A WHIFF OF FORTUNE
MR. DELAVAN immediately raised a pair of marine glasses to his eyes,
taking a long, careful look at the great hull.
“Yes; that’s the ‘Kaiser,’” he agreed.
“There’s a smaller craft, astern, that may interest you also, sir,”
reported Jed, from the after deck.
Mr. Delavan turned quickly, though not with such a start as did his
friend, Moddridge.
Astern, or, rather, over the port quarter, appeared a long, narrow
racing hull. It was evidently the same motor craft that had so nearly
rammed them in the deep fog.
“Confound that hoodoo boat,” muttered Mr. Delavan, in a low tone, to
his companion. “I’d give quite a bit to know who are aboard that craft.”
“S-s-so would I,” stammered Moddridge. “It looks queer. Whoever they
are, they’re dogging us, of course.”
“That’s what I’d like to know,” returned Delavan, musingly.
“Shall I keep to the same course, sir?” asked Captain Tom, as soon as
his employer looked around.
“Why, now, I’ll tell you what I want you to do, captain,” answered the
owner. “Run out towards the ‘Kaiser,’ though you needn’t be at pains to
make it too plain that you’re seeking the big ship. After you get the
‘Rocket’ somewhat near, take a wide, sweeping turn to landward of the
big craft. Run fairly near, keeping your port hull about parallel with
the ‘Kaiser’s’ starboard. Run alongside for a little distance, until
your orders are changed. Moddridge and I are going down into the cabin,
to take our stations at port-holes. Prentiss will stand by the cabin
doorway to pass up, in a low voice, any orders that I may give him for
you. Is that all clear, captain?”
“Quite clear, sir.”
“Then come below, Moddridge,” continued the owner, turning to his
friend. “And for goodness’ sake, man, if you can, behave differently.
Don’t let your legs shake so under you.”
“I c-c-can’t help it,” stammered the smaller man, nervously.
“You’re not going to the hangman, man!” laughed Mr. Delavan, jovially,
as he led the way below.
“I reckon I’d better drop down into the engine room for signals, hadn’t
I?” proposed Dawson. Tom nodded, and his chum vanished, though his
head soon reappeared, framed in the engine room hatchway. The beauty
of a gasoline motor engine is that when all is running smoothly and
no signals from the bridge are to be expected, the engineer may spend
much of his time up on deck. On the bridge deck, near the wheel, are
“controls” by means of which the helmsman can change the speeds, stop
or reverse at will.
As Captain Tom headed in the direction ordered he heard Jed reporting
to the owner that the long racing boat astern did not appear to be
making any efforts to overtake the “Rocket” or to reach the “Kaiser
Wilhelm.” Instead, the racing boat seemed to be playing wholly a
waiting game. This racing craft was about thirty-two to thirty-five
feet long. She was not fitted for cruising, but only for fast spurts.
She had, instead of a cabin, a deck-over hood forward that protected
her engine and galley from the spray.
The “Kaiser Wilhelm” being one of the swiftest of the ocean grayhounds,
and the “Rocket” now making at least sixteen miles an hour, it was not
long before young Halstead was ready to carry out the second part of
his sailing orders.
He steered the “Rocket” so that she made a wide sweep around, then
came up parallel with the big ocean steamship. There was about four
hundred feet of water between the big hull and the little one as the
two craft ran along parallel.
Tom yanked the bell-pull for more speed. This Joe provided, looking
up once in a while to make sure that he was keeping up with the swift
“Kaiser Wilhelm.”
“Ask Mr. Delavan if we’re running all right, Jed,” requested the young
captain.
“Yes,” nodded Jed, after repeating the message without moving.
The big steamship’s deck was covered with passengers, most of them
crowding fairly close to the starboard rail. It was plain that the
voyagers felt some curiosity regarding this dapper, trim little
cruising craft that kept so handily along with the racing grayhound.
There was a great fluttering of handkerchiefs, which Tom acknowledged
by several short blasts on the auto whistle. The “Kaiser’s” heavy
whistle responded.
