THE MOTOR THAT WOULDN’T “MOTE”
IT was Eben Moddridge who, marine glass in hand, now devoted the most
attention to the schooner, which was once more in full chase.
Francis Delavan was now doing so well that there was no doubt in
anyone’s mind of his full recovery.
“How—how’s the stock market?” he ventured at last to ask.
“Don’t know, sir,” retorted Butts. “Neither does anyone else. We’ve got
you and the engine to fix. When you’re both going fine, then we’ll try
to find more time to talk.”
Mr. Delavan smiled, good-humoredly, but next inquired:
“How do you happen—to be aboard the ‘Rocket!’”
“Walked aboard,” admitted Hank. “Had to sir. Nobody ever took the
trouble to shanghai me.”
Joe, in the meantime, made two or three frantic efforts to make the
motor “mote,” though without success.
“It’s all on account of this valve,” Dawson explained to his chum,
pointing. “I knew it wouldn’t last forever, but the last time I
inspected it, it looked all right.”
“You’ve another valve in the repair chest that will fit,” replied Tom.
“And, in goodness’ name, hurry up. I’ll help you.”
“One more try at this old valve, for a few miles anyway,” cried Dawson,
desperately. “Tom, the new valve is just a shade too large at the
screw-thread end. It’ll take a few desperate minutes to make it fit.”
By the time he had finished speaking the young engineer was
industriously engaged in forcing in packing around the worn old valve.
“Hank,” Captain Tom roared from the companionway, “shake out that
solitary sail and hoist it. Get all the speed you can out of it.”
No one had thought of the sail up to this moment. It wasn’t much of
a sail. Rigged to the single signal mast of the “Rocket,” the sail
was intended only to enable the boat to reach port if ever the engine
should give out.
Butts, with an exclamation of disgust at not having thought of the
canvas before, ran forward. Almost before he stopped running, his
fingers were at work on the knots that held the canvas furled. In
surprisingly quick time this Long Island boy had the sail hoisted, set,
and was back at the wheel.
Eben Moddridge, without waiting to be called, had taken his place as
attendant by the side of his friend’s chair.
What Hank Butts didn’t know about motors he made up by his knowledge of
sailing craft He handled the “Rocket” now as though she were a catboat,
watching the fill of her canvas and making the most out of the steady
light breeze that was blowing.
As he steered, Hank looked back often at the schooner. That craft, with
all canvas hung out, was coming along at something like seven knots.
The “Rocket” was making barely four under her small spread.
The answer? Hank Butts knew it well enough, and groaned as he watched
his own tiny sail.
Down below Joe Dawson, the perspiration standing out in great, cold
drops, was working against time. After another trial he had abandoned
the idea of making the old valve work even for a few miles. He had
opened the repair chest and had taken out the substitute valve that had
to be fitted over. The young engineer was now bending over the repair
bench, rapidly turning the shank of a thread-cutter. Captain Tom stood
by, anxious, useless for the present, yet ready to lend an instant pair
of hands as soon as he could help.
“Thread still a bit too large,” reported Dawson, after the second
attempt to make it fit.
Back to the work-bench he sprang, while Halstead bounded up into the
open so that he could take a brief look astern.
Behind them trailed the schooner, now a bare third of a mile astern,
and gaining visibly.
“I’m not going to say a word to hurry you, Joe,” he remarked, dropping
below again. “I know you’re working to save even seconds.”
“Ain’t I just, though!” gritted Dawson, as he turned.
“Eb,” demanded Delavan, of his friend, “you’ve simply got to tell me
how the stock market is going.”
“I—I—er—haven’t had the least idea for more than forty hours,” replied
Mr. Moddridge, embarrassed.
“Hey, there,” called Hank, officiously, from the wheel, “just at the
present moment I’m skipper here, and boss. My orders are that no Wall
Street slang be talked on board until after the steward has found a
chance to serve something to eat. Mr. Delavan, be glad, sir, that you
are able to get some of your breath.”
“Are the rascals gaining on us?” was the owner’s next question, as he
endeavored to turn himself around in the chair for a look astern.
