HE IS FRIGHTENED AND VERY THOUGHTFUL
And this was the triumph of Sherlock Nobody Holmes! This was the
startling discovery with which he would astonish his superiors and win
their approbation! It was not Sherlock Nobody Holmes who heard in a sort
of daze the whispered words that were next uttered. It was just the
captain's mess boy, and he hung his head, not so much in crushing
disappointment as in utter shame.
"Come inside here and keep still. How'd _you_ get on this ship?
Nobody'll be hunting for you, will they? Come in--quick. What's the
matter with you?"
Still clutching the dish, Tom was dragged into that dark little room. He
seemed almost in a trance. The hand which had been raised in conspiracy
and treason pushed him roughly onto the berth.
"So you turned up like a bad penny, huh?" whispered his brother,
fiercely.
"I--I wrote you--a letter--after mother died," Tom said simply. "I
don't know if you got it."
"Shut up!" hissed his brother. "Don't talk so loud! You want to get me
in trouble? How'd you know about this?"
His voice was gruff and cold and seemed the more so for his frightened
whisper.
"She died of pneumonia," said Tom impassively. "I was----"
"Gimme that plate!" his brother interrupted.
But this roused Tom. He seemed to feel that his possession of the plate
was a badge of innocence.
"I got to keep it," he said; "it's----"
"Shh!" his brother interrupted. "Somebody's coming; don't move and keep
your mouth shut! It's the second shift of stokers!"
From the companionway came the steady sound of footfalls. There was an
authoritative sound to them as they echoed in the deserted passage,
coming nearer and nearer. It was not the second shift of stokers.
"Shh," said Tom's brother, clutching his arm. "If they should come here
keep your mouth shut and let me do the talking. They ain't got anything
on me," he added in a hoarse whisper which bespoke his terror, "unless
_you_--shhh!"
"I know what it is," Tom whispered, "and I ain't a-scared. They got a
signal from the destroyer. They know the room."
"There's nothing they can find here," his brother breathed. "They were
all through here last night. Put that dish down--put it down, I tell
you! Shh!"
Tom let go of the plate, scarcely knowing what he did.
Nearer, nearer, came the footsteps and stopped. The door was thrown open
and in the passage stood the captain, a sailor and the officer who had
spoken to Tom the night before.
Tom's heart was in his throat; he did not move a muscle. What happened
seemed all a jumble to him, like things in a dream. He was aware of a
lantern held by the officer and of the sailor standing by the porthole,
over which he had spread something black.
"Did you know this kid was mixed up in it?" the sailor asked. Tom felt
that the sailor must be a Secret Service man.
"They're brothers," said the captain. "You can see that."
"He had him posted for a lookout," said the officer. "He was watching
on the deck last night." Then, turning upon Tom he said brusquely, "you
were supposed to hurry down here with the tip if the convoy signaled,
eh?"
Tom struggled to answer, but they did not give him time.
"You're the fellow that read that semaphore message the other day, too,
eh?" the officer said. "Stand up."
Tom stood trembling while the sailor rapidly searched him. "Where's your
flashlight?" he demanded apparently disappointed not to find one.
"I haven't got any," said Tom, dully.
"Pretty good team work," said the sailor.
"Here you," he added, proceeding to search Tom's brother, while the
captain and the officer fell to turning the little room inside out,
hauling the mattress from the berth and examining every nook and cranny
of the place. Tom noticed that the plate, which was now on a stool, had
a sandwich on it and a piece of cheese, and he realized, if he had not
realized before, his brother's almost diabolical foresight and sagacity.
It looked very innocent--a harmless, late lunch, brought into the
stateroom as was often done among the ship's people.
During the search of the stateroom Tom stood silently by. He watched the
coverings pulled ruthlessly from the berth, moved out of the way as the
mattress was hauled to the floor, gazed fascinated at the quick
thoroughness which mercilessly unfolded every innocent towel and
scrutinized each joint and section of the life preserver, until
presently the orderly little apartment was in a state of chaos. He saw
the officer move the plate so as to examine the under side of the stool.
He saw the disguised Secret Service man pick up a little piece of
innocent cotton waste and carelessly throw it down again.
But the turmoil about him was nothing to the turmoil in his own brain.
What should he do? Would he dare to speak? What could he say? And still
he stood silent, watching with a strange, cold feeling, looking
occasionally at his brother, and thinking--thinking. As his brother
watched him furtively, and a little fearfully, Tom became aware of a
queer way he had of contracting his eyebrows, just as Uncle Job used to
do when he told a joke. And there came into his mind the memory of a
certain day long ago when his big brother and he had shot craps
together in front of the bank building in Bridgeboro and his brother had
looked just that same way when he watched the street for stray
policemen. Funny that he should think of that just now. The sailor (or
whatever he was) gave Tom a shove to get him out of the way so that he
could crawl under the berth.
And still Tom watched them dazedly. He was thinking of something that
Mr. Ellsworth, his scoutmaster, had once said--that blood is thicker
than water. As nearly as he could make out, that meant that after all a
fellow's own people came first--before anything else. He had great
respect for Mr. Ellsworth.
The man in the sailor suit picked up the plate of food from the berth
and slung the whole business into the basin. The jangle of the dish
startled Tom and roused him. The others didn't seem to mind it. They had
more important things to think of than a mess plate.
And Tom Slade, captain's mess boy and former scout, went on thinking.