“That’s all. Mr. Delavan says to head about for East Hampton,” Jed
reported.
With a parting toot from the whistle, Halstead altered the course.
“Make your best speed, captain,” was the next order young Prentiss
transmitted.
So it was not long before the “Kaiser” and the “Rocket” were some miles
apart. Mr. Delavan came on deck, smiling. Tom tried not to wonder,
though he could not help guessing what the Wall Street magnate could
have accomplished by means of this brief, eventless cruise alongside
the larger vessel.
But Mr. Moddridge! His face was positively wreathed in smiles. All his
fears seemed to have vanished. The smaller man was still nervous, but
it was the agitation of intense joy.
“It’s all right, Halstead,” beamed Mr. Delavan.
“I suppose it must be, sir,” smiled the youthful skipper.
“You’re puzzled, aren’t you, lad?”
“Why, I’m trying not to be, as, of course, it’s none of my business.”
“Of course it isn’t,” laughed Mr. Moddridge, uneasily. “But what
wouldn’t he give to know, Delavan?”
“Why, I can give you a hint or two,” smiled the big, good-natured man.
“Don’t you say anything,” protested Moddridge, paling.
“Nonsense,” laughed Mr. Delavan. “Halstead, did you notice one
man who stood at the rail of the big craft? A man tall and very
broad-shouldered, a man of seventy, with considerable of a stoop, but
with the nose and eyes that make one think of an eagle? His clothes
fitted him loosely. He isn’t what you’d call a man of fashion, but a
man whom, once you saw him, you’d never forget.”
“And at his right hand stood a man who looked like a clergyman?”
inquired Halstead.
“I see you marked the man. Do you know who he is?”
“No, sir, though I’m sure I’ve seen his portrait in the newspapers.”
“H’m! I guess you have,” chuckled Mr. Delavan. “Well, that’s Gordon,
the great man in the steel world, the colossal banker, the man who
lends nations money.”
“You didn’t make this trip just to make sure that he was aboard?” Tom
hazarded.
“Of course not, captain. I had that information days ago, by cable. But
Gordon has been doing big things abroad, things that will rouse the
world’s market and shake fortunes up or down. By to-morrow morning Wall
Street will be seething, just on guesses as to what Gordon has done in
Paris and what speculations he’ll make, now that he has returned.”
“Delavan!” cried Moddridge, sharply. “I protest. Not another word.”
“Nonsense!” retorted the big man, cheerily. “Halstead, whoever makes
the right guess as to what big money deals Gordon has arranged abroad
can make barrels of money in Wall Street during the next two or three
days. Those who guess wrong will lose their money. Money will be made,
and money will be lost in Wall Street, during the next few days—all on
guessing which way Gordon’s cat jumped in Paris.”
“And all the while no one will _know_, except Mr. Gordon himself?”
smiled Tom Halstead.
“That’s the point,” chuckled Francis Delavan, contentedly.
“S-s-stop!” cried Moddridge, warningly. But his large friend,
disregarding him utterly, continued:
“On that same ship a man came over whom Moddridge and I trust. Our man
has a great knack for drawing people out. It was his task to talk with
Gordon at every good opportunity, and to get from the great man some
indication as to the real news. Our man was paid by us, and paid well,
but he also gets a substantial share of the profits we hope to make.
He has made every effort to get a tip from Gordon, and it was that
information that our man, by two or three simple movements, signaled to
us.”
“And now I suppose you’re going to unbosom yourself, and tell this
young boat-handler just what our information is?” groaned Eben
Moddridge.
“No, I am not,” grinned Mr. Delavan. “I don’t believe Halstead even
cares a straw about knowing. If he had our information he isn’t the
sort of lad who’d venture his little savings in the vortex of Wall
Street speculation.”
“Thank you. You’ve gauged me rightly, sir,” laughed Halstead.