“Not much,” replied Mr. Moddridge. “Besides, in a moment or two more
the boat’s engine will be doing its duty again. The engineer has his
repair work almost finished.”
Francis Delavan smiled good-humoredly, though he did not by any means
believe this reassuring information.
The schooner was less than an eighth of a mile away when Joe Dawson
made one more effort to adjust the substitute valve.
“I think it’s going to fit,” he murmured, a world of hope in his
voice, though he squinted vigilantly, watchfully, as he continued the
twisting. “By Jove, Tom, I believe it’s O. K. It seems fast and tight.
I’ll let a little oil in; give the wheel a few turns.”
A few breathless seconds passed. Then the pistons began to move up
and down, slowly, all but noiselessly. Seized with a kind of fearful
fascination, both motor boat boys watched the engine, almost afraid to
breathe lest the driving cease.
Then Captain Halstead, still looking backward, while Joe’s chest heaved
at last, yanked himself up into the hatchway, glancing out over the
water.
The schooner was now almost upon the “Rocket,” though hauling off a bit
to windward as though intending to make a sudden swoop and bear down
crushingly against the motor boat.
“Safe?” Halstead almost whispered down into the engine room.
“Try it, awfully easy,” replied Joe.
“Hank, give the speed-ahead control just a bare turn,” called Halstead.
“Easy, now!”
The propeller shaft began to revolve. At that same instant the schooner
came around on a starboard tack, so steered as to intercept the shorter
craft.
Captain Tom himself sprang to the speed control, letting out just a
notch more, praying under his breath that the motor might stand by them
in this moment of greatest crisis.
At them, heeling well over, her crew at the rail ready to board the
“Rocket,” came the schooner. Her first manœuvre had been to board
by the bows. Now it looked as though the sailing vessel must strike
amidships. Halstead gave a quick turn to the speed-ahead control.
Answering, the motor boat took a jump ahead, then settled down to
steady going. The schooner, left astern, jibed with a noisy flapping of
sails.
“I think we can make it,” called up Dawson.
“We _have_ made it,” called back Captain Halstead, joy ringing in his
voice. “The only question is whether we can keep it up.”
“Let her out a bit more,” called Joe.
One hand on the wheel, the other on the speed control, the young
skipper increased the speed by slow degrees until the “Rocket” had
settled down to a steady twelve-mile speed.
Hank, relieved of the helm, ran aft. Standing on the stern rail, one
arm wrapped around the flag-pole, young Butts made a lot of gestures at
the crew of the schooner. Those gestures were eloquent of derision and
contempt.
Five minutes later the schooner had given up the chase, heading off to
the southward.
“Ev—everything is all safe now, isn’t it?” asked Eben Moddridge,
shakily.
“Trouble seems to be all behind us,” replied Halstead.
“Then—er—I’m—I’m going below and lie down,” quaked Mr. Moddridge. “I
never felt more nervous in my life!”
“Go below and enjoy yourself, sir,” laughed Tom, without malice, but
without thinking. “You’ve done yourself proud, Mr. Moddridge, and
you’re entitled to the best attack of nerves you can find.”
Hank sprang quickly to aid Mr. Moddridge, for the latter was really
shaking and tottering as he started aft.
“Still no one seems able to tell me about the thing I want most of
all to know about—the condition of the market, and of securities in
particular,” complained Francis Delavan, in a much stronger voice.
“No one knows well enough how to tell you,” laughed Skipper Tom,
“except Mr. Moddridge. If you only knew, sir, what a trump he’s been
lately, you wouldn’t begrudge him one first-class nervous fit now.”
Mr. Delavan laughed, though he added, with a comical sigh:
“I don’t see but I shall have to wait.”
“Something to eat, did you say, sir?” asked Hank, suddenly appearing at
the owner’s elbow. “Yes, sir; as fast as possible for all hands. Why,
we’ve been so rattled this morning we didn’t even think about food. And
now my stomach is reading the riot act to my teeth. O-o-oh!”
