HARRY HEARS A NOISE IN THE BUSHES.
“And now for some sleep.”
Ralph spoke, as, after enjoying a hearty breakfast of fruit, steaks and
coffee, the two latter cooked on the _River Swallow’s_ electric broiler
by Percy Simmons, the three boys, who had passed such a sleepless,
trying night, yawned openly in each other’s faces.
Malvin had the wheel with orders to steer direct for Dexter Island.
Ralph had already questioned the man and, as Harry Ware had prophesied,
Malvin, the inscrutable, had his excuses all down “pat.”
It was as he had said, he declared. The swift current at the point from
which the lads had left the larger craft in the tender had caused the
anchor to drag. Caught by the swift current, and with only the Norwegian
to run the engines, Malvin declared he had had a narrow escape from
going on the rocks.
His story was circumstantial, direct, and told without the flicker of an
eyelid. Ralph had no choice but to accept it, as well as Malvin’s
explanation that he had been searching for the boys ever since he had
regained control of the large craft.
It is almost unnecessary to say that Ralph, in view of his suspicions of
the man, did not believe, at least as a whole, Malvin’s carefully
detailed story. In fact, he resolved to question the Norwegian hand at
some later time. But it may as well be stated here that from Hansen, a
stolid fellow who fully lived up to his title of “squarehead,” the boys
were able to glean but little.
Ralph and his chums slept till noon. They were astonished when Harry
Ware, the first to awaken, peeped out of a porthole and announced that
they were lying at the dock at Dexter Island.
“Confound that fellow Malvin,” muttered Ralph. “I told him to call us as
soon as we landed off the island. We must have got here more than two
hours ago, and yet he let us sleep; just another instance of his
carelessness.”
There came a knock on the cabin door.
“Come in,” cried Ralph, and then, as Malvin entered with a folded paper
in his hand, he demanded why they had not been called.
“My father was expecting——” began Ralph, when Malvin interrupted him.
“Begging your pardon, sir, here is a note from your father.”
“A note?” exclaimed Ralph, in an astonished voice.
“Yes, sir.”
“I don’t just see why dad should send me a note, when he is here on the
island himself,” said Ralph, as he took the folded paper.
“That’s just it, sir, if I may say so,” said Malvin, more obsequiously
than ever; “you see, he isn’t here.”
“Not here!”
“No, sir. He left the island last night on Mr. Collins’ boat. The
servant who handed me the note said that it would explain everything.”
“All right. You can go, Malvin.”
Ralph unfolded the paper and saw that scrawled on it in his father’s
big, forceful writing were a few words. It was characteristic of the
older Stetson that he didn’t waste words when he had anything to say.
The note read as follows:
“Dear Jack: Called away to Montreal. Conference on a steel-rail deal for
the new Georgian Bay Railroad. Can’t tell when I’ll be back, but get
along as best you can and enjoy yourself.
“Dad.
“P. S.—I hailed Collins’ boat as she went by and he will take me to
Point Lalone, where I can catch the Grand Trunk for Montreal. My address
will be Imperial Hotel, Montreal.”
“Well, if that isn’t too bad! Just when we need his advice, too,” burst
out Harry, as Ralph concluded reading the brief note aloud to his chums.
“It is hard luck. But it’s just like dad,” laughed Ralph. “Here he comes
up here for a vacation, and the first thing you know he’s plunging off
to Montreal to bury himself in work again!”
“That’s the American business man all over,” commented Percy Simmons
judicially; “duty before pleasure; the nose to the grindstone always.”
“No danger of your ever being taken that way,” scoffed Harry Ware; “a
hammock and a big glass of ice cream soda for you, if you ever get
rich.”
“Oh, I don’t know that I’m any exception to some folks I know,” retorted
Percy airily.
“Say, fellows, let’s go up to the house,” suggested Ralph. “I want to
make some inquiries about what time dad left, and so on. Then this
evening we might take a run over to the Canadian shore and send a wire
to the Imperial.”
“All right,” rejoined Harry; “suits me.”
“Look out, we might encounter that spook craft again,” said Percy
Simmons teasingly.
“Oh, all right for you,” retorted Harry, flushing up, “you, buried down
in the engine room! You didn’t see that boat when she burst out into a
green glare. I thought sure it was that _Lost Voyageur_ craft that they
tell about.”
“I’ve a notion,” remarked Ralph, as they walked up the path leading from
the boat landing to the large, handsome house that topped a rising
knoll, “I’ve a notion that others than ourselves might be interested in
hearing about that ghost craft.”
“Who, for instance?” asked Harry.
“Why, the authorities. I’ve a strong inclination to report the matter to
the Canadian police when we run over there to-night.”
“Why not kill two birds with one stone and run into Cardinal? We could
find out there how our young friend is getting along, and also do what
you suggest. But what makes you think the authorities would be
interested in the matter?”
“Why, just this. That craft is engaged in some sort of nefarious
business, probably smuggling. It’s the only plausible explanation for
the conduct of those on board her, and all their devices to throw
pursuing craft off her track.”
“Smuggling! I guess you’ve hit the nail on the head, all right, Ralph.
But why should she have been seen off this island?”
“That is exactly what I want to find out,” was Ralph’s rejoinder. “In
fact, if I wasn’t so certain that some link exists between that queer,
night-roving boat and Dexter Island, I wouldn’t take so much trouble to
run all possible clews down.”
“Hark! What was that?” exclaimed Harry Ware suddenly, stopping and
wheeling right about face.
“What?”
“I heard a rustling sound in that clump of bushes,” explained the boy.
“Gracious! More spooks. You’ve got ’em on the brain,” scoffed Percy
Simmons loudly.
“Say, just can that comedy stuff of yours, will you?” demanded Harry
Ware. Then turning to Ralph, he said, “It wasn’t my imagination, Ralph.
I sure heard something in there.”
“Probably a squirrel. There are several on the island,” rejoined Ralph.
“Yes, make a noise like a nut and maybe he’ll come out,” kindly
suggested Persimmons.
“Thanks for the suggestion, but I’ll leave that to you. You see, you
could do it more naturally,” parried Harry Ware, to Percy’s
discomfiture.
“We’ll take a look in there just to satisfy ourselves,” said Ralph, who,
for some reason, appeared to take Harry Ware’s report more seriously
than did Persimmons.
But a search of the clump revealed no sign of life, human or animal.
“Score up another one to the spooks,” chuckled Persimmons.
But it was no spook or animal, either, that had made the rustling sound
which Harry’s sharp ears had detected. It was a man; Malvin, in fact. He
had glided like a weasel from the boat the instant the boys left it.
Following a circuitous track, veiled from the main path by flowering
shrubs and ornamental bushes, he had secreted himself in the clump of
plants to which Harry had drawn attention.
He had heard almost every word of the latter part of their conversation,
and an evil smile mantled his face as he listened. When the boys stopped
short he had glided off like a snake through the screening shrubbery,
and as he went he muttered words that boded no good to the boys, should
they put into effect their intention of informing the Canadian
authorities of the “ghost craft” and its ways.
Clearly Ralph had not guessed wrongly when he hazarded the belief that a
link existed between Dexter Island and the mysterious men of the
night-roving motor boat.
The link was Roger Malvin.