“But now you can guess why I’m so anxious to reach East Hampton just as
early as you can possibly get us in,” continued Mr. Delavan. “I have
a long distance telephone wire of the main trunk line, all the way to
offices in New York, reserved for my instant use. One minute after I
reach the telephone booth my orders will be known by my secret agents
in New York. To-morrow morning Wall Street will seethe and boil over
Gordon’s return, but my agents—our agents, for Moddridge is in it—will
have their orders in time to do an hour or two of effective work before
the Stock Exchange closes this afternoon. Now, you understand, captain,
why I want to crowd on every fraction of speed to reach East Hampton.”
“Joe Dawson is working the motor for every bit of speed,” Captain Tom
replied, quietly.
Moddridge, plucking at his friend’s sleeve, drew him aside to whisper:
“No matter how well you may like the boy, Delavan, you had no business
to tell him all that you did.”
“Nonsense,” replied the owner, in a voice loud enough to reach the
young skipper’s ears. “Prescott knows this young chap like a book.
Prescott assured me that there isn’t a tighter-mouthed, or more loyal,
dependable young fellow in the world. When a young man is sailing your
boat on rush business he should have some idea of what he’s doing and
why he’s doing it.”
The “Rocket” was now going at a full twenty-five miles an hour, her
powerful, compact engine fairly throbbing with the work. While the boat
might have been pushed two miles an hour faster, Dawson did not think
it wise to attempt it except for life and death business.
The racing boat that they had noted astern was now somewhat ahead.
This craft now turned, came back at rushing speed, circled about the
“Rocket” in safe seaway, then started ahead again.
“Confound that boat,” grumbled Mr. Delavan, staring hard at the
decked-over hood, “I’d like to know whether the people I suspect are
hidden under that hood.”
“Looks as though the boat meant to follow us into East Hampton, doesn’t
it, sir?” Halstead conjectured.
“I may as well tell you, Halstead——”
“Delavan! _Can’t_ you be silent?” groaned Moddridge.
“I may as well tell you,” resumed the easygoing owner, “that the boat
ahead probably carries, concealed, two daring Wall Street operators, or
their spies, who, at any cost, want the very information that Moddridge
and I possess. They must have watched our approach to the ‘Kaiser’
through a glass, and now they’ve sped close to us in the effort to see
whether they could guess anything from our faces. Their next moves will
be to keep with us going in, and even to attempt to overhear what we
may telephone to New York.”
“They’d rather steal your news than get their own honestly, would
they?” muttered Halstead. “A good many people are like that about
everything, I guess.”
The racing craft had gained at least a quarter of a mile in the race
for East Hampton. Jed had just gone below to spread lunch for the owner
and guest when the racing boat was seen to be slowing down. It was not
long before she lay almost motionless on the rolling surface of the
ocean.
“What’s that they’re doing?” cried Mr. Delavan, as the watchers saw a
piece of bunting flutter up to the head of the single short mast of the
racing craft.
“The United States flag, field down,” replied keen-eyed Halstead.
“The signal of distress?”
“Yes, sir.”
Francis Delavan’s round, good-humored face betrayed instant signs of
uneasiness, mingled with disgust.
“Captain Halstead, do we have to heed that signal?” he demanded. “That
is, are we _obliged_ to pay heed?”
“The laws of the ocean compel us to go close and hail her,” replied
Tom, altering the “Rocket’s” course slightly, so as to run near the
motionless boat.
“It’s a trick,” grumbled Mr. Delavan. “They’ll claim that their engine
has broken down. They’ll want to demand a tow.”
“Do you want us to extend any help?” Tom inquired.
“Not unless we’re obliged to. But, of course, captain, neither you nor
I can flagrantly defy the laws of navigation.”
“Luncheon is ready, gentlemen,” called Jed, from the deck below.
“Oh, bother luncheon!” muttered Moddridge.
“Not so, my dear fellow,” retorted Delavan, his old, easy manner
returning. “We have much work to do, my dear fellow, and we must keep
our furnaces running. Luncheon is the best of ideas. Come along.
Captain, I look to you to guard my interests.”
Just as the “Rocket,” her speed lessened, ran up close to the racing
craft, Mr. Delavan disappeared into the cabin, almost dragging his
friend and guest after him.
