THE SIGN OF MISCHIEF
THE next instant after that rousing hail there was a sound of
scrambling below. Halstead did not wait. Turning, he raced around the
end of that pile of freight. He was in time to hear a loud splash in
the water astern of the little freight steamer, though not in time to
see who or what jumped. Then he heard Joe and Jed on the “Rocket’s”
deck.
“Over here, fellows!” he called. “And come quickly!” Then as his two
friends, partly disrobed, rushed to his side, Captain Tom pointed to
the water.
“Someone threw a weight at me,” he explained. “He jumped in. Watch to
see him rise. Jed, you watch from the other side of the pier. Joe, take
the end—and hustle!”
Thus distributed, the crew of the “Rocket” watched and listened for the
rising of Tom Halstead’s recent assailant. Time went by, however, until
it was certain that no human being could any longer remain under water.
Yet no head showed, nor was any being heard making the shore. Then
the two other boys came back to their young leader, who was looking
extremely thoughtful.
“I wonder,” mused Tom, aloud, “whether I’ve had a good one played on
me? You see that weight resting yonder on our gang-plank. That was
thrown at me from behind this pile of freight. After yelling for you
fellows, I rushed over here just in time to hear a splash. And now it
has struck me that some mighty smooth chap may have pitched another
weight into the water, then doubled around the freight and so got
ashore and away.”
“That was the trick, I guess,” nodded Joe Dawson, thoughtfully. “But
what on earth was it all about, anyway, Tom?”
“We’ll take a look over this freight tub first, and then I’ll tell
you,” proposed Halstead, swinging himself on board the little steamer.
But every door and hatchway on that craft had been made fast for the
night, and there appeared to be no one aboard. Then the young skipper
led his friends back to the “Rocket.”
“Now, let’s have the yarn,” begged Jed, who, from being sleepy ten
minutes before, was suddenly very much awake.
After they had seated themselves on the top of the cabin, Halstead, in
low tones, described his brief adventures of the evening.
“Whatever someone’s plan is,” he wound up, earnestly, “it seems to be
a sure thing that they don’t want this boat to keep in commission. That
weight, if I hadn’t jumped, would very likely have broken one of my
legs. So, fellows, do you believe we’ve any right to sleep all hands at
the same time, while tied to this pier?”
“Though I’m soon going to be pretty drowsy,” admitted Joe Dawson, “I
honestly don’t believe we’ve any right to go below without a watch. I’m
ready to stand my share of watch.”
“Me, too,” pledged Jed, ungrammatically.
“Then we’ll divide the night, to six in the morning, into three
watches,” concluded the young motor boat skipper, looking at his
timepiece. “You fellows go below as soon as you like. I’ll take the
first third of the night.”
Joe and Jed were not long in going below, but the former was soon on
deck again.
“Here’s something from the engine room that may come in handy, in case
of need,” hinted Dawson, laying two wrenches on top of the deck-house
beside the young captain. “You can use ’em for clubs, or throw ’em, if
you see anything more’n shadows about.”
Tom Halstead laughed, though he held the wrenches, balancing them and
figuring on what sort of missiles they would make at need.
The night grew late as Captain Tom still watched. Even the lights in
the nearby hotels began to go out. All life on the water had stopped
some time before. Halstead had already brought the weight aboard and
stowed it in the cabin below. He wanted to show it to his employer in
the morning.
Once or twice Halstead thought he heard suspicious sounds near the
pier. Each time, gripping a wrench in his right hand, he went boldly to
investigate. No real sign of a prowler, however, appeared as the time
glided by.
“It’s so quiet I could _almost_ think I had been dreaming things
to-night,” thought Tom, musingly, as he looked out at the few lights
that shone over the water. “We fellows will have to try to keep this
weight-throwing affair from Mr. Moddridge, or the poor fellow will have
another heavy nervous attack. I don’t believe Mr. Delavan will tell
him, if we don’t.”
At two bells past midnight (one o’clock) the young skipper called Jed
on deck, then turned in. The crew’s quarters on the “Rocket” consisted
of two tiny staterooms, each containing two berths, and little else.
Tom and Joe berthed together. Joe was breathing soundly, in deepest
sleep, when Halstead turned in. The latter, later in the night, was so
deep in slumber that he did not know when Jed called Joe to take the
last night watch on deck.
Captain Tom, in fact, knew nothing until Joe Dawson stepped into the
little stateroom and shook him by the shoulder.
“It’s nearly eight o’clock, old fellow,” rang Joe’s cheery voice, “and
Jed has nearly finished cooking the best breakfast he could find on
board. Can’t you smell it?”
“Indeed I can,” answered the young skipper, turning out hastily, and
with an almost guilty feeling over having slept so long. What if the
owner should come aboard, wanting an immediate start made? While
dressing he made a remark of that kind to Dawson, who only smiled.
“Where’s the boat that belongs at the port davits?” asked the young
skipper, as he stepped on deck and immediately noted the absence of the
small boat.
“Oh, a fellow came along and asked if he could have the boat for a
little while,” said Joe, dryly.
“And you let him have it?”
“I figured that I had to,” laughed Joe. “The fellow was our owner.”
“Mr. Delavan? What did he want the boat for?”
“He said Mr. Moddridge was sound asleep, for a wonder, and that he had
slipped down for a little early morning exercise.”