Hands clutched over his abdomen, Hank made a swift disappearance into
the galley. There was an abundance of food in the “Rocket’s” larder
that could be prepared hastily. But as Mr. Moddridge was “enjoying”
himself in his own especial way, and Mr. Delavan was still feeling the
effects of the chloroform too much to have any appetite, the crew fell
in for the first chance at table.
When that food had been disposed of, Joe cautiously worked the engine
on until the boat was making twenty miles an hour. The new valve proved
fully equal to the strain put upon it.
Mr. Moddridge remained below more than two hours. When he came on deck
again he appeared to be in shape to tell Mr. Delavan the latest news he
had of the state of their affairs.
The owner listened with a face that became graver every moment.
“It looks black for us, Eben, and we may be wiped out by this time, or,
anyway, by the time we can get back to the battle-field. But it was
grand of you, Eb, to throw in the last dollars of your private fortune
to save us both. Whatever happens, I won’t forget your act. But, good
heavens, how we must hustle and move now! Captain Halstead, just where
are you heading?”
“As straight as the crow flies, sir, for New York harbor. But I can
change the course if there’s any other point you’d rather make.”
“No; keep straight on, captain. New York is our battle-field. And, by
all that’s sure, we’ll win out yet if there’s a fighting spar left
standing when we hit Wall Street!”
With a vigorous bound this fighting Wall Street man was on his feet
again, pacing the deck, not a glimpse of fear in his strong face.
Then, a little later, he and Moddridge found their appetites, and Hank
Butts served them enthusiastically.
As the afternoon passed, and all hands gathered near the wheel, the
stories of all were told.
Mr. Delavan, for his part, explained that, on that morning when he had
taken the “Rocket’s” port boat and had gone out for a row, he had gone
past the inlet. While out beyond, he had been overtaken by the nameless
racing launch. A hail from the deck of the other craft had followed,
and then an invitation to take a look aboard. Thinking that he might
possibly penetrate the mystery as to who was really running that craft,
Mr. Delavan had rowed alongside, intending only to stand up in his own
little boat and look aboard the launch.
But, while doing so, he had been seized by both the boat handlers
and dragged aboard. There he became mixed in a fight with two others
who, from their descriptions, must have been Rexford and Ellis. When
the fight stopped Francis Delavan was under the hood, his hands tied
behind him. He remembered that, later on, the small port boat had been
overturned and set adrift, and that his own hat and coat had been taken
from him and cast into the water.
“Later, that forenoon,” continued Mr. Delavan, “I saw my own ‘Rocket’
following us. By stealth I had succeeded in freeing my hands. Now, I
made a dash for freedom, intending to leap overboard and try to swim to
you. But I was caught and held, just at the edge of the hood. I found
chance only to snatch my wallet from an inner vest pocket and hurl
it out into the water. I was in hopes you’d see it, pick it up, and
understand.”
“We did,” nodded Mr. Moddridge.
Mr. Delavan went on to explain how, after the throwing of the wallet,
he had been more carefully bound, hand and foot, and gagged. When taken
ashore at Cookson’s Inlet he had also been blindfolded, his removal
from the boat not taking place until a carriage had been brought.
Then the story of the final chase was told, even how Hank Butts had
done so much to carry the day aboard the schooner by his artless trick
of dropping the hitching weight where it would do the most harm to the
enemy.
“Say, Hank,” put in Joe Dawson, who had taken little part in the talk,
“wherever did you learn the easy way that you drop that weight?”
“A feller from New York taught us that last summer,” Butts replied.
“Some of us fellows over in East Hampton practiced it until we couldn’t
miss.”
“But how did you learn to land it on another fellow’s foot so easily
that it looks almost like an accident?”
“I’ve been telling you,” Hank insisted. “We kept on dropping weights
on each other’s toes until we got the trick down fine.”
“What?” ejaculated Dawson, opening his eyes wider. “You practised
by dropping iron weights on each other’s feet? You fellows must be
wonders, if you could stand that!”
“Oh, no,” Hank confessed. “We practised with small sandbags.”