. As they ran in closer the owner pointed out the
mouth of a cove.

“We’ve come over in two hours,” announced Mr. Dunstan, consulting his
watch as they neared the cove.

“Now that we understand the boat and the engine,” answered Tom, “we
ought to go over the course in less than an hour and a half.”

“Fine!” pronounced the owner. “That’s what the boat was built for. Do
that and I can make the trip to my Boston offices every week day—if I
decide that it’s best to do so.”

Tom noted a certain hesitancy about those last few words. Again he felt
sure that some mystery threatened the owner’s peace of mind.

Into the cove and up alongside the pier the “Meteor” was run. From here
large and handsome grounds and a huge white house, the latter well back
from the water, were visible.

“We’ll leave Bouncer on board for the present,” said Mr. Dunstan. “I’ll
take you up to the house so you can get used to the place. By and by
we’ll have lunch. And I want to show you my boy, Ted.”




CHAPTER III—THE LUCKIEST BOY IN THE WORLD


Hardly had Mr. Dunstan’s new boat crew followed him ashore when a
whooping yell sounded from up the road that led to the house. Then into
sight dashed a boy mounted on a pony. On they came at a full gallop, the
boy reining up with a jerk when barely six feet from his father.

“Careful, Ted!” warned Mr. Dunstan laughingly. “Don’t ride me down.
You’re not yet through with your use for a father, you know.”

“I was trying to show you, dad, how Sheridan and I are learning our
paces together,” replied the youngster. He was a rather slightly built
boy, with clustering yellow hair and gray eyes. He wore a khaki suit and
a sombrero modeled after the Army campaign hat. Even his saddle was of
the Army type, being a miniature McClellan in model.

Tom liked this lad after the first look. There was something
whole-souled about this little fellow with the laughing eyes. And,
though he had been reared in a home of wealth, there was nothing in the
least snobbish in the way he suddenly turned to regard the Motor Boat
Club boys.

“Ted, Captain Halstead and his friend, Dawson,” said Mr. Dunstan.
“You’ll be glad to know that they’ve got the ‘Meteor’ in running order
again.”

Ted was careful to dismount before he offered his hand, with graceful
friendliness, to each of the boys.

“You’ve made dad happy if you’ve got his boat to running again,” laughed
Master Ted.

“And you? Aren’t you fond of motor boating?” queried Tom.

“Oh, yes; after a fashion, I suppose,” replied the Dunstan hopeful
deliberately. “But then, you see, I’m cut out for a soldier. I’m to go
into the Army, you know, and anything to do with salt water smacks a bit
too much of the Navy.”

All of which remarkable declaration Master Ted made as though he
imagined these new acquaintances understood all about his future plans.

“The Army is fond of the Navy, of course,” the lad added by way of
explanation. “Yet, to a soldier, the Army is the whole thing.”

“Oh, I see,” smiled Captain Tom, though in truth he didn’t “see” in the
least.

“Yes, Ted’s to be a soldier. He’s doomed—or destined—to that career,”
nodded Mr. Dunstan good-humoredly. “There’s a whole long story to that,
Halstead. Perhaps you and Dawson shall hear the story later. But for now
we’d better get up to the house.”

Master Ted evidently took this as a hint that the subject was to be
pursued no further for the present, for he merely said in a very
gracious way:

“Of course, I shall see you again. So now I’ll take myself off—with
Sheridan.”

Resting his left hand through the bridle and gripping the pony’s mane,
Master Ted used his right hand to strike the pony a smart blow over the
rump. As the pony bounded forward the lad made a flying leap into the
saddle. It was such a flying start as almost to startle Tom and Joe.

“He rides like a cowboy,” declared Tom admiringly, watching the mounted
youngster out of sight.

“He has need to, I fancy,” replied Mr. Dunstan gravely. “That is, since
he’s going into the Army, for Ted wouldn’t be satisfied with being
anything less than a cavalryman.”

As Mr. Dunstan’s last words or the tone in which they were uttered
seemed to dismiss the subject, Halstead and his chum knew that they were
not to be further enlightened for the present. They followed their
employer up to the house.

He took them into a roomy, old-fashioned looking library, with heavy
furniture, and, excusing himself, left them. He soon returned to say:

“The family are now at luncheon, all except Master Ted, so I have given
instructions to have luncheon served to us in here presently.”

In half an hour the meal was before Mr. Dunstan and the boys. It tasted
rarely good after their hasty snatches of food aboard the boat. When it
was over Mr. Dunstan took a chair on the porch, lighted a cigar and
said:

“I’m going to take it easy for a while. Would you like to look about the
grounds?”

Tom and his chum strolled about. They found it a delightful country
place, covering some forty acres. There was a large stable, a carriage
house and a garage which contained a big touring car. There were
greenhouses, a poultry place and a small power house that supplied
electric light to the buildings and grounds.

“It looks like the place of a man who has enough money, but who doesn’t
care about making a big splurge,” commented Joe.

“It also looks like the place of an easy-going man,” replied Halstead.
“I wonder how a man like Mr. Dunstan came to get the motor-boat craze?”

“Oh, I imagine he likes to live out on this beautiful old island, and
merely keeps the boat as a means of reaching business,” suggested
Dawson.

After an hour or more they returned to the house to find Mr. Dunstan
placidly asleep in the same porch chair. So the boys helped themselves
to seats, kept quiet and waited. They were still in doubt as to whether
their employer wanted to use the boat later in the day. Theirs was a
long wait, but at last Mr. Dunstan awoke, glanced at his watch and
looked at the boys.

“Becoming bored?” he smiled.

“Oh, no,” Tom assured him, “but I’ve had hard work to keep from falling
sound asleep.”

“Have you seen Master Ted lately?”

“Not since we first met him down by the pier.”

“That’s a youngster with quite a picturesque future ahead of him, I
imagine,” continued Mr. Dunstan. “I call him the luckiest boy alive.
Perhaps he is not quite that, but he is going to be a very rich man if
he follows a certain career.”

“It must be an Army career, then,” hinted Halstead.

“It is, just that. And I suppose I might as well tell you the story, if
it would interest you any. A lot of people know the story now, so
there’s no harm in repeating it.”

Their host paused to light a cigar before he resumed:

“Ours used to be a good deal of a military family. In fact, every
generation supplied two or three good soldiers. There were five
Dunstans, all officers, serving in the War of the Revolution. There were
four in the War of 1812, two in the War with Mexico and two in the Civil
War. We gradually fell off a bit, you see, in the numbers we supplied to
the Army. The two who served in the Civil War were uncles of mine. My
father didn’t go—wasn’t physically fit. There were three of us brothers,
Gregory, Aaron and myself. Both were older than I. Aaron would have made
a fine soldier, but he was always weakly. The fact that he couldn’t wear
the uniform almost broke his heart. Yet Aaron had one fine talent. He
knew how to make money almost without trying. In fact, he died a very
rich man.

“Greg, on the other hand, was what I expect you would call the black
sheep of the family. He went to Honduras years ago. He’s a planter,
doing fairly well there, I suppose. He’s pretty wild, just as he used to
be. He’s always getting mixed up in the many revolutions that they have
down in that little republic of Honduras. One of these days I’m afraid
he’ll be shot by a file of government soldiers for being mixed up in
some new revolutionary plot.

“My brother Aaron never married. Greg has two daughters, but no sons.
Ted is my only son and Aaron just worshiped the lad as the last of the
race. Aaron wanted Ted to become a soldier and keep the family in the
Army. The youngster was willing enough, but I didn’t wholly fancy it.
However, my brother Aaron died a little while ago and I found he had
fixed the matter so that Ted will have to be a soldier.”

“How could your brother do that?” asked Tom.

“Why, you see, under the will, brother Greg is let off with one hundred
thousand dollars and I get the same. But there’s a proviso in the will
that if, within ninety days from Aaron’s death, Ted appears in probate
court with me or other guardian, and there both Ted and myself promise
that he shall be reared for the United States Army, then half a million
dollars is to be paid over to myself or other guardian, in trust for the
boy. The income from that half million is to be used to rear and educate
him. But Ted, as a part of his promise, must make every effort to get
himself appointed a cadet at West Point.”

“Some other boy might get the cadetship away from him,” suggested Joe
Dawson.

“In case Ted simply can’t win a West Point cadetship,” replied Mr.
Dunstan, “then, at the age of twenty-one, his promise will oblige him to
enlist in the Army as a private soldier and do all in his power to win
an officer’s commission from the ranks.”

“Even then, there’s a chance to fail,” hinted Tom.

“If the lad fails absolutely to get a commission in the Army,” responded
Mr. Dunstan, “he will lose a lot of money—that’s all. There is another
fund, amounting to two and a half million dollars, that is to be kept at
interest until the young man is thirty. By that time the money, through
compound interest, will be much more than doubled. On Ted’s thirtieth
birthday all that huge sum of money is to be turned over to him if he
has won, somehow, a commission as an officer of the Army. If he has
tried, but failed, then the money is to be devoted to various public
purposes.

“But if Ted fails to go into probate court on time, with myself or other
guardian, and have the promise made a matter of record, then he loses
everything. In that case I get the same hundred thousand dollars as
otherwise, but Greg, instead of receiving only a hundred thousand is to
get a cool million dollars.”

“Isn’t your brother Gregory likely to contest such a will?” asked Tom
thoughtfully.

“The will provides that, if he does contest, he shall lose even his
hundred thousand dollars,” Mr. Dunstan replied. “I have had great
lawyers go all over the will, but they can’t find a single flaw through
which it can be broken. You see, the will is right in line with what
lawyers call ‘public policy.’ It’s altogether to the public interest to
have the boys of our best old families, as of the best new ones, brought
up with the idea that, they’re to give their lives to the service of
their country. So the will is bound to stand against any contest, and if
Greg or myself tried to break it we’d only cheat ourselves out of goodly
sums of money.”

“Then Master Ted, of course,” pursued Tom, “has been or is going before
the probate court to have the promise recorded.”

“To-day is Tuesday,” answered Mr. Dunstan. “The ninety days are up next
Monday. On that day there will be a short session of probate court and
Ted and I are going to be on hand.”

“Is this the first time probate court has been in session since the will
was read, sir?” asked Halstead.

“Oh, no,” replied their employer in his most easy-going tone. “But there
was no hurry and I wanted to give the lawyers plenty of time to consider
the matter. Next Monday, being within the required ninety days, will do
as well as any other time.”

“Well, of all the easy-going men!” gasped Tom inwardly. “To think, with
such a big fortune at stake, of dilly-dallying until the very last day
of all!”

“So, you see, Ted really _is_ a very lucky boy,” finished Mr. Dunstan.

“I should say he is!” breathed Halstead, his face flushing at the
thought. _He_ would have been happy over a West Point cadetship without
any enormous reward.

“The luckiest boy I ever heard of!” vented Joe, his nerves a-thrill over
this story of one of Fortune’s greatest favorites. “No wonder your son,
sir, is so eager about being a soldier.”

“Is your brother Gregory in this country now?” asked Tom slowly.

“Not to the best of my knowledge,” almost drawled their employer. “The
last I heard of him he was still on his plantation in Honduras, probably
hatching more revolutionary plots and giving the government a good
excuse for sending its soldiers to shoot him one of these days. But I
_do_ know that, for a while, Greg had American lawyers hard at work
trying to find some way to smash Aaron’s will. They gave it up, though,
and so did Greg, after hearing from me that Master Ted was wild to
follow a soldier’s career.”

Both boys were silent for some time. Yet, if they did no talking, their
thoughts very nearly ran riot. To them it seemed that Ted Dunstan’s lot
in life lay in all the bright places of glory and fortune. How they
would have relished such a grand chance!

“By the way,” said Mr. Dunstan, rising slowly and stretching, “I haven’t
seen the youngster in hours. I think I’ll locate him and bring him
around here.”

He went into the house. Within the next ten minutes two of the men
servants left the house, running hurriedly out of sight in different
directions. At the end of twenty minutes Mr. Dunstan himself appeared,
looking actually worried.

“We can’t seem to find Ted anywhere,” he confessed uneasily. “The young
man hasn’t been seen since he stabled his pony at half-past twelve. I
thought he would lunch with Mrs. Dunstan; she thought he was lunching
with us. We’ve sent all about the grounds, we’ve telephoned the
neighbors and the town, and all without avail. The pony is in the stable
and the young man seems to have disappeared.”

“Disappeared?” repeated Tom Halstead, springing to his feet, electrified
by the news. “Don’t you think it more likely, sir, he’s been _helped_ to
disappear?”

“You think he may have been spirited away?” demanded Mr. Dunstan. “But
why?”

“Haven’t you yourself told us, sir, that it would be worth some one’s
trouble, to the extent of nine hundred thousand dollars, to have the boy
vanish?” asked Tom breathlessly.

“You suspect my brother?”

“Pardon me, sir, for forgetting that Gregory Dunstan is your brother,”
Tom went on whitening. “Yet that talk about disabling the ‘Meteor’! The
man who looked like a Spaniard—but the people of Honduras are of Spanish
descent. Why should anyone want to disable the ‘Meteor,’ unless to stop
a pursuit by water? You yourself have told us that your brother has a
weakness for mixing up in revolutions down in Honduras.”

All this Halstead had shot out jerkily, thinking even faster than he
spoke.

“But at this very moment Greg is down in Honduras,” objected Mr.
Dunstan.

“Even if he is, wouldn’t friends of his, who may want funds for a new
revolution, see how easy it was to get the money through getting Ted out
of the way?” asked Tom quickly. “Grant that your brother is wholly
innocent of any plot about your son. Wouldn’t supposed friends of his
perhaps be willing to spirit the boy away, knowing that if the big money
prize went to your brother, Gregory Dunstan could afterwards be
persuaded to throw his fortune into some new revolutionary cause?”

“Yes, yes, it’s all possible—horribly possible,” admitted Mr. Dunstan,
covering his face with his hands. “And Greg, who is a citizen of
Honduras now, has even had aspirations in the way of becoming president
of Honduras. Halstead, I will admit that I had even thought of the
possibility of some just such attempt as this, and yet in broad daylight
I dismissed it all as idle dreaming. And now Ted’s gone—heaven only
knows what has become of him!”

“Of course,” put in Joe coolly, “it may turn out that the youngster just
went fishing. He may walk in any moment for his supper.”

“But he went without his lunch,” retorted Mr. Dunstan. “That was wholly
unlike Ted.”

“The ‘Meteor’ may be disabled now,” broke in Tom. “If she isn’t, won’t
it be more than well worth while to get the craft out and go scouting
through these waters?”

“Yes, yes!” cried Mr. Dunstan. “Come on, boys.”

As they raced down through the grounds they espied the coachman
returning.

“Come along, Michael!” shouted Mr. Dunstan. Then, to the boys he
explained:

“If the ‘Meteor’ is fit to go out, Michael can go along with you. If
there’s any fighting he’s a heavy-fisted, bull-necked fellow who’d face
a regiment of thieves.”

Joe had the key of the engine-room hatchway out in his hand before they
reached the pier. In a jiffy he had the sliding door unlocked, almost
leaping down into the engine room. With swift hands he set the engine in
motion.

“All right here,” he reported, while Bouncer, just liberated, frisked
about his master’s legs and then whined.

“Keep the bulldog aboard, too, Michael,” called Mr. Dunstan, as he
stepped ashore. “Start at once, Captain Halstead. Go as far and wide as
you can and hail any craft you think may have news. Michael, I rely upon
you to use your fists if there’s need.”

“If there’s the chanst!” grinned the Irishman readily.

“I’ll run back to the house and get in touch with the police,” Mr.
Dunstan shouted back over his shoulder.

Tom sprinted aft along the pier, throwing the stern-line aboard. He
leaped aboard forward with the bowline, not stopping then to coil it.

Not even calling to Joe, whose head was barely six feet away, young
Captain Tom Halstead gave the bridge bellpull a single jerk. As the
response sounded in the engine room alert Joe gave the engine slow speed
ahead. Tom threw the wheel over and the fine boat glided out from her
berth.

Two bells! Full speed ahead! The “Meteor” forged forward, gaining
headway every moment. The hunt for missing Ted Dunstan was started in
earnest.




CHAPTER IV—SIGHTING THE “PIRATE”


“How much speed do you want for this trip?” asked Joe, poking his head
up through the hatchway as soon as the “Meteor” was running smoothly
northward.

“On a hunt like this I think Mr. Dunstan will want us to burn gasoline,”
Tom answered. “Give her about all the speed she can make.”

“That means twenty-five miles—or more?” insisted Dawson.

“Twenty-five will be close enough to going fast,” Tom replied.

Almost immediately the fast motor boat began to leap through the water.
Though the boat minded her helm sensitively, Halstead rested both hands
upon the wheel, watching intently ahead.

“Hey! What you trying to do? Swamp us, with your wake?” demanded an
irate fisherman in a dory, as they raced past him.

But they had gone only close enough to enable big Michael, standing on
the deck house, to peer at the inside of the dory.

Several other small craft without cabins they ran close to in the same
manner, making sure that no stolen boy was on any of them.

Up near Great Point they encountered a cabin sloop. Michael, however,
recognized a clergyman friend as one of this party, so Halstead passed
them with only a friendly toot from the auto whistle.

Then down around the east coast of Nantucket they sped, further out to
sea now, since inshore no craft were observed. They kept on until the
south coast, too, had been passed, but there was no sign to gladden
their eyes nor arouse their suspicions. Next along the south shore of
the island the “Meteor” raced, and on out to Muskeget Island. From this
point they had only to round the latter island and steer straight back
for the inlet where Mr. Dunstan’s pier lay.

“Sure, I don’t like to go back stumped like this,” growled Michael.

“No more do I,” rejoined Tom. “Say, we’ve got daylight enough; I’m going
to retrace our whole course and keep in closer to shore.”

Joe, who for some time had been on deck, nodded his approval. Cutting a
wide sweep, Tom headed back, going now within a quarter of a mile of the
shore.

“It begins to look,” hinted Joe, “as though whoever is leading the young
Dunstan heir astray hasn’t taken him off the island of Nantucket at
all.”

“There are plenty of hiding places on Nantucket, aren’t there?” inquired
Tom, turning to the big coachman.

“Plenty,” nodded Michael, “if the rapscallions knew their way about the
old island. But, by the same token, the rascals would be in plenty of
danger of being found by the constables.”

“Of course Mr. Dunstan is having the local officers search,” pondered
Tom aloud. “He said he would. He can telegraph the mainland from the
island, too, can’t he, Michael?”

“Sure,” nodded the coachman.

“Then Mr. Dunstan must have waked up some pretty big searching parties
by this time, both on the island and on the mainland,” Halstead
concluded. “But see here, Michael, why wouldn’t it be a good plan to put
you ashore? You can telephone Mr. Dunstan and see if there’s any news.”

“And if there ain’t any,” suggested the Irishman, “I might as well be
going home across the island on foot, and keeping me eyes open. I can
ask questions as I go along, and maybe be the first of all to find out
any rale news.”

“That’ll be the best plan of any,” approved Halstead. “It begins to look
more sure, every minute, that we’re not going to need your fine lot of
muscle.”

At the lower end of the east coast of the island Tom remembered having
seen a pier that would serve them for landing the Irishman. They made
for that pier accordingly and Michael leaped ashore.

“I’ll telephone and then come back within sight,” the coachman called
back to them, as he started. “If ’tis good news I’m hearing, I’ll throw
up me hat two or three times. If ’tis no news, I’ll wave a hand.”

The “Meteor” then fell off, but kept to her bearings while ten minutes
passed. Then Michael appeared in sight from the shore. He waved one hand
and signed to the boys to keep on their course.

“Too bad!” sighed Tom. “But it makes it more certain than ever now,
doesn’t it, Joe, that some real disaster has happened to young Ted
Dunstan? It’s past the lad’s dinner time now. No healthy boy goes
without either luncheon or dinner, unless there’s a big reason for it.”

“Unless Ted has merely gone to some friend’s home and has forgotten to
notify his parents,” suggested Dawson.

“But Ted doesn’t strike me as the boy who’s likely to do that. He’s a
fine little fellow, and I don’t believe he’d be guilty of being so
inconsiderate as to leave home for hours without telling some one.”

They had the “Meteor” under full headway now. Tom, with one hand on the
wheel, kept a keen lookout. They had run along some miles when Halstead
gave a sudden gasp, made a dive for the rack beside the wheel that held
the binoculars and called sharply:

“Take the wheel, Joe!”

With that Tom Halstead bounded down into the engine room. Over at one of
the open portholes he raised the marine glasses to his eyes.

“What’s the matter?” called down Joe, filled with the liveliest
curiosity.

“Matter enough!” came his chum’s excited rejoinder. “Don’t look when I
tell you. Keep your eyes on your course ahead. But you saw that little
pier over at port?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe you noticed a man sitting there?”

“I did,” Joe admitted.

“When I first saw him,” Tom went on, showing his animated face at the
hatchway, “I didn’t think much about him. But the second time I looked I
thought I saw something that brought back recollections. That was why I
came down here for a near-sighted peep through the glasses. The fellow
couldn’t see me down here and so ought not to suspect that we have
noticed him particularly.”

“But who is he?” cried Joe eagerly.

“Oh, he’s the right man, all right,” Tom retorted perhaps vaguely. “He’s
got on either the same pair or another pair just like ’em.”

“Pair? Of what?” demanded Joe.

“Trousers, of course, you dull old simpleton!” whipped out Halstead.
“Joe, it’s the same old pattern of brown, striped——”

“The Span——”

“The pirate, I call him,” growled Halstead, stepping up on deck and
replacing the binoculars in their rack without another look ashore. They
were rapidly leaving astern the solitary one seated against the pier
rail.

“Do you think——” began Joe, but Tom gave him no chance to finish.

“I don’t think anything,” broke in Halstead, alive with energy. “I am
going to know—that’s what.”

Tom took the wheel himself, swinging the craft around a point of land
just ahead.

“Look back, Joe. This shuts us out from the sight of that striped
pirate, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” nodded Dawson.

Tom shut off the speed, adding:

“Stand ready, Joe, to use speed or wheel, and keep her about so-so. I’m
going to lower the dingey into the water and row ashore. I’ll rig a line
to her stern, so you can haul her back. Don’t bother to get the small
boat up at the davits. Just make her fast astern. And then——”

“Wait here for you,” guessed Joe.

“No, as soon as you get the dingey made fast, put on headway and run the
boat back to Mr. Dunstan’s pier. Report to him, telling him just what
I’m doing and assure him I won’t be afraid to telephone if I learn
anything worth while. I’ll get over to his place as soon as I can, later
in the evening.”

Tom got the small boat into the water, left one end of a small rope in
Joe’s hands and rowed somewhat more than a hundred feet to the beach.
From there he waved his hand. Joe began to haul in on the line. Within
thirty feet of the beach the woods began; Halstead was quickly lost to
his chum’s sight.

Full darkness came on while Tom was still in the woods heading
cautiously south. As he hastened along, making little or no noise,
Halstead wondered what he would do with the man in case he discovered
him to be really one of the pair who had sat in the seat ahead on the
train.

“I suppose I’d better wait and make up my mind after I’m sure it _is_
the same fellow,” Tom concluded.

The young skipper did not, at any time on this swift walk, move far from
the shore line. At last he came to the edge of the woods, a very short
distance from the pier he was seeking. There was still a man there,
seated on the rail of the pier. There were some bushes, too, to aid in
shielding the boy’s forward progress if he used care. Tom went down,
almost flat, then crept forward, moving swiftly, silently, between
bushes.

At last he was near enough to be sure of his man, trousers and all. It
was the same man Halstead had seen on the train. The “pirate” was at
this moment engaged in rolling a cigarette.




CHAPTER V—A JOKE ON THE ENEMY


The slight, swarthy stranger rolled his cigarette up nicely, moistening
the edge of the paper, stuck the thing between his lips, lighted the
tobacco and began to smoke in evident enjoyment.

“That’s my party, all right,” quivered Tom. “And now I’ve found him what
on earth am I going to do with him?”

That was a new poser. Halstead had been so intent on identifying his
suspect that, now he recognized him, he must figure out what was to be
done.

“If the fellow is all right he ought to have no objections to going
along with me and answering questions. If he won’t do that”—here Tom’s
eyes began to flash—“I believe I’ll make him. This is a business that
calls for stern measures. This fellow belongs to the crowd that must
know all about Ted Dunstan’s disappearance.”

Yet, to look at him, one would hardly suspect the swarthy man leaning
against the pier rail of being a conspirator. As he smoked he appeared
to be wholly at peace with himself and with the world. He did not seem
to have a care on earth.

As he still crouched behind a bush, watching the nearby fellow in the
dark, an impulse of mischief came to Tom Halstead. He remembered that
night prowling about the “Meteor” over at Wood’s Hole, and he remembered
how Bouncer had frightened this same man.

“Gr-r-r-r!” sounded Tom suddenly from behind the bush. “Gr-r-r-r! Woof!
Woof!”

It was a splendid imitation of the growl and bark of a bulldog. At the
same instant Tom made a semi-spring through the bush.

The “pirate” uttered a wordless howl of fright. He lurched, attempted to
recover himself and leap at the same instant, and——

Splash! There was another howl of terror as the man slipped over
backward, then, head-first, struck the water at the side of the pier.

“Help! I drown!” came in a muffled voice, and a new note of terror
sounded on the night.

Now drowning anyone was as far from Tom Halstead’s mind as could be.
With an upward bound he sprinted out onto the pier, bending under the
rail close to where the frightened one was making huge rings on the
water in his struggle to keep up.

In his efforts the fellow reached one of the piles of the pier, hanging
to it in mortal terror.

“Help, help, kind sir!” he pleaded hoarsely. “Not a stroke do I swim.
Pull me out before I drown.”

Throwing himself upon the pier, Tom bent down with both hands.

“Here, catch hold,” he hailed. “You’re in no danger. I’ll pull you out
all right.”

It was some moments before Tom could persuade his “pirate” to let go
that frantic clutch at the pile. But at length Halstead drew his
dripping suspect up onto the boards of the pier.

“Where is that terrible, that miser-r-rable dog!” panted the swarthy
one, glaring about him.

“That’s all right,” Tom answered composedly. “There isn’t any dog.”

“But—but I heard him,” protested the other, still nervous, as he stared
suspiciously around him. “The wr-r-retched animal sprang for me. His
teeth almost grazed my leg.”

Such was the power of imagination—a fine tribute to Tom’s skill as a
mimic.

“Aren’t you thinking of the other night, over at Wood’s Hole, when you
tried to get aboard the ‘Meteor’ to wreck the engine?”

Halstead shot this question out with disconcerting suddenness. The young
skipper looked straight, keenly, into the other’s eyes, standing so that
he could prevent the stranger’s sudden bolt from the pier.

“I? What do you talk about?” demanded the foreigner, pretending
astonishment.

“Oh, I know all about you,” nodded Tom. “You’re the party.”

“Be careful, boy! You insult me!” cried the other angrily.

“That’s all right, then,” Tom went on coolly. “Now maybe I’m going to
insult you a little more. The trouble is, I need information, and you’re
the best one to give it to me. Where’s Ted Dunstan?”

“I—I—you——” stammered the foreigner. “What do I know about Ted Dunstan?
No, no, no! You are wrong. I have not seen the boy—do not know him.”

“Yet you appear to know that he is a boy,” insisted Tom sternly. “Come,
now, if you won’t talk with me you’d better walk along with me, and
we’ll find some one you’ll be more willing to answer.”

“How? I walk with you? Boy, do not be a fool,” retorted the swarthy one
angrily. “I shall not walk with you. I do not like your company.”

“I’m not sure that I like yours, either,” retorted the boy. “But there
are times when I cannot afford to be particular. Come, why should you
object to walking along with me? All I propose is that we find the
nearest constable and that you answer his questions. The constable will
decide whether to hold you or not.”

“Step aside,” commanded the swarthy man imperiously. Full of outraged
dignity he attempted to brush past the young skipper. But Tom Halstead,
both firm and cool, now that his mind was made up, took a grip on the
fellow’s left arm.

