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THE MOTOR BOAT CLUB AT NANTUCKET
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   :PG.Title: The Motor Boat Club at Nantucket
   :PG.Id: 40605
   :PG.Released: 2012-08-28
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Roger Frank
   :PG.Producer: the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
   :DC.Creator: \H. Irving Hancock
   :DC.Title: The Motor Boat Club at Nantucket
              The Mystery of the Dunstan Heir
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1909
   :coverpage: images/cover.jpg

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   :lg:`THE MOTOR BOAT CLUB AT NANTUCKET`

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   OR

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   The Mystery of the Dunstan Heir

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   By

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   \H. IRVING HANCOCK

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

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   Illustrated

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   Philadelphia
   Henry Altemus Company

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   Copyright, 1909, by Howard E. Altemus

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   :alt: “Help! I Drown!” Came in a Muffled Voice.

   “Help! I Drown!” Came in a Muffled Voice.

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.. contents:: Contents
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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!”

.. figure:: images/illus-102.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: “Clear Out of This!” Ordered the Dunstan Heir.

   “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.

.. figure:: images/illus-136.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: Tom Remembered the Toy Pistol, Just in Time.

   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.

.. figure:: images/illus-204.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: Tom Pushed the Heir Through the Window.

   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.

.. vspace:: 2

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.”

.. vspace:: 2

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   THE END.

.. clearpage::

.. container:: plainpage white-space-pre-line

    .. class:: center

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    .. vspace:: 2

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    .. class:: center

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.. clearpage::

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    .. class:: center

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.. clearpage::

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   .. class:: center

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   .. vspace:: 2

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   .. vspace:: 2

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      By Jessie Graham Flower, A.M.

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      | Or, The Merry Doings of the Oakdale Freshmen Girls.

   .. class:: center

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      | At all booksellers or sent postpaid by the publishers.
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      | PHILADELPHIA

.. clearpage::

.. container:: plainpage white-space-pre-line

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.. vspace:: 6

.. pgfooter::
