THE DECISION
That night when his day's duties had been discharged and he was free,
the first thing His Highness did was to pen a much blotted and
somewhat incoherent note to Seaver Bay. Almost every sentence of it
was underlined and some of the persuasive adjectives and verbs were
even emphasized in red pencil. Certainly what the epistle lacked in
neatness and beauty of appearance was compensated for in sincerity and
earnestness. This document mailed and reinforced by an ardent appeal
over the telephone, there was nothing to do but possess one's soul of
patience until Bob decided what it was best for him to do.
To throw up a government job with practically assured employment for a
private venture which might be of short duration seemed madness and
the young radio man with his level head and sober judgment was not one
to leap at a decision. Carefully he weighed the pros and cons and
while he did so Walter, and even Mr. Crowninshield himself, fidgeted.
His Highness would not have hesitated a moment; and that any one
should do so appeared to him incomprehensible. As for the master of
Surfside who was accustomed to having his business offers snapped up
the instant they were made, the younger man's deliberation piqued his
interest and respect as almost nothing else could have done. He had
thought the terms suggested very generous and had expected them to be
seized with avidity. It was something new to have a penniless youth
waver as to whether to accept or reject them.
In the meantime while the days passed no tidings came from the New
York detectives and the dwellers at Surfside were compelled to settle
down to their customary routine and put Lola's disappearance out of
their minds. Gardeners toiled, flowers blossomed, Jerry mugged about
with his misty blue eyes following every seed that was planted, every
turn the lawn mower made; they followed, too, what Walter was doing
and saw to it that the dogs were well cared for and that his young
protege neglected nothing.
Walter saw little of Dick now, for the house was filled with guests
and the place humming with laughter and the rush of unending sports
and picnics. There were tennis tournaments, golf matches, swimming
races, regattas when small fleets of knockabouts maneuvered in the
bay. In the midst of such a whirl of merriment it taxed all one's
forbearance to be nothing more than the boy who cared for the dogs.
On one particularly fine, bracing June morning after the lad had
returned from a solitary cross-country tramp with Achilles and the
rest of the pack, his lot seemed to him especially unenviable. There
was evidently to be a ball game. College boys with crimson H's on
their shirts; men with a blue Y; together with a group of
short-sleeved players not yet honored with insignia from their
universities were hurrying out to the lawn with bats, balls, and
catcher's mitts.
"You must pitch for the Blues, Dabney," called one fellow to another.
"Who's going to catch for the Crimson team?" piped another.
"I choose to play for Yale," came shrilly from another man who was
lounging across the grass in immaculate white flannels.
"Come on and help Harvard along, Cheever," put in a strident voice.
"Not on your sweet life!" bawled Cheever, with a vehemence that made
everybody laugh. "Goodness knows she needs help; but I'm not going to
be the one to offer it."
Again there was a good-humored shout from the bustling throng.
"I'll line up with Yale to beat you though," Cheever added with a
chuckle.
"You can line up, you shrimp, but we're going to do the beating,"
retorted an ardent Harvard supporter.
So the banter went on while the nines were being organized.
At length, however, there was a shout of dismay.
"We're lacking one man," announced the captain of the Crimsons, with
sudden consternation. "Haven't you another chap who can play, Dick?"
"Nobody, I'm afraid, unless you want to haul in some of the
chauffeurs," Dick answered idly.
"Jove! That's hard luck. We've got to have a shortstop. What are we
going to do?"
"Wasn't there a boy around here somewhere this morning with the dogs?
It seems to me I saw somebody--a stocky little chap with a snub nose."
The description was not flattering and Walter winced.
"Oh, that was King, who has charge of the kennels," replied Dick
quickly. "I'm afraid he hasn't come back with the bunch of poodles
yet."
"Yes, he has. I saw him skulking round the garage just now. Can't we
drum him up?"
"Sure, if you can find him."
"There he is!" cried Cheever. "I say, you master of the hounds, come
on over here. We want you."
Blushing red His Highness approached the noisy group.
"Did you ever play baseball, kid?" inquired the captain of the Harvard
team.
"I believe so--once or twice," answered Walter soberly.
"Want to come in with us as shortstop?"
"Sure!"
"I've a glove that will fit him," put in a man called Richardson.
With scant ceremony His Highness was hustled into it and before he
sensed what he was doing he was yelling with the rest, and head over
ears in as exciting a game of ball as he had ever participated in.
There were excellent players on both teams and the scoring ran so even
that it was a toss-up who would win. From jest the game dropped into
deadly earnestness.
"It's your turn at the bat, Stubby," asserted Richardson to Walter
unceremoniously. "Now remember who you're playing for. Don't hand Yale
the game if you can help it."
"I'll do my best," was the modest reply as the lad gripped the bat,
then rubbed his hands in the dirt to make his hold more certain.
The pitcher twirled a ball.
"One strike!" droned the umpire.
Again the leather disc spun through the air.
"Two strikes," called the warning voice.
"Great Scott, Stubbie, look out. Don't waste strokes like that, you
boob. Let the things go by if they don't suit you. You don't _have_ to
hit them."
Once more the ball spun through the air. A smart crack followed and up
into the blue leaped the ball, defying the pursuit of catcher or
baseman.
"Beat it into home plate, George!" coached the captain excitedly.
