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THE four men were in the smoking-car, spinning along toward Milwaukee.
Beveridge handed Dick a cigar. Then, after a little:--
“Say, Smiley, I'm doing a rather odd thing with you.”
“Are you?”
“Yes--in taking you off here instead of having you locked right up in
Chicago.”
Dick waited.
“You see, I have thought this business over pretty carefully; I have
thought _you_ over pretty carefully--and I like you. Now I have been
some time on this case, and I understand it, I think. I understand you,
and McGlory, and Stenzenberger, and the lot of you. But there is one
place where I'm still weak,--that is Spencer and his places up there in
Lake Huron. That is the only thing we haven't run down. I could get
it of course in time, but it _would_ take time, and that's just what I
don't want to take now. I'm depending on you to set me right. Of course
it's your privilege, if you want, to shut your mouth up tight. But I
don't take you for that sort of a chap. I have a way of my own of going
at these things. There are some of our men would bully you, but that
isn't my way--not with you. I 'll tell you right here, that any help you
can give me will be a mighty good thing for you in the long run.”
“What do you expect me to tell you?”
“You will know at the proper time. All I want to find out now is whether
you are going to stand by me and help me through with it or not.”
“Why, I will do what I can.”
“What does that mean exactly?”
“I will tell you all I know.”
“All right, sir. Now we understand each other. And I 'll do what I can to
make it easy for you.”
“There's one thing--”
“What is it?”
“What are you going to do with us in Milwaukee?”
“If we have to stop over night, why, we 'll go to a hotel.”
“Not the jail, eh?”
“No,”--Beveridge gave his prisoner a keen glance, then shook his
head,--“no, that won't be necessary.”
The _Foote_ was not at Milwaukee; apparently she was not at Sheboygan,
Manitowoc, Sturgeon Bay, or Marinette. Throughout the night, while
Dick and Harper were shut up with Wilson on the top floor of the hotel,
Beveridge haunted the telegraph office downstairs. Simultaneous messages
went out to Cedar River, Green Bay, Two Rivers, Kewaunee,--to every
little town along the west shore, even back to Kenosha, Racine, and
Waukegan. Then Beveridge thought of the east shore, and tried all the
ports from Harbor Springs down to St. Joseph, but with no success. He
dropped on the lounge in the hotel office for a cat nap now and then.
And finally, at half-past five in the morning, he was called to the
telephone and informed that the _Foote_ had just been sighted heading in
toward the breakwater.
Promptly he aroused his prisoners, who obligingly tumbled into their
clothes; and the party drove down to the river and boarded a tug. A
little time was to be saved by meeting the revenue cutter before she
could get in between the piers. So out they went, past silent wharves
and sleepy bridge keepers, out into the gold of the sunrise.
There was the _Foote_ nearly in, her old-fashioned engine coughing hard,
her side wheels beating the water to a foam, making her very best speed
of nine miles an hour. She caught the signal from the tug, stopped,
backed, and let down her companion ladder. Captain Sullivan, a grizzled
veteran, bearing evidences of hasty dressing, was at the rail to meet
them.
“Well,” said Beveridge, “I'm mighty glad to see you, Captain. I didn't
know whether you were on earth or not.”
“I got your message at Sturgeon Bay, and came right down.”
“Did you answer?”
“Of course,” somewhat testily. “You gave me no Milwaukee address. I sent
it to Lakeville.”
“That so? They should have forwarded it. They must have gone to sleep
down there.”
“I know nothing about that. All clear down there? All right, Mr.
Ericsen!”
The tug backed away, the paddle-wheels revolved again, and the old
steamer swung around in a wide circle.
“You haven't told me where you want to go, Mr. Beveridge.” Captain
Sullivan was taking in Smiley and Harper with an eye that knew no
compromise.
“We 'll do that now, Cap'n. Mr. Smiley here is going to help us out a
little if you will show us your chart of Lake Huron.”
“_He_ is!” was the Captain's reply. Then he turned abruptly and led the
way up to the chart room.
The chart was spread out, and the three men bent over it.
“Now, Mr. Smiley,” said Beveridge, “can you put your finger on Spencer's
place?”
Dick did so.
“There's a harbor there, you say?”
“What's that nonsense,” broke in Captain Sullivan, “a harbor behind
False Middle Island?”
“Yes,” Dick replied, “a good one.”
“You'd better tell that to the Hydrographic Office.”
“I don't need to tell it to anybody. I've been in there with my
schooner.”
“When was that, young man?”
“This month.”
The Captain turned away with a shrug, and joined his lieutenant on the
bridge. “We 'll make for False Middle Island, Mr. Ericsen, just beyond
Seventy Mile Point.”
“Very well, sir.”
