CAPTURED BY THE ENEMY.
“I think we’ve checkmated that lad for once,” said Bill Brady, with much
satisfaction. “Good thing I thought to come ashore and see what
happened. Not that you needed any help—you’re a pretty handy lad in a
scrap, James. But if I hadn’t been on hand, there wouldn’t have been any
witness to the assault, and I don’t suppose we could have had him
arrested just on your complaint, without some sort of evidence to back
you up.”
“I guess not,” said Jim. “I’m certainly glad you came along. I can’t
make out what his game is, but I don’t believe he can do much of
anything without being here himself. And, if he comes back, we can have
him locked up and get rid of him that way. We want to keep our eyes
open, though, so that he can’t sneak back without our seeing him.”
In the morning they reported their adventure with Harding to Dick
Merriwell. The universal coach was thoughtful, but he was very pleased.
“It seems to me he quit too easily,” he said. “Harding usually puts up a
pretty good fight—a better, longer one than that. However, I suppose he
thought it would rather spoil his reputation among his friends, who have
peculiar standards for judging their associates, if he landed in jail,
even on such a charge. The only law those people observe is the one
about not being found out. They don’t mind breaking all the Ten
Commandments themselves, and they don’t care how often their friends
break them, as long as they don’t give any one else a chance to punish
them for it. I’m glad he’s gone, anyhow.”
“We ought to be able to tell something after the men get out and row
to-day,” said Brady. “I understand, of course, that there won’t be any
regular time trials, but the shells could speed up a bit, I suppose, and
see how it went.”
That test was eminently satisfactory for both Harvard and Yale. There
was a representative from each college in the other’s launch when the
crews went out, and the shells swept along at high speed for a while or
so of hard rowing, enough to show that whatever had made the trouble
before was not any longer in evidence.
“If it is over,” said Dick Merriwell, to Benton, “it’s certainly a good
thing. I don’t think it’s worth while, as matters are now, to say
anything to Harvard about it. There’s really nothing we can tell them,
except a lot of vague suspicions, and, even to explain those, we’d have
to go into a lot of ancient history that it’s better not to mention at
all.”
Benton was still doubtful. He knew the methods of Harding of old, and,
like Dick himself, he was inclined to think that the gambler had
surrendered too easily.
“We haven’t accounted for it having happened at all yet,” said Benton
nervously. “If it’s happened once, it may happen again. That’s the rub.
If we knew exactly what had been done, and how they had managed it, we
could guard against anything of the sort in the future. As it is, we are
helpless. It’s as plain as daylight. If some one, outside of the boat,
and outside of the two training camps, can affect the speed of those
shells, so that no matter how well the men row they can’t get the speed
out of the boats, that race can be settled just as the man who’s doing
the dirty work likes. And the profitable thing for any one of that sort
to do would be to make Harvard win. The heavy betting, at long odds, is
all on Yale.”
“You’re right there, Benton,” said Dick anxiously. “But I don’t see just
what we can do. You see, the trouble is that we haven’t got the
slightest sort of a clew to what agency they’re employing to check our
speed. I’ve been over every foot of our shell, and, if I thought it
would do any good, I’d tell Neilson, and examine the Harvard boat with
him.
“But, unless they show their hands a bit more openly than they have
done, I’m afraid we’re doomed to trust to luck and the fact that Harding
had to leave town. It’s certainly a good thing that Phillips and Brady
got rid of him. Even if he still tries to carry out any plot, he’ll have
to trust to his assistants to do the work, and they’re not at all likely
to be as clever as he is himself.”
But in all that day and the next there was no sign of any further
activity. Even the betting in New London fell away. The Harvard men were
by no means ready to put up their good cash when, as they were
convinced, their boat had no chance of winning, and the activity of the
gamblers who had infested the place, seizing at once the chance to cover
the bets at long odds, which enthusiastic Yale men offered, was
apparently at an end.