"Move along, you fellows! It's a run for Stubbie! Slide in, Stubbie!
Pick up your heels and sprint! Go it! Go it! Keep out of the way, you
chaps. Hurray! Bully for you, kid! A beauty! _Harvard! Harvard!
Harvard!_ Rah, rah, rah! Rah, rah, rah! Rah, rah, rah, _Harvard_!" The
familiar cheer echoed loud above the shouting.
"That lays them out! They're dead men!" cried Richardson
triumphantly. "Where did you learn to play ball, young one?"
"It's no fair borrowing a professional," the Yale leader objected,
trying to make a joke of his defeat.
"Jove, but that was a pretty hit!" Dick said quietly to Walter. "A
peach!"
"You're all right son!" affirmed the Harvard catcher. "Any time you
are out of a job I'll recommend you to the Braves."
A general laugh went up.
Altogether the morning was a glorious day of comradeship, nor did it
lessen His Highness's happiness when he returned to his quarters to
see disembarking from Mr. Crowninshield's motor car the familiar form
of Bob.
"I brought your brother back from Seaver Bay with me," explained the
financier. "It took him so long to make up his mind whether he'd come
here or not that I went over there to-day to find out whether he was
dead or alive."
Mr. Crowninshield was plainly enjoying Walter's amazement.
"And you've come to stay?" His Highness, all delight and confusion,
contrived to stammer.
"So they tell me," Bob laughed.
He was a tall, handsome fellow with a grave mouth and thoughtful brown
eyes; and when he spoke it was in a voice low and pleasing to the ear.
"Oh, Bob and I have lots of secrets we haven't let you into, little
chap," affirmed the master of Surfside gaily.
"I never was so surprised!" gasped Walter.
"We meant you should be. Your brother settled everything up over the
telephone a day or two ago."
"But, Bob, I don't see how you managed to get away from Seaver Bay so
soon. You said it would probably be weeks before they could act on
your resignation, even should you send it in, and afterward they would
have to find some one to take your place."
"Luck came my way," Bob replied. "The government was closing the Bell
Reef station and they simply shifted the two men who were there over
to our place."
"Did you and O'Connel both decide to leave?"
Bob's eyes twinkled.
"O'Connel has just answered an advertisement as operator aboard a
private yacht," said he, exchanging a glance with Mr. Crowninshield.
Evidently there was some jest between them that amused them vastly.
Curiously Walter looked from one to the other.
"Better tell him, Bob," murmured the New Yorker in a low tone.
"Why you see, kid, O'Connel had a chance to go as wireless man aboard
the _Siren_."
"Not--not the yacht that has Lola on it!"
"The very same--at least we hope it has Lola."
"But--but--I don't understand," muttered His Highness as if dazed.
"Evidently, so far as we can make it out, the _Siren_ passed through
the Canal and not daring to land, cruised along the coast where she
must have met with rough weather. Of course that is purely surmise on
the detective's part. Anyhow, her radio operator broke his arm and had
to be replaced by another man so they advertised for some one. Luckily
Dacie saw the item in the want column of the New York paper and set
O'Connel on the job. The arrangements have all been by letter through
the general mail delivery of New York so we still have no notion as to
where the _Siren_ is. On Tuesday, however, O'Connel is to go over to
New York, an agent is to meet him, and he is to be told where to go."
"And I suppose Mr. Dacie or Mr. Lyman will be on hand and go along too
to nail their man!" cried the delighted Walter.
"Not so fast, son," returned Mr. Crowninshield. "We are not going to
track them down so close and scare them off at the outset. No, we
sha'n't send any one with O'Connel. He'll go and meet the agent and
follow up directions precisely as if he knew nothing about Lola. With
Bob here operating a wireless and O'Connel in constant communication
with him, we will have all the inside information we're after.
O'Connel can soon let us know where the yacht is; whether Lola is
aboard of her; and exactly when and where the owners of the _Siren_
are proposing to land. They can't make a move which we shall not know
about in a flash. A pretty neat arrangement, I call it!" The New York
magnate rubbed his hands together softly.
"Gee! Well, Mr. Lyman and Mr. Dacie have sure been busy!" was Walter's
comment.
"You do not mention that I, too, have been busy," chuckled Mr.
Crowninshield. "While you have been chasing the dogs over the fields
and playing baseball," he winked at Bob, "I have been telephoning to
the city for a radio set--a corking fine one--for Dick's birthday.
Bob, here, is going to install it with the aid of some New York
electricians. It should be all in place inside a few days. Then if
O'Connel has any messages for us we shall be ready for him. In the
meantime Bob is going to break in you youngsters so that you or Dick
can listen in and get any news that may come when he is off duty or
aboard the yacht. If those fellows who bagged Lola think themselves so
all-fired clever they will find they are mistaken. I did not go into
this game to be beaten." Mr. Crowninshield squared his jaw with
bulldog resolution.
"Now you and Bob trot off and have a visit together. Show him where
his quarters will be. There is a room beside you where Jerry says he
can bunk," continued the master of the estate. "Until the apparatus
arrives from New York there won't be much he can do, so you better
take the chance to go home and see your mother to-night--both of you.
By to-morrow or the next day at the latest the electricians should be
here with their stuff. Then things will hum!"
With a jaunty wave of his hand Mr. Crowninshield wheeled about and Bob
and Walter were left alone.