“Take your hand off! Let me go!” screamed the fellow, his eyes ablaze
with passion. “Out of my way, idiot, and take yourself off!”

As the swarthy one struggled to free himself Tom only tightened his
grip, much as the bull pup would have done.

“Don’t be disagreeable,” urged Tom. “Come, my request is a very proper
one. I’m only asking you to go before one of the officers of the law. No
honest man can really object to that.”

“You——” screamed the foreigner.

He shot his right hand suddenly into a jacket pocket. But Tom, watching
every movement alertly, let go of the fellow’s left arm, making a bound
and seizing his right arm with both strong hands. There was a fierce
struggle, but Halstead’s muscles had been toughened by exercise and by
many days of hard work at a steering wheel in rough weather. This slight
man from another country was no match for the American boy.

Down they went to the flooring of the pier with a crash, but young
Halstead was uppermost. In another twinkling he was bending the swarthy
one’s right arm until that fellow was ready to sue for a truce.

Tom now held him helpless, kneeling on him.

“What were you trying to fish out of that jacket pocket?” demanded the
young motor boat captain, thrusting his own hand in. He drew out
something and held it up briefly—a clasp knife.

“A coward’s tool!” uttered Tom, his voice ringing scornfully. Then he
threw the clasp knife far out so that it splashed in the water. “Why
don’t you cultivate a man’s muscle and fight like a man, instead of
toting around things like that? Come, get up on your feet.”

Bounding up, Halstead yanked the other upright. In a twinkling the
swarthy man broke from him, sprinting off the pier.

“You haven’t learned to run right, either,” grinned Halstead, dashing
after the “pirate” and gripping a hand in his collar.

That brought them facing each other again. How the swarthy one glared at
his resolute young captor! They were about of a height, these two, and
might have weighed about the same. But the man possessed nowhere near
the strength of this sea-toughened boy.

“Now see here,” spoke Tom more pleasantly, “I’m doing what I think is
right or I wouldn’t venture to be so rough. Walk along with me sensibly,
until we can find out where a constable lives. I’ve got the best of you
and you realize I can do it again. But I don’t want to be rough with
you. It goes against the grain.”

The swarthy one’s only answer was to glare at the young skipper with a
look full of hate.

Tom suddenly changed his tone.

“I know what you’re thinking of, my man,” he cried tauntingly. “You are
just thinking to yourself what a fine time you’d have with me if you had
me down in Honduras—where your friends do things in a different way!”

The taunt told, for the stranger’s eyes gleamed with malice.

“Ah, in good Honduras!” he hissed. “Yes, if I had you there, and——”

He stopped as suddenly as he had begun.

“That’s just what I wanted to know,” mocked Halstead. “Honduras is your
country, and now I know to a dot why you’re interested in having Ted
Dunstan vanish and stay vanished for a while. Come along, now. We’ll
keep right on until we find that constable!”

Tom seized the stranger’s right arm in earnest now. The other held back,
as though he would resist, but suddenly changed his mind.

“You are somewhat the stronger—with hands,” he said in an ugly tone. “So
I shall go with you. But perhaps you will much regret what you are doing
to-night.”

“Oh, I hope not,” Tom jeered cheerily. “At all events I’m doing the best
I know how. And I’m glad you’re not going to make any fuss. I hate to be
cranky with anyone.”

The place to which the pier belonged looked, from what Tom had been able
to see of it, like a run-down coast farm. Away up on a hill to the left
were a dilapidated old farm house and other buildings. Halstead feared,
though, that the stranger might have friends up at that house and so
decided to keep on through the woods at the right.

Before long they struck a fairly well defined road through the forest, a
road that looked as though it might lead to somewhere in particular.

“We’ll keep right on along this road, if you don’t mind,” said the boy.
He kept now only a fair hold of the other’s wrist. As the swarthy one
offered no opposition, they made passably good speed over the road. But
Tom, though he looked unconcerned, was wholly on the alert for any
sudden move on the part of his captive.

“If I find I’m wholly in the wrong,” said Tom pleasantly, after they had
gone at least a quarter of a mile in this fashion, “there isn’t anyone
in the whole United States who’d be more glad to make a complete
apology.”

“But that will not save you from trouble,” breathed the swarthy one
angrily. “The laws of your country do not allow such high-handed deeds
as you have been guilty of.”

“Down in Honduras the laws are a bit different, aren’t they?” asked
Halstead very pleasantly.

“Down in Honduras, they——”

The swarthy one checked himself suddenly.

“That is the second time you have asked me about Honduras,” he went on
presently. “Why do you say so much about Honduras?”

“I’ve trapped you into admitting that it’s your country,” laughed
Halstead. “And that tells me, too, why you are so interested in having
Ted Dunstan kept out of sight for the next few days.”

“What’s all this talk about Honduras?” demanded a gruff voice. The
challenge made both jump. A stocky figure stepped alertly out from
behind a tree. It was the solidly built, florid-faced man—the other of
the pair Tom had first seen in the seat ahead.

“Oh, you, you, you!” cried the swarthy one delightedly, as he wrenched
his captive wrist free from Halstead’s weakening clutch. “You have
appeared in time, my friend!”

“So?” roared the florid-faced one, taking a business-like grip of Tom
Halstead’s collar. “What was this young cub doing?”

“Doing?” cried the swarthy one, dancing in his wrath, his eyes gleaming
like coals. “He had the impudence, this boy, to say he would take me to
a constable. He insists that I know all about one Ted Dunstan.”

“Does, eh?” growled the powerful, florid-faced one, giving Tom a mighty
shake. “Then we’ll take care of this young man! Oh, we’ll give him a
pleasant time!”

“Yes, yes! Just as we would in Honduras!” laughed the swarthy one
gleefully. “He has been asking much, just now, about the way they do
things in Honduras.”

“Then he’ll be sure to be just the lad who’ll appreciate a little
information at first hand!” jeered Tom’s captor.




CHAPTER VI—TOM HAS A BAD QUARTER OF AN HOUR


“So the youngster was going to be high-handed with ye, was he?” demanded
the florid-faced one, and despite the intense darkness there in the
woods, Tom Halstead could see the ugly gleam in his strong-handed
captor’s eyes.

The swarthy one stepped to the other side of his friend and whispered
something in that worthy’s ear. It was a rather long communication.
Though he tried with all his might to overhear some of it, Halstead
could not distinguish a single word. Yet, as the narration proceeded,
Tom felt that powerful grip on his coat collar increase in intensity.

“Well, we’ll take care of you, youngster,” declared the florid-faced one
at last. “You’re too big a nuisance to have at large! And as you’ve been
giving your time to other folks’ business, we’ll take good care of your
time after this! Come along now!”

Tom had not tried to resist and for a most excellent reason. He well
knew that his present captor could fell him like a log. Here no contest
of muscles was to be thought of. Craft must be substituted for strength.

In the boy’s brain revolved swiftly many plans for escape. Just as the
florid-faced one started to force him over the path lately taken the
right idea came to the young captive. He puckered his lips, emitting a
shrill whistle.

Nor had he guessed wrongly. There _was_ an echo here. Back on the air
came almost the exact duplicate of the whistle Halstead had let loose.

In a jiffy both of his captors halted. Perhaps they suspected it to be
only an echo, but they wanted to make sure.

Quicker than a flash, though, before they could make any tests for
themselves, Halstead shouted:

“Fine! Rush ’em quick, fellows! Jump on ’em and hold ’em down. Don’t let
either rascal get away!”

His voice was so joyous, so exultant, that it completely fooled the pair
for an instant. Though the florid-faced one did not release the
tightness of his grip on the young skipper’s coat collar, he, like the
swarthy one, used his eyes to look about in all directions.

That moment was enough for Tom Halstead, doubly quick-witted in his
peril. His hands flew up the front of his uniform coat, ripping buttons
out of button holes at one swift move. Wrench! Tom slipped out of his
coat, springing ahead under the trees.

“Here, you! Come back here!” roared the florid-faced one absurdly, as he
plunged after the young fugitive. The swarthy one, too, joined in the
chase, freeing himself of a torrent of Spanish words.

Tom Halstead had just a few seconds’ start, aided by the darkness that
enveloped them all. A hundred yards or so Tom dashed, rather noisily.
Then, off at right angles to his former course he sped on tip-toe, nor
did he go much more than fifty yards ere he landed up against a straight
tree whose low-hanging limbs bore an abundant foliage.

Up this tree-trunk, without hesitation, shinned the young skipper,
drawing himself well up among the leaves in what he felt must be record
time for such a feat.

For a few moments more he could hear his pursuers stumbling along the
wrong course. Then he knew, by the sounds, that they had turned back and
were keeping well apart in the hope of covering more ground. But the
uncertainty of their steps, however, told the boy up the tree that his
pursuers were wholly off the trail and giving up the chase. Then,
veering, the florid-faced man and the swarthy one came toward each
other. They halted almost squarely under the tree that held young
Halstead.

Tom’s first, throbbing thought was that they had tracked him here. He
did not stir, but the grim lines around his mouth deepened. Let them try
to get him then. They would have to climb the tree to get at him and he
meant to make use of his hands and feet in defending himself.

“I can give them all they want for a while,” he told himself between his
teeth. In fact, in his excitement he all but made his remark half aloud.

“Well, he’s got away from us, all right,” growled the florid-faced one
in a tone of mingled disappointment and rage.

“We shall at least know him well after this,” sighed the swarthy one in
a sinister tone.

“And I hope you’ll have your wish,” flared listening Tom indignantly,
“though I’ll try to control the time and place of meeting.”

“I’d rather have lost a thousand dollars than that boy,” went on the
larger man gruffly.

“A thousand?” sneered the other. “_Diablo!_ I’d give five thousand to
have him in our hands this moment.”

“And I believe I’d give more,” echoed Tom silently, “to keep out of your
clutches—if I had the money.”

Then, drawing closely together, the pair conversed in whispers. Again
Tom groaned over his hearing which, keen as it was, could get nothing
connected from the low tones of the pair on the ground. Whatever they
were saying, these plotters must be terribly in earnest over something.
In his eagerness Tom bent too far forward. His foot slipped. Frantically
he clutched at a branch overhead to save himself from plunging to the
ground. Of course the move made some noise.

“_Diablo!_ What was that? And so close, too!” demanded the smaller man.

“What?” demanded the larger man.

“That noise! Some one must be prowling about here,” continued the
swarthy one in a whisper just loud enough to reach Tom’s ears.

As he spoke the Spaniard’s head turned in such a way as to show that he
was looking up into the tree in which Tom stood. It was becoming a truly
bad quarter of an hour for the boy.

“I heard nothing,” said the other one gruffly. “Leastways, nothing more
than some night animal stirring, maybe.”

“Let’s make a search of these trees,” proposed the Spaniard.

Tom shivered. Danger was again coming much too close to please him.

“Come along,” rejoined the florid-faced one impatiently. “We’re wasting
too much time, listening to the whisperings of the wind. Come along,
Alvarez.”

After a brief objection the one addressed as Alvarez turned and stepped
off with his friend. They had not gone far when Tom Halstead slipped
down the tree trunk. Alarmed as he had been when danger threatened most,
he now knew that he must follow them.

“For they may lead me straight to Ted Dunstan,” he thought eagerly.

Naturally he did not think it wise to get too close to the pair.
Captured again, Tom Halstead knew that he was not likely to be able to
be of any further service to his employer. Besides, in escaping and
leaving his coat in the hands of the enemy he now remembered how his
white shirt might betray him if he got too close to them.

“It’s a wonder they didn’t see all this white when I was up in the
tree,” he muttered, as he stole along in pursuit. “The leaves must have
covered me mighty well.”

For perhaps five minutes Halstead kept steadily behind the pair, guiding
himself by the distant sound of their steps, for they did not keep to
any path. Then suddenly the boy halted. The noise of footsteps ahead had
died out. Tom stood, silent, expectant, but no sound came to his ears in
the next two or three minutes. Then a disagreeable conclusion forced
itself on the young skipper’s mind.

“Gracious! They’ve slipped away from me or else they’re at the end of
their tramp.”

Again Halstead stole forward on tiptoe. But, though he spent nearly the
next half-hour in exploring, he found nothing to reward his search. He
came at last to a road which he judged to be the same one along which he
had started with the Spaniard. Taking his course from the stars, seaman
fashion, Halstead kept along. Within ten minutes he was upon a road that
looked like a highway.

“Say, but how good that sounds!” he thrilled, suddenly halting. He had
the presence of mind next to slip behind the trunk of a big tree.

A horse was moving lazily along the road. There was the sound of wheels,
too, though above all rose a cheery whistling, as though the owner of
that pair of lips were the happiest mortal alive. It was a good,
contented whistling. It had about it, too, the ring of honesty. The
cheery sound made Tom Halstead feel faith at once in the owner of that
whistle.

Then there came into sight a plain, much-worn open buggy, drawn by a
sleek-looking gray horse. Seated in the vehicle was a youngster of about
Tom’s own age, who looked much like a farmer’s boy. He had no coat on,
his suspenders being much in evidence. On his head he wore a
nondescript, broad-brimmed straw hat of the kind used by haymakers. At
least it looked as though it might once have been that sort of a hat,
but its shape was gone. From where Halstead stood not much of a glimpse
could be had of the boy’s face.

“Good evening, friend,” Tom hailed, stepping out from behind the tree.

“Evening! Who-o-oa!” The other boy reined up, peering down through the
semidarkness. “Want a lift?”

“Just what, if it happens that you’re headed toward the town of
Nantucket,” Tom replied.

“That’s just where I’m headed. But hold on—gracious! I came within an
ace of forgetting. I’ve got to turn back and drive to Sanderson’s for a
basket of eggs. Won’t take me long, though. Pile in.”

Tom gladly accepted the invitation. After his late experiences it seemed
good to be again with some one who appeared to be wholesome and
friendly. The other boy turned about, laying the whip lightly over the
horse.

“Look as if you were off of some yacht,” commented the other boy, noting
Halstead’s blue trousers and cap.

“I’m the skipper at present on Mr. Dunstan’s ‘Meteor,’” Tom explained.

“Say, that’s the man whose son disappeared to-day,” exclaimed the other
boy.

“Then you’ve heard about it?”

“Yep; it’s all over the island now, I guess. Constables been going
everywhere and asking a heap of questions. Have they found young Ted?”

“I’m afraid not,” sighed Tom.

“Too bad. But who could have wanted him to disappear?”

“That’s a long story,” Tom answered discreetly. “But say, where are you
going?”

For the young driver was turning off the road to go to the very
farmhouse to which the pier seemed to belong.

“To Sanderson’s, as I told you,” replied the other boy.

“Does that pier down at the water front belong to him?”

“Yep, though I guess he don’t have much use for it.”

“What sort of man is Sanderson?”

“Good enough sort, I guess.”

“What does he do for a living?”

“He farms some, but I guess that don’t amount to a lot,” replied the
young driver. “I hear he’s going into some new kind of business this
fall. Some kind of a factory he’s going to build on the place. I know
he’s been having a lot of cases of machinery come over on the boat from
Wood’s Hole lately.”

“Machinery?” echoed Halstead. Somehow, from the first, that word struck
a strange note within him.

“There’s Sanderson, now,” continued the young driver, pointing toward
the house with his whip.

Then the buggy drew up alongside the back porch. Halstead had plenty of
chance to study this farmer as he greeted the young driver:

“Hullo, Jed Prentiss. After them eggs?”

“Yes; and nearly forgot ’em.”

“I reckoned you’d be along about now. Well, I’ll get ’em.”

Farmer Sanderson appeared to be about fifty years of age. He would have
been rather tall if so much of his lanky height had not been turned over
in a decided stoop of the shoulders. He had a rough, weather-beaten skin
that seemed to match his rough jean overalls and flannel shirt. The most
noticeable thing about this man was the keenness of his eyes. As the
farmer came out again to put the basket of eggs in the back of the buggy
Tom Halstead asked suddenly:

“Do you know a man who looks like a Spaniard and wears brown striped
trousers and a black coat?”

Farmer Sanderson, so the young captain thought, gave a slight start.
Then he unconcernedly placed the basket in the buggy before he answered:

“Can’t say as I _know_ such a party. But I’ve seen a fellow that
answered that description.”

“When, if I may ask, and where?”

“Why, late this afternoon I saw such a party hanging around my pier. I
s’posed he was fishing, but I didn’t go down to ask any questions.”

Tom put a few more queries, though without betraying too deep an
interest. Farmer Sanderson answered with an appearance of utter
frankness, but Tom learned nothing from the replies.

“I wonder,” ventured Jed Prentiss, after they had driven some distance
along the road, “whether you think your Spanish-looking party had
anything to do with Ted Dunstan’s being missing?”

Tom laughed good-naturedly, but made no reply, thinking that the easiest
way of turning off the question.

“Say,” broke in Jed again after a while, “I wish you could get me a job
aboard the ‘Meteor.’”

“What kind of a job?” inquired the young captain.

“Why, I’m generally handy aboard a boat. Been out on fishing craft a
good deal. The job I struck Mr. Dunstan for, some weeks ago, was that of
steward. You see, I’m a pretty fair sea cook, too. But Mr. Dunstan said
he didn’t need a steward or a cook aboard. I wonder if he’d change his
mind.”

“He might,” replied Tom.

“Do you think you’d like to have me aboard?”

“From what I’ve seen of you, Jed, I think I would,” replied Tom Halstead
heartily. “At any rate, I’ll speak to Mr. Dunstan about you.”

“Will you, though?” cried Jed delightedly. “Say, I’d give my head—no,
but the hair off the top of my head—to go cruising about on the
‘Meteor.’ It must be a king’s life.”

“It is,” Tom assented.

Then, for some time, the two boys were silent But at last Tom Halstead,
after some intense thinking, burst out almost explosively:

“Machinery? Great Scott!”

“Er—eh?” queried Jed, looking at him in surprise.

“Oh, nothing,” returned the young skipper evasively. “Just forget that
you heard me say anything, will you?”

“Sure,” nodded Jed obligingly. Soon after, they drove into the quaint
little old seaport, summer-resort town, Nantucket. Tom’s glance alighted
on a bicycle shop, still open. Thanking Jed heartily for the lift,
Halstead hurried into the shop. He succeeded in renting a bicycle,
agreeing that it should be returned in the morning. Then, after some
inquiries as to the road, Tom set out, pedaling swiftly.

He got off the road once, but in the end found the Dunstan place all
right. At the gateway to the grounds Halstead dismounted. For a few
moments he stood looking up at the house, only a part of which was
lighted.

“Machinery?” repeated the young skipper to himself, for the twentieth
time. “Machinery? Eh? Oh, but we want to know all about that, and,
what’s more, we’ve got to know. Machinery! It pieces in with some other
facts that have come out to-day.”

Then mindful of the fact that the news he bore was, or should be, of
great importance to the distracted master of the house beyond, Tom
Halstead, instead of remounting, pushed his wheel along as he walked
briskly up the driveway.

“Machinery!” he muttered once more under his breath. He could not rid
himself of the magic of that word.

Yet it was a huge pity that the young motor boat captain could not have
possessed sharp enough vision to see into the heart of a dense clump of
lilac bushes that bordered the driveway. Had his vision been that keen
he would have seen his very Spaniard crouched low in the clump.

That worthy saw the boy and watched him with baleful, gleaming eyes. It
was a look that boded no good to the young skipper.

“You are too wise, young _gringo_, and, besides, you have struck me
down,” growled Alvarez. “But we shall take care of you. You shall do no
more harm!”




CHAPTER VII—“THE QUICKEST WAY OF WALKING THE PLANK”


It was Tuesday when Ted Dunstan disappeared. Now, Saturday had arrived.

On Monday the heir must appear, with his father, in the probate court,
or the great fortune would be forever lost to the young man.

The days from Tuesday to Saturday had been full of suspense and torment
to those most interested. Horace Dunstan had lost his easy-going air. He
started at the slightest sound; he hurried up whenever he heard others
talking. Every new sound gave him hope that his son was about to appear
in the flesh.

Far from slow had the search been. Mr. Dunstan’s messages had brought a
score of detectives to the scene. Some of these, aided by the local
constables, had scoured the island of Nantucket unavailingly. The
greater number of the detectives, however, had operated on the mainland,
their operations extending even to Boston and New York.

Yet not a sign of the missing boy had been found. There was not a single
clew to his fate, beyond the little that Tom Halstead and Joe Dawson had
been able to tell concerning Alvarez and the florid-faced American.

Halstead’s notion about Farmer Sanderson’s “machinery” had crystallized
into the belief that the cases of “machinery” received by the farmer
were in reality cases of arms and ammunition, intended to be shipped to
aid some new revolution in Honduras. Alvarez and the florid-faced man,
the latter undoubtedly a seafaring man, might justly be suspected of
being employed in some scheme to smuggle military supplies to Honduras.
Tom had read in the newspapers, more than once, that filibusters sending
military supplies to Central American republics label their cases of
goods “machinery” in order to get past vigilant eyes unsuspected.
Gregory Dunstan was known to be interested in revolutionary movements,
and Farmer Sanderson might be suspected of helping Alvarez and other
filibusters by having arms and ammunition shipped to him as machinery,
and afterwards slipped out of the country from the end of the farmer’s
pier on some dark, stormy night. Moreover, Gregory Dunstan and his
friends were the sole ones who could be interested in having Master Ted
vanish at such a time. All parts of the theory fitted nicely together,
Tom thought, and Horace Dunstan agreed with him.

Yet anything relating to attempts by filibusters to ship arms secretly
to another country should be brought to the notice of the United States
Government. So Mr. Dunstan wrote fully to the authorities at Washington,
who, so far, had not taken the pains to reply to his communication.

During these days the “Meteor” had been almost constantly in service.
Tom and Joe felt nearly used up, so incessant had been their work. Jed
Prentiss was now aboard, for, with detectives arriving and departing at
all hours, there was frequently need of serving a visitor with a meal
while the “Meteor” dashed over the waves to or from Nantucket. Jed was
enjoying himself despite his long hours and hard work. He even found
time to hang about Joe and learn much about the running of the motor.

By Saturday noon Horace Dunstan, who seemed to have aged much, gave up
the notion that his detectives could aid him at Nantucket. The last
three on the island were sent over to Wood’s Hole on the “Meteor,” with
instructions to help the men at work on the case on the mainland.

“Thank goodness, we’re through with ’em,” grunted Jed, leaving the
galley and coming up through the engine room hatchway. “I hope we’ll get
a breathing spell to-morrow.”

“We’ve had a brisk four days of it,” nodded Tom. “I wouldn’t mind that
at all, if only we had gotten any nearer to finding Ted. But all this
work and nothing gained is enough to wear a fellow out.”

It was a part of Tom’s nature that he felt keenly all of his employer’s
worries over the missing Ted, It worried Halstead, too, to think of any
boy hopelessly losing such a huge fortune as was at stake.

“If only we could find Alvarez, and get a good grip on him,” growled
Halstead, as Joe came up on deck, “I’d feel almost warranted in
torturing him until he told all he knew.”

Joe nodded gravely, then suddenly grinned.

“I can imagine anyone as big-hearted as you are, Tom, putting any human
being to the torture.”

“I said I’d _almost_ be willing to” insisted Tom.

“Well, you won’t find Alvarez, so what’s the use of arguing?” asked
Dawson, slowly. “He and his red-faced friend have skipped away from this
part of the country, I believe.”

“And Mr. Dunstan has only until Monday,” sighed Halstead. “And Ted to
lose millions! Did you ever hear of a case of such tough luck before?”

Jed began to whistle sympathetically. He, too, would have given worlds
to be able to pounce upon the vanished Ted. For young Prentiss was all
loyalty. Having entered the Dunstan employ, he felt all the sorrows of
the family. The more he thought about the affair the more restless the
whistling boy became.

“How long are we tied up here for?” demanded Jed, at last.

“Until the late afternoon train gets in from Boston,” Tom answered,
listlessly. “Mr. Dunstan is expecting Mr. Crane, his lawyer, along. If
Mr. Crane doesn’t arrive we’ve got to come over again to-morrow
morning.”

Jed glanced at the clock before the steering wheel.

“Hours to wait,” he went on, dismally. “Well, I’m going ashore to
stretch my legs, if there’s no objection.”

“None at all,” Halstead replied, “if you’re back on time.”

Jed was over the rail in no time, whistling as he went. A few minutes
later Tom Halstead found himself bored by this inactive waiting, and so,
as Joe had some cleaning to do on the engine, the young skipper decided
to take a stroll ashore.

In the village all looked so decidedly dull, this hot July afternoon,
that Tom walked on through and beyond the little place. After he had
gone the better part of a mile he seated himself on a tumble-down bit of
stone wall between two big trees. It was cool here, and shady. The drone
of insects soon made the boy feel drowsy.

“Here, there mustn’t be any of this,” muttered Halstead, shaking himself
awake. “I mustn’t fail to get back to the boat on time.”

After that he was wide awake. But the green, the quiet and the cool air
made the young captain feel that he did not care to leave this spot
until it was necessary. For perhaps fifteen minutes more he sat chewing
at a wisp of grass and thinking—always of the missing heir.

Then the sound of a short little cough made him look up. Some one was
coming along the road. That some one came in sight. Almost choking with
astonishment, Halstead went backward over the wall. It looked as though
he had fallen, but it was all part of his frantic wish to get out of
sight.

“Alvarez, by all that’s unbelievable!” he gasped, as he lay utterly
still behind that wall. “It doesn’t look like him, but it’s his size,
his carriage, his walk, his little tickling cough as he inhales his
cigarette!”

The man was coming nearer, walking at a steady though not rapid gait.
Tom hugged himself as close to the ground as he could, peering between
two stones in the wall. For an instant, as the other went by, Halstead
had a good glimpse of the fellow. Where Alvarez had but a moustache,
this man had a full black beard. Gone were the brown striped trousers,
for this man wore a blue serge suit. But the face was swarthy; there was
the same gleam in the dark eyes. Even the way of holding the fuming
little cigarette was the same.

“It’s Alvarez, or his double, disguised,” breathed Halstead, frantic
with joy. “I’ll jump on him, and pin him to the earth!”

On swift second thought the excited boy changed his mind. It might serve
a far bigger purpose to follow this swarthy little rascal, if he could
do so undetected.

Alvarez, apparently, wasn’t suspicions of being trailed, for he kept
steadily on. Halstead followed on the other side of the wall, ready to
drop out of sight at the first sign of the other’s turning. When the
wall ended the boy found other shelter, and followed on. It was but a
short chase. A quarter of a mile further on the Spaniard left the road,
pushing his way through the bushes and undergrowth of a patch of woods
until he came to a small, almost hidden cove. And in this cove, her
stern within stepping distance of the land, lay a yellow-hulled steam
launch.

Tom sank low behind the bushes, and peered through. He could see all
that followed.

“Pedro!” called Alvarez, softly.

A man who had been dozing up in a seat by the bow of the boat now awoke
and turned, displaying the face of a negro. He was a big and strong
built fellow. And Tom, the instant he heard that low call from the
bearded stranger, knew it to be Alvarez’s voice.

Pedro hurried to the stern. Some talk between the two followed, but in
tones so low that Halstead could understand not a word of it, until the
Spaniard, half turning away, finished by saying:

“I’ll be back soon. Be ready—and be watchful.”

The negro nodded heavily as the Spaniard started away. But this time Tom
Halstead made no effort to follow the swarthy one. If the Spaniard was
to return, that would not be necessary.

“I wonder how fast I can return to Nantucket, and then be ready to chase
this craft when she shows her nose outside?” wondered the boy. “For it’s
five to one this launch will make for Alvarez’s hiding-place, and that
is where Ted Dunstan is to be found. Yet—confound it all!—if I give
chase in the ‘Meteor,’ Alvarez certainly won’t lead us to the place.”