In the cockpit of the speed boat appeared only two men, both of a
rough, seafaring type, clad in oilskins and sou’westers. There might,
however, be several other men concealed around the motor under the
decked-over hood.
“Boat ahoy!” hailed Captain Tom, running fairly close, then stopping
speed and reversing for a moment. “What’s the cause of your signal?”
“Engine broken down,” responded one of the men aboard the other boat.
“Well, you’re in no danger,” was Captain Halstead’s smiling answer.
“You’re riding on a smooth sea.”
“But we can’t stay out here on the open ocean,” came the reply across
the water. “You’re the only other craft near enough to help. We ask you
to tow us into port.”
“We’re in a hurry,” replied Halstead. “Really, we can’t spare the
speed.”
“But we’re in distress,” argued the man in the other boat. “We ask you
for a tow that you’re quite able to give. What’s the answer?”
“_That_,” retorted Skipper Tom. He pointed at the mast of the
“disabled” craft, to which was rigged a small, furled mainsail. “The
wind is right, and you can easily make port, even under a small spread
of canvas. You’re not in actual distress, and we _are_ in haste.
Good-bye!”
Joe’s grinning face appeared at the engine room hatchway for a moment,
though it vanished below as the half-speed ahead bell rang. The
“Rocket” forged ahead, followed by ugly words from the racing craft.
“Neatly done, Halstead,” greeted the voice of Mr. Delavan, as that
gentleman, holding a napkin, appeared at the cabin door below for an
instant. “I heard it all.”
“If that fellow hadn’t had his canvas rigged we might have had to stand
by him,” replied Halstead.
A few minutes later it was seen that the racing craft was coming in
slowly, under that small sail. It looked probable, then, that the break
in her engine had been genuine.
Going at full speed, the “Rocket” was not long in making Shinnecock
Bay. Soon afterward the young captain ran his craft in at a pier, on
which stood a waiting automobile.
“I’ll be back for the rest of my lunch soon, steward,” announced the
owner, stepping ashore. He entered the automobile, and was whirled
away through the streets of East Hampton. Mr. Moddridge remained in the
cabin, though he played nervously with knife and fork, eating little.
In fifteen minutes Francis Delavan returned, walking lazily from the
touring car to the deck of his boat, his face expressive, now, of
indolent content.
“Take us out a little way, captain,” requested the owner. “We want some
good, cool sea air in which to finish the meal, eh, Moddridge?”
“I—I’m too excited to eat,” protested the smaller man. “Tell me, is
everything all right at the New York end?”
“Oh, yes, I fancy so,” drawled the owner. “Steward, some more of that
excellent salad, if you please.”
As Captain Tom slipped his craft out of Shinnecock Bay once more they
made out the mysterious speed boat, still under sail and at a distance,
making slowly for the Long Island coast.
“Whatever those fellows have guessed at or discovered,” chuckled Mr.
Delavan, glancing at the other boat and then at his watch, as he came
on deck, “they can’t hope to reach a telephone in time to catch the
Stock Exchange open to-day. Good! Prentiss, come up here. Call Dawson
aft if he can leave his engine.”
As the little group met near the wheel Francis Delavan drew out a
pocket-book, which he opened.
“Young gentlemen,” he observed, “I believe Moddridge and I have been
able to play a most important game in the money world to-day. That
was largely through the bright services of my new crew aboard the
‘Rocket.’ Accept this card, each of you, as a little indication of my
appreciation.”
The “card” that was held out to each was a twenty-dollar bill. Halstead
glanced at it hesitatingly, while his two comrades looked at him.
“Don’t be backward,” urged Mr. Delavan, good-humoredly. “This sort of
thing doesn’t happen every day. You’ve really earned it to-day, and my
luncheon will set better if you take the money.”
“Thank you,” said Tom, in a low voice. “But we’re under regular
salaries to serve your interests, Mr. Delavan.”
It was a little whiff from the gale of fortune that the two Wall Street
men believed had blown their way this day.