On Tuesday night, too, Brady learned something that reassured him
mightily. He was in the lobby of the Iroquois when he saw a familiar
face, that led him to sit up and take notice. It was Barnes, Harding’s
agent and companion in two or three nefarious plots that had come to
nothing. But Barnes, though he had a big wad of money, was not trying to
bet on Harvard. Instead, he was offering liberal odds on Yale, and
finding it hard to get any takers.
“Hedging their bets,” commented Brady, to himself. “They must have made
up their minds that they can’t work their scheme, and they’re trying to
make sure that they won’t lose, by betting enough on Yale to offset
their losses if Yale wins a square race—which we probably would. I bet
he’ll find it hard to cover, too, even if he does offer to bet five to
one.”
This was, as a matter of fact, the most convincing evidence that had yet
been obtained as to the probable course of Harding and any allies he
might have, and Dick Merriwell was almost satisfied.
“That certainly looks as if Harding had decided to keep his hands off
this time,” he said. “But I would certainly like to find out just what
they were up to. And, by the way, Bill, have you noticed that that big
schooner, the Marina, that Harding was going ashore from when we spotted
him, is still in the harbor? We know that he had friends aboard her. And
I must confess that the fact that they are still around New London makes
me feel uneasy. Harding is a dangerous customer. I think we ought to
make sure that he’s not on board of her now. He might have managed to
sneak back in the dark, or even have come in on a small boat of some
sort, without being observed.”
Brady saw the possibility of that.
“We might try a little search party,” he said. “If it’s cloudy to-night,
as seems likely, we might be able to get hold of some pretty valuable
information without their knowing we were anywhere near them. It’s worth
trying, it seems to me, anyhow.”
So, late that night, after all the oarsmen at quarters were in bed, and,
presumably, asleep, Dick Merriwell, Bill Brady, Benton, and Jim Phillips
in the _Elihu Yale_, slipped quietly away from Gale’s Ferry, and went
silently down the river, to where the black bulk of the _Marina_ loomed
up ominously at her mooring, below the railway bridge, and in the very
heart of a fleet of pretty white yachts that formed a sharp contrast to
the dingy, slovenly craft that was such a fitting setting for the dark
deeds that were being planned by Barrows, Svenson, and their associates.
Hargreaves had been indignant when he was told that he was not to be one
of the party, but Dick had persuaded him to stay behind.
“We’re going to try to clear up this whole mess to-night,” Dick told
him, “and there’s no telling what sort of trouble we may run into before
we get through with it. The crew has got to row Harvard the day after
to-morrow, you know, whatever happens, and some one has got to stay with
them and take charge. I’ve picked you for that because you’re older than
Benton, and understand what’s needed better than he, not because I think
there’s any choice between you if it comes to trouble. So that’s your
part of the job.”
Hargreaves was a good coach, in the making, and he saw the wisdom of
what his superior said. Before a man can enforce discipline and induce
others to obey his orders, he must submit to the orders of those above
him, and Hargreaves, though he was bitterly disappointed, stayed behind,
and wished them “good luck” with a cheery wave of his hand as the _Elihu
Yale_ slipped quietly off through the dark water, on the errand that
they all hoped would solve the perplexing mystery that had bothered them
so much.
Only the harbor lights showed on the _Marina_ when the launch slowed
down abreast of the schooner. Her sails were untidily furled, and there
was no sign of a watch on deck. Moreover, this time, as they approached,
there was the silence of the grave on board. No sounds of revelry came
from the dark cabin, and there was no boat alongside. The whole fleet
was wrapped in silence and in darkness, for it was after midnight. The
parties on the other vessels had long since come away from whatever
festivities they had been attending on shore, and, as they looked over
to Point Griswold and Pequot Cove on the other side, there were only a
few scattered lights to be seen in the cottages, where tired youngsters,
already keyed up to concert pitch in anticipation of the great spectacle
of Thursday, were getting ready for bed.
“It’s too quiet,” whispered Merriwell to Brady and Benton. They were in
the stern, and Jim Phillips, with sharp eyes peeled, was in the bow.