It was a puzzling, an immense problem. And whatever was to be done must
be decided upon instantly. While Halstead still pondered, a cheering
sound came to his ears. “Whirr-ugh! Whirr-ugh!” The negro, in his former
seat at the bow of the launch had proved his watchfulness by going sound
asleep and snoring!

“Oh! If I could only get through to Alvarez’s hiding-place on _this_
boat!” thought Tom wildly, his breath coming hard and fast. No time was
to be wasted in doing nothing. Assuring himself that the negro was still
soundly asleep, Halstead stepped forward, cat-footed.

Still the black guardian of the boat slumbered. Tom, as he reached the
water’s edge, prayed that nothing would disturb the fellow’s sleep. The
launch was not a cabin affair, but there was a covered deck at the bow,
and, under it, a hatchway leading into a little cubby. As the negro sat
sleeping, his legs crossed squarely before the entrance to that cubby.
Then Halstead edged around until he made sure that there was another
little cubby under the stern-sheets of the launch.

“If I could only get in there and hide!” breathed the young skipper,
fervently. Hardly had he formed the wish when he stepped stealthily to
the boat. His eyes watchfully on the negro, Tom gained the stern hatch.
He bent down before it to inspect the space beyond. The space in there
was small, and much of it taken up by the propeller shaft boxing. It
looked like taking a desperate chance to try to fold himself up in that
tiny space.

“But this is a time to take desperate chances!” gritted the young motor
boat captain. “And it’s the only chance I see that looks good!”

Another glance at the snoring negro, and Tom Halstead stealthily worked
his feet in through the hatchway. His body followed. He twisted and
wriggled until he had got himself as far back into the limited space as
was possible. His head was where he could gaze out into the cockpit of
the launch.

“I know just what a sardine feels like, anyway, after the packer gets
through with it,” reflected the boy, dryly. He stretched a little, to
avoid as much as possible the cramping of his body.

Then he had a wait of many minutes, though at last the hail of Alvarez
was heard from the shore. It took a second call to rouse the sleeping
Pedro.

“Now, quick out of this,” ordered the Spaniard. “Get up the anchor. Then
take your place by the engine.”

Alvarez himself went forward to the wheel at the bow. The launch was
soon under way, moving at what appeared to be its usual speed, about six
miles an hour.

“Neither one has seen me in here,” thought Tom, tensely. “Oh, what huge
luck if they go through the trip without seeing me!”

Though Halstead could not even guess it, from where he lay, the launch
took a north-easterly course along the coast, and was presently about
two miles from shore.

“Pedro,” chuckled the Spaniard, at last, looking back at the negro who
squatted by the engine, “if my own father saw me now would he know me
for Emilio Alvarez? Would he?”

“He’d be a wondahful smart man if he did, fo’ shuah,” grinned the negro.

“In this disguise I would hardly be afraid to walk about in Nantucket,”
continued Señor Alvarez. “I doubt if any of my enemies would recognize
me. They——”

Alvarez’s lips shut suddenly with a snap. While he was speaking he had
been looking astern. Tom Halstead now squirmed as he saw the Spaniard’s
startled gaze fixed directly on him.

“Pedro!” shouted the swarthy one. “Look sharp, man. There’s some one in
that cubby astern!”

Alvarez had started himself to leave the wheel. Then, realizing that the
boat would run wild without some one at the helm, he pointed
dramatically.

Though Halstead had trusted to the darkness and the shadow in that
cubby, the discovery that he dreaded had happened. Not willing to be
caught in there, like a fox in a trap, he made a lively scramble to get
out. He was on his feet in the cockpit by the time that Pedro, staring
as though at a ghost, leaped up and faced him.

“Grab the boy!” shouted Alvarez in glee. “Nab him and hold him fast.
Pedro, you shall have a present for this!”

As Halstead scrambled out he had looked for some object with which to
defend himself. There was nothing at hand. He was obliged to face his
bigger assailant with nothing but his fists.

“Keep off!” warned Halstead, throwing up his guard.

As the negro leaped for him Tom shot out his left fist, landing on the
side of the black man’s head. The blow had no effect, save that it
angered Pedro, who struck out with his own right. It was a powerful
blow. Halstead dodged so that he received it only glancingly, but the
act of dodging threw him off his balance. He toppled, then plunged
swiftly overboard, sinking from sight.

“Stop the engine! I want him alive!” screamed Alvarez, leaping away from
the wheel.

Pedro responded swiftly, stopping the speed, then reversing the engine
briefly. The launch was brought to, almost stationary, close to the
place where Tom Halstead had fallen overboard.

“Get the boat hook,” commanded Alvarez. “Jump in after him if necessary.
I want that meddling boy. I’ve a score to settle with him.”

But, though both remained at the rail for some time, peering down into
the water, Tom Halstead did not reappear.

“Fo’ goodness’ sake,” chattered the black man soberly, “dat boy done
sink, fo’ shuah. He ain’t gwine come back, boss.”

“The propeller must have struck him on the head,” declared Alvarez
thoughtfully. Then, with a white face and an attempt at a light laugh,
he added:

“After all, what does it matter, Pedro? That’s the quickest way of
walking the plank. We didn’t mean to drown him—but we’re rid of his
meddling!”




CHAPTER VIII—TOM DISCOVERS THE HEIR


Tom Halstead wasn’t drowned—not quite. The wicked seldom find safety in
believing that their evil work has come out in the way that will most
benefit them. We shall presently see what _did_ happen to Tom.

Although he tried to pretend that he was not affected by the tragedy
that he believed had just been enacted, Señor Alvarez, when he returned
to his seat by the wheel, did not at once call for speed ahead. Instead
he rolled a fresh cigarette with trembling fingers, spilling so much of
the tobacco that he had to make a fresh start. When, at last, he had the
thing lighted and had taken a couple of whiffs, he turned to the black
man to ask:

“After all, Pedro, what difference can it make if the meddling boy chose
the ocean to our company? Am I not a gentleman of Honduras, Don Emilio
Alvarez? Am I not descended from Spanish grandees? Why should I bother
my head because one of the American riff-raff has gone overboard!”

“Dat’s a fac’, boss. Why should yo’ bother yo’ haid?” responded Pedro,
though he did not say it very heartily.

Don Emilio smoked for some moments in silence. Then the sight of a cabin
sloop rounding a point of land to the northeast of them claimed his
attention.

“Pedro,” he called, pointing, “that sloop carries the red jack
fluttering from her bowsprit tip. That, then, is our boat.”

“Fo’ shuah, boss. An’ I done hope dat Cap’n Jonas French done got some
good news ob de kind dat we wanter heah.”

“Give us some speed and we’ll soon be alongside the sloop.”

The launch was soon going along at her usual speed of some six miles an
hour, veering in shore somewhat to cross the course of the sloop. As
they came to close quarters a voice from the other boat called:

“The news is all right, Alvarez.”

It was the voice of the florid-faced one, yet he, too, had changed
almost as much as had the gentleman from Honduras. Captain French’s
cheeks were no longer deep red in color. His skin had more of a bronze
hue. As such changes do not occur naturally within a few days, it was
evident that the captain must have employed some dye with much skill.
Even the tint of his hair was changed.

“I have something to discuss with you, my friend,” replied Don Emilio.
“I will come aboard for a while. Throw off your mainsheet and lie to, so
that I can come alongside.”

Pedro slowed down the speed considerably. Don Emilio, with a skill that
spoke of some practice, ran the launch around to leeward and up under
the sloop’s quarter. The two craft touched lightly and at that instant
Alvarez stepped aboard the sloop. Pedro, with his hand on the starboard
wheel rope, eased gently away from the sailing sloop.

“Now run into the cove, Pedro,” called back Don Emilio. “Wait there
until I come to you, unless danger threatens. If you see signs of
trouble, act in whatever way you may need to act.”

“I’se understand yo’, boss,” replied the black man.

As Captain Jonas French hauled in his mainsheet and the sloop’s sail
filled, Pedro made obliquely for shore. Having no need of speed, he made
less demand on the engine than he had been doing.

Some time later Pedro ran halfway into a little cove that dented the
mainland of Massachusetts. Stopping the speed he stepped forward and
cast over an anchor, reeling in the slack and making fast. This done,
the darky drew out an old pipe, filled it and lighted it, settling back
for a lazy smoke.

And Tom Halstead? He was doing his best not to pant and betray himself,
but his had been a rough experience. None but a boy as much at home in
the water as on land could have stood the strain of this performance.

When Tom went overboard, striking the water, the cold shock had aroused
all his faculties. He went over the starboard gunwale and, finding
himself going, had had the sense to dive as deeply as he could. He
passed under the hull, coming out at port. Then he turned, keeping still
under water until one of his hands touched the port side of the hull.

Just as this happened Halstead’s other hand struck a line trailing in
the water. Then the boy was forced to come up for air. As he did so he
heard the voices of the pair aboard over at the starboard gunwale. That
gave Tom a safe chance to give the trailing rope a pull. It held,
showing that it was made fast on board.

Necessity makes one think fast. To Tom the discovery of this rope was a
most unexpected bit of good fortune. As soon as he had time to get his
breath, he tied a loop in it securely. Through this he could thrust one
or both arms, at need.

The trailing overboard of a line in this fashion was a piece of
disorderly ship’s housekeeping of which an American skipper would hardly
be guilty. But the sailors of the Latin races are less particular. That
line might have been over the gunwale for hours or even days, but a man
like Alvarez would give little heed to it.

When the launch went on her way again Tom had his right arm hooked well
through the loop. He floated, his feet astern along the side, though in
no danger from rudder or propeller. His head, out of water, was hidden
by the bulging lines of the launch’s side hull. He was not likely to be
discovered unless one of the occupants of the launch leaned well out and
looked down.

“If only they’d run a little slower this would be about as easy as lying
in a soft bed,” chuckled the young motor boat captain gleefully. He had
grinned broadly at Don Emilio’s seeming unconcern over his fate.

“I reckon where they go I’m going too,” Halstead told himself with great
satisfaction. His clothing, filled with water, would have been
uncomfortable, even dangerous, had he attempted to swim far, but as it
was the launch’s engine was doing all the work. Tom simply allowed his
rather buoyant body to be towed. None the less the speed of the towing,
so greatly in excess of a swimmer’s speed, began to tell upon his
endurance. Later that cabin sloop was briefly in the boy’s sight.
Halstead was forced to lower his head all he could in the water, but
Captain French, having no reason to scan the launch’s water line, did
not happen to detect the strange “tow.” As the two boats went alongside
it was the launch’s starboard bow that touched, so that Tom, at port,
was in no danger of being seen from the other craft.

Nor was the young motor boat captain again in sight after the two craft
parted. Pedro’s slower speed, making for the cove, came as a huge relief
to the “boy overboard.”

While the anchor was being dropped, Halstead had opportunity to see how
wild and deserted a bit of nature the surroundings were. There was not a
house or other sign of human habitation anywhere in sight.

While Pedro sat up forward, smoking, a voice sounded that thrilled
Captain Tom Halstead with instant wonder.

“Hullo, Pedro! What a nap I must have had.”

“Yo’ shuahly did sleep fast, chile.”

“I’m coming out, now.”

“Ef yo’ do, young boss, be kyahful,” warned the black man.

“Oh, there’s no one around here to see me,” contended that other voice,
and now it sounded as though the owner were in the bow of the craft.

“Ef Ah done thought Ah could trust yo’ Ah’d tuhn in in dat forrad cubby
mahself,” declared the negro. “Ah’s powahful drowsy.”

“Go ahead, Pedro,” agreed the other speaker. “You needn’t be afraid of
me. I’ll keep a bright lookout.”

There was the sound of the negro stowing himself away in the forward
cubby, much roomier than the one Tom had tried at the stern.

Halstead had heard the conversation with a feeling at first as though
his brain were whirling inside his head. The long dousing in the water
was beginning to make itself felt in a chill, but it was not wholly this
that made the young skipper shake.

“That’s Ted Dunstan’s voice,” he told himself, trembling. “He’s on board
this very craft. I’ve found the missing Dunstan heir.”

Soon Pedro’s snores could be heard. Then Tom Halstead hauled himself up
along the rope until he could just peer over the gunwale. His last doubt
vanished; he could no longer question his ears, for now his glance
fastened upon the living heir of the Dunstans!




CHAPTER IX—TED HURLS A THUNDERBOLT


The youngest of the Dunstans was sitting where Pedro had been seated
only a short time before. Ted held a book in his hands, his gaze fixed
on one of the pages.

“He’s playing crafty,” thought Tom. “He’s waiting until he’s sure that
black man is sound, sound asleep. Then he’ll make his dash for freedom.
Oh, if he only knew how close a friend is!”

“Whirr-ugh!” Pedro’s snore smote heavily on the air.

“He’ll sleep now, as only a colored man can sleep,” thought Tom
jubilantly. “There’s only just one time to do this thing, and that’s
now! Here goes to let Ted Dunstan know that help is right at hand.”

Yet Tom’s teeth were threatening so persistently to chatter that he had
to hold his jaws firmly together for a moment before he dared attempt a
slight signal.

“Pss-sst!” It was a low signal indeed. Ted Dunstan half raised his gaze
from the printed page, then glanced down again.

“Whirr-rr-ugh!” came the noisy safety-signal from Pedro.

Tom ventured to raise his head a trifle higher above the port gunwale.

“Pss-sst! pss-sst!” he hissed desperately.

Ted Dunstan looked up now, his glance traveling swiftly astern. Then he
caught sight of the eager face of the “Meteor’s” young skipper. At sight
of the peeper’s face the Dunstan heir’s face was a study in amazement.
At first he just stared, as though suddenly in a daze.

“Come here!” whispered Tom ever so softly.

Ted laid his book down, shot a swift, uncertain glance at the cubby in
which Pedro lay, then rose uncertainly. Tom hauled himself up, perching
himself on the gunwale.

“Be quick and silent about it,” whispered Tom, as Ted reached him and
stood staring with all his might. “Can you swim?”

“Why?” demanded Ted curtly, and not exactly in a whisper, either.

“If you can we’ll be ashore in a jiffy,” Halstead responded eagerly.

“Ashore?” demanded Ted.

“Why, of course. I’ve come to rescue you. There’s nothing to fear if
you’re quick about it. But be lively. If you can’t swim, then just slip
down into the water and trust yourself to me. I’ll manage it for both of
us. Be quick about it, though, for every minute counts.”

“There’s some mistake, somewhere,” pronounced Ted, a decided coldness in
his tone.

“Mistake?” echoed Halstead, as though the other had struck him. “What do
you mean, Ted? Don’t you remember me? I’m in charge of your father’s
motor boat. I’ve been looking for you for days, and now you can escape.”

“But I don’t want to escape,” declared Master Ted coolly, almost
sneeringly. “Besides, there’s nothing to escape from.”

“Nothing to escape from?” echoed Tom aghast. “Why, Ted Dunstan, you
simply can’t know what you’re saying. Look how this crowd have used
you.”

“Well, then, how have they used me?” Ted challenged coolly. “I am having
the time of my life.”

“The time of your——Say, Ted Dunstan, have you any idea how nearly crazy
your father is over your absence?”

“That’s strange,” mocked the Dunstan heir. “My father knows perfectly
well where I am, and just why, too.”

This was uttered so candidly that Halstead wondered if he had taken
leave of his own senses. There could be no doubt at all that young
Dunstan believed every word he was uttering.

“Your father knows you’re here?” Tom insisted questioningly.

“Of course he does. It’s by his orders that I am here and that I am
keeping quiet. And now, clear out. I’ve talked to you more than is
right. I know what you and your chum are—a pair of slippery eels!”

“You say your father knows——You say he ordered you——” Tom went on
vaguely. “Ted Dunstan, do you think you’re telling the truth or anything
like it? And who on earth should you——”

“Clear out of this,” ordered the Dunstan heir firmly. “I don’t like to
see you get into any trouble, but I’m not going to listen to you any
longer. My father can tell you about this, if he has a mind to. I’ve no
right to talk about it and I won’t. Now if you can swim as well as you
say you can, prove it and reach shore on the double-quick. Pedro! Pedro!
Wake up! Now you git, Halstead!”

[Illustration: “Clear Out of This!” Ordered the Dunstan Heir.]

“But Ted——” persisted the dumfounded young skipper.

“Well, stay, then, and let Pedro get his hands on you,” defied the
Dunstan heir. “Pedro! Aren’t you going to wake up?”

“Coming, chile,” sounded a drowsy voice, followed by the noise of heavy
movements.

Dazed, thunderstruck, his mind wholly befuddled by this astounding turn
to the mystery, Tom Halstead did not linger. He knew too well what was
likely to happen to him if he fell into Pedro’s hands.

Slipping over the side, Tom cast off from the rope, striking out
strongly, swiftly for the shore which was distant not more than one
hundred and fifty feet.

“That’s him!” cried Ted Dunstan, pointing, and forgetting his grammar in
his excitement. “That’s one of those slippery boys. He had the cheek to
say he had come to rescue me.”

“He did, hey? Huh! I’se gwine fix him!” uttered the black man savagely.
“Jest yo’ wait, chile, twell I’se bring out dat shotgun.”

“Oh, no, no, Pedro! Not that!” pleaded Ted in sudden dismay and terror.

But Pedro dived back into the forward cubby. All this conversation the
young motor boat captain had heard, for it passed in no low tones. Just
as Pedro reached the cubby Tom scrambled up on the beach. Before him
were the deep woods. In among the trees he plunged. The instant he was
satisfied that he was out of sight of the launch, he turned at right
angles, speeding swiftly for some hundred and fifty yards. Then he
halted to listen.

“Where he done gone?” demanded Pedro, reappearing on deck, gripping a
double-barreled shotgun.

“I’m not going to tell you,” retorted Ted sulkily. “Shooting is not in
the game.”

Tom heard the murmur of the voices—nothing more. A minute later he heard
the steady chug! chug! of the launch’s steam engine as that craft
started. Then the noise ceased as the craft got smoothly under way. But
Halstead was up a tree, now, where he could watch.

“Heading out to sea, are you?” he chuckled, despite his great anxiety.
“And in a six-mile boat. Hm! I think the ‘Meteor’ can overtake you and
at least keep you in sight. For that matter, three boys can fight better
than one!”

Tom didn’t linger up the tree to think all that. Ere he had finished
speaking to himself he was down on the ground, making speedily for where
he judged the road to be. As he came in sight of the road he heard
another chug! chug! that made his heart bound with delighted hope.

“Hi, there! Stop there, please!” shouted the young motor boat captain,
waving his arms as he sighted a touring car headed toward the village.

There was only the chauffeur on the front seat and an elderly man in the
tonneau. The chauffeur glanced back at this other man, then slowed down
the auto.

“If you’re going into Wood’s Hole, take me with you?” begged Tom so
earnestly that the older man swung open the door, saying crisply: “Jump
in!”

Nor did Halstead lose a second. He plumped down into the seat by the
door and the car was off again, going at some twenty miles an hour.

“I hope you won’t mind my wet clothes in your car,” hinted Tom
apologetically. “I got a big drenching in the ocean and there was
neither chance nor time to make a change.”

“You’re in a hurry to get to the village, eh?” smiled the elderly man.

“In as big a hurry as I ever was to get anywhere,” breathed Halstead
fervently. The elderly man smiled, though he evidently was not curious,
for he asked no further questions. Halstead sat there delightedly
watching the distance fade. Even to his anxious mind the trip seemed a
brief, speedy one. As the car ran in by the railway station Halstead saw
the late afternoon train slowly backing down the track. It had been in,
then, for three or four minutes.

“Thank you, thank you!” breathed Tom fervently, as he threw open the
door to leap out, then closing it behind him. “You haven’t any idea what
a huge favor you’ve done me.”

“I’m glad I’ve been able to be of some use in the world to-day,” laughed
the old gentleman pleasantly.

But Tom, bounding across the tracks and over the ground, hardly heard
him. The young skipper had but one thought at this moment—to get aboard
and have his craft under way at the earliest possible second.

As Halstead neared the pier he saw Joe and Jed seated on the deckhouse,
while Mr. Crane, the Dunstan lawyer, arrived on the train, was walking
along over the boards.

“Joe, get the engine started on a hustle!” bellowed Tom, using both
hands to form a trumpet. “Jed, on the pier with you and stand by the
stern-line, ready to cast off!”

Both boys leaped to obey such crisp commands. Lawyer Crane, having
reached the boat, turned on the pier to look inquiringly at the racing
young skipper.

“Get aboard, sir, as quickly as you can, if you please,” requested the
young skipper all but breathlessly.

“May I inquire——” began the lawyer slowly.

“Yes, sir; when we’re under way. But we haven’t a second to lose in
starting. Get aboard, sir, if you please.”

In his eagerness Tom almost shoved the legal gentleman over the side.
Mr. Crane, not a little astonished at the hasty procedure, looked as
though about to resent such treatment, but fortunately changed his mind.

Tom himself seized the bowline and threw off. He and Jed sprang aboard,
fore and aft, at about the same instant. The “Meteor’s” engine was
already chugging merrily.

“Slow speed ahead, Joe,” bellowed down Captain Tom, and the “Meteor”
swung gracefully out. “Now work her up to good speed,” he called, a few
moments later. “We’re on the grand old chase!”




CHAPTER X—OVERHAULING THE MYSTERY


“And now,” demanded Lawyer Crane, in his calm, heavy voice, “may I ask
what all this chaos and confusion is about?”

“In just a minute or two, sir, I’ll be hugely delighted to have you
listen,” Halstead answered. “But I want to get out of this cove and
clear of coast shoals and ledges first.”

Joe had already begun to make the engine “kick” somewhat, and the boat
was moving fast, leaving behind her a graceful swirl of water. Jed,
after coiling the stern-line, had come forward, and, though he asked no
questions, that youth was whistling a ditty of fast movement, the surest
sign of all that he shared in the unknown excitement.

“There she is!” cried Halstead, suddenly, taking his right hand from the
wheel to point out over the water.

“She?” repeated Mr. Crane. “Who?”

“That boat! Don’t you see the steam launch with the yellow hull?”

The launch was some two or more miles away, heading over the waters in a
direction that would carry her past the northern end of Martha’s
Vineyard. Mr. Crane adjusted his glasses, staring hard. At last he made
out the low-lying hull.

“I see some sort of a craft out there,” he replied slowly. “But I must
congratulate you on having very good eyes, Captain Halstead, if you can
make out the fact that she is painted yellow. However, what have we to
do with that boat?”

“We’re going after her,” responded Tom, briefly. He was wondering just
how to begin the wonderful story of his late adventure.

“Going after her?” repeated Mr. Crane, in slow astonishment. “Why, I was
under the impression that your present task related to carrying me over
to Mr. Dunstan’s home.”

“That comes next,” replied Tom. “Mr. Crane, hardly twenty minutes ago I
was aboard yonder boat, and was talking with Master Ted Dunstan.”

The lawyer gasped, then rejoined, slowly:

“That’s a most remarkable statement, to say the least.”

But Joe Dawson and Jed Prentiss, who knew Halstead better, were staring
at him with eyes wide open and mouths almost agape.

“I saw Ted Dunstan,” repeated Tom, firmly. “Moreover, he gave me the
jolt of my life.”

“Did he incidentally throw you overboard?” asked the lawyer, eyeing
Tom’s wet garments. The sun and wind had dried the first great surplus
of water out of them, but they were still undeniably more than damp.

“That was all part of the experience,” Halstead answered, annoyed by the
impression that the lawyer thought him trying to spin a mere sailor’s
yarn. “Do you care to hear what happened, sir?”

“Why, yes, assuredly, captain.”

Tom reeled the story off rapidly. The lawyer gasped once or twice, but
certainly the young skipper’s wet clothing gave much of an appearance of
truth to the “yarn.”

“And now, sir, what do you think of Master Ted’s claim that he was
having the time of his life, and was hiding by his father’s orders?” Tom
wound up, inquiringly.

“Really, I shall have to think it all over,” replied the lawyer
cautiously. “And I shall be much interested in hearing what Mr. Dunstan
has to say about it all.”

“Say, that’s queer,” broke in Joe, suddenly, staring hard at the launch,
now not much more than half a mile distant.

“What is?” asked Halstead, who had kept his mind on what he was telling
the lawyer.

“That launch is following an almost straight course. Yet I don’t see a
soul at the wheel, nor a sign of a human being aboard,” Joe replied.

“Say, there isn’t anyone in sight, is there?” demanded Jed, stopping his
whistling and staring the harder.

“It will certainly complicate the adventure,” commented Lawyer Crane,
“if we overhaul a craft navigated by unseen hands.”

Halstead didn’t say any more. He didn’t like the half-skepticism of the
legal gentleman. The young skipper held straight on until they were
astern of the yellow-hulled launch and coming up on the windward
quarter.

“Get out on the deck forward, Jed,” directed, Halstead. “Stand up as
straight as you can, and get the best look possible as I run up close.
See if you can spot anyone hiding in the boat.”

“Look out,” cautioned Joe Dawson, dryly, as Jed Prentiss started to
obey. “Someone on the other craft may open fire.”

Jed halted, rather uneasily, at that sinister suggestion. Then, meeting
Tom’s firm glance, the boy got well forward and stood up, while Joe
dropped down into the engine room to meet any order that might come
about stopping speed.

“I hardly fancy anyone aboard that boat would dare threaten us with
firearms,” said the lawyer, slowly. “There are too many witnesses here
to risk such a serious breach of the law.”

“Mm!” chuckled Captain Tom grimly, to himself. “I wonder if this learned
gentleman imagines that everyone has the wholesome respect for the law
that possesses him?”

He leaned forward, to reach the bell-grip, steering, after the
“Meteor’s” headway had been all but stopped, so that they would pass
within a dozen feet of this mysterious craft.

“Say,” hailed back Jed, “I don’t believe there’s a soul on board that
craft. I can see the bottom of the inside of the boat.”

“Get the boat-hook, then,” ordered Halstead. “We’ll lay alongside and
make sure that she’s deserted.”

Jed jumped down nimbly. Apparently he was glad to provide himself with
so handy a weapon as the boat-hook. With this he stepped out forward
again. Tom ran the Meteor in until the two craft almost bumped.

“Ugh!” grunted Jed. “It looks almost uncanny to see that engine pumping
right along with no sign of human care.”

Gradually he drew the bow of the moving launch closer.

“Go aboard,” directed Tom.

Jed stood up high on his toes, to take a last careful look. Then he
leaped to the other craft, bounding down into her cockpit. There he
stood still for a few moments, tightly gripping the boat-hook in an
exaggerated attitude of defence.

“Are you afraid?” hailed Halstead.

“Well,” admitted Jed, candidly, “I’ve no notion for being pounced on or
shot from ambush.”

“That would have happened already, if it was going to,” Tom rejoined
with a smile. “Stop the engine, and then we’ll make fast and all come on
board.”

That Jed accomplished with one hand, while Joe did the same with the
“Meteor’s” engine. Then Prentiss reached over with the boat-hook,
gradually hauling the smaller craft up to the “Meteor.”

Leaving Joe behind on deck, the young skipper followed into the launch.
A quick search made it plain that there was no human being in either the
forward or after cubby.

“The wheel was spiked,” discovered Tom. “You see, the boat was started
on her course and then her spiked wheel held her rather close to it.
Whoever was aboard, after having fixed wheel and engine, got off. This
was done to fool us, and we’ve had a fine old chase.”

Lawyer Crane, on the deck of the “Meteor,” opened his mouth. He was
about to offer an opinion, but thought better of it and closed his lips.

“Mr. Crane,” asked Tom, after a few moments, “what are our rights? We
can take this abandoned boat in tow, can’t we, and take her over to Mr.
Dunstan’s pier?”

“Clearly,” assented the lawyer, slowly. “And there’s a right to salvage
if the owner of this derelict appears and claims the boat.”

Tom clambered back aboard the “Meteor,” and, going aft, threw a line to
Jed, who made fast around a butt at the bow of the launch. Then Jed came
back.

“Now, Mr. Crane,” smiled Captain Tom, “we are again at your orders.
Unless you think of something better, we can keep on to Nantucket.”

