RED WINS TO LOSE
Drew Lane, Tom Howe’s team mate, had not seen the Galloping Ghost. In
truth it was some distance from the sleeping car to the river bank. After
picking his way across the tracks, flashing his light this way and that
in search of clues—some article dropped in hasty flight, a broken match,
a cigaret thrown away—he came at last to a narrow stretch of rock-strewn,
cinder-embedded ground.
Here his mood changed. Snapping off his light, he thrust one hand deep in
his coat pocket and sauntered forward like some college youth taking the
air.
This was Drew Lane’s favorite pose. With his faultless derby, his
spotless suit of sea-green and his natty tie, he carried it off well.
Many a tough egg had called him a “fresh college kid,” only to find
himself the next moment lying on the sidewalk feeling of a lump on his
jaw caused only by Drew’s capable fist.
That fist at this moment was curled around a nasty looking thing of blue
steel. At a second’s notice Drew could set that blue steel pal of his
spouting fire, right through his pocket. And his aim, while indulging in
this type of shooting, was the despair of all evil doers.
Drew was approaching what appeared to be a dangerous spot. In the half
darkness before him a great steam shovel mounted on a dredge stood with
crane outstretched like some fabled bird ready to bend down and pluck his
lifeless body from the river. Plenty there were, too, who would have
witnessed the act with a grunt of satisfaction.
As he approached the dredge a small craft, moored ahead of the dredge and
smelling strongly of fish, gave forth a hollow bump-bump.
Fearlessly the young detective hopped aboard this fishing schooner. For a
moment his light flashed here and there.
“No one,” he muttered.
Hopping ashore, he made his way to the scow supporting the dredge. Having
reached it, he dropped on hands and knees, to creep its entire length.
From time to time, with the aid of his flashlight, he examined several
posts and the outer surface of the scow. When at last he stood once more
upon his feet it was with a grunt of satisfaction.
“Went south,” he muttered. “Speed boat, all right. Wonder how far? Go up
the river in the morning. Find out—”
His thoughts were broken short off by the bark of an automatic. One shot,
that was all; then silence.
With the spring of a panther Drew was off the barge, across the narrow
open space and lost in the labyrinth of sleeping cars.
In an astonishingly short time he was close to the scene of the
mysterious kidnaping.
“Tom! Tom Howe!” he called softly. “Are you there?”
There came no answer. Only from the river came the hollow bump-bump of
the fishing schooner. “Tom! Tom Howe!” he called. Still no answer.
Then, without warning, the car before him began to move. For lack of a
better thing to do, he hopped aboard and went rattling away into the
city’s great depot.
* * * * * * * *
It was during this same night, at a somewhat later hour, that Red Rodgers
and the mysterious girl stood in the obscurity of the cabin doorway.
Breathing hard and peering out into the night, they were poised as if for
flight.
The slight hold of the lock had been broken. They were free to go. But
which way? They were on an island. How long was this island? How large
was the island? What was its nature? Was it all tangled forest? Were
there trails, clearings, deserted cabins? To these questions Red could
form no answers.
“We’d better have a try for their boat,” he whispered.
In answer the girl pressed his arm.
Then together they stole out in the night. The shadow of a giant spruce
tree swallowed them up.
After that, to an impersonal observer there might have appeared a gliding
bit of darkness from time to time, followed by two black figures leaping
at one another by the foot of the small dock.
The action of the figures increased in its intensity, yet there was no
sound. They writhed and twisted. One went down upon a knee, but was up
again on the instant. They went over in a heap to roll upon the ground.
They tumbled about until they reached the dock and all but tumbled into
the icy water.
Then, as suddenly as it began, the struggle ceased.
For ten brief seconds one figure sat upon his opponent. Then he beckoned.
A third figure appeared. Groping about the dock, this figure at last
seized upon some object that cast little shadow. This it handed to the
crouching figure.
Some seconds of suspense, and at last two figures, one tall, one short,
stood side by side looking at the water and the dock.
As they stood there, some trick of the moonlight and shadows made their
two forms appear to melt into one; and that form presented a spectacle of
abject despair. Thirty seconds this pose was held. Then the shadow
appeared to explode and two figures melted into the shadows to the right.
What had happened? Red Rodgers had fought a battle and won, only to find
that he had in reality lost. While groping his way toward the dock he had
been detected and pounced upon by the kidnapers’ guard.
From earliest childhood Red had been prepared. A boy, reared among the
tough fists of a steel town school, must be. When, in his teens, he had
wrestled with red hot steel, this instinct for absolute preparedness had
been intensified. Football had added to this training. When one considers
that he was as quick as a panther, as strong as a lion and as cool-headed
as a prize fighter, one must know that the flabby guard stood little
chance. Instantly Red’s arm was about his neck in a clinch that prevented
the least outcry.
The outcome of the battle you already know; but not quite. When the boy
had conquered his opponent, when he had bound and gagged him, he went to
look for the rowboat. Then it was that his lips formed a single word:
“Gone!”
And the girl, who in the moonlight seemed pitifully small, echoed:
“Gone!”
Where was this boat? Had it drifted away? Or had a second kidnaper rowed
away to a second island, lying a stone’s throw away, for help?
No answer could be found. One thing remained to be done: to vanish into
the night. This the strange pair lost no time in doing.