“It’s too quiet,” Dick repeated. “I have a feeling that these people on
the _Marina_ aren’t as sound asleep as they want us to think. They may
try to spring something on us.”
“I’m going aboard her,” Dick said, when the _Elihu Yale_ finally touched
gently the black side of the schooner. “You can come along, Jim. Benton,
you and Brady stand by in the launch and be ready to make a quick start
if you see us coming. You can tell better what to do, if anything goes
wrong, after it’s happened. There’s no use making plans now, because
they wouldn’t be a bit likely to fit whatever happened.”
And a moment later, his feet cased in rubber shoes that made no sound,
he swung himself lightly up the rope ladder that dangled from the
_Marina’s_ side, and, with Jim at his heels, dropped lightly to her
deck.
They looked around at the litter that covered the deck, hoping to find
some clew, but there was nothing to be seen. The only thing at all out
of the ordinary was the sight of three small motor boats, lashed
insecurely to the deck, a surprisingly large number of tenders for any
yacht, and especially for one of the size of the _Marina_. There was a
big whale boat, too, and Dick, looking into her, saw that she was
equipped with an engine. That boat alone would have served amply as a
lifeboat in case of any accident to the vessel. She was big enough to
carry a dozen men comfortably, and Dick thought it most unlikely that
the _Marina_ would have a larger crew. She was an easy vessel to handle,
and, knowing what he did of Svenson, Dick thought that the mess on her
decks indicated that she was very short-handed.
Jim was peering into the little motor boats, while Dick examined the
whaleboat.
“Look here,” he said, holding up a coil of wire that he had found in one
of them. “What do you suppose this is?”
Dick looked at it curiously. The wire was very thin, and was wrapped
around a core of some solid metal.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Queer-looking thing to have in a boat like
that. Looks like a regular coil—but I don’t see what it’s used for.”
They looked in the other motor boats, and each was similarly equipped.
Otherwise they were very ordinary boats of their type.
Suddenly, from above, a flash of blue flame attracted their attention,
and in the same moment a crashing splutter of sound assailed their ears.
“Wireless!” cried Dick, and Jim, all attention, listened intently to the
crashing of the heavy spark. They had not noticed a wireless
installation on the vessel before.
“Specially tuned,” said Jim, as he listened. “Marconi and United
Stations wouldn’t catch that spark at all—not so they could read it. It
would mess up their receiving if they were in the right area, but that’s
all. Some one’s calling this tub, too. I can read the call—Ma, Ma, Ma.”
“Look out,” called Dick sharply. “They’re coming up to answer.”
There was a rush of feet from below.
The two Yale men made for the side, where the two they had left in the
launch were looking up anxiously.
“Get into the launch and away,” whispered Jim, “I’m going to drop into
the water and listen to whatever message they get. I can read that stuff
if I can hear it. I’ll swim toward shore when they get through, and you
can pick me up. It’ll be better if they don’t know we’re here.”
He dropped silently over the side and into the water as the launch stole
away, her engine muffled, so that no one should hear her. And then,
supporting himself in the cold water by hanging to a rope, while he
kicked off his shoes and rid himself of his coat, Jim stayed under the
_Marina’s_ side and listened to the crashing of the wireless spark while
a message from Harding to Barrows—a name unknown to Jim—was received.
Shivering in the water, which was far from warm, though not so cold as
it would have been had the tide been coming in instead of going out, as
he reflected, Jim grasped the sense of the message. Fortunately for him,
the senders had relied on the tuning of the wireless apparatus on the
_Marina_ for secrecy, and the message was sent in plain English,
although, of course, in Morse.
When a wireless message is sent through the air, the pitch may be
determined at the sending station. The principle is the same as that of
tuning a violin. In an orchestra, all the violins are tuned to the same
pitch, or else discord is the result. It is the same with wireless. All
regular, legitimate stations are attuned to the same pitch, so that each
can receive any message sent by any of the others. For their own evil
purposes, the owners of the _Marina_ and those who were sending the
message had chosen a different pitch.