“Decidedly,” replied the lawyer. “We must acquaint Mr. Dunstan with this
whole prepos—unaccountable story.”

As soon as the “Meteor” was well under way, on her homeward course,
Halstead called down:

“Joe, I’ve stood this drenched clothing as long as I think is good for
me in this sea wind. Take the wheel, please, and I’ll go below and get a
rub and some dry clothing.”

“I’m going down with you,” broke in Jed. “There’s hot water, and you
ought to have some coffee.”

Jed even helped vigorously in the rub-down. Tom’s teeth were chattering
at the outset, but the friction warmed his blood. He put on dry
clothing, of which he had enough aboard. And now Jed came out of the
galley with a cup of steaming coffee.

“Say, Jed, what made you look so skittish when you boarded that other
boat?” asked the young skipper, smiling. “Were you really afraid?”

“Afraid?” repeated Jed, looking sheepish. “Well, Tom, I’ll tell you how
it is. When there’s no danger near, and I’m thinking over brave deeds,
I’m a regular hero, and no mistake. But when I get right down where I
think some one may be a going to open on me with both barrels of a
shotgun, then I get—well, I won’t say afraid, but tormentingly nervous!”

Halstead laughed heartily.

“I guess that’s the way with the whole human race, Jed. The man who lugs
off the reputation for being brave is the man who won’t run, because he
is ashamed to let anyone see how mortally afraid he is.”

“But what do you make of Ted Dunstan’s queer talk?” asked Jed Prentiss.
“Do you believe his father really did give him orders to go off with
that crowd?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Halstead answered. “Mr. Dunstan is our
employer.”

“But young Ted always has been a mighty truthful boy,” pursued Jed,
wonderingly. “Oh, it’s all mighty queer, whatever’s the truth.”

“I guess we’d better let it go at that last statement,” proposed Tom;
“at least, until we’ve heard what Mr. Dunstan has to say.”

With three or four caps of coffee down, Halstead felt so much warmer
that he returned to deck to take the wheel. The “Meteor” was necessarily
going much more slowly than usual, with her tow astern. The trip was
bound to be such a long one that Jed started things in the galley, then
went back through the passageway to the cabin, where he set the folding
table with a white cloth. When Lawyer Crane seated himself at supper he
was astonished to find how excellent a meal could be prepared in short
time aboard this craft.

It was nearing dark when Captain Halstead guided the “Meteor” in toward
the Dunstan pier.

While the boat was being made fast by Joe and Jed, Mr. Crane stepped
hurriedly ashore.

“Come along, Captain Halstead,” said the man of law. “Mr. Dunstan must
hear your remarkable story without a moment’s delay.”




CHAPTER XI—WHERE THE WATER TRAIL ENDED


Horace Dunstan, pausing in his excited walk in his library, stopped and
stared in amazement when Tom came to one point of his strange recital.

“Ted said I gave him instructions to go with that crowd?” he demanded.

“He made that point extremely plain to me, sir,” Halstead insisted.

“But I—I never gave him any such instructions,” cried Mr. Dunstan,
rumpling his hair.

“It seemed unbelievable, sir. And yet your son struck me as a truthful
boy.”

“He is; he always was,” retorted the father. “Ted hated a lie or a liar,
and yet this statement is wholly outside of the truth. I assure you——”

“If you’ll permit me, sir,” broke in the lawyer, who had been listening
silently up to this point, “I’ll indicate one or two points at which
young Halstead’s most remarkable——”

“Crane,” broke in the master of the house, with unlooked-for sternness,
“if you’re about to throw any doubt around Tom Halstead’s story, I may
as well tell you plainly that you’re going a little too far. Halstead
has been most thoroughly vouched for to me. If you have any notion in
your mind that he has been yarning to us, I beg you to let the idea
remain in your mind. I don’t want to hear it.”

“Hm!” said the lawyer, and subsided.

“Captain Halstead,” went on Ted’s father, “my son’s statement is so
extraordinary that I don’t pretend to fathom it. But I give you my word,
as a man of honor, that I am as much at sea in this matter as anyone
could be. But I must get in touch with Wood’s Hole at once.”

There was a telephone instrument in the room that speedily put the
distracted father in communication with one of his detectives over on
the mainland. A long talk followed, the upshot of it being that the
detective in charge of the search asked that the “Meteor” be sent over
to Wood’s Hole at once, that she might be ready for any sea-going
following-up of clues that might be necessary.

“For, of course, we’ve got to find that cabin sloop,” finished Detective
Musgrave. “If the sloop isn’t at sea, then the chase undoubtedly must be
followed on the mainland. If we have the ‘Meteor’ here we can do quickly
anything that may appear necessary.”

So Tom received his instant sailing orders. As he hurried from the
house, down through the grounds, the young skipper felt relieved at one
point. With his belief in Ted’s honesty he had been inclined to suspect
that Horace Dunstan, for some unknown reasons of his own, such, for
instance, as a distaste for having his son go into the Army, might have
brought about a pretended disappearance.

“But now I know,” muttered Tom, “that Mr. Dunstan is just as honest in
his declarations as Ted appeared to be in saying the opposite. If Horace
Dunstan has been lying to me just now, I’d have very little further
faith in human honesty.”

The “Meteor” was speedily on her way. First Joe, and then Tom, was
served in the little galley, Jed getting in his mouthfuls as best he
could before the motor boat was tied up at Wood’s Hole.

Before Tom had time to land a keen-eyed, smooth-faced man of
thirty-five, broad-shouldered and a little above medium height, stepped
forward out of the darkness and over the rail.

“Do you know me, Captain Halstead?” he asked, in a low voice.

“Yes, I think so,” Tom answered. “You’re Mr. Musgrave, one of the
detectives sent down from New York at Mr. Dunstan’s request.”

“I am in charge of the case at this point,” said Musgrave. “Lead me
below.”

Tom conducted his caller down into the engine-room, thence through the
passageway into the cabin.

“Now, tell me all you can of this affair, and talk as quickly as you
can,” directed the detective.

Tom told his brief but potent narrative without pausing for breath.

“I have telegraphed or telephoned men from our agency, so that many
points are covered for some distance north along the coast,” murmured
Mr. Musgrave. “We are also having the islands watched as far around as
Block Island. But, since the launch was found running wild and the cabin
sloop was not sighted, I am inclined to believe that the trail runs
somewhere on the mainland. If you’ll take your friend, Joe Dawson, along
with you, I’ll send also one of the Wood’s Hole constables, a man named
Jennison. If you run into any of that crew, Jennison has power to make
arrests, and he’s the sort of man who wouldn’t back down before a
cannon. I have an automobile ready, and Jennison knows what’s expected
of him. You’re to search up along the coast, to see if you can find any
trace of that cabin sloop.”

“Do you think Jed Prentiss will be sufficient guard to leave with the
boat?” questioned Halstead. “The Alvarez crowd would like nothing better
than to disable this fine craft if they got a chance to sneak aboard.”

“I’ll send down one of the hotel employés to keep Prentiss company,
then. Now come along, Halstead. Jennison and the automobile are
waiting.”

Two minutes later Tom and Joe found themselves speeding along a road
that led up along the coast.

“There’s no use stopping the first mile or so,” explained Constable
Jennison, a slight but wiry-looking man of rustic type. “We’ve been over
the near ground already. But we’ll go forty miles or more before we give
up the search for the home berth of that sloop.”

Just below Falmouth the auto-car turned from the road to run down to a
cove where several sailing craft and two launches were at anchor. The
owner was found. He did not own or know of any such sloop as Halstead
described.

On again they went. There was a chauffeur on the front seat The
constable and the boys were in the tonneau. Two more boat-letting
resorts were visited, but without success. The constable, however, far
from being depressed, became jovial.

“Are you armed, Halstead?” he inquired, a twinkle in his eyes.

“No; I have no use for boys that carry guns,” replied Tom.

“You’re sensible enough,” responded the constable seriously. Then,
resuming his bantering tone, he went on:

“But you ought to be ready for anything to-night. Here, put this in your
pocket.”

“What’s this thing supposed to be good for?” Tom demanded dryly, as he
took from the officer a cheap little bronze toy pistol. It was modeled
after a business-like revolver, but a glance showed that it was meant
only to explode paper caps.

“It belongs to my five-year-old boy,” laughed Jennison. “He knows that I
often carry a pistol and he doesn’t know the difference between a real
one and his Fourth of July toy. So to-night, when I was leaving the
house, he insisted on my taking his pistol and I had to in order to keep
him quiet.”

“It looks dangerous enough in the dark,” remarked Joe, bending over and
taking the “weapon” with a laugh. He looked it over, then returned it to
Tom, who, in turn, offered it to the officer.

“Drop it in your pocket,” said the latter. “It ought to make you feel
braver to feel such a thing next to your body.”

With a laugh Tom did as urged. The automobile soon made another stop at
a boatyard. Here, again, the search was useless, so they kept on. A
fourth was visited with no better result. They were now ten miles from
Wood’s Hole, but they kept on. A mile further on the car descended a low
hill, toward the water, then turned almost at right angles. Just as they
rounded this bend in the road Halstead leaned suddenly forward.

“Stop!” he called to the chauffeur.

“What’s the matter?” asked Jennison, as the car halted.

“As we came around the bend the searchlight threw a ray between the
trees, and I’m sure I saw a cabin sloop down in the offing,” Tom
explained.

“_I_ didn’t see it.”

“And I got only a brief glimpse,” Halstead rejoined. “But don’t you
think it’s worth our while to get out and go down to the water’s edge?”

“Of course,” nodded the constable. The three piled out of the tonneau,
leaving the chauffeur alone. Tom led the way, going straight between the
trees down to the water.

“That’s the very sloop, I’d almost swear,” whispered Tom, pointing to a
craft at anchor a hundred yards or so from shore. A small boat lay
hauled up on the beach. Not far from where the three stood was a
ramshackle little shanty from which no light shone.

“We’ll give our attention to the house, first,” declared the constable.
Accordingly they stepped up to the door, Jennison knocking loudly. From
inside came a snore. The summons had to be repeated before a voice
inside demanded:

“Who’s there? What’s wanted?”

“A traveler who wants to speak with you,” replied the officer.

There were sounds inside. Then the door opened. They were confronted by
a white-haired old man, partly dressed and holding a lighted lantern. He
made a venerable picture as he stood there in the doorway.

“Well?” he asked.

“That’s your sloop out in the offing?” Jennison asked.

“Yes.”

“Did you use her to-day?”

“No; I rented her to a stranger, who wanted to go fishing. I didn’t know
he had returned. Said he might be out most of the night, and the sloop
wasn’t back when I turned in at dark.”

“Wasn’t, eh?” asked the constable, with quick interest. “Now will you
tell me what the stranger looked like?”

“Why, he was about forty-five, I guess. Rather heavily built. His skin
was well-bronzed——”

“That’s the man, French,” whispered Tom, nudging the officer. “His face
had been stained a good bronze color.”

“Did the stranger give any word about coming back at some other time?”
asked Jennison.

“No; he paid me for the afternoon and the evening,” replied the old man.
It was plain that he had told all he knew about the stranger. The old
man stated that he himself was a fisherman, but that in summer he often
made more money taking out parties of summer boarders.

Joe, in the meantime, had gone down to the beach to watch the sloop.
There appeared to be no one stirring aboard the craft, but, as a
precaution, Jennison and the boys rowed out, thus making sure that the
sloop was deserted. They hurriedly returned to shore. Jennison now
displayed his badge, asking permission to look into the shanty. The old
man readily gave the permission, adding, somewhat shakily:

“I’m not used to having my house suspected, but I’m glad to give the
law’s officer any privileges he may want here.”

The search was unavailing. Jennison and his young companions hastened
back to the automobile where they stood deliberating.

“That sloop has come in since dark,” observed Halstead. “That old man
looks as though he could be thoroughly believed. Yet that’s the very
sloop. I’m positive about that. So the rascals can’t have had much the
start of us.”

“They’re a needle in the haystack, now, anyway,” sighed Constable
Jennison. “We’re at the end of the water trail and we know where they
landed.”

“But we also know that they’re on the mainland; at least it looks mighty
certain,” suggested Tom Halstead.

“That’s true,” nodded the officer. “Well, Mr. Musgrave must know of this
at once. The next village is less than three miles away. I’m going there
in the auto as fast as I can and telephone him.”

“You’ll come back this way?” hinted Tom.

“Yes, without a doubt.”

“Then leave us here. We’ll hunt for any signs we can find of them while
you’re gone.”

“But how’ll I find you on my return?”

“Why, if you stop here, and honk your horn twice, we’ll come running to
you.”

“You might run into the rascals,” mused Jennison.

“I hope we do,” muttered Tom.

“See here,” demanded the officer curiously, “aren’t you boys afraid to
take a chance like this?” His glance fell on Joe Dawson.

“No,” returned Joe very quietly.

“Well, it may not be a bad idea to leave you here until I return,” said
Jennison briskly. “You may pick up some sign. Anyway, I hope you don’t
get into any trouble. Good-by for a few minutes.”

The car sped out of sight, but neither boy waited to watch it.

“It’s a pretty fair guess, Joe,” said Tom, “that Alvarez and French came
up this way from the shore. Now, that way, the road leads to Wood’s
Hole. And there’s the opposite direction. Alvarez has a little foot like
a woman’s; French has a very large foot. Now if we can find two such
foot marks together, it would look as though we could find the direction
our men have taken. Have you any matches?”

“Plenty,” Dawson replied.

“So have I. Then suppose you go that way,” pointing toward Wood’s Hole.
“And I’ll go the other way. We can light matches every two or three
hundred feet and examine the ground. One of us may pick up the trail we
want to find.”

“Good enough,” was all that came from quiet Joe, as he started at once.

For a few minutes the boys could see each other’s lights when matches
were struck. Then the winding of the road hid them from each other.

Twice the young skipper had found imperfect footprints in the sandy
road, but they were not clear enough for him to be sure that these were
the tracks he sought. Now Tom stopped again, striking a match and
walking slowly along as he shielded the flame from the light breeze with
his hands. Then suddenly he came to a brief halt, as his gaze traveled
across the road. He saw an object on the ground in front of a bush, an
object that caused him to bound across the road.

“Great! Fine!” breathed the boy jubilantly. “I’d know this little
article anywhere. It’s the tobacco pouch of——”

“Ah, good evening, my friend,” broke in a taunting voice. “It’s the
meddling boy himself!”

Halstead, even before he could straighten up, found himself staring
between the branches of the bush into a pair of gleaming, mocking eyes.

“Señor Alvarez!” cried the young skipper.

Then something struck Tom heavily from behind, felling him to the
ground, unconscious.




CHAPTER XII—JOB HAS HIS COURAGE TESTED


When young Halstead next knew anything his mind was hazy at first. He
realized dimly, and then more clearly, that he was upon some one’s
shoulder, being carried. There was a buzzing, too, over his right ear,
where his head throbbed dully and ached.

As he opened his eyes wider he saw that he was being carried along under
trees and over rising ground.

Then his thoughts became clearer and he felt certain it was none other
than Captain Jonas French who was carrying him. Some one else, probably
Alvarez, was treading the ground behind him.

Halstead gave a sigh, then murmured:

“Put me down!”

They were luckless words, for French vented but the one syllable,
“Right,” then dropped him to the ground and sat on him.

“Don’t make the mistake of trying to make any noise, either,” growled
the once florid-faced one. “No one could hear you here except us, but
we’ll take noise as an evidence of unkind disposition on your part.”

“Tie him,” murmured Don Emilio, standing over the boy.

Without making any response in words, French rolled the boy over on his
face. Tom didn’t attempt to resist. He was too weak; his strength was
just beginning to come back. French knotted a rope around his wrists,
held behind him, then quickly lashed the young skipper’s ankles
together.

“And this!” insisted Alvarez. A gag composed of two handkerchiefs was
forced between Halstead’s lips and made fast there.

“Now, my meddling boy, you may be as unpleasant as you please,” mocked
Don Emilio Alvarez, bending over and smiling into Halstead’s face. “Ah,
you have been troublesome to us—very. And you have inquired what I would
do to you if I had you down in Honduras, where they do things
differently. Ah, well! Perhaps, my meddling boy, you shall discover what
I would do to you! Will you, my large friend, lift him and carry him on
again? We are not far from the place where we can keep him securely
enough.”

With a grunt French once more shouldered his burden, tramping on through
the forest, Alvarez still bringing up the rear. Then, from the crest of
a rise they pressed between a fringe of bushes and next began to descend
a narrow, rocky path. They stopped in a ravine, densely grown with
trees.

“Even in the daytime this place is hardly likely to be found by prying
eyes,” laughed Alvarez confidently. “And now, my captain, you might rid
yourself of the meddling boy.”

French dropped Tom at the base of a young spruce tree, knotting another
cord to his feet and passing it around the trunk of the tree.

“He won’t get away—can’t, even though we were to leave him here through
the night,” muttered French gruffly.

“And I, since my meddling boy found for me the tobacco pouch that I
dropped in his path for bait, will enjoy a smoke once more,” laughed
Señor Alvarez. He rolled a cigarette, which he soon was puffing. French,
having filled a pipe, lighted that and stretched himself at full length.
Thus several minutes went by. Tom Halstead, unable to talk, spent his
energies in wondering whether Ted Dunstan was anywhere in the near
neighborhood.

After many minutes had passed the deep silence of this wild spot was
broken by an owl hoot. Alvarez, raising his head, answered by a similar
hoot. Then from the distance came two hoots.

“Come, we will go forward to meet our friends,” proposed the swarthy
little man eagerly, as he sprang to his feet. French got up more
lumberingly, though almost as quickly. Together they trod up to the head
of the ravine. Out of the darkness ahead came Pedro and a little brown
man who looked as much like a Spaniard as Alvarez did.

“We’se done brought yo’ dis,” stated Pedro with a grin that showed his
big, white teeth.

“This” was Joe Dawson, his hands tied behind him, his face as sullen as
a storm cloud in a summer shower. Joe was walking, led by Pedro, and
pushed at times by the brown man.

“Ho, ho!” laughed Alvarez, in keen relish. “You have not done badly. You
bring me the other meddling boy. Halt him here—so. Tie him against this
tree that he may have a chance to lean.” Alvarez watched until Joe had
been moored fast, then asked:

“How many did you come out with to-night?”

“Guess!” proposed Joe pleasantly.

“Don’t dare to be impertinent, boy!” warned Don Emilio, his eyes
flashing. “Answer me straight, and—what do you call it?—to the point, as
you Americans say.”

“Lemon?” laughed Joe Dawson coolly. “No, thank you. I always take
vanilla.”

“Boy, if you get me any more angry,” stormed Don Emilio, “you will
regret it.”

But Dawson merely looked at the swarthy, false-bearded little man with
an air of boredom.

“Let me handle him,” proposed Jonas French, stepping forward.

“I’ll be glad if you will wait on me,” drawled Joe, looking at the
larger man. “I don’t believe this little fellow knows his business or
his goods.”

With an angered cry Don Emilio darted in, striking his cool tormentor
across the face.

“Hold on,” objected Joe lazily, “I didn’t ask to be called until nine
o’clock.”

“Are you going to stop this nonsense?” demanded Don Emilio, his voice
quavering with wrath.

“Dawson,” remarked French, “you don’t appear to realize your fix.”

Joe stared at him haughtily, remarking:

“My bill is not due until the end of the week. Go away and let me read
in peace.”

Pedro, in the background, was holding one hand over his broad mouth to
hide his expansive grin over this cool nonsense. But Don Emilio was fast
losing his not very certain temper.

“Go and bring that other boy Halstead,” ordered Alvarez. “When the two
of them see each other they’ll know their game is up, and they’ll come
to their senses. If not, nothing will make any difference to them after
a few minutes more.”

Without a word French turned, treading down the ravine. Just a little
later he reappeared, looking bewildered.

“Alvarez,” he gasped, “come here. That other boy isn’t where we left
him. Hurry!”

Uttering an exclamation of amazement, Alvarez darted after his friend.
Pedro and the little brown man, caught in the astonishment, bolted after
their leaders.

Joe could not get away from the tree to which he was bound, but he stood
there grinning with cool enjoyment. In another moment he felt a lively
sound at his back. Then Halstead whispered in his ear:

“I’m cutting you loose, old fellow! Bolt with me!”

Dawson, straining at the cords while Tom slashed at them, was quickly
free.

“Come along,” begged Tom. “Never mind stopping to leave cards or writing
a note of regret. Hustle—this way!”

Halstead led in the swift flight in the direction that he judged the
roads to lie. They tried to go noiselessly, but they had not gone far
when a shout behind showed them that their flight had been detected.

“Sprint, old chum!” floated back over Halstead’s shoulder.

In looking back, the young skipper stumbled. Joe had to pause long
enough to drag his comrade to his feet. That lost them a few precious
seconds, but they dashed onward once more. As they ran they heard the
feet of the pursuers behind. From greater familiarity with the ground
some of those in chase were gaining on the fugitives.

[Illustration: Tom Remembered the Toy Pistol, Just in Time.]

Joe now led in the chase, with Tom at his heels. They, came to what
appeared to be the wooded slope leading down to the road. Joe ran up
against a wall almost sooner than he had expected. He nearly fell over
it, but recovered and jumped. Halstead landed in the road beside him.

There was another flying figure in the air, and Pedro was beside them,
reaching out. Behind were French and Don Emilio.

“Yo better stop, fo’ shuah!” called Pedro, parting his lips in a grin of
huge enjoyment. “Dere ain’t no use in tryin’ to git away from me.”




CHAPTER XIII—A CAPTURE IN RECORD TIME


“Look out! He’s mine!” shouted Joe.

But Tom Halstead had sprung in the same instant at Pedro. The result was
that the combined assault of the boys bore the fellow to the ground, and
Tom, remembering, just in the nick of time, the toy cap pistol that
Jennison had handed him, and which had escaped discovery a few minutes
before, hauled that ridiculous “weapon” out, pressing it against the
temple of the black man.

“Don’t you stir, if you know what’s best for you,” warned the young
skipper sternly.

Joe, seeing the lay of the land, leaped up to meet Captain French, who
was just reaching that wall.

At that moment the noise of a speeding auto was borne to them, while
around the bend whizzed the machine, sending its strong searchlight ray
ahead to illumine the scene.

The yells of its occupants caused the other pursuers of the boys to halt
in confusion. Before they had time to think what to do the automobile
was racing up to the spot and stopping. Alvarez and his two companions
bore away up the wooded slope as fast as their alarm could spur them.

“What’s this going on here?” demanded Constable Jennison, as he leaped
out into the road.

“You’ll find some of the rascals up there among the trees,” replied Tom,
coolly. “I have one of ’em here, but he’s tame now.”

Pedro, in fact, in his dread lest he be shot, was lying on his stomach,
his face between his crossed arms, while Halstead stood over him,
holding that wholly useless “pistol.”

“Just move that car a few yards ahead, will you?” begged Tom of the
chauffeur, fearing that in the strong light, Pedro might steal a look
sideways and find out what a comical “weapon” had scared him.

“There are three of the crowd up there,” added Joe. “They were chasing
us, but your arrival scared them off.”

“I’ll make sure of the one we have, first,” returned the constable,
going toward the prostrate negro. “My man, put your hands behind you,
and be quick about it.”

Pedro obeyed without a murmur, the constable snapping handcuffs on him
without loss of an instant. “Now, help me lift him into the auto—front
seat,” directed the officer. But Pedro, seemingly afraid of the
consequences of any stubbornness, aided his captors.

“Can you keep him, Jack?” asked the constable of the man at the steering
wheel.

“I can bring him down, if he tries to bolt,” came the quick retort from
the chauffeur.

“’Fore hebben, Ah won’t try nothing funny,” protested Pedro, solemnly.
He was seemingly still afraid that the slightest defiance would cost him
his life.

“See that this fellow is locked up, Jack,” commanded Jennison, in a low
voice. “Speed some, too, and get back here as fast as you can with some
more men. It may be that there’s going to be a fight.”

Just as the car started two sharp reports rang out from the hillside
above. There were two flashes, and bullets whizzed ominously over the
road. One of them pierced Tom’s uniform cap, carrying it from his head.

There being nothing he could do, Dawson threw himself to the ground, out
of harm’s way. Tom, crouching low, darted across the road after his hat.
But Jennison leaped forward, weapon in hand, letting three shots fly
back to answer the defiance from under the trees.

“Come on! We’ll close in on ’em and mow ’em down if they don’t
surrender!” shouted the officer.

His call to the boys was intended for the hearing of those above. He had
no notion that the boys, unarmed, would accompany him. Yet, as Jennison
bounded over the wall, the two young motor boat boys were behind him on
either side.

“Now, then, you fellows up there, throw down your shooting irons and
prepare to give yourselves up,” called the doughty constable. “If you
don’t——”

Four shots answered this demand, the bullets clipping off leaves so
close to the trio that the boys crouched lower almost instinctively.

“All right, then, I’m coming up to get you!” shouted the constable
running forward, weapon in hand. But he halted at length, well away from
the road, uncertain which way to turn.

“What are you boys doing here, unarmed?” he whispered, facing them in
surprise.

“We’re as safe here as we’d be anywhere else hereabouts,” Tom whispered
back.

“Yes, I don’t know but that’s so. But where can the scoundrels be? Do
you know anything about the lay of the land here?”

“I think we can find the ravine where they took us,” suggested Joe.

“Try to, then.”

Both boys now went a bit in advance of the officer, but he kept close to
them, in order to be on hand if they ran into any danger.

The ravine proved to be empty, however. Tom pointed out where he had
slashed Joe’s bonds away. “And over yonder,” he added, “I guess I can
show you the rope I worked my own wrists out of. Once I worked my hands
free it didn’t take me long to cut away the rest of the tackle.”

Though they searched for upwards of an hour, they were unable to find
any further trace of the scoundrels. Nor did they come upon any place
that looked as though it had been used as a hiding place for the missing
Dunstan heir.

Then a loud honking from the road recalled them. The chauffeur was there
with the machine, from which were alighting four deputies whom he had
brought out with him from Wood’s Hole.

“I’m going to leave you men here to carry on the search,” explained Mr.
Jennison. “Keep it up all through the night, and through the daylight,
too, if you run across anything that looks like a trail. These young men
will describe to you the fellows you’re expected to find. I’ll be back
bye and bye, but don’t wait for me.”

Tom and Joe quickly described the three fugitives from justice. Then
Jennison turned to the chauffeur to inquire:

“Could you work any information out of that black man?”

“Not a word,” came the grumbling reply. “After a few minutes he got over
being so scared, but he couldn’t be made to say a word about his crowd.
Just closed his mouth, and wouldn’t talk. Musgrave has him in hand now,
at the station house, but not a word can the fellow be made to say.”

“I’m going back with you, now,” proposed Jennison, “to see what I can
get out of him. You boys may as well come with me. It looks like a
losing chase here. If we can get something out of the chap, Pedro, we’ll
have something real to come back with.”

So Tom and Joe piled in with their new friend. In less than half an hour
they had entered the little guard-room of the police station at Wood’s
Hole. Pedro, still manacled, was seated in a hard wooden armchair
between two constables, while Detective Musgrave paced the floor before
him.

“He’s trying a crafty game,” smiled Musgrave, as the newcomers entered.
“Once in a while the prisoner talks, but when he does it’s to shake his
head and mutter a string in Spanish.”

“He understands English well enough,” answered Tom. “He has talked a
whole lot of it to me.”

“Of course he understands English,” laughed Mr. Musgrave. “I know his
type of colored man well. He’s a Jamaica negro, born and brought up with
English spoken around him. Afterwards he went over to Central America
and picked up Spanish.”

“_No sabe_,” broke in the negro, looking blankly at those who surrounded
him.

“Oh, you savvy plenty well enough,” Tom retorted tartly. “And see here,
Pedro, you’re a pretty cheap sort of rascal anyway. You remember how Joe
and I caught you, and how I scared you cold? Do you know what it was
that scared your grit away from you? Just a plain, ordinary, every-day
joke of a cap pistol!”