Deliberately, very deliberately, the Foote coughed and rumbled
northward, and Milwaukee fell away astern. She could not hope to catch
the Merry Anne if the southerly breeze should hold. The schooner was
running light, and even though she might have made but eighty or ninety
miles during the night, she was by this time more than abreast of
Milwaukee, and on the east side of the Lake, where she had the advantage
in the run for the Straits of Mackinac.
“Do you think,” asked Beveridge, when the Captain had gone to the
bridge, “that we can overhaul her in the Straits?”
Dick shook his head. “Hardly. She has had a pretty steady breeze all
night.”
“But it isn't very strong.”
“It doesn't need to be. There is nothing she likes better than running
before just such a breeze. And when the sun is well up, it will blow
harder.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“This here is sort of an old tub, too.”
Dick sniffed. “You have to watch the bubbles to see which way she's
going.”
Beveridge studied the chart. “See here,” he said, “where's the Canadian
hangout?” Dick laid his finger on the indentation that represented Burnt
Cove.
“Beyond the--what's this--Duck Island?”
“Just beyond the Duck Islands.”
“Which place do you think he will make for?”
“Well--I can only tell you what I think.”
“Go ahead.”
“What McGlory will do will be to head for Spencer and take off the old
man.”
“And then run over to Burnt Cove?”
“That's what I think. Burnt Cove is in Canada, you see.”
“Yes, I see it is. The boundary line runs down west and south of
Manitoulin Island.”
“If you want to stop him very bad, you'd better have Captain Sullivan
go over to the boundary, close to Outer Duck Island, and then head for
Spencer. In that way we shall be approaching Spencer along the line that
McGlory must take if he tries to make the cove; and if it is not night,
we ought to stand a good chance of sighting him. I figure that we ought
to get up there just about in time.”
“Of course, he doesn't know that we're so hot on his trail,” mused
Beveridge.
Dick sniffed again. “If you call this hot.”
The Captain returned from the bridge, and Beveridge repeated Dick's
suggestion.
“How are we to know this schooner?”
“She's sky-blue with a white line.”
“Is she fast?”
“She don't need paddle-wheels to beat this.” This remark did not please
Captain Sullivan. He turned away.
“I don't know how you feel, Smiley,” said
Beveridge, “but I didn't get much sleep last night. Did you?”
“Precious little.”
Within a few moments, while the colors of the dawn were fading, while
the _Foote_ was pounding heavily along northwest by north, the special
agents and their two prisoners were sleeping like children.
At two o'clock Thursday morning the Foote lay, with motionless engines
and lights extinguished, to the southward of Jennie Graham Shoal, near
Outer Duck Island. Smiley and Harper, with Wilson close at hand, stood
leaning on the rail, watching a launch that the crew were lowering to
the water.
“Well,” said Dick, in a low voice, “it looks as if we might get them.”
“Shouldn't wonder,” Wilson replied. He, too, was subdued by the strain.
“Pretty dark, though.”
“That isn't all on their side.”
“No, perhaps it isn't. Going to put out both launches, eh?”
“It looks that way.”
Cautiously and swiftly the sailors worked. One launch, and then the
other, was lowered into the water.
“Pretty neat, ain't it?” whispered Pink. “Why, with this wind they've
got to run in right by one or other of the boats to get to Burnt Cove.
Would they let us sail the _Anne_ around, think, if they get her back?”
Dick shook his head.
Farther aft Beveridge was talking to Captain Sullivan. “It's the only
thing to do, Captain. With him along, we can't miss her.”
“I've nothing more to say. I don't like it; but he's your man.”
“One thing more, Captain. It won't hardly be necessary to send an
officer with me.”
“But--”
“You see Wilson and myself, and about four husky sailors, a couple of
'em to run the launch, will be enough, Why not just leave it that way?
You might tell your men they're to take my orders.”
His meaning was obvious to the Captain; but he hesitated. This man
Beveridge was young and bumptious. Irregular things had sometimes to be
done, but it were best that they should be done by a seasoned officer.
Still, it was Beveridge's case. They walked together toward the
prisoners.
“Smiley,” said Beveridge, “I'm going to take you along. I guess there
isn't much doubt you could tell your schooner in the dark?”
“Tell her in the dark!” exclaimed Pink. “Why, he knows the squeak of
every block!”
So Dick went. The Captain added a fifth sailor for safety, and took time
to give him a few quiet instructions before he joined the launch. Then
they pushed off and slipped away into the night. For four hours after
that, the only sound heard aboard the _Foote_, where Pink, sleepless,
hung over the rail, guarded by a deep-chested sailor, was the occasional
puff-puff of one of the launches as it changed its post. A dozen pairs
of eyes were searching the dark, looking for any craft that might be
coming from Michigan.
