Hegarty’s Plans
After a restless day at home and an even more restless night of fitful
sleep, both Stanley Sandborn and John awoke and dressed in the still
dark early morning hours. After bidding his brave mother good-bye, for
she knew that the boys were mixed up in a dangerous adventure, Stan
left by the cellar door for a very good reason. His reason proved sound
for, as he vaulted the back fence he could make out, in the darkness,
the figure of a man prowling the front sidewalk. As luck would have it,
Stan fell heavily over something in the dark, and instantly he heard
the sounds of running feet!
The stranger, who could be none other than a member of the Nevens gang,
was in full pursuit!
Stanley got to his feet as the man came over the fence, and ran like
a frightened hare across the next yard and down the next street. For
several minutes he ran, crossing yards, vaulting well-known fences.
He’d done that in play many a time; now he was doing it in earnest and
for life, and he was grateful for a knowledge of the territory about
his home. So successful was he in shaking off his pursuer that he was
able to get into John’s back yard just as John came out the door, and
the two of them beat a hasty path down town. There they ate coffee
and ham sandwiches in a small restaurant, and then walked briskly out
of town towards Zenith. They were a mile or so from the city when the
first street car came along, and they boarded it, riding the rest of
the way to the village.
Stanley had told of the man who had chased him, and John, too, had a
story to tell, about another who had hung about in the vicinity of the
Tallman home all that day.
“We’ve got to be very, very cautious, John,” Stan commented, “if we
expect to live long enough to bring this case to a close! I hope no one
has monkeyed with the _Staghound_ while we’ve been gone!”
They found the sloop untouched, and unlocked the cabin slide. The
morning was a bit chilly as fall was approaching, and the little cook
range soon gave forth pleasant warmth while they discussed the day’s
plans.
“The truck with the new mast, sails, and rigging should be here before
noon, and I’ve got more than enough money to pay him. Mother drew it
out of the bank for me yesterday. This morning let’s get the sloop
closer inshore, and paint the underbody red. Then we’ll re-rig the
interior here, make a secret-paneled closet for our fingerprint stuff
and personal treasures, and Dago won’t know the place if he happens to
snoop in here again, by any chance.”
They got the sloop closer inshore against the pier, and the tide left
her quite high and dry so that they had no trouble putting a fresh coat
of copper paint, red this time, over her previous coating of green.
The truck brought the mast, sails, and rigging shortly afterwards, and
Stanley and John set up another tripod of timbers from which to sling
the new spar into place. With the aid of wharf idlers they soon had the
beautiful, tapering Marconi mast in place, carefully “stepped,” and
the sails on. The new wire rigging was somewhat intricate because of
the height of the mast, but it was in place by mid-afternoon and not
until then did they knock off for a meal.
“All I hope, Stan, is that we’ve figured our sail area and center of
that area correctly, or we’ll have a lemon of a boat on our hands!
Sheets of whistling zinc and tons of paper plates--I’m nervous about
that!”
“With the Marconi rig, John, there is one thing--we’ll have to try her
out and tinker with the set of the stays until the sails draw right.
And we’ve got to keep an eye on those stays if it begins to blow up
hard. But we’ll be thankful for the ease of reefing in a blow!”
They set sail from the town wharf before supper time, and trouble began
at once! The boat kept carrying a “wet nose” with every puff of wind.
And at the same time she was hard to handle with that wheel.
They shifted a little of the pigiron ballast she carried under her
cabin floor boards, moving it a few feet further aft, and after a few
adjustments to tip the mast back a few inches, giving it a hint of
rake, she began to act with the normal airs of a good yacht. An hour of
sailing and minor adjustments now brought things right, and Stan was
enthusiastic at the way the _Staghound_ tore along through the water of
Zenith Harbor.
They were returning to their anchorage for the night when John gave an
exclamation of warning.
“Duck, Stan! The _Sea Hawk_!”