Pedro started, his lips opening in a gasp at that information.

“Oh, of course you understand, just as well as anyone else in the room,”
Halstead went on. “And here’s the young cannon that made you lie so
still in the road.”

With a short laugh Tom produced the cap pistol, holding it before the
astonished black man’s face. Pedro’s disgusted expression was enough to
make them all laugh.

“He can’t even pretend he doesn’t understand English now,” snorted Mr.
Musgrave. “Come now, my man, open your mouth and talk to us. It may help
_you_ out a bit when you come to be tried.”

Still, however, the black man refused to say a word. Constable Jennison
tried his hand at making the fellow speak, but without success. At last
they gave it up. The negro was taken to a cell, left under watch, and
the others went outside.

“I’m going back up the road,” Jennison announced. “Want to come with me,
boys?”

“I think they’d better stay by the boat, in case anything turns up that
we want the craft,” Musgrave broke in.

So Tom and Joe struck out for the pier, finding Jed mighty glad to have
them back once more. For an hour the three boys sat on the “Meteor’s”
deckhouse and talked. After that the time began to hang heavily on their
hands.

Broad daylight came with still no word from the seekers, nor from any
other point. At a little after four o’clock Mr. Musgrave came down to
tell them that they might as well return to Nantucket.

It was six o’clock when the “Meteor” berthed at the island. Jed had
served a breakfast on the trip over. As soon as the boat was docked Jed
hurried into the broad bunk off the cabin passageway, while Tom and Joe,
yawning with weariness, lay down on the engine-room lockers.

“This is Sunday morning and to-morrow morning Ted Dunstan must be in
court with his father or lose a tremendously big fortune,” groaned Tom.
“Oh, when we’ve been so near to rescuing him, why can’t we have him
safely home under his father’s roof?”

“Maybe I’ll have the answer thought out by the time I wake up,” gaped
Joe Dawson. “But just at this present moment I’m so tired I don’t know
whether I’m an imitation engineer or a clambake.”

Then another sound came from his berth. Dawson was snoring.




CHAPTER XIV—HEADED FOR THE SUNKEN REEF


Szz-zz! Sputter! And the fragrance of it, too!

“Say, you fellows; aren’t you ever going to wake up?”

Jed Prentiss had his hand on Joe, shaking him.

“Have you any idea what time it is?” insisted Jed, as Dawson opened his
eyes halfway.

“Time to go to bed again,” muttered Joe, trying to shake off that
insistent hand and rolling over the other way.

“It’s after noon,” pronounced Prentiss. “Say, you fellows could sleep a
week through!” And Jed gave Joe a hearty shake. “I told you breakfast is
ready.”

“No, you didn’t,” insisted Joe.

“I’ve told you so three times in the last five minutes,” asserted Jed,
“but you wouldn’t wake up long enough to understand. Can’t you get it
through your head? _Breakfast!_”

“Whatcher got?” asked Joe drowsily.

“Coffee!”

“Had that yesterday,” protested Joe, settling himself as though for
another doze.

“And bacon and eggs!”

“Had that three days ago,” complained Joe.

“And fried potatoes,” went on Jed.

“They’ll keep.”

“Muffins!” proclaimed Jed solemnly.

At that Dawson opened his eyes wide.

“Are they sticky inside or your best kind, browned all over the top?”
Joe asked with a show of interest.

“Browned?” echoed Jed. “Say, they’re beauties—the best I ever baked. And
I’ve opened a tin of preserved pineapple to top off with.”

“I guess maybe I’ll get up,” admitted Joe.

“You’d better, if you don’t want to find everything cold and tasteless,”
insisted Jed, who thereupon went over to shake Halstead.

But Tom slipped up instantly, reaching for his swimming tights. Soon a
splash was heard over the side. Joe followed him. Both felt more awake
when they came back to towel down. As they dressed the savory smells of
Jed’s best breakfast made them hurry.

“I’d sooner have you wake me up, Jed, than some folks I know,” announced
Joe Dawson, as he passed his plate for the second helping of bacon, eggs
and fried potatoes.

“It _does_ taste good,” Halstead admitted with a relish, chewing hard.
“But has there been any news from the house this morning?”

“Haven’t seen a soul, except you sleepers,” Jed answered.

“How did you wake up, anyway!” demanded Joe suspiciously. “Alarm clock
at your head?”

“Yes,” assented Prentiss. “But it really woke me up. That’s more than it
could do for you fellows.”

By the time they had that famous breakfast down all felt better. Tom and
Joe adjourned to the deck, where Jed joined them as soon as he had
washed the dishes and cleaned up.

“Here comes Mr. Dunstan now,” announced Joe presently.

All turned to look at the boat’s owner. Mr. Dunstan appeared to have
aged greatly after his night’s vigil. His face was furrowed by care; he
walked with a greater stoop than before.

“Poor fellow,” sighed Halstead. “And there are only twenty-four hours
left for finding the Dunstan heir.”

“No news, I take it, sir?” hailed Tom, as the owner stepped upon the
pier and came toward the boat.

“None, since the word Mr. Musgrave sent me last night of your exploits,”
murmured Horace Dunstan, shaking his head sadly. “And to think that my
boy has spent days aboard that ugly craft,” he added, gazing wistfully
at the yellow-hulled launch at anchor a few rods away. Then he turned
once more to the young skipper.

“How are you and your friends, Halstead? Very tired?”

“I don’t believe we’re so weary that you’d notice it unless you looked
very hard,” smiled Halstead.

“If you’re not too much used up by last night’s work I have a favor to
ask of you. But it’s not an order, understand?”

“Why, what can it be, Mr. Dunstan?”

“Well, you see,” continued the owner apologetically, “before this
trouble happened we had invited Mrs. Lester and her two young daughters
to spend a fortnight with us. They had not heard of our misfortune, and
so they came over on this morning’s boat. They heard in Nantucket and
telephoned us, proposing to turn about and go home again. But of course
we insisted that they should come to us. They are going to church, this
evening, but Mrs. Dunstan is so much upset over the mystery surrounding
our son that—that—well, we thought of proposing that they use the
‘Meteor’ for a little sail this afternoon. That is, in case you young
men are not too tired to——”

“Why, of course we can take the boat out,” replied Halstead, breaking in
upon the considerate owner. “It won’t tire us any more than lolling
around the pier.”

“Mrs. Dunstan and I will both be greatly pleased if you will do it,”
declared Horace Dunstan gratefully.

“But do you think any developments from shore will make it necessary to
get the ‘Meteor’ on the jump over to Wood’s Hole?” broke in Joe.

“You might keep the boat within sight of our flagpole,” replied Mr.
Dunstan. “That will allow you to sail some miles away if you use the
glass every few minutes. In case we want you to return here in haste
we’ll hoist one red pennant. If we want you to make full speed for
Wood’s Hole, without first returning here, we’ll hoist two red pennants.
In the latter case you can land Mrs. Lester and her daughters and they
can go to the hotel at Wood’s Hole until your work with the boat is
done. Then you can bring them back.”

“That’ll all be clear and easy,” nodded Tom. “Well, sir, we’re ready
when you are.”

“I’ll be right back with the ladies,” promised Mr. Dunstan. Joe began to
oil the engine, while Jed made a dive for his cleanest white duck suit.
Tom carefully brushed his uniform; he had secured another coat, at the
owner’s expense, since leaving that other behind in the tight grip of
Jonas French. It was a trim, natty-looking boat’s crew that met the
ladies when Mr. Dunstan brought them aboard. Mrs. Lester was a woman of
forty, still young looking and handsome. The girls—Elsie, aged
seventeen, and Jessie, fifteen, looked extremely sweet and dainty in
their white dresses, blue reefers and yachting caps.

Mr. Dunstan left them almost immediately.

“Shall I take you aft to the deck chairs?” inquired Tom.

Mrs. Lester assented, but the girls declared that, if they might, they
much preferred to remain on the bridge deck and watch the running of the
boat. To this Tom gladly assented.

The “Meteor” slipped gracefully away from her pier, then turned and
headed over in the direction of Muskeget Island. This was a course that
would keep them easily in sight of the Dunstan flagpole.

“You must look upon us as splendid nuisances?” suggested Elsie.

“Yes, to that, if you’ll leave out the word ‘nuisances,’” smiled Captain
Tom gallantly.

“But to be asked to take the boat out, after all your hard and daring
work last night,” added Jessie.

“Hard work comes naturally in a life on the sea,” Tom replied. “And we
had our sleep, after the night’s work.”

“But what fearful danger you went through. Mr. Dunstan was telling us
all about it, as he heard it from his man over at Wood’s Hole,” said
Elsie. “What fearful danger you were in!”

“We didn’t think much about it at the time,” remarked Halstead modestly.
“When one has had to stand at the wheel of a motor boat, on the broad
ocean, in all sorts of weather, and when he has to win out and bring his
craft and passengers back safely, he doesn’t meet much that he calls
dangerous.”

It was so quietly spoken that both girls glanced quickly, admiringly at
the young captain. Joe, standing at the hatchway, looked as though he
were thinking of nothing but the revolutions per minute that the
propeller shaft was making.

“It must just be a splendid life!” declared Jessie impulsively. “I wish
I were a boy.”

“Some day,” laughed Tom, “you may be pleased that you’re not.”

“Yet it must be fine,” pursued Elsie, “to look over this handsome boat
and feel that you’re man enough to be absolute master of her and to feel
that you can handle and control her under any conditions.”

“I couldn’t,” Halstead declared seriously. “I can steer the boat as long
as the steering gear isn’t damaged or broken, that is, if the boat is
under headway. But let there be an accident to the steering mechanism or
let the motor refuse to drive the propeller, and suppose the accident to
be of such a nature that we three boys couldn’t make the necessary
repairs, how much control do you think I’d have over this craft? How
much of a master do you think I’d be? Miss Lester, certain men have used
their brains to design boat hulls. Other men have invented and perfected
the propeller mechanism. Then finally other men, out of their brains,
constructed the gasoline motor. We boys didn’t have anything to do with
any of those triumphs of skill. All we’ve had to do is to learn how to
be handy with the handling of other people’s discoveries.”

“That doesn’t sound very impressive, does it?” laughed Jessie.

“It isn’t,” declared Joe, taking part in the talk for the first time.
“Down at the mouth of the Kennebec River there’s a whole club of boys
who have learned to do just what we do.”

“You may try to make out that you’re not brave and manly,” laughed
Elsie, “but I shall keep on believing that you are.”

“That’s why I wish, sometimes, I could be a boy and grow up to be a
man,” added Jessie.

“I guess a woman can find enough chance to show bravery,” Tom answered
thoughtfully.

“Oh, how the boat is rolling,” cried Elsie, lurching as the “Meteor”
rolled over to port.

Jed, who had just lowered the glass after a look at the Dunstan
flagstaff, caught her lightly by one elbow, steadying her.

“If you brace your feet, just this way,” explained Jed, illustrating the
idea with his own feet, “the roll won’t carry you off your balance.”

Both girls practiced it, laughing gayly over having learned a new trick
on shipboard.

“Mr. Dunstan said something about your going only a certain distance
away from his place,” observed Miss Elsie presently.

“We must keep within sight of the flagstaff; that is, we mustn’t go so
far that we’d fail to see a signal through the glass,” Tom explained.

“How much further can you go, then?” inquired Miss Jessie.

“Do you see that point over on Muskeget Island?”—pointing.

“Yes.”

“We can go a couple of miles beyond there and still be able to make out
signals.”

“My, it’s getting windier and rougher, isn’t it?” asked Elsie presently.

“I think there’s a good blow coming up before long,” Halstead answered.
“If you wish, we can turn about and head back toward the pier.”

“Not unless you really want to,” protested the girl. “I’m enjoying this
trip too much.”

“Then we’ll pass Muskeget and cruise up and down, instead of going
further away from Nantucket,” Tom proposed. “The wind is shifting around
to northeast, which promises a goodish kind of blow at this time of the
year. If we should get very rough weather I’d like to be where I can run
in with you quickly, instead of taking chances out here.”

“Can the ‘Meteor’ go faster than she’s going now?”

“Well, she’s making about fourteen miles,” smiled the young captain.
“Her best speed is about twice that.”

They ran out past Muskeget Island, then turned back on their course,
going nearer to Nantucket. They were now about north of Muskeget, but
gradually passing the island, when Tom began to notice that something
was wrong with the speed of the boat.

“What’s up with the engine, Joe?” Halstead called down to his now
invisible chum.

“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” Joe retorted. “I don’t like the
motor’s behavior, and it’s getting worse every minute.”

“I should say so,” muttered Tom.

“There isn’t any danger of a serious accident, is there?” asked Miss
Elsie quickly.

“Probably not,” was the young skipper’s reply. “But we don’t know, and
can’t, until we find out what’s wrong.”

“Oh, we ought to hurry back,” shivered Miss Elsie. “We ought to get in
before there’s any accident.”

“Why, provided none of us were drowned, an accident would be something
worth remembering,” laughed Jessie mischievously.

“Jessie Lester, how dare you say so?” demanded her sister, looking
somewhat shocked.

“Say,” bawled up the now excited voice of Joe Dawson, “this is a tough
one!”

He showed his worried face at the hatchway, adding:

“The tank’s empty! The last drops of gasoline are running into the
motor!”

“What’s that?” demanded Tom aghast. “How could that have happened?”

“I don’t know,” was Joe’s bewildered response. “The tank was half-full
when we got back from Wood’s Hole early this morning. But now it’s
empty. Look for yourself.”

The propeller shaft made a few faint turns, then stopped. Having little
headway by this time the “Meteor” soon began to drift aimlessly over the
rolling waters.

“I don’t need to look,” Tom answered, dropping his hand from the wheel
“I can see enough to believe you, Joe. But how on earth could this have
happened, Joe?”

“It didn’t happen without some one tampering with the tank,” Joe
exploded resentfully. “There’s no leak in the tank. We should, by
rights, have oil enough to run to New York and back.”

There being nothing now that he could do in the engine room, Dawson
stepped moodily up on deck. The girls watched Captain Tom’s face. Mrs.
Lester, her curiosity aroused by the stopping of speed, attempted to
come forward along the deck. The rolling of the craft made this so
dangerous for her that Jed sprang forward, piloting her safely forward.
There the situation was soon made plain to the frightened mother.

“What are we going to do?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Tom asked, the glass to his eyes, as he looked over the
rolling waters. “Had our gasoline held out we could have made the pier
with time to spare.”

“Is there real danger, then?” demanded Mrs. Lester, her face betraying
her great alarm.

“There’s a northeast blow, and a big one, going to strike us within half
an hour,” the young skipper replied. “And there’s not a craft in sight I
can signal to. Our anchors wouldn’t hold in the blow that’s coming.”

“Can’t you signal the Dunstan place?” asked the much-alarmed lady.

“Yes, but I doubt if they could see our signals, our mast is so low and
the distance so great.”

“But they have that steam launch there. If you could make them
understand, captain, they could send the launch out to us.”

“The launch is too small a craft to face the blow that’s coming,” Tom
rejoined gravely. “Besides, Mr. Dunstan has no one who knows anything
about handling a marine steam engine. If you ladies will go into the
cabin——”

“And feel like rats in a trap while there’s danger!” remonstrated Mrs.
Lester. “Oh, please don’t ask us to leave the deck. We’ll feel safer
here. At least we shall be able to see what’s happening.”

“Get the lifelines, Joe, and rig them quickly,” spoke Tom gravely. “Jed,
help me to get the anchors overboard. We’ll do everything we can.”

While the boys worked like beavers the wind came down upon them with
ever-increasing force. At first the anchors held, the “Meteor” straining
at her cables.

“Here comes a squall!” shouted Tom, suddenly. “Catch hold! Hold fast!
We’ll soon know about our anchors.”

As the squall struck, the “Meteor” heeled over. The ladies screamed with
fright. Even the motor boat boys felt the thrill of dread. The boat
rolled as though she were going to turn turtle. Then, slowly, she
righted herself.

“One of the cables has parted!” shouted Jed, through the increasing
tempest.

Another and heavier squall struck them, again heeling the motor boat
over. She righted herself, but the gale was becoming stronger, and,
despite the remaining anchor, the “Meteor” now began to drift toward the
lee shore of Muskeget.

Miss Elsie, deathly white, and clutching desperately at the lifelines,
began to sob.

“It’s fearful, I know,” spoke Captain Tom, quietly. “But we’ve got to
face it and hope for the best. You were admiring courage a while ago,
but now you can show as much as any man could.”

“You’re right,” Miss Elsie called back through the roar of the gale, as
she steadied herself. “Thank you; by pointing out the need of courage
you’ve given me much.”

Tom turned to stare, with grave, impassive face, to leeward. An eighth
of a mile off the beach at Muskeget lay a reef ordinarily sunken below
the surface in calm weather. But now the waves were dashing over this
ledge, showing the jagged points of the rough stone.

“If a miracle doesn’t happen,” thought the young skipper, noting the
course of the boat’s drift, “we’ll wreck there soon, and then there’s a
doubt if one of us gets out of it alive!”




CHAPTER XV—IN THE TEETH OF DEATH


“What’s the worst, now, captain?”

It was Miss Jessie who asked this, her lips close to the young skipper’s
ear, for the gale’s roar now drowned out all ordinary tones.

“Do you see that line of spray?” asked Halstead, pointing to where the
water dashed over the reef.

“Yes.”

“I’m wondering if it’s possible for us not to be dashed on that.”

“Wrecked?” demanded Jessie, her face paling, but her lips steady.

“That’s one of our dangers.”

“And that will mean that we must be drowned?”

“We’ll hope not,” replied Halstead, forcing a smile. “Joe! Jed!”

Getting his friends where Mrs. Lester could not overhear, Halstead went
on quickly:

“If we go to smash on the reef, remember that I’m to take the mother
into the water. Joe, you take the elder daughter; Jed, you the younger
one. If we have to get into the water with women’s lives to save,
remember the glory of American seamen!”

“I’ll get ashore double, or not at all,” Joe promised, and he knew very
well how little likelihood there was of reaching safety on land.

“I’ll prove I’m one of you,” promised Jed, though his face was ashen.
Tom grabbed his hand long enough to give it a mighty squeeze. Then the
young skipper moved to the starboard rail where he could watch best. His
calculations had proved correct. The “Meteor,” drifting helplessly, was
bound to strike on the reef. With fascinated gaze Tom watched the angry
breakers.

“We’re pretty near the finish, aren’t we?” asked Miss Jessie in his ear.
The girl’s voice was icily calm.

“I think we’re going to strike within two or three minutes,” Tom
responded, stonily. “If we do, trust to us in the water, and try not to
hamper us. I’ll try to get your mother ashore, Jed takes you, and Joe
your sis——”

Tom stopped short. Where on earth was Joe? That youth had vanished from
the deck.

“Why, I thought Joe was here, right ready for his next duty,” cried
Halstead, amazedly. “Where——”

“He went below,” bawled back Jed. “But he’s not in the engine room.”

“Then he’s doing something that’s good, any way,” spoke Tom, with whole
faith in his tried comrade.

Once more the young captain turned to watch the line of breakers. The
“Meteor” was deadly close now, her staunch hull in imminent danger.

“Here—quick!” roared Dawson’s heaviest tones.

His head showed in the hatchway. He was handing through a metal can.

“And I’ve got another one,” he shouted. “Thought there must be some
reserve aboard, so I explored the spare lockers aft. There—got it?”

For Tom had snatched up a five-gallon can and was lifting it to the
covered deck forward. The “Meteor” was rolling and pitching under the
lashing of the gale. Waves broke and dashed over that forward deck, but
Joe, with a second five-gallon can, followed. Both boys had to crawl,
feeling as though they were holding on by their teeth.

“You pour—I’ll shield the inlet from water!” shouted Dawson, over all
the roar of the elements. “It’s life or death in a minute, now, old
chum!”

Well enough Tom knew that, but he saw also the one bare chance of
getting all hands out of their awful plight. Dawson crawled around to
windward of the inlet to the gasoline tank, shielding it as much as he
could with his body. He unscrewed the cap, while Tom removed the smaller
top of one of the gasoline cans.

“Wait until the dash of the next wave is past,” shouted Halstead. “Then
I’ll pour.”

Though it took many precious moments, they contrived to empty the can
into the tank without getting any salt water mixed with it.

“Now, another can!” breathed Joe tensely.

But Tom, raising his eyes to glance at the spray-ridden reef, answered
quickly:

“Later. There isn’t a second to lose now. Hustle back!”

The dragging anchor retarded the bow of the boat somewhat. It was the
stern that seemed about to strike the reef. While Joe worked like
lightning in the engine room Tom stood with both hands resting on the
wheel. He dreaded, every instant, to feel the bump and the jar that
should tell the news that the “Meteor” had struck.

“What do you want? Speed ahead?” bawled up Joe.

“As quickly as you can possibly give it,” Tom answered.

Still Halstead stared astern. It seemed as though the reef were rising
to meet the hull of the boat.

Throb! Chug! The motor was working, slowly. With an inward gasp of
thanksgiving Halstead swung the bow around a bit to port. The engine,
weaker than the gale, must drag the anchor at least a short distance.
Any attempt to raise it too soon might hold the boat to the danger line.

But Tom felt a sudden glow of happiness. The “Meteor” was forging slowly
ahead. She would soon be safe, if the engine remained staunch. There was
fearfully little oil in the tank, and he knew that the delivery of gas
to the ignition apparatus must be very slight.

Out of the engine room came Joe in a hurry, signaling to Jed to follow
him. The two crawled out, over that wet, slippery forward deck of the
rolling, pitching boat, and managed to empty a second can into the tank.
The engine was working better by the time that the pair regained the
bridge deck.

“That’s enough to get us out of all trouble,” shouted Joe briefly. “We
needn’t bother about the third one aft until we’re well out of this.”

Captain Tom, watching the reef that they were slowly leaving behind,
soon decided that it was time to haul in the anchor that had held. Joe
and Jed accomplished this. The instant that the drag was clear of the
bottom the “Meteor” shot ahead.

“Hurrah!” yelled all three of the young seamen, when that new start
came.

“We’re safe, now, aren’t we?” inquired Mrs. Lester, bending forward, her
eyes shining.

“Unless there’s some new trouble with the motor,” Tom answered her, “we
ought to be back at the Dunstan place in twenty minutes.”

Now, Jed brought the third can of gasoline from the locker aft. He and
Joe succeeded in emptying it. If all went well, there was now enough oil
in the tank to carry the boat much further than she had to go. Even at
that, however, the boat was running with less gasoline than she had ever
carried in her tank before.

“There are Mr. Dunstan and his wife down at the pier, watching us,”
announced Miss Jessie, as they came within eye-range of the Dunstan
place. “They must have been dreadfully worried about us.”

“Now, I know what danger is, and just what courage and steadfastness men
may show,” remarked Miss Elsie, as they passed south of a little
headland that formed one of the shelters of the Dunstan cove.

“And you know how much grit women may show,” rejoined Halstead, “for not
once did you give us any trouble.”

“Perhaps we were too badly frightened to make trouble,” laughed Jessie
Lester.

“Well, you didn’t any of you faint or have hysterics after you realized
the danger was over, did you?” retorted Captain Tom, laughing. “You
can’t get away from the charge that you all showed splendid courage as
soon as you realized that we were in real danger.”

“But you were planning to swim ashore with us from the reef,” said Mrs.
Lester.

“I’m very, very thankful we didn’t have to try it,” replied Halstead,
soberly. “It would have been one of those one-in-a-hundred chances that
I don’t like to have to take.”

Jed was busy, now, putting out the heaviest fenders along the port side
of the hull. Even in the cove the waves were running at a troublesome
height. Yet Tom and Joe, by good team work at their respective posts,
ran the “Meteor” in alongside the pier, almost without a jar.

“I’m thankful you’re all back safe,” called Mr. Dunstan, coming toward
them. “I would have been worried, Mrs. Lester, if I hadn’t known all
about the captain and crew that had the boat out.”

But when he heard about the hairbreadth escape from going on the reef
off Muskeget Mr. Dunstan’s face went deathly pale. He asked the ladies
to return to the house, while he boarded the “Meteor” and faced the boys
anxiously.

“What on earth can it mean that the gasoline ran out?” he demanded.
“Dawson, are you absolutely sure that you had plenty of oil when you
returned at daylight this morning?”

“Positive of it, sir,” came emphatically from Engineer Joe.

“Then that oil must have been pumped quietly out of the tank while you
three slept almost the sleep of the dead,” exclaimed the owner.

“It was pumped out very early in the day, too,” Tom insisted. “Such a
big quantity couldn’t have been pumped anywhere except overboard. It
would have taken several barrels to hold what was in the tank. Yet, by
the time we were on deck, at a little after noon, there wasn’t a sign of
gasoline anywhere on the water about us. The tide had carried it away.”

“I suppose anyone could have operated a steam-engine over your heads and
you boys wouldn’t have heard it this morning, you were so sound asleep,”
mused Mr. Dunstan. “Yet it was in broad daylight that you berthed the
boat. It must have been a daring man who would have come down openly
through these grounds on such an errand.”

“Unless——” began Halstead thoughtfully.

“Well, unless—what, captain?”

“Mr. Dunstan, it’s possible, isn’t it, that one of your men about the
place may be disloyal to you? Such a man may have done this thing either
to help your enemies, or to satisfy some spite against you.”

“I can’t think of a man in my employ I’d suspect of such a thing,”
murmured the troubled man.

Plainly the owner was not the man to discuss this suspicion with. Toward
dark, however, Tom and Joe went to one man on the place whom they
believed to be above all suspicion. That was big Michael, the coachman.
With Michael, they discussed the matter long and earnestly.

Though the honest coachman could tell them nothing definite, Tom
Halstead went away from that talk on a new scent of danger ahead.

Dawson, too, was thinking hard, and, as a consequence, was even more
quiet than usual.

“I’m afraid it wouldn’t be much use to go to Mr. Dunstan with this,”
sighed the young captain. “We’ll just keep our eyes open.”




CHAPTER XVI—FOLLOWING UP THE CLUE


There was plenty to do by the time the boys got back to the pier. Jed,
lone-handed, was pumping gasoline into the tank through the strainer.
Several barrels of the oil had been sent down to the water front.
Stripping off their coats, Tom and Joe turned to and helped.

Bouncer, the bull pup, was on hand also, chained in the engine room. In
view of the late near-tragedy Mr. Dunstan had decided to keep the dog
aboard, at the home pier, hereafter, and had brought Bouncer down
himself.

“We’ll finish this job Jed, if you’ll turn to and cook up a quick
supper,” proposed Halstead.

“Anything on?” asked Jed, looking keenly at them.

“I shouldn’t wonder,” nodded the young captain.

Jed asked no more questions, but got a tempting supper ready in close to
record time. As they were eating Tom told Jed, in low tones, the little
they had discovered.

Briefly, it was this: The Dunstan gardener and greenhouse man was a
Frenchman named Gambon. He was a quiet, even sulky fellow, who had made
no friends among the other employés of the place. Mr. Dunstan had once
rebuked the Frenchman for some carelessness. Michael had seen Gambon
shake his fist after the employer as the latter was going away. This had
happened four months ago.

There was not very much in that alone. But Gambon, who lived in a little
two-room cottage all by himself, and who had no work to occupy him
evenings, had always been in the habit of smoking and reading, then
retiring early. For more than the last fortnight, however, Gambon had
left the place every evening. Sometimes he was gone an hour; sometimes
he had not returned until late. Two nights after Ted’s disappearance
Michael, who had reported to Mr. Dunstan concerning the Frenchman’s
actions, had been authorized to follow Gambon. The Frenchman, however,
merely went to the Park in Nantucket and sat for a couple of hours on
one of the benches, smoking and seemingly dreaming. Mr. Dunstan, when
this tame fact was reported to him, pooh-poohed Michael’s suspicions and
forbade him to watch the Frenchman any longer.

