"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.