As Captain Sullivan suspected, Beveridge's launch was over the Canadian
boundary half an hour after she lost sight of the ship. Then Beveridge
drew Dick back near the boiler. “Tell me this, Smiley. Do you think
those fellows could possibly have got through before now?”
“I haven't much doubt of it.”
“What makes you think so?”
“Because of the wind. It has never let down a minute since they started.
If they lost no time at Spencer's, they could have done it easily.”
“That's what I thought. Will you take the wheel and pilot us into Burnt
Cove?”
“Sure, if you want me to.”
Dick took the wheel. The fifth sailor spoke up. “You can't do that,
sir.”
“Can't do what?” said Beveridge.
“Take the wheel, sir. Powers is to keep the wheel. That's the orders.”
“There's nobody but me giving orders here.”
“Sorry, sir; but Powers has got to keep the wheel.”
“We won't have any talk about this, young man. I'm a special agent of
the United States Treasury Department, and I'm running this business.
Powers can sit down.”
The sailor's orders evidently did not warrant him to resist further.
Dick looked about for his bearings. Dimly he could make out the islands
to the left. “What does she draw?” he asked.
“Two feet.”
With only two feet of draft he could take chances. He was directly on
the course that the Merry Anne had taken in leaving the cove, and he
felt as certain, with the compass before him, as if he had made the trip
by night a hundred times. There was very little sea, and the launch made
good progress. “You might tell the engineer to crowd her all he can,” he
said to Beveridge. “It's quite a run.”
Once Dick glanced back; and he winced. There sat Wilson, on his left
hand and not a yard away, with a rifle across his knees. At this moment
Beveridge returned from a whispered consultation with the engineer, and
scowled at his assistant. “That isn't necessary, Bert,” said he. “Put it
up.”
The overzealous young man laid the rifle on the seat behind him; and
Beveridge, after a moment of hard thinking, his eyes fixed on Dick's
muscular back, came up beside the wheel and leaned on the coamings.
Dick's gaze left the compass only for the darkness ahead, where the
outline of something that he knew to be a coast line was, to his trained
eye, taking shape.
“Say, Smiley,”--the special agent's voice was lowered; his tone was
friendly,--“don't let that bother you. Nobody is holding a gun on you
here. That isn't my way--with you.”
Dick's eyes were fixed painfully on the compass.
“I just want you to know that it was a mistake. These guns aren't for
you.”
Beveridge, having said enough, was now silent. Apparently too boyish for
his work, often careless in his talk, he was handling Smiley right,
and so well did he know it that he was willing to lounge there at his
prisoner's elbow and watch the course in silence. If Beveridge was
ambitious, greedy for success and promotion, frequently unscrupulous
as to the means to be employed,--as now, when he was deliberately going
into English territory, an almost unheard-of and certainly unlawful
performance,--hard, even merciless, so long as he regarded only his
“case”; he was also impulsive and sometimes warm hearted when appealed
to on the personal side. He had, before now, gone intuitively to the
heart of problems that stronger minds than his, relying on reasoning
alone, had been unable to solve.
Much as a bank teller detects instantly a counterfeit bill or coin,
he picked his man. He was quick to feel the difference between
a right-minded man who has fallen into wrong ways and the really
wrong-minded man. His course tonight was a triumph. He had given his
prisoner the means to lead his little party to destruction, but he knew
perfectly that nothing of the sort would be done. More, the only man
aboard who could prove in court that he had gone over that vague thing,
the boundary line, was this same prisoner, who should, by all sensible
thinking, be the last man to trust with such information; and yet he
felt perfectly comfortable as he leaned out a little way and watched the
foam slipping away from the bow.
The launch went on toward the increasing shadows, plunged through the
surf, and glided into the cove.
“See anything?” whispered Beveridge.
“Not a thing,” Smiley replied.
“She isn't here, eh?”
“No, neither of them.”
“Neither of what?”
“Neither the _Anne_ nor the _Estelle_, Spencer's schooner. Shall we go
back outside?”
“Yes.”
“You speak to the engineer, then. This bell makes too much noise.”
They backed cautiously around and returned through the surf to deep
water.
“Lie up a little way off the shore here,” said Beveridge; “we 'll cut
them off if they try to get in.”
For a moment nothing was said; then this from Smiley, “Do you mind my
saying a word?”
“No. What?”
“It has just struck me--we are wasting time here.”
“You think so?”
“I know so.”
“Why?”
“It stands to reason that McGlory would expect to be chased, don't it?”
“Of course.”
“Well, then, he is not going to put right over here after he has
taken off old Spencer, is he? It's almost like running back on his
course--amounts to the same thing.”
“But he is likely to come here, isn't he?”
“I should think so.”