“For,” said Mr. Dunstan, “watching any man long enough is likely to make
a half-rascal of him.”

“But, Captain Tom, when a very quiet man suddenly changes the fixed
habits av year-rs,” said Michael earnestly, “then there’s likely a
strong reason for it, and maybe a bad one.”

These were the facts that Tom and Joe now rehearsed, in undertones, to
Jed.

“Does it look likely, from that,” asked Prentiss, “that Gambon would
steal down here in early morning and pump our tank dry?”

“Michael saw him standing on the wharf this morning, smoking,” replied
Halstead. “Michael thought we must be up and about, though, so he didn’t
pay any attention to the Frenchman.”

“Kind of a hazy clue, altogether, isn’t it?” queried Jed.

“It’s enough to be worth looking into,” Tom replied earnestly. “Do you
realize that to-morrow is the last day that Mr. Dunstan has to get Ted
before the probate court! That, if he doesn’t do it to-morrow, the big
inheritance of millions goes by the board? So anything is big enough to
work on to-night. It’s our last chance. Now Mr. Dunstan has assured me
that the ‘Meteor’ won’t be ordered out to-night. Joe and I are going to
watch the Frenchman. Jed, you’ll want to stay right here by the boat and
keep a sharp eye on it, for Gambon may not be the one who is trying to
put the ‘Meteor’ on the scrap heap. You’ll have Bouncer to help you.
Even if it came to taking the boat over to Wood’s Hole, on a changed
order, you’re equal to it, aren’t you?”

“Just give me the chance!” cried Jed. “I’d welcome it.”

As soon as dark fell Joe stole across the grounds at the further end,
stationing himself by the road. Tom, on the other hand, hid himself not
far from Gambon’s little cottage. This was the plan of the chums to
prevent the Frenchman from giving them the slip, in case he had any
suspicions. There was still a light in Gambon’s cottage. After half an
hour, however, the light vanished. Then Gambon came out, carrying a
thick walking stick.

Tom watched the Frenchman until he was out of sight. Then after him the
young skipper went on tip-toe. It was not difficult to keep quietly on
the trail, for the gardener appeared far from suspicious.

Then, minutes later, Joe stepped out from behind a tree, touching Tom
lightly on the arm. They went along together.

“It’s easy so far,” whispered Halstead.

“May be a reason,” answered Joe. “Our Frenchman may have nothing to
conceal. Perhaps he’s only going courting.”

As Michael had reported, the gardener’s route lay along the highway to
Nantucket. The lights of the little town were in sight when Halstead
suddenly gave Joe a nudge. Both dodged behind bushes. For the Frenchman
had stepped off the road under some trees. First looking around him,
Gambon next bent over, moving a stone twice the size of his head. He
picked up a piece of paper. Tom and Joe were breathing hard by this
time.

Carefully replacing the stone, Gambon struck a match, scanning the piece
of paper he held in his hand. In another instant he touched the flaming
match to a corner of the paper, watching it burn up.

“Confound him for that!” muttered Tom in his chum’s ear.

Gambon was coming back now. The two friends crouched lower behind the
bushes. By them walked the Frenchman, looking straight ahead. As soon as
it seemed wise to do so the chums started after him. They saw him,
however, return to his cottage, where he lighted his lamp, smoked and by
and by extinguished the light and went to bed.

“We’ve found the spy,” groaned Tom, as the two chums neared the pier.
“It’s fearful luck, Joe, that we couldn’t have known about him before.
But it’s too late now for the knowledge to do us any good. To-morrow is
the last day for Ted Dunstan to show up. After we see that the boat and
Jed are safe I’ll run up to the house for a moment and see Mr. Dunstan.”

When Tom told their employer, a little later, what they had discovered
that gentleman at first appeared considerably interested.

“I’m afraid, though, Halstead,” he commented, “that we’re all of us
inclined to suspect anything and anyone. Gambon is a bachelor and has
saved a goodly bit of money. What more likely than that he may be
courting a sweetheart? That would be a likely enough place for her to
leave a note for him. Perhaps it was only a note as to an engagement
that had to be broken for this evening, for, as you say, Gambon came
right back. Whatever the note was about we’d probably feel rather
ashamed if we forced the Frenchman to tell us about it. By the way, I am
going to bed at once, now, for at at half-past five in the morning I
shall want to start for Wood’s Hole. I’ve heard from Crane again, and
he’s coming over with me at full speed, in order to be in court with me.
We’re going to see if we can’t get an adjournment for one day. Of
course, there seems little hope of it, as the terms of the will are so
exacting. Oh, Halstead, I made a huge mistake in letting the matter go
so long!”

There were tears in Mr. Dunstan’s eyes. Halstead, much touched, bade his
employer goodnight, returning to the boat.




CHAPTER XVII—JOE PLAYS JUSTICE A SCURVY TRICK


Over a sea “as smooth as glass,” that fateful Monday morning, the
“Meteor” made a dashing run to Wood’s Hole. It was just five minutes of
seven by the clock when the swift craft tied up at the village on the
mainland.

All through the trip Horace Dunstan had remained seated in one of the
armchairs in the cockpit aft. His head had been bowed in sorrow. His
face was haggard and ashen, for he had not slept through the night.

On the pier awaiting him stood Mr. Crane, his lawyer, and Musgrave, who
had been in charge of the force of detectives who had been vainly
seeking the young heir.

“You have not a word of hope, of course, gentlemen?” asked Mr. Dunstan
in a weak voice.

“There is no news whatever,” replied Musgrave.

“Our only hope,” added Crane, “lies in the barest possibility that the
court may find some legal excuse for adjourning the matter for a few
days and giving us a chance for a longer hunt.”

“May I put in a word?” asked Tom, who had been standing close by.

“Yes,” assented Horace Dunstan.

“Now I know, and we all know,” Halstead went on, “that Ted Dunstan has
been illegally spirited away and that it is simply impossible for his
father to produce him in court. It is no guess-work, for I have seen Ted
Dunstan, alive, and with Mr. Dunstan’s enemies. If you were to make the
claim, Mr. Crane, and use me as a witness, would that help matters any
in inducing the court to adjourn the matter? Could the court then
legally postpone the bringing of the Dunstan heir into view?”

“I’m afraid not,” replied the great lawyer thoughtfully. “In the first
place, the court would have only Mr. Dunstan’s word for it that he is
really anxious to produce his son in court. There would be no evidence
that could corroborate Mr. Dunstan’s statement. As to your testimony,
Captain Halstead, if it were admitted at all, it would work us the
greatest harm, for you would be obliged to say, under oath, that Ted
told you he was with those other people by his own choice as well as at
his father’s command.”

Mr. Musgrave nodded. Horace Dunstan bowed his stricken head lower.

“I understand the force of what you say, Mr. Crane,” Tom nodded.

“Hush! Here comes Judge Swan now,” whispered the lawyer. “What can he be
doing here?”

A portly, white-haired man, yet with a fresh, young-looking face, had
just stepped onto the pier and came toward them. He was judge of the
probate court over at Nantucket.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” he greeted pleasantly. Then, by a nod, he
drew Lawyer Crane toward him, though the judge spoke loudly enough for
the rest to hear.

“Are you going to have a case to bring before me to-day, Mr. Crane?”

“Provided we can find young Theodore Dunstan in time, your honor,”
answered the lawyer. “Our search has been unceasing.”

“I wish you the utmost measure of good fortune, then,” replied Judge
Swan. “Under the terms of the will, as I understand them, this is the
last day of grace that you have. But remember, court will be open up to
the minute of four this afternoon.”

Mr. Crane thanked his honor. Every hearer present, however, realized
that Judge Swan had answered, as far as his dignity and official
position permitted, how any appeal for postponement must be answered
from the bench. The motion would be denied.

The justice turned to stroll apart from the rest, but the lawyer kept at
his side.

“Judge,” he asked in an undertone, “since you know the whole of our
painful predicament, can you offer me any suggestion?”

“The most I can say, because it is the most I am able to say,” murmured
the judge, “is that I sincerely trust that Mr. Dunstan and yourself will
be able to produce young Theodore in court before four o’clock this
afternoon.”

They soon turned, strolling back to the group.

“I feel a good deal annoyed,” said Judge Swan, presently. “I was in
Boston yesterday. My friend, Mr. Percival, was to start over to
Nantucket with me at six this morning, in order that I might open court
at nine o’clock. Mr. Percival wired me yesterday that his launch had
broken down, but the telegram must have reached Boston after I had gone
to the train. So I must go over on the forenoon passenger steamer, I
fear.”

“If we were going back sooner,” explained Mr. Crane, “my client would be
most happy to give you a seat on his boat. But we feel that, if young
Theodore Dunstan is found, it will be on the mainland. So we are waiting
until the last moment.”

“Yet, if heaven favors us,” broke in Horace Dunstan, “we could take my
son over on the regular forenoon passenger boat, and be in court this
afternoon. The ‘Meteor’ could be back here soon after the passenger boat
leaves. So, Judge, may I offer you the use of the ‘Meteor?’”

“Do you mean that?” asked Judge Swan, looking at the owner in delight.

“Most assuredly,” replied Mr. Dunstan. “I shall be glad, judge, if you
will make use of my boat.”

“Then I shall accept with great pleasure,” replied his honor. “I know
how swift your boat is.”

“Then, captain,” said Mr. Dunstan, turning to Halstead, “you understand
your instructions, which are to get Judge Swan in Nantucket before nine
o’clock this morning.”

“It’s the only boat in these waters that could do it,” Tom replied, with
pardonable pride, as he sprang aboard.

“Come back, captain, as soon as you land his honor,” was Mr. Dunstan’s
parting word. “If you pass the passenger steamer, watch for me at her
rail. I may signal you.”

Before she had left the pier three hundred yards behind, the nimble
motor boat was going at better than twenty miles an hour. Gradually the
speed was increased. Judge Swan stood on the bridge deck beside Tom.

“It is really exciting to travel on a boat like this,” commented his
honor, presently. “You must enjoy it, captain.”

“I do sir, when the engine works all right, which it does usually,”
Halstead answered.

The sea as smooth as ever, and no hindering breeze blowing, the craft
behaved splendidly, making within a notch of her best speed. In time
they left Martha’s Vineyard behind, and headed out toward the big, green
island of Nantucket.

“The engine isn’t likely to break down this morning, is she?” asked the
judge, who had just returned from a smoke aft.

“I don’t think so, sir. It would make a sad mix-up in your court work if
we got stuck out here on the open sea, wouldn’t it, sir?”

“I imagine it would annoy my clerk a good deal,” replied Judge Swan,
reflectively. “He would have to sit in court all day without me, and
then, when four o’clock came, he would, in my absence, be obliged to
declare court adjourned until nine o’clock to-morrow morning.”

“And in that case there wouldn’t be any legal session of the court
to-day, would there, sir?”

“There couldn’t be a legal session in my absence. However, we’ll trust
that your engine won’t meet with any mishap,” replied Judge Swan,
smiling and turning away.

Tom Halstead’s hands began to tremble as he guided the wheel. There was
a queer look in his eyes; his head was whirling a bit.

Had Judge Swan purposely given him a hint? It was a staggering thought.
Halstead, when in doubt, was likely to think and act quickly.

“Come and relieve me at the wheel for a few moments, Jed,” he called.
Then, in a twinkling, the young skipper was down in the engine room.

“Joe,” he whispered, breathlessly, to his chum, “the judge just informed
me that, if anything went wrong with the engine, and we couldn’t make
Nantucket before four o’clock, there would be no legal session of
probate court.”

“Did he mean that for a hint?” queried Joe, his look becoming keen.

“I’ll leave that for you to figure out, chum.”

“Where are we, now?” was Dawson’s next question.

Halstead informed him.

“Say,” muttered Joe, “I wish you’d go up on deck and stay there a while.
I want to attend to my work for a while.”

Tom went back up on deck, lounging near Jed, at the wheel. It wasn’t
long before the speed slackened. Then, the boat slowed down to mere
headway. Even this soon ceased.

“I’ll try not to hinder you long,” called up Joe, showing his face in
the hatchway. “I think I can soon get the engine fixed.”

“Use all the speed you can, Joe, but do it well, whatever has to be
done,” Tom answered. Then he made his way aft to report to Judge Swan
that the engineer had said he hoped the motor would soon be in order
again.

“Are there any books aboard?” his honor wanted to know.

“There’s a book-shelf in the cabin, sir.”

Judge Swan disappeared into the cabin. The next time Halstead looked aft
he saw the judge snug in one of the armchairs, reading.

The place was ideal for such a breakdown. The “Meteor” lay almost
motionless upon the smooth sea, miles from land, with no troublesome
reefs near. Under the awnings it was delightfully cool.

For an hour Joe remained in the motor room, neither Tom nor Jed
bothering him with their presence. Then Tom went aft to see if their
guest was comfortable. Judge Swan looked up with a pleasant smile.

“If I didn’t have that session of court on hand, captain, I wouldn’t
mind if this break lasted all day.”

“It wouldn’t be bad,” the young skipper assented. “We have a good larder
and a fine young cook aboard.”

“How serious is the break?” inquired his honor.

“Why, Dawson reports that he hopes very soon to be under way again.”

“I hope he won’t hurry enough to interfere with thorough repair,”
pursued Judge Swan.

When Tom went forward again it occurred to him to take a look down into
the engine room. The sight that met his gaze was a surprising one. Joe
was lying on his back on one of the lockers, the first time he had ever
been asleep at his post!

The time dragged on slowly. His honor, being wholly comfortable and well
occupied where he was, didn’t come forward to ask any questions.

“There’s the forenoon boat coming,” whispered Jed, at last.

“Confound it,” muttered Tom. “I wish I had thought to keep better out of
her track.”

The passenger steamer soon signaled. Tom answered on the auto whistle.

Then the passenger steamer ran in closer to the motor boat. The captain
of the steamer, standing before the pilot house, megaphone in hand,
called over the waters:

“Are you in distress?”

“Only a temporary break in the engine,” Tom answered, through his
megaphone.

“Do you need any assistance?”

“No, thank you,” Halstead responded.

“Do you wish to transfer any passengers?”

Judge Swan came forward to the young skipper. At the same time Tom saw
Mr. Dunstan and Mr. Crane at the rail, among the boat’s passengers.

“How soon before you’ll be under way, Captain Halstead?” asked his
honor.

Now, Joe being fast asleep, Halstead had to answer for his friend.

“Judge, we ought to be under way soon.”

“Then tell the captain of the steamer you’ve no passengers to transfer,”
directed his honor, next starting aft once more.

“No passengers to transfer, captain, thank you,” Tom answered.

“All right, ‘Meteor.’ Wish you good luck!” A moment later, after both
craft had whistled, the passenger steamer continued on her way.

Now, it was too bad, of course, but noon came and found the “Meteor”
still unable to proceed. Soon after that Jed appeared, setting up a
table in the cockpit. A cloth was laid, and a pleasing luncheon spread
before the delayed judge. Joe came to at the first mention of food, and
the three members of the crew ate forward.

“It’s a mean thing to have such a break out on the open,” Joe
complained, as he finished eating. “However, I’ll do the best I can for
you.”

The afternoon began to slip by. It was considerably after three o’clock
when Joe thrust his head up through the hatchway to say:

“Captain, if you’ll be satisfied to go at slow speed, I think we can
make a start now.”

“Then start her, and keep to whatever speed your judgment decides upon,”
Tom replied. Making his way aft he informed Judge Swan.

“I am delighted to hear it, of course,” replied that gentleman. “I must,
however, give you credit for commanding a boat aboard which a very
pleasant day of idleness can be enjoyed.”

The “Meteor” was soon going at a speed that seemed lame and halting for
her. She made the harbor at Nantucket, however, at 4.20, and landed her
distinguished passenger. Judge Swan shook hands with all three boys,
thanking them for his pleasant day.

Knowing that Mr. Dunstan was not at Wood’s Hole, Tom decided to make the
run straight to the home pier. Leaving Jed at the wheel, after they were
out of the harbor, the young skipper went below.

“Joe,” he asked soon, “what was wrong with the engine?”

“The vaporizer,” Joe replied briefly.

“What ailed it?”

“Why, you see,” Dawson replied calmly, “after the speed stopped I
disconnected the vaporizer and put it in one of the lockers. Then,
somehow, I forgot all about that vaporizer for some hours. When I
thought of it I got it out of the locker, wiped it off on some waste,
connected it again—and then the engine began to behave fairly well.”

Tom’s lips puckered. Whistling, he turned his face away from his chum,
looking out through one of the portholes.

“What’s the matter?” inquired Dawson, looking up in some surprise.

“Joe,” retorted the young skipper, “don’t you think that was rather a
scurvy trick to play on justice?”

“Trick?” repeated Joe in an injured voice. “Well, if you call that a
‘trick,’ my captain, then all I have to say is that Judge Swan didn’t
seem to be very much upset about it.”

“There having been no legal session of probate court to-day,” Tom went
on, “that gives our friends one day of grace in which to find Ted
Dunstan.”

“I wish it were a year more, instead of a day,” sighed Dawson.

“I wonder,” muttered Tom, as though talking to himself. “I wonder
whether Judge Swan hinted himself aboard the ‘Meteor’ just so Joe could
play that scurvy, unmannerly trick against the blind goddess of justice?
I wonder!”




CHAPTER XVIII—THE MESSAGE UNDER THE ROCK


“And so you’ve gained until another day, anyway, sir,” Tom wound up his
account of the “accident” to the “Meteor’s” motor.

“I fear it will do us but little good,” sighed Horace Dunstan. “I feel
that possibility in the way of search has been exhausted. It looks as
though we were doomed to defeat.”

“I don’t like to think, Mr. Dunstan, that any such thing as defeat is
possible as long as there’s more time left us,” was Halstead’s answer.

“I trust, my young friend, that your faith will be justified.”

“Any instructions for to-night, sir?”

“No; nothing remains to be done and you young men deserve your rest at
last.”

“Then Joe and I may stretch our legs on shore.”

“That will be all right, as long as Jed Prentiss and Bouncer remain
aboard to watch the boat.”

Joe started first that night, hurrying away before Gambon had left his
cottage. Tom remained behind, in hiding near the gate, to follow the
Frenchman. Gambon came out, half an hour after dark, armed with the same
heavy walking stick. As before, he turned straight in the direction of
Nantucket the young skipper following just out of sight.

To-night there seemed to be more need of caution. Several times the
Frenchman turned or halted and listened, but each time the young skipper
was not to be seen.

Just before Gambon reached the grove where the rock lay Joe stepped up
beside his chum.

“There’s a message there and I read it,” whispered Joe.

“What was it?” Tom eagerly demanded.

“Simply this: ‘Oceanside, 332.’”

“What do you make of that, Joe?”

“Telephone number is my guess.”

“It must be. You put the message back under the rock?”

“Yes, indeed.”

“Then, see here, Joe. I’m going to slip into the woods and hurry on
ahead to Nantucket. I’ll find out where ‘Oceanside, 332,’ is. You follow
Gambon, and see if he goes to a telephone. If he does, try to hear
what’s said. Whatever you do to-night, though, Joe, don’t let Gambon get
out of your sight. Remember, slim as it is, it’s our last chance!”

“And you?”

“All I can say,” Tom replied, “is that you’ll see me again, old fellow,
whenever and wherever we happen to meet. Good-by, now, and be sharp
to-night.”

“Good luck to you, Tom.”

Moving through the woods, Halstead was quickly in Nantucket. In a drug
store he picked up the telephone directory, scanning the pages until he
located “Oceanside, 332.” He could have jumped from sheer excitement. It
was the telephone number of the farmer, Sanderson, on the east side of
the island. Sanderson was the man who had been receiving so many cases
of “machinery” from the mainland.

Slipping out of the drug store, Halstead went swiftly down one of the
side streets. He did not want to run any risk of encountering Gambon.

“So the scene shifts back to Sanderson’s?” thought the young skipper
excitedly. “Then if Don Emilio’s crowd isn’t there, there must at least
be some one there who has authority to telephone orders to Gambon.
Whatever those orders are Joe will have to find out—if he can.”

Down at the further end of this side street, as Captain Tom knew, was a
shop where a bicycle could be rented. Within two minutes the boy felt
the saddle of a wheel under him. He pedaled fast, yet he did not take
the principal highway that led past Sanderson’s.

“There’s too much chance of being seen by the wrong folks if I go openly
on the main road,” Tom told himself.

From Jed he had learned the lay of the roads in that part of the island.
Well trained to sailing by chart, Halstead found that he could pick his
roads and paths, even at night, from the mental map of the east side of
the island that Jed had supplied him.

When he dismounted it was on a side road, at a distance of a quarter of
a mile from Sanderson’s house. Most of the land between was covered by
young woods.

First of all, Halstead looked about for a thicket that offered a secure
hiding place for his rented wheel. When that had been stowed away the
young skipper secured his bearings once more.

“And now to see what’s going on at Sanderson’s to-night, and who’s
there,” Halstead told himself, as he plunged through the woods in what
he knew must be the right direction.

After a few minutes he came out in the open. Ahead the well-remembered
old farmhouse showed dimly in the darkness.

The night was so dark that Tom could easily approach the house, though
he kept a keen lookout against running unexpectedly into anyone.
Cautiously he surveyed the house from all sides. The two lower floors
were in darkness and had a closed-up appearance. Through one of the rear
attic windows, however, a bright light shone and the sash was raised.

“Sanderson, Don Emilio and some of the others may be meeting up there,”
thought Halstead with a sudden thrill of wonder. “Oh, if I can only find
a way to get up there and listen!”

As he stood, well in the shadow of a carriage shed, staring up at that
lighted window, a hum of low voices came to his ears.

“Gracious!” muttered the young skipper, stepping further back into the
shadow. “There’s crowd enough down here on the ground.”

On came a group of men, trudging like laborers going to their toil. Dark
as the night was, not one of them carried a lantern. From their course
it looked as though they came up from the shore. In his eagerness Tom
bent forward more, that he might scan them. His eyes were keen-sighted
in the dark.

“There’s Don Emilio,” Halstead told himself. “I’d know him by his size
and his walk. And there’s Jonas French. There’s the little brown chap, I
think, who helped to capture Joe the other night. And that stooping
figure at the rear is Sanderson. But there are four others.”

“I am not used to this hard work, but I will do all I can,” Tom heard
Don Emilio complain, as the group stopped before one of the larger
outbuildings, while Sanderson drew out a key and unfastened a padlock.

“Whew!” Tom Halstead thrilled more intensely than before when he saw the
men come out of the other building, two and two, each pair carrying a
long box. “This must be one of their big nights. Yet what on earth is
up?”

He was destined, soon, to be able to make a good guess.




CHAPTER XIX—THE SIGHT BEHIND THE ATTIC LIGHT


“All right?” asked Farmer Sanderson questioningly.

“All right,” agreed Don Emilio. Click went the padlock.

“All wrong, I’ll bet a hundred cookies,” mocked Tom Halstead under his
breath.

“Come along, now,” directed Don Emilio. He seemed to be the leader in
to-night’s work.

“I don’t believe I’m included in that invitation to ‘come along,’ but
I’m going to cheek my way along,” grinned the young skipper.

He had no need to keep them exactly in sight, these industrious workers
in the dark. Laden as they were, it was enough to keep within sound of
the rather regular shuffle of their feet.

As Tom had surmised, the four pairs of men, keeping together, proceeded
toward the shore. Once, on the way down the slope, they halted to give
the weaker ones an opportunity to rest their muscles. Then, picking up
their heavy cases once more, the men went on down the slope toward the
pier.

“That is the stuff that was billed under ‘machinery’ labels!” muttered
the young skipper to himself. “I’ll wager those boxes contain guns and
cartridges to start a new revolution with down in stormy Honduras. But
is their filibustering craft here? Are they getting ready to sail before
daylight? If that’s the game, then I must get awfully busy.”

As Tom, taking advantage of the uneven ground and dodging behind bushes
and trees, followed unobserved and came within sight of the pier he made
out with certainty that no craft was tied there.

“That doesn’t prove a lot, though,” he reflected, watching the
procession of toilers from behind a bush. “If they have a tug or some
other steam vessel it could slip in here two hours before daylight and
be away again in another hour. But what’s that? Where are they going
now?”

In the darkness it was not quite easy to see more than that the
procession had moved into the shadow of a depression in the ground near
the pier. Crawling that he might not be seen against the dim skyline,
Halstead secured another point of observation. He thought, now, he could
make out the outlines of a small building.

“I’ll wait until the crowd gets away from there before I try for a
closer look,” thought the young motor boat skipper.

Nor had he long to wait ere the same eight filed by not far from his
hiding place. Halstead watched until they were out of sight behind
Sanderson’s house.

Then the youthful investigator slipped down the slope and into the
shadow. He went cautiously, though, for fear that Don Emilio might have
posted a guard below.

There was none, however. Tom found himself staring at what looked like a
new boathouse on shore, such as is used for the winter storing of yachts
or motor boats. There were no windows. The door, a strong affair, was
secured by a padlock.

“If they’re putting the stuff in there and locking it up, then they
don’t intend to ship it to-night,” Halstead wisely decided.

He had learned, apparently, all that was to be learned at this point. To
keep his eyes upon the case-carrying toilers might mean only to witness
a repetition of the same monotonous work through all the night.

“That one bright light up in the attic,” Halstead wondered, the memory
of it coming back to him. “I wonder what’s going on up there? And I mean
to know, too.”

Satisfied that he knew all about the waterfront business, Halstead took
such a wide, curving sweep in getting back to the farmhouse that he ran
no risk of running into the busy eight.

Once more he sought the deep shadow of the wagon shed, from which point
he stared long and wonderingly.

Beneath that attic window was a kitchen annex of one story. And Tom made
out, presently, that a lightning rod ran down the back of the main
building close to that brilliantly lighted window on the third floor.
The rod touched the roof of the kitchen annex, running thence down to
the ground.

“It’s a job for stocking feet, anyway,” Halstead decided at last. Having
removed his shoes and feeling about in the dark, the young skipper ran
his hand against a coil of rope hanging on a peg.

“Good enough!” he cried inwardly. “I don’t believe there are many
climbing jobs where a rope won’t come in handy.”

As he removed the coil of rope from the peg he discovered a few lengths
of cord. These he stuffed into one of his pockets.

“For I can’t tell what kind of a sling I may need to rig before I get
through,” he thought.

The busy eight were returning from still another trip to the water
front. Halstead stopped all movement, remaining utterly quiet until they
had started shoreward with the next load.

“Now I’ve got to work fast,” thought Captain Tom thrilling. “I reckon
it’s about fifteen minutes between their arrivals here. That means fast
work, my boy.”

Shoes in hand, the coil of rope fast at his waist, Halstead stole out
toward the southern side of the kitchen annex. Leaving his shoes on the
ground Tom found it an easy task to climb up onto the roof of the annex.
Now he felt carefully of the lightning rod, next giving it harder and
harder pulls, to make sure that it was strong enough to hear his weight.
That point settled, Halstead began to ascend. It was not a difficult
task for a boy trained aboard seagoing craft.

Up and up he went, making little if any sound. At last he was able to
lean outward from the rod, resting one elbow on the ledge of the lighted
window. Yet, on peering into the room the young skipper received a shock
that almost caused him to lose his hold on the lightning rod.

At the further end of the bare-looking attic stood a plain pine table,
which held a reading lamp that gave a strong light. With his back to the
window, seated in a rocking chair and his feet on another chair, lounged
a boy, reading.

Even with his back turned, the unseen face bent over a book, that boy
was known beyond the possibility of a doubt to Tom Halstead.

“Ted Dunstan, himself!” the young skipper almost cried aloud.

Not for one moment did Halstead even think of slipping down from the
window and running for help. If he did so Ted was as likely as not to be
gone upon his return.

“I’ve got to get him out of here, and on the jump, too,” puzzled the
young captain. “But how is the thing to be done?”

An appeal to young Ted himself would be worse than useless. That young
heir, as the spy at the window knew, had altogether too complete a faith
in his present comrades.