“Tell Barrows,” the message ran, as Jim spelled it out, “Barnes betting
on Yale to make Merriwell think O. K. Tell him to be careful—think
chances for killing good. Can make big bet New York morning of race—will
not then arouse suspicion. Know of Yale syndicate offering five thousand
at five to two. Ask Barrows if he can cover.”
There was a moment of delay, while, as Jim supposed, the message was
being translated to Barrows, whoever he might be. In the sudden silence,
he heard sounds of activity on one of the near-by revenue cutters, and
also the wash of the water against the _Elihu Yale_, which was not far
away.
Cra-a-sh! The wireless was working again.
“Barrows says O. K. Thanks. Will cover Thursday a.m.”
Deep silence succeeded the roar of the wireless spark. It was broken
only by low voices from the deck of the _Marina_, and the soft wash of
the waves as the tide ran lazily out. Jim, making sure of his bearings,
let go of his rope and began to swim as quietly as he could for the
launch, where, he was sure, Dick and the others were anxiously waiting
for him. But suddenly he found himself in the midst of a glare of white
light. At the same moment, a cry arose from the deck of the schooner he
was leaving behind—then not more than twenty feet behind him.
Jim realized at once that he was detected. An inopportune flash of the
searchlight from the cutter, disturbed by the sound of the wireless,
which did not make sense to her apparatus, had given him away. Even as
the light winked away from him, he struck out vigorously, hoping to get
to the launch, but in that instant a rope struck him, and, a noose,
settling about his shoulders, he was dragged back through the water to
the _Marina_ and pulled up to her deck.
“What are you doing here—spying on us?” asked a man Jim had never seen
before. It was Barrows. The gambler was furiously angry, and the glaring
countenance of Svenson, who had been drinking, convinced Jim that he
was, as Harry Maxwell would have said, “strictly up against it.”
But in the fact that he was unknown to Barrows lay his temporary
salvation. Barrows himself would not in any case have sanctioned
violence, but Svenson was of a different mold. The skipper, inflamed as
he was with drink, might have perpetrated some great villainy had he
known who Jim really was and what he had been about to tell Merriwell.
But Jim held his ground. He saw that Barrows was puzzled as well as
angry.
“I fell overboard from a launch,” he said, “and I was trying to find a
boat with some one on board awake when you picked me up. Would it be
troubling you too much to ask you to put me on shore?”
Barrows hesitated a moment. He did not know what Jim might have heard.
He knew that he had been incautious in talking to Svenson—but Jim, as a
matter of fact, had heard nothing of that. The gambler finally decided
to treat Jim pleasantly, for the moment, at least.
“You’d better stay with us till morning,” he said. “I can’t very
conveniently put you ashore now—and you’d better turn in, anyhow, after
your ducking, with a hot whisky, and get between some blankets. I’ll
show you to a cabin.”
There was no fault to be found with the man’s manner. It seemed pleasant
and hospitable. Jim thought, too, that he might, if he stayed aboard,
get some more valuable information. But he wished there was some way in
which he could get word of his safety to his friends. However, there was
no help for it. He went below, and found himself in a roomy cabin,
practically a prisoner.
He had to laugh, however, as he thought of the expressions that had
chased themselves over the face of Barrows as he stood looking at him.
He gave little heed to Svenson, estimating, and rightly, that the
Scandinavian skipper’s interest in the affair was the use of his boat.
Then he went to the window and looked out. And, stealing along, not far
away, he saw the _Elihu Yale_, and Dick Merriwell’s anxious face. They
had come to try to rescue him.
“I’m all right,” he called softly. “I’m going to stay here and see if I
can’t find out what the game is. They don’t know who I am. Keep
away—they may be keeping a watch now. I’ll get away without any trouble
whenever I want to. Harding was bluffing—the wireless was from him. He
isn’t in this—not directly.”
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