“Well,” impatiently, “how else could he do it?”
“Easily enough. He could go right on east from Spencer's place and make
for Owen Channel, up near the head of Georgian Bay. That's at the other
end of this island.”
“Manitoulin Island? Is it as big as that?”
“Yes, it lies all across this end of Lake Huron. If he went through Owen
Channel, he could get around into the North Channel, and then down into
Bayfield Sound and Lake Wolsey. Bayfield Sound, you see, pretty nearly
cuts the island in halves. It is right opposite here, only a few miles
overland. That would be a long way around, but it is the safe way. You
see, I've been thinking--”
“Well--what?”
“Why, he would be likely to think just like I did, that when you had got
up here you wouldn't be able to resist coming on across the line.”
“You seem to know these routes pretty well for a man who has been to
Spencer's only once.”
“I saw it on the chart the other day. A man couldn't help figuring that
out.”
“What would you suggest doing?”
“Putting for Spencer's, just as tight as your old stationary wash-tub
can make it.”
“But hold on, now. If you think they have got away from there long
ago--”
“I _think_ that, but I'm not sure. Supposing they have--then you've lost
them anyhow. Don't you see? But suppose there was a delay in getting
away there,--it's more than likely McGlory and Spencer wouldn't agree.
McGlory isn't the agreeing kind, and I don't think Spencer is either. It
will be daylight before so very long, and with this wind they can't get
here, if they're coming here at all, without our sighting them on the
way over. And there is just a fighting chance of catching them there
before they make for Georgian Bay, or some other place we don't know
of.” Beveridge thought a moment. “There is something in that. We 'll do
it.”
At mid-morning the _Foote_ stopped her engines abreast of False Middle
Island, and Captain Sullivan sent for Beveridge.
“You tell me there is a harbor in there?”
“That's what I understand. But it won't be necessary to take the steamer
in.”
The Captain's expression showed that he had not the slightest notion of
taking her in.
“I think,” Beveridge went on, “that you had better put me ashore with
a few men in there north of the island. I 'll go around behind the
sand-dunes and come on the place from the woods. Then if they should be
there, and if they should try to run out, you can stop them. I 'll have
Smiley guide me.”
“You're going to take him ashore with you?
“That's what I'm going to do.”
“I don't believe in this!”
Beveridge said nothing.
“Oh, very well. I 'll have a boat ready.” Smiley was called, and
Beveridge drew him aside and outlined his plan. Shortly Wilson joined
them, and a half-dozen sailors were picked from the crew. Then, all but
Smiley armed with rifles and revolvers, they descended to the small boat
and were brought rapidly to the shore.
“Which way?” asked Beveridge, sticking close at Smiley's elbow.
“I 'll show you; come along.” He led the way back among the pines
and made a circuit, bringing up squarely on the landward side of the
settlement.
“Where is it now, Smiley?”
“Right there.”
Beveridge peered out through the trees, then beckoned his men together.
“Come in close, boys, and pick your trees. Keep out of sight--and quiet.
Take my rifle, one of you.”
“Shall we go in?” asked Wilson.
“You stay here, Bert.”
“Hadn't you better take your rifle?”
“No, I don't want it. Quiet now.”
The men spread out, taking places where they could command the
outbuildings.
“Smiley?”
“Yes.”
“Which is Spencer's house--where he lives himself?”
“The biggest one. You can see the roof over that shed there.”
“All right. Much obliged.”
Beveridge walked rapidly out into the clearing and disappeared around
the shed. They heard him mount Spencer's front steps and knock.
“He's plucky enough,” muttered Dick.
“Oh, don't you worry about Bill Beveridge,” said Wilson. “Why, I've seen
him--”
But Beveridge was calling for them to join him.
“Nobody here?” asked Wilson.
“Not a soul. I took a look around the house. They left in a hurry. See
there.”
He nodded toward the harbor. There lay the Merry Anne at the wharf. The
smaller schooner was not to be seen.
“Too late, eh?” said Wilson.
“Too late.”
“Suppose they've gone overland?”
“Not a bit of it. They left Smiley's schooner here and went off in
Spencer's.”
“Oh, he had one too?”
“Certainly he did.”
Dick had made headlong for the schooner. Now they saw him standing on
the after deckhouse, reading a paper which he had found nailed to the
mast.
“What have you there?” called Beveridge.
“Come and see.”
The special agent joined him and took the paper. “It's hard enough to
read. Whoever wrote this was in a big hurry. What's this? 'Left again.
You'd better foot it home. Whiskey Jim.' Whiskey Jim, eh? He's stealing
your thunder, Smiley.”
“Will you let me see it again?” said Dick. He sat down on the edge of
the deck-house and read it over, gazing at it with fascinated eyes. The
other men watched him curiously.