While Tom still hung on there another happening caused his heart to bump
against his ribs. The busy eight were returning. He could hear the light
tread on gravel under their feet.

Not a second was to be lost. Inwardly breathing a prayer, Halstead
raised himself to the window sill with the utmost stealth. In another
moment he was over the sill and in the room on his stockinged tip-toes.
Ted did not turn. Plainly he was too absorbed in his book to suspect any
other presence. Not daring, of course, to remain near the window, which
would place him in sight of the busy eight in the yard, as soon as they
should reach the outbuildings, Halstead slid noiselessly along the wall,
pressing his hands against it. His strained, intense look was all the
time on the unsuspecting Dunstan heir.

“Ho, ho, ho!” chuckled Master Ted, throwing his head back, but he did
not look around. Evidently something in the book on his lap amused him
immensely.

Tom stood there, still praying under his breath, praying that the eight
might quickly take up their new burdens and hasten shoreward.

At last there came the sound of crunching against gravel. Tom, trying to
stifle the sound of his own breathing, listened intently until the dying
out of sounds outside made him believe that the men were once more out
of the way.

Now trembling in every muscle, Halstead stole forward toward the Dunstan
heir. The floor creaked; he stopped short in great alarm. For Halstead
felt certain that, somewhere near at hand, there must be some one
intrusted with the responsibility of watching over this young heir.

Master Ted, however, did not turn. Taking heart Tom stole forward as
softly as ever Indian trod. Crouching, he was near enough now to reach
out and touch the back of young Dunstan.

Of a sudden Halstead made the plunge. He leaped forward with the agility
of a panther, fairly yanking Ted Dunstan out of the rocking chair and
dropping him softly on the floor beside it.

Taken in this fashion, Master Ted would have let out a lusty yell. Yet
the instant he opened his mouth Tom Halstead’s fingers gripped at his
throat, shutting off the youngster’s wind.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” whispered Halstead sharply yet half
apologetically. “But I’ve got to keep you quiet no matter what I have to
do to you.”

Ted’s face betrayed absolute fear as well as unmistakable loathing, as
that choking shut off his breath. His mouth opened, his tongue lolling
out.

“Now you may breathe again, if you’ll keep quiet,” Tom informed him.
“But, remember—I _won’t_ have any noise!”

As soon as he could breathe again panting Ted’s wits also began to
clear. He raised one of his feet, as he lay prostrate with Halstead
a-top of him, and brought that heel down against the floor. Halstead
promptly threw his own body so that Master Ted could not again raise
either foot.

“I see that I’ve got to go to extreme measures with you; you don’t
understand that I’m deadly in earnest,” panted Tom, finding that this
wiry, out-of-door, agile boy of ten could be wonderfully slippery. “Now
listen, Ted Dunstan. If you don’t want me to be ugly and to choke you
until your senses fade, then prepare to mind me. Now then roll over on
your face—and don’t you _dare_ to make any noise doing it.”

A good deal cowed by the fierce glint in Tom’s eyes, Ted almost
passively obeyed, though the young skipper was obliged to roll the young
man himself.

“Keep those feet quiet now,” whispered Tom in the little fellow’s ear.
“We’ve got to the point where nonsense won’t be safe for you. Now open
your mouth!”

Ted firmly pressed his lips together, gritting his teeth. Yet Tom knew a
trick of wrestling that forced the young man to open his mouth. Plump
into that mouth went one of Halstead’s wadded handkerchiefs, stopping
the youngster’s tongue down and holding his jaws apart.

Satisfied that Ted was gagged, Tom forced another handkerchief between
the teeth, knotting it behind the smaller boy’s head. Then, with abrupt
suddenness, the young skipper bent the little fellow’s hands behind him,
though not too roughly, and bound the wrists in the best sailorman’s
fashion. Now Tom turned about, using more of the cord in his pockets to
lash the heels of the Dunstan heir securely together. This accomplished,
Captain Tom examined all his knots to make sure that none of them was so
poorly tied as to cause him regret later on. Then, on tip-toe, he stole
over to the door. There was a bolt on it unsecured. Tom softly slipped
the bolt into place. There was now no danger of unannounced interference
from that direction.

Going back to the angry and astounded Dunstan heir, Halstead knelt
beside him.

“Master Ted, I know you feel ugly about me and you hate me just at this
minute. You think I’m your enemy and your father’s. The scoundrels
you’ve been running with have told you that. The truth is, your father,
though not an old man, is aging fast on account of the agony your
disappearance has caused him. The time isn’t far away when you’ll know
that we’ve all been doing our best, in the face of many dangers, to
serve a boy who was foolish enough not to want to be served.”

Captain Tom had raised young Dunstan’s head and had looked into the
latter’s eyes while telling him this. But Master Ted glared back only a
message of distrust and defiance.

“I’ve got you now where you can’t stand in the way of your own good
luck, if only I can once get you away from this house,” Tom went on in a
whisper, his mouth close to one of the youngster’s ears. “_You_ can’t
hinder, anyway.”

Then, with one hand resting heavily on Ted, to prevent any slight
possibility of movement by that youngster, Halstead continued kneeling
and listening.

At last there came to him the sound for which he had waited—the
crunching of feet on the gravel outside. Now Halstead became busy again.
Uncoiling the rope at his waist he rigged a secure slip-noose at one
end. This he made fast around Ted’s body, under his bound arms. When the
sounds without indicated that the eight men were again leaving for the
shore, the young captain raised his light human burden, stealing toward
the window.

[Illustration: Tom Pushed the Heir Through the Window.]

There was not a sound outside. Tom Halstead pushed the Dunstan heir
through the window, lowering him swiftly to the kitchen annex. The young
motor boat captain then descended by the lightning rod. He carried Ted,
naturally unresisting, to the edge of the annex, lowering him to the
ground. Halstead went down himself at a bound, landing on his feet. In a
fever of anxiety he found his shoes, swiftly lacing them on.

Now slipping off the noose, Tom loosely coiled the rope about one arm.
Lifting Ted Dunstan, Captain Halstead fled straight across the rear yard
and in among the trees.

“There, I hope we’ve got you away from that crowd,” panted Tom, putting
his unwilling companion down. “But we’ve got to hustle, so you’ll have
to use your own feet a bit. Woe unto you, though, if you try any tricks
on the stranger who happens to be your best friend at this moment!”

Hiding the rope in a thicket near by; Halstead quickly slashed away the
cord at Ted Dunstan’s ankles.

“Now you’ll come along with me and you’ll come mighty fast!” breathed
Captain Tom resolutely, as he seized one of the boy’s arms.

At first Ted acted as though he intended to drag, but the quality of
muscle in the young motor boat skipper’s arms must have shown him the
folly of such tactics, for presently he trotted at the older boy’s side.

Yet they had not gone more than two hundred yards before something else
happened. Out from behind a tree shot a human figure. Its owner sprang
at Tom Halstead, locking him in a sturdy embrace. Down to the ground
went Halstead and his assailant, rolling over and over in fierce,
battling embrace.

Ted Dunstan lost not an instant in seeing and seizing his opportunity.
His feet, at least, free and able, that youngster whirled and dashed
back toward the farmhouse.




CHAPTER XX—BLIND MAN’S BUFF IN FEARFUL EARNEST


For a few seconds the two combatants fought strenuously in the darkness.

“Now, I’ve got you!” growled the assailant, wrapping his arms around
young Captain Halstead.

But that astounded youth only gasped:

“Joe!”

“Tom! Pompey’s ghost! Is this you?”

Joe Dawson rolled swiftly from his point of vantage, and the chums
sprang instantly to their feet.

“That was Ted Dunstan who got away,” quivered Halstead.

“I know it,” admitted Joe. “I thought you were one of the other crowd. I
had eyes only for him, when I saw him.”

“Quick, then!”

They could hear Master Ted running, somewhat uncertainly, in the woods,
with which he seemed to be unfamiliar. Yet he was nearing the opening
where the house stood.

After him pelted both motor boat boys. Ted heard them coming, of course,
and increased his speed. Yet Ted must have gotten into the opening, but
for an accident. One of his feet tripped over something. Down he went,
and, with his hands tied behind him, it was not the simplest task in the
world for him to get on his feet again. Just as he did accomplish it,
Tom and Joe reached him, grasping him on either side. Ted made a slight,
useless struggle, but what he did succeed in doing was to kick a tree
rather resoundingly.

The busy eight, unsuspicious until then, had just returned to the rear
yard. Some of them heard that kick against the tree.

“What was that noise?” demanded Don Emilio.

“Nothing,” replied Jonas French.

“Come on! I want to make sure, anyway. Hasten!”

Tom, leading the way, and Joe, bringing up the rear with Ted Dunstan
gripped in his arms, were in motion, but Don Emilio and several of his
comrades pursued at lively speed.

“There’s some one running in these woods,” called back Don Emilio.
“Spread out, and travel fast!”

When they had gone some little distance Tom fell back, snatching Ted
from Joe’s arms. They ran until they came to a low-hanging thicket.
Burdened as the motor boat boys were, the race must prove an unequal
one. Joe halted at the thicket, holding out his arm to stop Tom. The two
crept in under there with their burden, Joe holding the Dunstan heir’s
feet.

And just in time, too, for Don Emilio and Jonas French went by within
striking distance.

“Whoever it was didn’t get as far as the road,” the boys heard Don
Emilio declare, not far away. “French, you stay here. If you see a
living figure in the road you’ll know what to do. I’ll send another man
to watch with you. These woods have got to be searched.”

Just at that moment some one else must have reached Don Emilio Alvarez
and must have reported, for the Honduran’s voice screamed:

“What do you say? The youngster’s gone from the attic? Listen, men! Let
nothing stand in your way, now. We must have that boy back. We’ll watch
the road and drag the woods. Waste no sympathy on any meddler you find!”

It was at once made plain to the motor boat boys that Don Emilio and his
comrades were now frantic. Everywhere could be heard the steps, or the
low voices of the searchers. Tom and Joe dreaded capture at each
instant. Dawson had made it his task to secure Ted’s feet again, and to
hold them doubly secure with his own hands.

Once, as some of the searchers went by, Gambon’s voice was heard. Joe
nudged his chum; the latter understood how the young engineer of the
“Meteor” had come so handily upon the scene through trailing the
Frenchman here. Not once, after they had hidden themselves, did the
motor boat boys dare to stir. Their covering, though dense enough in the
dark, was thin at best. Two or three times some of the searchers passed
by within a yard of those they sought. At such times Ted Dunstan’s body
shook with suppressed emotion. But he was so tied and held that he could
not make a sign to betray himself. Whenever the seekers came close
Halstead reached out a hand holding the young heir’s nostrils closed, so
that he could not even sniff.

The conviction of Don Emilio that his longed-for prey was close at hand
was shown by the repeated searchings over an area of barely more than
five acres. The time even slipped into hours without the hunt being
abandoned.

Half the time Tom and Joe felt as though their hearts were up in their
throats, so close did discovery seem. The first gray streaks of dawn
showed at last, but Don Emilio would not agree that the chase extend
beyond this strip of lonely woods.

“It is more important than anything else could be that we should find
the boy,” Tom heard the Honduran explain to Gambon. “And daylight will
show that they have not gotten away from here. It was here that the
sounds of flight stopped. Somewhere, within a stone’s throw or two we
shall yet come upon the meddlers in hiding. I shall not give up.”

“Confound him,” whispered Joe, a little later, in his chum’s ear.
“Before this I always admired persistency.”

Following the first dawn the light came in more strongly. Now, the two
chums crouched more closely than ever, also seeing to it that Master Ted
was forced to lie as flat as possible.

Joe Dawson, lying flat on his stomach, peering out beyond their retreat,
moved one of his feet restlessly. Something made him turn to glance
behind him. With that he began to slide slowly backward. His feet went
further and further into a narrow hole. Then, after nudging Halstead in
one leg, Dawson crept back until only his shoulders were exposed. Tom
watched his chum in overjoyed wonder. Joe’s next performance was to
vanish from sight. Then, very soon, he wriggled silently out again,
until his lips were beside one of his comrade’s ears.

“There’s a hole running into that hummock there,” Dawson explained. “It
is a crampy little bit of a hole, but it will conceal all three of us.
Let’s work Ted in there first.”

This they proceeded to do, though with intense stealth and no hurry.
They got Ted out of sight under the ground, at last, then more speedily
concealed themselves.

“Fine, Joe, fine!” cheered Halstead, in a chuckling whisper. “Our
chances of not being found have improved a hundred times!”

“If only Alvarez and his infernal crew will get away from this spot,”
Joe whispered, in answer. “But the day that is beginning is absolutely
the last day to save Ted’s fortune to him. If we trip up to-day there
isn’t a chance of any kind left. He’ll simply lose!”

Tom kept his face close enough to the opening in the ground so that he
could see outside for some little distance, and yet was sure that he
himself was enough in the shadow not to be seen from outside.

By the time that the sun was well up Don Emilio insisted on another keen
search. This time French and Gambon even trod through the edge of the
thicket that had concealed the boys during the darkness. But the mouth
of the hole under the hummock was still hidden from their eyes by other
bushes.

By the time that the sun had been up for some time quiet had fallen in
these woods. Tom and Joe might have felt tempted to make a sudden break
for freedom, but the scratch of a match, not far away, warned them that
at least one watcher was still in hiding.

“I wonder what time it is,” thought tormented Halstead, his mind ever
upon that fateful session of probate court over at Nantucket. He got his
watch out, holding it before his face. Then he made an appalling
discovery. He had forgotten to wind up the time-piece, and it had run
down.

“Your watch going, Joe?” the young skipper asked.

“No,” Dawson whispered back, after a moment spent in investigation.

“This is a pretty fix. We can’t even guess how much time we have left to
get out of here and over to Nantucket.”

It was not long after that a gentle sound attracted Halstead’s notice to
his friend. Sleepless and worn out, Dawson had fallen into slumber.

“That’ll be all right,” thought Tom, “if only he doesn’t snore. If he
does, I’ll have to hold his nose and pull him out of it.”

As for Ted, the idea of making a snoring sound didn’t seem to have
occurred to him, or he would have tried it. Tom moved closer to the
little fellow, that he might be at hand to prevent any such attempt to
send warning outside their cramped retreat.

Whizz-zz! It was an automobile going by at high speed. It passed and was
gone, almost at once, but the sound gave Tom a good idea how close they
lay to the road. Yet it was surely a lonely road, little traveled, for
time went dragging by without any other sound of travel.

“I’d feel starving if I weren’t so fearfully anxious,” thought Tom. “Joe
is lucky that he can sleep. He’ll forget how awfully hungry he is. As
for poor Ted, his mixture of feelings must be something wonderful!”

In time, Halstead found himself fighting drowsiness. The very thought
that he might fall asleep so filled him with fright that he became
alertly awake. Slumber and a snore or two might be enough to break their
last slim chance of winning out for the Dunstans.




CHAPTER XXI—THE LAST DASH TO WIN


“What time is it, anyway?” breathed Joe.

That youth had awakened at last. He and Tom were discussing in whispers
what it was best to do. While they were still deliberating, a scraping
as though of a knife in a pipe-bowl, not a hundred yards away, had told
them that watchers were still about. That had brought out Joe’s
question.

“I don’t know. I’m going to see if I can make a guess,” hazarded
Halstead.

He crawled forward, thrusting his head a little beyond the mouth of the
hole, though still concealed by the thicket.

He tried to get at the position of the sun in the sky, but at first the
limited view he could obtain was bewildering. At last, however, Halstead
guessed at the position of the sun with a result that made him feel
heartsick.

“Joe,” he faltered, after wriggling back into the hole, “I’m sure it
must be afternoon. At that rate, we’re in our last minutes of chance. If
we reach Nantucket later than four o’clock we might about as well not
get there at all.”

“I’m with you for the dash, then,” breathed Joe, hard. “I don’t doubt
though, that the Alvarez crowd will go to any extreme, even shooting, if
they get sight of us. They’re just as desperate as we feel. However,
when you’re ready to lead the dash, pass the word, and I’ll hand Ted
Dunstan out.”

An impatient snort came from that helpless young man.

“Now, see here,” whispered Joe, warningly, as he gripped tightly at the
heir’s arm, “just leave any sign of noise out. If you don’t—well, you’ll
find me bad-tempered when I get roused.”

Tom once more stuck his head out into the thicket. He had no doubt that
it was already afternoon. Yes, surely, all must be risked on the one
last dash to win.

As he looked about him, and listened, he heard a new sound. It made his
heart beat fast. The sound was such as would come from the slow-running
gear of an automobile.

“Hear it, Joe?” he whispered, drawing his head in.

“Yes!”

“Stay here. Don’t venture out, unless I call you, Joe. But I’m going to
try to get out and stop that machine. The Alvarez crew wouldn’t, or
oughtn’t, dare do anything too ugly with other folks at hand. I’m going
to risk it, anyway.”

An instant later Tom Halstead’s body was half-way out of the hole,
though still concealed by the friendly thicket. He waited until he
judged that the approaching automobile was close at hand on the nearby
road.

Just as he was about to spring forth Halstead realized that even the
auto might be a part of the Alvarez equipment. Yet, on the one last
breath of a chance nothing was to be wasted by hesitation.

Judging the sound intently, Captain Tom suddenly leaped forth from the
hole, out of the thicket, and sprinted headlong for the road. Nor had he
misjudged his time. A touring car was coming along, less than fifty feet
away, as Halstead reached the low stone wall. There were, including the
man at the steering wheel, four men in the car.

“Stop! stop!” shouted Tom, waving his cap. “It’s fearfully important!”

As the car rolled to a stop, and the men in it leaned forward, Captain
Tom experienced another great throb. One of the men in the rear seat he
recognized as an officer who had joined in the search on the first day
of Ted’s disappearance.

“Oh, Mr. Warren, get out here, quick!” appealed the young skipper.
“There’s real and swift work in your line as deputy sheriff!”

Halstead’s excited manner and white face were enough, in themselves, to
carry conviction. Warren and another man leaped from the tonneau, each
reaching carelessly at a hip pocket as though to make sure that a weapon
was securely there.

“Yes, yes!” cried, the delighted young motor boat skipper. “Get your
pistols out. You may need ’em.”

Then, wheeling, Tom shouted back:

“Joe! Come here on the jump! It’s all safe, now!”

There was a sound of scrambling back at the thicket and hummock. Next,
Dawson almost flung Ted Dunstan ahead of him, then sprang out, snatching
up the slight body in his arms and running toward them.

“Now, let us into your car, and let us get away from here,” begged Tom,
while Warren, staring at Joe’s burden, gasped:

“You’ve got——”

“The Dunstan heir!” Halstead finished for him. “And the Alvarez crew are
thick about here. Don’t lose a moment.”

Joe leaped into the tonneau, passing up his burden ahead of him. The
rest crowded in. The man at the steering wheel let out a few notches of
speed, and the car shot ahead. For a few seconds nothing was heard from
any hostile watcher. Then a rifle report sounded, crisp and brisk, and a
bullet sang by close over their heads.

“I’m not going to have the law made a target of in that fashion,”
uttered Warren. “Stop the auto, and I’ll go back to give them all the
fight they want.”

“But wait until we get the Dunstan lad safe in Nantucket,” begged
Halstead.

“I guess you’re right about that,” nodded the deputy sheriff.

Instead of stopping, the man at the steering wheel had put on a burst of
speed.

Ted, bound and gagged, just as he had been, was being held on the knee
of one of the men.

“What time is it!” inquired Captain Tom.

“Twenty-five minutes of four,” replied Warren, hauling out his watch.

“Less than half an hour to fix up everything!” gasped Tom his face
blanching. “Oh, we must do some tall hurrying!”

“Why, we can be in the village in ten minutes,” replied Deputy Sheriff
Warren, soothingly.

“Yes, but this young man’s father and lawyer must be in court, too,
before four o’clock. Stop at the very first house where you see a
telephone wire running in, will you?”

Within two minutes the man at the steering wheel began to slow down. He
ran up before a cottage, stopping at the gate.

Tom leaped out before the car came to a full stop. Running to the door,
he encountered a pleasant-faced young woman.

“Let me use your telephone, in a hurry, will you?” panted Halstead.
“It’s on the law’s business.”

“Why, yes, of course,” replied the woman, smiling at the youth’s
flushed, excited face.

She pointed to the instrument in the hall.

“Give me Horace Dunstan’s place, on the _west_ shore, like lightning,
will you, Central?” begged Tom, as soon as he had rung.

He got the Dunstan place. The butler answered that Mr. Dunstan was not
at home, but at the Stillman House in Nantucket, with Mr. Crane.

“Oh, it’s you, is it, Captain Tom?” continued the butler. “You and
Dawson being away, the master imagined that you might be on the track of
the young gentleman. So, this afternoon, right after luncheon, Mr.
Dunstan and Mr. Crane went over to the Stillman House to wait for any
news that might come.”

“I’ve found Master Ted, and we’re trying to rush him to the court house
in time. I’ll call up Mr. Dunstan, thank you.”

With that he rung off, asking for the Stillman House. Nor did it need
more than a few seconds to get that anxious father to the telephone. He
had been waiting for such a call, hoping against hope.

In the fewest words possible Halstead told his employer the bare news of
finding the Dunstan heir, adding that they were now on the way to the
court house with him.

“Be over there, you and Mr. Crane,” urged Halstead, feverishly. “We will
do our best to reach you in time. Now—we’ve got to hustle—good by, sir!”

Again ringing off, then uttering a breathless “Thank you,” and leaving a
quarter of a dollar to pay tolls, Tom dashed out of the house.

Just as he had disappeared into the house, Warren turned to Joe, asking
curiously:

“Why have you got the lad bound and gagged in this fashion?”

“Because he wouldn’t come any other way,” retorted Joe.

“Can’t we just as well remove the cords and the gag, now?” insisted the
deputy sheriff.

“Yes; if you’ll he responsible for his not getting away,” agreed Dawson.

“Oh, I won’t let him get away, if he’s foolish enough to want to,”
promised Warren. He freed the young man. As soon as he could talk Ted
broke forth, angrily:

“This is all a wicked shame! My father wanted me to keep out of the way
for the present. These boys have been meddling from the start. My father
will be awfully angry with them, and with you all.”

“He will, eh?” queried Warren, good-humoredly. “Young man, do you know
that your father is nearly distracted over your absence, and that he has
had a lot of police officers and a small army of detectives hunting for
you all these days?”

“I don’t believe it,” retorted Ted, stubbornly. “Anyway, I haven’t
broken any law, and you’ve no right to keep me here. I’m going to get
out of this car.”

“I’m very sorry to say that you’re not, at least not until I’ve seen
your father,” rejoined the deputy. “My boy, I believe you’ve been badly
imposed upon by rascals. In any case, you’ll stay right here with me
until some one older than you are changes the orders.”

At this moment Tom came running down the path from the house.

“There’s the fellow who’s been the worst of the lot,” cried Ted
bitterly, tears of rage shining in his eyes.

“Has he?” smiled Warren. “Then I believe Halstead will come in for a
pretty handsome reward from your father.”

“Maybe,” hinted Joe, “if you folks can get us into Nantucket and up at
the door of the probate court before the minute of four.”

“Start her up, please,” begged Halstead, as his feet struck the running
board and he squeezed in among the tightly-packed crowd. “What time is
it now—exactly?”

“Twelve minutes to four,” responded Warren.

“Whew! What if we miss?” quivered Halstead, his face again paling.

“We won’t,” Warren assured him, as the car lurched forward.

Nor would there have been any danger, but about a mile out of Nantucket
something went wrong with the gasoline flow. The man driving the car had
to get out and crawl under. Two others got out and helped him. Halstead,
who had wound and set his watch by the deputy’s, sat watching the
fateful minutes slip by. In a very short time the car was ready to go on
again.

“I’ll speed her now,” promised the man at the steering wheel. “It’s make
or break.”

It was barely one minute before four when the touring car raced in sight
of the court building. In Nantucket the news had spread like wildfire
and now a crowd of hundreds of residents and summer guests had collected
before the court building. But at the gate of the grounds, each with a
watch in his hand, stood Horace Dunstan and Lawyer Crane.

“Here they come, Crane, thank heaven!” breathed Mr. Dunstan, tears of
joy springing up in his eyes. “Now rush, man—_rush!_”

Inside the court room Judge Swan sat on the bench. Down below stood a
solitary clerk. Two court officers lounged listlessly. Judge Swan,
having no case before him, was sorting some papers. He looked up to say:

“Mr. Clark, if there’s no further business to come before the court
to-day, you may declare it adjour——”

“_One moment, your honor!_”

Lawyer Crane fairly ran into the court room breathless, waving a paper
above his head as though to attract attention.

At that same instant a great, rousing, hoarse cheer began to well up
outside.

“I will ask the court to remain on the bench one or two minutes more,”
called the lawyer imploringly. “My clients, Mr. Horace Dunstan and his
son will appear before you instantly.”

Then father and son entered. The two court officers had already stirred
themselves into life to hold back the crowd of hundreds that attempted
to rush in also. Judge Swan nodded to the clerk, and the lawyer, finding
that his appeal was heard and granted, lost his excitement, becoming
once more the cool, methodical man of affairs.

Tom and Joe, and the officers waited in the corridor in case they should
be asked to make oath to their adventures. But the court not having been
in session the day before, thanks to Joe’s accident, all that was
necessary was for the judge to question the two Dunstans, to affix his
signature to certain papers and to order the will of Aaron Dunstan
entered for probate.

It was all over in ten minutes and court was promptly adjourned, and
Master Ted’s great inheritance was secured to him if he lived up to all
of the requirements of that remarkable document.

As the two Dunstans came out again the crowd surged about them in a
craze of hoarse excitement. Tom and Joe were caught up by men and
carried on their shoulders. It was a wild turmoil of laughter, cheering
and shouting.

Laughing good-naturedly both boys presently escaped from those who were
carrying them. Tom tried to push his way back to the Dunstans. The crowd
tried to make way for him, but it could not all be done in an instant.
While one of the young captain’s hands was behind him he felt a piece of
paper thrust against the palm.

As soon as he could, in that great crush, Halstead brought his hand
before him. On it, in scrawling letters, had been penned these words:

“It is all over—except your reward.”

Reward? Tom Halstead understood that message in an instant. It was a
plain threat from the balked Alvarez crew.




CHAPTER XXII—JED RUNS A NAVAL BOMBARDMENT


“Get into my machine, all hands,” urged Deputy Sheriff Warren. “It’s the
only way ever to get out of this crush.”

Those who could not sit in the auto had to stand, wedged in, as Warren,
clearing a way as fast as he could, got the various members of the party
to the car. Then, with a toot of the horn, the machine started.

“I want to get you all over to the hotel to see what is to be done in
the way of prosecution,” the deputy explained to Mr. Dunstan. “Your
lawyer can help us, too, if he will.”

Horace Dunstan had as yet had time to have but a very few words with his
now astonished son. As soon, however, as the party got in a room by
themselves Master Ted stepped quickly over to Halstead, holding out his
hand.

“I put up as good a fight against you as I could, captain,” he said,
“but now I want to apologize and thank you.”

“I knew that time would come,” Halstead laughed, as he took the younger
boy’s hand.

“Now we want to understand a few things,” broke in Lawyer Crane. “Master
Theodore, you have told us that you went away with strangers in
obedience to what you considered written instructions from your father.
Who handed you that note?”

“Gambon, dad’s gardener.”

“What did the note say?”

“The note said my inheritance was in great danger, and the two boys dad
had hired to run the ‘Meteor’ were in the plot against me. I was told to
go to the men to whom Gambon would take me and to follow their
instructions in everything for a few days.”

“And you believed all that?” demanded the lawyer.

“Yes. Why not?” challenged Master Ted. “I thought the note was in dad’s
own writing and he had always told me the truth about everything.”

“Did those men treat you roughly?” inquired the lawyer.