Sure enough, standing round Zenith Light was the white-hulled _Sea
Hawk_ which they had seen in Black Cove. It was moving fast, as if its
owner had business to attend to, and Stan whistled nervously.
“Get into a blue sweater and a white cap, John,” Stan ordered, “and
bring up my old brown cap!”
By the time the _Sea Hawk_ was closing up, the two boys could not have
been recognized as the boys of Black Cove even if the men aboard the
yacht had suspected who they were. Seated as they were in the cockpit,
too, their physical differences, John being so tall and Stanley just
ordinary in height, were not to be compared, and that helped to hide
their identities.
“I’d give a good shirt to know what part the _Sea Hawk_ is playing
in Nevens’ life,” said Stan. “She’s a beauty, though, and reputed
extremely fast.”
“Maybe Nevens has nothing to do with her, you know,” John said. “She
may belong to a friend of his!”
“What’s she doing in Zenith, I wonder?”
“Murmuring fish-hooks--your guess is as good as mine!”
The yacht rounded to off the pier, let go an anchor, and appeared to
be set for the night. The sun was setting now, and the boys sought out
their own anchorage and lowered the new sails, keeping watchful eyes on
the big yacht. At supper, Stan peered through the portholes from time
to time, but nothing of particular interest was to be seen about the
_Sea Hawk_. Her riding lights were being set, and, as darkness came on,
bright lights gleamed through her rows of ports. Music from a radio
drifted across the water, and sailors walked about her decks at work.
Once a tender put-putted away to the wharf with two men in it. They
were apparently seamen and returned a little later in the dark with a
load of food, Stan having watched them through the binoculars as they
entered the grocery store near the wharf and came out with bags.
“Let’s swim over to-night and see if we can hear anything worth while,
John,” Stan suggested as they sat in the cockpit, listening to the
music and watching the big yacht.
John thought a second or two and then nodded his agreement.
They donned bathing togs and went over-side, swimming slowly towards
their destination. By the end of a few minutes Stan drew near to John
and said:
“John, you get off the bow and attract some attention while I slide to
the stern and listen. There’s a cockpit aft and maybe some one there
may have something to say of interest.”
The boys separated, and John did the crawl past the bow. A sailor
peered over and hailed him.
“Hey, side-wheeler,” yelled the seaman, “what’re you doing--swimming
the Channel?”
“Come on in, the water’s swell!” John shouted.
“Don’t like the water,” laughed the man; “too wet! Ain’t that right,
Slim?”
Another seaman, answering to the name of “Slim” solemnly informed John
that the first speaker was used to “dry water.”
“Tell me another, Mister,” John yelled, striving to keep attention
focused on himself.
For fifteen minutes the youth floated and swam about round the bows of
the anchored yacht, resting at times by holding to the thick anchor
chain.
Round by the stern Stan floated quietly, hidden by the curving contour
of the yacht from view on deck. As he had guessed, some of the people
on board were in the cockpit enjoying the first part of the evening.
“When’s the boss aimin’ to open up on Nevens?” asked a harsh voice.
“Next Thursday at midnight!” some one said.
There was a mingling of voices for a minute or two while the G-man’s
son chuckled with delight at his good fortune and the luck which had
brought the _Sea Hawk_ into Zenith Harbor. Then some one asked:
“Have a seat over here, Mr. Hegarty?”
“Surely, surely. Splendid here, isn’t it, boys!” a cultured voice
answered. “Delightful coast, this.”
“We got work ahead of us next week, I hear, Boss.”
“Yes. Cowboy Nevada wants thirty per cent or nothing doing. Robbery,
I call it. Guess we can take care of things without Cowboy. You boys
better oil up your guns. And keep sober. I don’t want any drunken
babbling.”
“Yes, sir! You bet!”
“We’re with you, Hegarty!”
There was more to it, and Stan gathered that something of prime
importance was to take place Thursday at midnight, evidently a raid
being planned on Porpoise Island and the entrenched Mr. Nevens!