“What time did he take the boat?” questioned Captain Tom.
“About six o’clock. He rowed out south over the bay, and I haven’t seen
him since.”
“Well, I suppose it’s the owner’s business if he wants to borrow his
own boat and go for a row on the bay,” replied Tom.
“Breakfast!” hailed Steward Jed. The chums disappeared below decks
forward, and for the next half hour gave most of their thoughts to the
enjoyment of the morning meal. Then the young engineer and captain
returned to the deck.
“Mr. Delavan said he wasn’t likely to use this craft to-day, and I’ll
be as well pleased if he doesn’t,” said Halstead. An August morning
mist was just more than barely visible as it formed out on the ocean,
rolling slowly inward. The remainder of the forenoon was likely to be
as foggy as on the day before.
“The rest will do the engine good,” said Dawson meditatively. “These
engines that are made for racing speeds are all right at the trick if
the speed isn’t pushed too often. We did quite some speeding yesterday,
so I’m glad if the engine _does_ get a rest.”
“That’s right,” nodded Tom. “No matter if you take the finest care
possible of a gasoline motor, if the engine is pushed too hard and some
little thing goes wrong, the average owner is likely to think he has an
incompetent engineer.”
“That wasn’t the way, though, with Mr. Prescott,” argued Joe. “Nor with
Mr. Dunstan, either. They both trusted everything about the boats to
us. They’d sooner blame the boat or engine-builders than blame us.”
“From all indications,” pursued Captain Tom, “Mr. Delavan is likely to
prove the most indulgent owner of all. Say, I wonder what Mr. Delavan
would look like, worried?”
“It would be easier to guess what Mr. Moddridge would look like,”
laughed Joe.
“‘Speaking of angels——’” quoted Captain Tom, dryly. Joe wheeled about
to look up beyond the shore end of the pier. Eben Moddridge was coming
toward them on a nervous, jerky run. He reached the pier and boarded
the boat, all out of breath.
“Is Mr. Delavan aboard?” he demanded, pantingly.
“Mr. Delavan took the small boat from the port davits and went for a
row, sir, at about six this morning,” reported Captain Tom.
“And hasn’t returned?” asked Mr. Moddridge, eyes and mouth opening wide
at the same time. “Which way did he go?”
“Out toward the inlet, sir,” Joe answered, pointing southward.
“And the fog rolling in there now!” exclaimed Moddridge, looking more
nervous every instant. “Then what are you doing here? Why aren’t you
out yonder trying to find your employer?”
“We will start, if you wish,” Captain Tom agreed.
“Wish?” echoed the nervous one, “I command it!”
Eben Moddridge, not being the owner, could issue no order that the
young skipper was bound to obey. But Halstead himself thought it would
be wholly wise to go out in search of his employer. The “Rocket’s” bow
and stern hawsers were quickly cast off by Jed, while Joe gave the
wheel a few vigorous turns in the engine room. The craft fell off from
the pier, then, at slow speed, nosed straight out for the inlet.
“Jed, take a forward watch, at port side,” called the young skipper.
“Mr. Moddridge, do you mind keeping a lookout at starboard?”
The nervous one stationed himself on the side indicated, not far from
the young helmsman.
“Something has happened to Frank! I know it, I know it!” muttered Eben
Moddridge, in deep agitation. “Oh, why did I sleep so late? Why didn’t
I keep an eye open to watch that reckless fellow? But he’ll never
consent to be governed by me.”
Tom, though he said nothing, smiled a bit grimly, at thought of what it
would be like for one to be ruled by Eben Moddridge.
At first, despite the growing fog, the searchers could see for a few
hundred feet to either side of them. This gradually narrowed down to
two hundred feet, or so, at the inlet. A little further out they could
make nothing out distinctly at a distance greater than sixty feet
Captain Halstead sounded the whistle frequently, now.
“Stop the boat!” yelled Eben Moddridge, frantically, after a while, as
he peered ahead at starboard. “Don’t you see it? Don’t you see that?”
He was pointing, jumping up and down, staring wildly. Tom caught sight
of the object, too. He did not stop the boat, but slackened her speed
down to little more than bare headway, throwing the helm hard over and
bringing the boat’s nose sharply around to starboard.
“Jed, a boat-hook!” shouted the young skipper. “Be ready to make fast
as soon as we get alongside.”
Joe Dawson sprang up from the engine room for a brief look. No wonder
he started, for the “Rocket” was slowly, cumbrously, describing a
circle around an object that proved to be the port boat, bobbing up and
down on the light waves. The small boat was keel up. Eben Moddridge, as
he stared at it, became speechless from dread and terror.
Jed, at the right moment, made fast with the boat-hook, drawing the
small craft in alongside. While he was doing so Joe suddenly cried:
“And say! Look there!”
Coming in on the start of the flood tide, floated a straw hat and a
coat—beyond a doubt those lately worn by Francis Delavan.
“Now, what do you say to that?” gasped Eben Moddridge, turning deathly
pale and looking as though he must sink to the deck.
A great fear was tugging at the heart of Captain Tom Halstead, though
he managed to reply, calmly enough:
“I don’t know just what it means, Mr. Moddridge, but it’s surely the
sign of mischief of some sort.”