“Never a bit of it,” replied young Dunstan. “I thought I was having the
best time of my life. It was such fun to be in the woods, hiding from
the plotters, as they told me, and then scooting about from place to
place to get rid of our enemies, as I also thought. And we had a lot of
fine fishing. Oh, it was all a great good time—until Tom Halstead
pounced upon me and bore me away.”

“Where is that scoundrel, Gambon, now?” asked Lawyer Crane, looking
around at the others.

“He ought to be out at the Sanderson farm or near there,” replied Joe.
“I trailed him there and it was just after Gambon had slipped up to the
farmhouse that I ran against Tom in the dark.”

“We want that fellow, Gambon,” shouted Mr. Dunstan angrily. “I’ll pay a
good reward to have him caught and jailed.”

“Remember, we have only your son’s evidence that Gambon handed him the
note,” replied Mr. Crane. “There is no other witness on the point,
and——”

Rap, rap, rap! sounded a brisk summons on the door. Warren admitted
three men, one of whom he seemed to know.

“These gentlemen are United States officers,” the deputy stated, coming
back with the visitors, after a few words exchanged in a low tone. “Mr.
Dunstan, this is Mr. Lawrence. The Government turned over to him the
letter you sent about Alvarez and that fellow’s filibustering work.”

“I thought the Government intended to pay no attention to my letter,”
said Mr. Dunstan.

“At first our department couldn’t take up the matter,” replied Mr.
Lawrence. “All our men were busy. But Mr. Joyce,” turning to indicate
one of his companions, “has been here on the island since yesterday
morning. His news, however, leads us to believe that the filibusters
will not attempt to get away from here with their unlawful cargo for a
few days yet.”

“Then perhaps Mr. Joyce does not know,” put in Tom, “that Alvarez and
Sanderson have been moving that cargo from the farm buildings down to a
new shed near the pier.”

The United States officers looked at each other queerly at this
information.

“I think,” pursued young Captain Halstead, “that the Alvarez crew mean
to get their goods away to-night or to-morrow night.”

“This matter will have to have quick looking into,” said Mr. Lawrence,
hastily. “But one thing we came here to learn is whether you intend to
prosecute any of that crowd under the state law?”

“If you can get the Alvarez crowd under the federal law,” said Lawyer
Crane, quickly, “I think you will be able to push the prisoners harder.
For one thing, we might be hampered by the fact that Alvarez and his
associates didn’t actually steal young Dunstan, but lured him away. The
same thing, perhaps, but it might make a difference with a jury. What do
you say, Mr. Dunstan? Shall we forego prosecution in favor of giving the
national Government the best chance at the offenders?”

“Why, after thinking it over a bit,” rejoined Horace Dunstan, “I am
inclined to feel that I have won out over the rascals, and I can afford
to let it go by by laughing at them.”

“Good,” nodded Inspector Lawrence. “Then, Mr. Dunstan, there are still
hundreds of people outside the hotel, talking over the whole wonderful
story. Why don’t you go out, the local officers and your lawyer with
you? The crowd will be sure to yell for a speech. Make them a little
one, and in it state that you consider the joke is on your enemies. Add
that you have therefore forgiven that other crowd, and that you will
show it by attempting no prosecution.”

“I’ll do that if it will help you,” replied Mr. Dunstan, after looking
at his lawyer, who nodded.

“Dad, after this, if you send me notes,” said Ted, “you’ll have to have
a private way of signing your name, so I’ll know the note really comes
from you.”

Warren had been explaining the story of the mystery, aside, to Inspector
Joyce, who now broke in:

“Alvarez, as you may not know, was formerly a Mexican. A series of
forgeries, committed by him and detected, forced him to flee to
Honduras. So it is easy to understand how the note to young Dunstan was
forged.”

Ted again thanked Tom and Joe, and for that matter, the others who had
aided him. Then the Dunstan party prepared to go.

“Halstead, you and your friend will remain, I hope,” proposed Mr.
Lawrence.

“Certainly he may remain,” said Mr. Dunstan. “I fancy he can be of much
assistance to you, gentlemen. So will Dawson.”

“And Mr. Dunstan,” suggested Lawrence, going after Ted’s father, “may
we, if it seems necessary, use your boat to-night?”

“I would be a poor citizen to refuse that to the Government’s officers,”
smiled Mr. Dunstan. “Certainly you may have the ‘Meteor.’”

Warren and his friends remained, but went to another side of the room.
Tom and Joe were invited to seat themselves and go over the whole story
with the Government officers.

When Lawrence saw the note that had been pressed into Halstead’s hand,
out in the crowded square, the inspector looked rather grave.

“Yes, that defiance comes from Alvarez,” he declared. “Now, Captain
Halstead, until the rascals have been taken, or driven from the country,
you will do well to be wholly on your guard. Alvarez, when driven into a
corner, is as desperate and remorseless as is the proverbial fighting
rat.”

“You’re going over to Sanderson’s place to-night, are you?” asked Joe,
after some more of the tale had been told.

“Assuredly,” replied Mr. Lawrence. “We shall have to watch every night
until an attempt is made to get the unlawful cargo out onto the high
seas. But I am afraid Alvarez and his crowd will be in hiding to-night,
fearing the local officers on account of the Dunstan business.”

“Did you hear the cheers outside?” asked one of Warren’s companions,
entering at this moment. “Mr. Dunstan just made the requested speech.
There was a dead hush when he declared to the crowd that he had no idea
of attempting to prosecute the men who had lured his boy away. The crowd
was plainly disappointed.”

“It will be a good thing for us, if that news reaches the
Sanderson-Alvarez crowd,” mused Mr. Lawrence.

“I haven’t a doubt that the pleasing news will reach ’em,” smiled Tom
Halstead. “If they had a man in the crowd to force that note into my
hand, the same man must still be there and will take back any news that
he can.”

“Then we’ll stop talking of this matter until we’ve fortified ourselves
with something to eat,” proposed Mr. Lawrence. “Are you young men of the
‘Meteor’ hungry?”

“Hungry?” echoed Halstead, feelingly.

“No, I’m not really hungry,” stated Joe. “At the same time if a nice
little lamb, roasted whole, tried to walk by me just now, it would show
great want of judgment on the lamb’s part.”

“Then we’ll go to supper,” declared the inspector rising. “But you young
men would do well to keep away from us in the dining room, in case there
should be any watchers about for the Alvarez party. We can meet up here
again after the meal is over.”

When the boys, Warren’s party and the three United States officers came
together again Mr. Lawrence proposed that Warren take Joe in the auto
over to the Dunstan place. Joe and Jed could bring the “Meteor” around
to a wharf in Nantucket harbor, and all could embark.

“The trip could be made by land, in autos, of course,” Inspector
Lawrence explained to Halstead. “But there’s a possibility that we may
need to pursue a filibustering steam craft.”

Later on the hotel party sauntered down, in three or four groups, to the
wharf in question. By the time they arrived at the water front they made
out the “Meteor” just gliding into the harbor, Jed Prentiss at the wheel
and Joe in the engine room. The entire party quickly embarked, Tom now
taking the wheel. Darkness was just coming down as the “Meteor” with no
lights showing by Mr. Lawrence’s order, stole around Great Point. Now,
Halstead let out a few more notches of speed, the boat going swiftly
down the east coast of the island.

“Joe,” murmured Tom, his eyes shining as his chum came up from the
engine room, “do you remember the ‘great night’ we had off the mouth of
the Kennebec?”

“Yes,” nodded Dawson, “but this is going to be easier for us. Instead of
one, there are seven officers aboard to-night, and the sea is almost
glassy. This won’t be anything but a business trip, so to speak.”

Whether Joe was right in his prediction yet remained to be seen. At
Halstead’s suggestion, made to Inspector Lawrence, the “Meteor” was run
quietly into a small cove, just north of a bend that, in daylight, would
have shut them out of a view of Sanderson’s pier. As the motor boat was
carrying no lights Mr. Lawrence felt confident that they had made the
cove without having been discovered from lower down the coast.

“We’ll want two guides who know every foot of the way,” decided Mr.
Lawrence. “Dawson will know the way to the outbuildings behind the
farmhouse, and the lay of the ground about there. Halstead, you can
pilot some of us over the ground near the pier. Now that the anchor is
overboard the ‘Meteor’ will be safe here. Prentiss can remain aboard.
Even if he discovered trouble threatening, he could raise the anchor and
slip swiftly out into open water. The ‘Meteor’ can show a vanishing
stern to any other boat in these waters.”

“And if you _should_ want to signal us for help, Jed,” said Tom, a
moment later, bringing up on deck a box from one of the lockers, “here
are the signal rockets and Roman candles. Wait a moment.”

Tom disappeared below once more, to return with a tin-lined trough
affair. By means of two hooks he made this device fast at the port rail.
This “trough” was intended to rest a rocket in before touching it off
and sending it skyward.

“I’ll be snug and safe as anything,” declared Jed, smiling. He felt
brave enough, in fact, until the dingey, going ashore for the second
time, carried the last of his companions. Then all was still, absolutely
quiet, lonely and black. Jed, being highly imaginative, began to fancy
he saw figures darting from tree to tree on shore. The bushes had a
mysterious look, for it was so nearly dark that he could just make out
their outlines.

Prentiss had said of himself that he was a hero, in theory, but that
when danger faced him he was likely to forget much of his courage. There
are many such boys. They are not cowards, but are imaginative, have
highly strung nervous systems, and are without real experience of
danger. When that experience does come they often find themselves
possessed of far more grit than they had believed.

Time slipped by. Nothing happened to justify the state of Jed’s nerves.
He was lonely, and wondering what the others were doing. At last,
however, he heard something real. Prentiss sprang up, stepping to the
port rail to listen. The sound was unmistakable, that of a marine
engine, though as yet the sound was far away.

“Can that be the filibustering steamer?” Jed wondered, thrilling.

Nearer and nearer came the sound. Prentiss was enough of a salt-water
boy to know that the craft must be a more than usually fast one. The
strange craft was evidently keeping in close to shore. At last, the
keen-eyed boy grimly made out a sea-going tug. Then she came nearer, and
Jed knew that she was going to pass within an eighth of a mile.

“It must be the filibustering steamer,” throbbed the boy. “She’s not a
Government boat, yet she’s showing no lights. That boat _must_ be making
for Sanderson’s pier!”

Then, all of a sudden, a single light _did_ show. An electric
searchlight blazed out, sweeping its ray along the coast. It was hardly
a moment before that ray of light fell across the “Meteor” and remained
there.

“Wow!” ejaculated Jed, in his excitement. “Now, those fellows can get in
here before I can signal any of our crowd back to the ‘Meteor.’”

Prentiss immediately found himself trembling. He sprang down into the
engine room, intent on starting the motor. In his excitable state of
mind it seemed to him that the motor had at least a dozen drive wheels
and no end of other things that had to be handled.

“And, oh, dear! I haven’t got the anchor up!” he groaned. He rushed up
onto deck, only to find that the tug had started ahead again, and was
bearing down directly upon him. Three men could be dimly made out
forward of the pilot house.

“They’re going to bear down upon this craft and sink her!” guessed Jed.
“And, confound ’em, they can do it before I can get up anchor, get the
engine going, and get out of here!”

That it was the intention of those aboard the tug to ram the “Meteor,”
and thus put her out of commission, seemed decidedly plain. The tug was
steaming slow but straight for the motor boat. Jed paused in a frenzy of
uncertainty.

Then, all in a flash, a luminous idea came to him. It looked almost
crazy, yet it was the only thing that it seemed possible to do. Bending
down the signal rocket box, Jed grasped a piece of slow-match. This he
lighted, his fingers trembling. Then, as swiftly, he unfastened the
lower hook of that rocket trough. He was able, thus, to swivel the
trough over the port rail.

“Now, we’ll see if the scheme’s any good,” quivered Jed, snatching up a
rocket and resting it in the trough. Groping for his slow-match, he
sighted along the stick of the rocket. Shaking, he applied the glowing
end of the slow-match to the rocket’s fuse. There was a sputtering, then
a hiss.

Out over the waters shot the rocket, leaving behind a fiery trail. It
flew about three feet above the top of the tug’s pilot house, dropping
into the ocean beyond.

“It was my trembling hand that spoiled my aim,” gasped Jed. “Now,
another, and steady, old boy!”

Jed fitted the second rocket, applying the match. Whizz! Smash!

“Ho, ho!” roared Jed, for that rocket, going straight and true, had
smashed a light of glass in the tug’s pilot house. Bang! Being an
explosive rocket, the thing blew into a thousand fragments inside that
pilot house. A yell came from the man at the helm.

But Jed did not waste time looking or listening. He fitted another
rocket, touching it off after swift aim. That one whizzed between the
heads of two of the three men out forward, and Jed heard their rough
words of alarm and anger.

“Wow!” ejaculated the boy. “I’m a whole Navy! What?”

Another rocket he aimed at the three men. They scrambled in all
directions. Still another rocket Prentiss drove through the pilot house
windows. Jed heard the engine room bell jingle for the stop.

“I’ll give you plenty of it,” gritted Prentiss, thrusting a hand into
the box and bringing forth this time a stout Roman candle—a
fourteen-ball affair.

Lighting and waving it, Jed was ready, at the pop of the first ball, to
aim the affair at the tug boat. The missiles fell all about. Though Jed
did not know it, one of the hot, glowing balls struck Captain Jonas
French squarely on the end of his bulb-like nose. He let out an
Indian-like yell, dropping the wheel. Another man crawled in on his
knees to take the skipper’s place, but he kept down below the wood-work
of the front of the pilot house, steering by the lower spokes of the
wheel.

The tug’s bell sounded for reversed speed, then for the go-ahead, as the
craft swung her bow around. They were retreating, but Jed, chuckling
aloud in his glee, sent three more rockets after the tug, just to show
her people that he had plenty of ammunition left. Then, when the tug was
out of range, Jed stood up, gazing after her dim lines.

“Say, maybe there are a few Deweys left in America,” he laughed aloud.
“I wonder what’s the answer?”




CHAPTER XXIII—SPYING ON THE FILIBUSTERS


Meanwhile, at the Sanderson farm, business was proceeding at a rate that
entitled the word to be spelled with a very large capital “B.”

Mr. Lawrence and his comrades, under Captain Tom’s pilotage, were hidden
where, despite the darkness, they could get a very fair idea of what was
going on at the pier. Joe had led Warren and the other local officers up
where they could know what was going on behind the farmhouse. Sanderson,
Alvarez and all hands except Captain Jonas French, were working like so
many industrious ants. Two of the men were moving cases out of the new
shed onto the pier. The rest were bringing cases down to the pier from
the farm outbuilding. All the cases were being piled at the end of the
pier.

“That means they’re going to ship everything to-night,” whispered Mr.
Lawrence.

“When are you going to jump on them?” Halstead asked.

“Not until they get everything on their vessel, and get out on the
water. If we showed ourselves now, and tried to arrest the crowd, what
could we prove? Sanderson has a perfect right to stack any kinds of
merchandise on his pier. But when we overhaul a craft out on the water,
loaded down with filibuster’s supplies, and the captain of that craft
can show no regular papers for such a cargo, then we have the crowd
where we want them.”

It was a dull time waiting, but Inspector Lawrence was right, as a man
of his experience was quite likely to be. The time slipped on, with no
open move on the part of the law’s people.

“I thought I saw a rocket up north, then,” whispered Tom, at last.

“Watch and see whether there’s another,” replied Lawrence, also in a
whisper. But the rocket Tom had seen was the last that Jed had
derisively shot after the retreating tug. It wasn’t long, however,
before the young motor boat skipper and the United States officers heard
the sound of the tug approaching. They lay low, but watched, quietly
until the tug had docked at the end of Sanderson’s pier.

“We’ll still have to use patience,” smiled Mr. Lawrence, turning to Tom.
“This is going to be a watching game for some time yet.”

By now the gang that had been bringing cases down from the outbuilding
all filed out onto the pier. The sounds of brisk but regular loading
followed. An hour of this work, monotonous for the hidden watchers,
followed, and then another hour. Neither Tom Halstead nor Mr. Lawrence,
from their hiding place, could see the cargo piles on the pier very
distinctly.

“Halstead,” inquired the inspector, “do you suppose you can safely
wriggle nearer, and see how far the loading has gone?”

“I know I can,” Tom answered. “I’ll go slowly about it, and make never a
sound, or show myself.”

After a few minutes, in fact, Tom got within seven or eight feet of the
pier. He had crawled over the ground, and now lay flat with his head
behind the roots of a tree.

From where he lay he could make out Don Emilio Alvarez standing talking
with Captain Jonas French. The latter, with a swollen nose and a
powder-burned cheek, was telling the gentleman from Honduras all about
Prentiss’s remarkable achievement.

“Oh, say, but that was grand of old Jed!” breathed Tom, his sides
shaking with suppressed laughter. “If Jed doesn’t get a Carnegie medal
I’ll have my opinion of some folks!”

Don Emilio tossed away a half-burned cigar. The butt fell close by the
tree roots that helped conceal the head of the young motor boat skipper.
Perhaps the little brown man started slightly from something that the
glowing tobacco showed him. At all events, he spoke in a whisper to
Jonas French. The next instant both leaped down from the shore end of
the pier, rushing at the tree.

Tom Halstead sprang up, prepared to sprint for it, but hardly had he
started when he felt himself gripped savagely by French. One instant
more, and Tom Halstead found himself being borne, despite his yells and
furious, fighting struggles, out along the pier.

“All aboard and cast off!” yelled Jonas French, as he sped on over the
boards. The last case of the cargo had just gone over the tug’s rail,
and now two men sprang to cast off bow and stern hawsers. The engine
room bell jangled just as French and Alvarez, with their strenuous
prisoner, sprang aboard.

Inspector Lawrence and his two comrades had lost no time. They now came
dashing from concealment, but they were too late. As they arrived at the
end of the pier the tug was a hundred yards on her way.

At the starboard rail stood two seamen, holding Tom as in a vise. Behind
the young motor boat skipper stood Don Emilio Alvarez, waving a taunting
hand at the officers. Jonas French had gone forward to take command of
the tug.

The seamen, powerful, swarthy fellows who looked like Portuguese, held
Tom at the rail until the tug was half a mile from shore.

“Now, you can let go of him, my men,” nodded Alvarez, “but watch the
young man.”

“Mr. Captain, how would you like to stroll aft and look at a nice
surprise we may serve out to your friends?” The Honduran’s tone was
mocking, bantering, but Tom Halstead, filled with curiosity, accepted
the invitation. Alvarez led the way, the two seamen going behind the
boy.

On the deck aft stood something of considerable size, covered by a
canvas tarpaulin.

“Take off the covering,” directed Don Emilio. The two seamen obeyed.

“Fine, is it not?” chuckled Alvarez, pointing to a brightly polished
brass cannon.

“Yes; fine—not!” spoke Tom, in a voice of mingled anger and disgust.

“It is a signal gun, such as every vessel is allowed to carry,” chuckled
Don Emilio. “But our signal gun will also carry a two-inch shell—and we
have plenty of ammunition. If your precious ‘Meteor’ attempts to follow
us to-night we shall send her to the bottom of the ocean! You see, our
cargo is needed by brave and patriotic men in Honduras, and we are
desperate enough to take it there in the face of everyone.”

Then, changing his tone, Alvarez, as he glared at the boy, went on:

“Once you were good enough to ask me what I would do to you if I had you
in Honduras. Well, I shall show you, for you are bound for that fine
little country!”




CHAPTER XXIV—CONCLUSION


Young Halstead started and paled, as any one else would have done at
such awesome information. Then he forced a sneer to his lips.

“Are you foolish enough to think, Don Emilio, that you are going to be
allowed to escape to-night? You will sink the ‘Meteor?’ Perhaps, but
what will you do with that United States cruiser over there off the port
bow?”

As he pointed and spoke, Don Emilio and the two seamen rushed to the
port rail. Tom was quick to seize the chance that he had made. Sooner
than trust himself in Don Emilio’s hands, he would risk the dangers of
the deep.

When Don Emilio turned back Halstead was no longer on board. Leaping to
the starboard rail, Tom had sprung as far out as he could, and the
waters had closed over him.

In taking this desperate leap Tom had calculated, as well as he could,
on avoiding the suction of the tug’s propellers. As he struck the water
he fought against that suction, and soon felt himself beyond it.

When he came to the surface the fast-going tug was so far ahead that
Alvarez could not make out so small an object as the boy’s head through
the darkness and at the distance.

“Oh, the young fool has preferred drowning to going to Honduras!” cried
Alvarez, turning to the seamen. “Very good; let him have his choice.”

Tom, however, had no immediate plan of drowning. He was an expert
swimmer, and with the sea as smooth as it was to-night not even his
clothing hampered him much. In fact, he did not waste much strength on
swimming, but soon allowed himself to float, treading water whenever it
became necessary.

When the tug was leaving the wharf the young skipper was rather certain
he had heard revolver shots, which would quickly bring the law’s whole
fighting force together.

“They’ll come hustling along in the ‘Meteor,’” thought the boy. “If I
can only make myself seen it will be easier to be picked up than to swim
ashore.”

Nor was it long ere he beheld the rays of a searchlight flashing over
the water. The searchlight came nearer. Halstead felt certain that the
rays came from the boat that was usually under his command.

“Lawrence knows I was lugged aboard the tug, and Joe knows me well
enough to know I’d jump sooner than stay with that crowd,” was the
opinion with which Halstead comforted himself.

Nor was he disappointed. After a little the rays of the searchlight
shone in his eyes, forcing him to close them. But he waved one hand
aloft. Nearer came the “Meteor,” and nearer, until Halstead saw that the
boat was heading straight for him. Speed was shut off, while hails
sounded from the motor boat’s deck. The trim little craft, moving under
headway only, came close alongside, while Jed tossed a line over.

“Good old Tom!” cheered Jed. “Now, if you’re fit, swim for it”

So Tom Halstead, dripping, but triumphant and vengeful, returned to his
command.

“Take charge, captain, if you feel like it,” urged Lawrence, and Tom,
after casting aside his water-soaked coat, stepped to the wheel. “Keep
right on after that tug,” added the inspector. “I’ll swing the
searchlight for you.”

“I must caution you, though,” spoke Captain Halstead, after he had given
Joe the go ahead word, “that the tug carries a two-inch gun and plenty
of shells. Alvarez assured me that they’d sink you.”

“I don’t believe they’ll dare,” rejoined Mr. Lawrence, grimly
compressing his lips. “However, keep right on after them, and we shall
see.”

The tug was quickly picked up by the searchlight.

“Whew! How she’s cutting the water!” exclaimed Mr. Lawrence. “That tug
was surely built for fast work. She’s easily an eighteen-knot boat.”

While the chase kept up, Tom detailed his brief adventure aboard the
filibustering craft.

Though the tug was showing fine speed, the “Meteor” was so much faster
that at last the motor boat, dead astern, was within half a mile.

Bang! came a sharp report over the water, following a sharp, red flash
from the tug’s cannon.

“Blank charge—no shell,” commented Inspector Lawrence, coolly.

Holding the searchlight to the tug’s after deck, however, the inspector
and his friends saw two men again loading the brass cannon.

There was another flash, a report, and a projectile whizzed by to the
starboard of the motor boat.

“They seem to mean business, Joyce,” muttered the inspector. “You know
what comes now.”

Joyce and his comrade disappeared into the cabin, swiftly returning with
repeating rifles that they had brought aboard.

Tom, in the meantime, had slowed down the speed of the “Meteor.” To
those aboard the tug it might have looked as though the officers were
giving up the pursuit.

“Go ahead, now, captain,” directed Mr. Lawrence. “Right after the
scoundrels at full speed.”

As the “Meteor” once more cut the water, showing that she could easily
overhaul the tug, Alvarez and two of his men were shown in the
searchlight rays to be returning to their cannon.

“Open up on them, but just pester them,” directed the inspector. “Don’t
try to hit them unless they insist on loading their piece.”

Zip! zip! zip! Bullets struck the deck house and side rails of the tug
as the two United States officers fired rapidly.

Alvarez, at the first fire, pulled off his hat, waving it defiantly. But
now the continuous fire from the motor boat drove all three from the
gun. They fled forward.

“Close right in alongside,” ordered Mr. Lawrence grinning. “Joyce and
the other man are experts at the rifle game.”

It took but a few minutes to close the gap between tug and motor boat.
As the “Meteor” ran up to port of the filibusters Captain Jonas French
was the only man showing beside the seaman in the pilot house.

“We’re going to run alongside and board you!” yelled the inspector. “We
won’t have any nonsense, either. It will be worse for you if you try
it.”

“What are your orders?” asked Captain Jonas, resignedly.

“Stop your speed and reverse. Then lie to and wait for us to board.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” growled French, in the tone of a man who had played and
lost. The tug soon lay motionless on the water, while the “Meteor”
ranged in alongside. Lawrence and his two comrades stepped over the
tug’s rail first. Then Deputy Warren and his three brother officers
followed. They represented only the county authorities, but had come
along to make the force stronger.

As the two craft fell away again Tom waved his hand banteringly to
Alvarez, now out on deck and being searched for weapons.

“Sorry, Don Emilio, that I couldn’t spare the time to go to Honduras
with you,” called the young skipper. “But stay with us here in America
for a while.”

Saluting with their whistles the two craft parted company, the “Meteor”
returning to the Dunstan place with only her regular crew aboard.


Few words are needed to complete this present narrative of the doings of
the Motor Boat Club boys.

Master Ted Dunstan, of course, entered in upon the first portion of his
great inheritance, and is now earnestly proceeding to fit himself, in
every way possible, for a cadetship at West Point, preparatory to
becoming an officer in the Army. In time he will unquestionably qualify
to inherit the great fortune that was bequeathed him under such unusual
conditions. It was afterwards proven, and most satisfactorily, that
Ted’s Uncle Gregory had no part in the plot against the boy. That
conspiracy was hatched in the fertile brain of Don Emilio Alvarez.
Further, it may be stated that Gregory Dunstan has sold his plantation
in Honduras, and that he is never likely to become again mixed up in a
revolution in Honduras, for he has become again a resident of
Massachusetts. Alvarez, probably, was all along the cause of Gregory
Dunstan’s mixing in the politics of Honduras, and Don Emilio had hoped,
by throwing the great Dunstan fortune to Uncle Gregory, to put it where
the Honduran politicians could draw upon it.

Farmer Sanderson did not leave on the tug, but was arrested at his own
home. He was afterwards sentenced, in a United States court, to serve
one year in prison for aiding the filibusters. Captain Jonas French and
Alvarez were each sentenced to serve two years, while the other
Hondurans received a year apiece. The mate and crew of the tug were
discharged from custody, as it was considered they had not been
plotters, but had merely signed for a cruise, as they might have done
aboard any other vessel. Gambon escaped, but was lately injured in a
railway wreck, and is now crippled for life.

Horace Dunstan, as he promised, did not prosecute through the State
courts. He was well pleased at the happy ending of the whole affair, and
considered that Alvarez and the others had been sufficiently punished.
Pedro, a Jamaica negro who had afterwards gone to Honduras to live, and
thus spoke both English, and Spanish, was one of the Hondurans to
receive a year’s sentence, as his connection with the Alvarez crowd was
fully established.

The yellow launch that Tom was instrumental in seizing was afterwards
claimed by, and surrendered to, a boat-owner up the coast who had rented
the boat to Captain Jonas French.

Tom and Joe? They are still the leading members of the Motor Boat Club.
Jed was also admitted, and is one of the most expert of the young
members.

Horace Dunstan rewarded everyone who had anything to do with the
liberation and protection of his son. Tom, Joe and Jed were all offered
much larger rewards than any one of them could be induced to accept. Yet
each of the boys, in the end, accepted a sum that provided not only a
good time at once, but also for each a tidy little reserve fund in bank.

Here we will take leave of the three boys amid Nantucket surroundings.
They will be heard from again, however, at a later date, in a further
volume, filled with their exciting adventures, under the title: “The
Motor Boat Club Off Long Island; Or, A Daring Marine Game at Racing
Speed.”


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