“Cowboy’s got a new gunman,” said Hegarty’s voice. “The name is
Gallagher. Take particular pains to remove Mr. Gallagher, won’t you?”
“Gallagher!” thought Stan. Was it possible that his father had already
worked into that gang as a gunman, just as he had done once before with
another gang during the Hogan case? He was not sure, but he had a
hunch that that was right, and if so he must warn Mr. Sandborn at once!
Cold from his enforced loafing in the water, Stan swam softly away now
from the brightly lighted _Sea Hawk_ and, by a roundabout way, swam
back to the _Staghound_. He knew that John was still off the bows of
the big yacht, and he had to let his chum know that it was time to
return. He lit the cabin lights and left the porthole curtains drawn
back. Then he got into warm, dry clothes, slipped a sweater on, and
went on deck. In a short time he saw the dark blob of John’s head and
the glint of broken water as the rangy lad came back to the _Staghound_.
“Schools of flying porpoises, and pods of gooseberries!” cried John,
shivering like a shaken tube of jelly. “Why didn’t you go to bed and
forget me?”
“Don’t tell me it was cold out there, John, old bean!”
“Cold?” breathed John, hurrying below. “It was worse than that. I had
to battle sharks to keep warm.”
“There’s a fellow named ‘Gallagher’ now with Nevens’ gang, John,” said
Stan, “and I bet that’s my Dad. Seems to me he mentioned that name once
the other night, and it would be just like him to go to work for Mr.
Nevens.”
Then he told John about Hegarty’s plan to raid Nevens on Thursday at
midnight with special attention to the new gunman!
“That means we have to get all the evidence we can before that, John,”
Stan said, eagerly. “Fingerprints, photos, and all, because after
Thursday it will be too late. The F. B. I. will have to be sure of its
ground and in action in time! You and I had better get this cabin fixed
up to-morrow and get over to the Island pronto!”
They worked hard all the next morning hammering, sawing, refitting
moulding, putting in the secret cupboard under a bunk, changing the
galley, and then repainting the whole thing with quick-drying enamel.
The painting was not done till after dinner and they had to wait for it
to dry. The _Sea Hawk_ was still in the harbor, and Stan had an idea.
It was daring and it might bring big results. It was worth a try!
“The tender went ashore a few minutes ago, John,” observed Stan. “What
say if we hurry over to the wharf, tie up there, and then follow
Hegarty and his men and try to get fingerprints!”
It was no trouble to hoist the sails and close in with the pier, where
they tied up and lowered sail. Then they tucked fingerprint powders in
small envelopes into their pockets and took along a magnifying glass
each. They were afraid to take along the new G-man camera which Mr.
Sandborn had given them to replace the broken one, for fear Hegarty
might recognize it as such.
They soon located the _Sea Hawk’s_ head man in a lunch room, and both
boys sauntered in and took a table near by. The conversation of Hegarty
and the two men with him was just about casual things; and they drank
beer and did not pay any attention to the two boys.
After a few minutes Hegarty and his men arose, paid the bill, and left,
heading for the post office. Stan and John got up too, paid their own
bill for a bottle of soda apiece and some doughnuts, and then stepped
over to the table just vacated by the others. There was one beer
bottle which had passed from hand to hand and this Stanley longed to
possess.
“Say,” said he to the owner of the restaurant and beer parlor, “I’ll
give you ten cents for that bottle.”
Puzzled at such a proposition, for ten cents was quite a price for an
almost worthless bottle, the man frowned. Before he could say anything,
however, John had tucked the bottle lightly under one arm and Stan had
laid ten cents upon the table.
“Thanks!” said Stan.
“Sure, O.k.,” said the man, scratching his head and wondering.
Outside, the boys ducked into an alley, where powders were brought
into play under expert, youthful fingers. Then magnifying glasses were
brought to bear upon certain tell-tale smudges upon the dark brown
bottle.
“Beauties, John, honeys!” cried Stan with delight.
They had fingerprints of every man of the three, including Hegarty!