AN ISLAND MYSTERY
"Hullo, Hiram; where are you bound for?"
It was Rob who spoke, as Hiram hastened by his house in the early
darkness.
"Oh, hullo, Rob," responded the other. "I was wondering who that was
hanging over the gate. Why, I'm going to Paul's house. I'm going to
talk over that aeroplane model contest with him. I think that we stand
a chance to win if Jack Curtiss doesn't make good his boast."
"What was that?" inquired Rob.
"Oh, he says that he is going to build an aeroplane that will beat us
all."
"And have it ready in a week?" was Rob's astonished query.
"That's what he says," responded Hiram. "It all looks kind of
suspicious to me. Fifty dollars is a large enough sum to tempt Jack to
do almost anything. Well, so long. I've got to hurry along. I'm late
now."
And the lad hastened away to keep his appointment.
Rob was about to go into the house and get a book, when his attention
was arrested by a figure coming up the street at a smart pace whose
outlines somehow seemed familiar to him. The next minute his guess was
confirmed, when a hearty voice hailed him:
"Waal, here I am, lad--all shipshape and in first-class trim. Now, what
is it? What do yer want? Yer didn't explain in the note, but old
Captain job Hudgins'll always stand by a shipmate in distress."
"Why, whatever do you mean, captain?" exclaimed Rob, amazed, and
thinking that the captain must have taken leave of his wits. "Who do
you mean is in distress?"
"Mean?" echoed the captain, in his turn, it seemed, surprised. "Why,
that note yer sent me. Here it is--all written on one uv them
new-fangled machines."
Rob took the crumpled paper the old seaman drew out of his coat and
scanned it hastily by the light of the street lamp. The following note
met his puzzled gaze.
"DEAR CAPTAIN: Please come over and see me at once. Something serious
has happened at the bank. I need your aid and advice.
"Yours,
"ROB BLAKE."
"Hum! The signature is typewritten, too," mused Rob. "What kind of a
joke is this? I don't know, but I'll bet anything that Jack Curtiss is
at the bottom of it."
"Well," demanded the captain, "what is it, a bit of gammon? I'll
keel-haul the man as did it if I can find him."
"It looks like a hoax of some sort," admitted Rob, sorely puzzled; "but
I can't for the life of me see the object of it. Come into the house a
minute, captain, and we'll try to figure it out."
Seated beneath the lamp in the library of his home, Rob scrutinized the
letter closely, but could find absolutely no indication about it to
betray who could have typewritten it.
"How did you come to receive it?" he asked suddenly.
"Why, old Hank Handcraft come out in that crazy launch uv his and guv
it ter me," rejoined the captain. "I ought ter hev told yer that in
the first place, but I was all took aback and canvas a-shiver when yer
tole me yer never wrote it."
"Hank Handcraft," repeated Rob. "He's that queer old fellow that lives
in a hut away down the beach?"
"Yes, and a bad character, too," replied the captain. "He used ter be
a smuggler, and done a term in jail fer it."
"Well, it's pretty certain that he didn't write this," said Rob. "He
couldn't get hold of a typewriter, even if he could use one. What did
he tell you about it? Did he say who gave it to, him?"
"No, he just handed it ter me, and says: 'A young party in Hampton says
ter give yer this and hurry.' I was just gettin' my supper when I
heard his hail of 'Island, ahoy!' I hurried out, and there he was in
that old teakettle uv his, at the end uv my wharf."
"And he left before you read the note?"
"I should say. He hurried right off ag'in."
"Well, I don't see any way to get at the bottom of this mystery but to
go and see old Hank himself," mused Rob, after a period of thought.
"What do you think, captain?"
"That's the tack ter go about on, youngster," agreed the man of Topsail
Island; "but if yer are goin' down ter his place at this hour uv night,
we'd better take somebody else along. He's a bad character, and I'm
only a feeble old man and yer are a lad."
"I'll go round by Merritt Crawford's house," proposed Rob; "then we'll
pick up Tubby Hopkins. I guess we can handle any trouble that Hank
wants to make, with that force on hand."
"I guess so," agreed the old man. "I must say I'd like ter get ter the
bottom uv this here mystery. 'All fair and above board' is my motto.
I don't like these secret craft."
The two young scouts were both at home, and after brief explanations
the four started off at a lively pace for Hank Handcraft's hut, which
was situated about two miles along the beach. As they hastened along,
Rob explained to the others in more detail the nature of their mission,
but though they were as much mystified by the sudden summons of Captain
Hudgins as Rob and the captain himself, they could hit upon no
plausible explanation for it.
It was a little over half an hour before they reached the dilapidated
hut where old Handcraft, a beach-comber, made his dwelling place. A
short distance off the shore they could see by the moon, which had now
risen, that his crazy old motor boat lay at anchor. This was a sign
that Hank was at home. Lest it be wondered that such a character could
have owned a motor boat, it may be explained here that the engine of
Hank's old oyster skiff had been given him by a summer resident who
despaired of making it work. Hank, however, who was quite handy with
tools, had fixed it up and managed to make it drive his patched old
craft at quite a fair speed--sometimes. When it broke down, as it
frequently did, Hank, who was a philosopher in his way, simply got out
his oars and rowed his heavy craft.
As an additional indication that the hut was occupied, light shone
through several of its numerous chinks and crannies, and a knock at the
door brought forth a low growl of: "Who's there?"
"We want to see you," said Rob.
"This is no time of night to call on a gentleman; come to-morrow and
leave your cards," rumbled the gruff voice from inside the hut.
"This is serious business," urged Rob. "Come on, open that door, Hank.
This is Rob Blake, the banker's son."
"Oh, it is, is it?" grumbled the voice, as the clank of the door-chains
being taken off was heard from within. "Well, I ain't had much
business deals with your father lately, my private fortune being
somewhat shrunk."
With a muffled chuckle from the speaker, the door slowly opened, and
Hank, a ragged figure, with an immense matted beard, long tangled hair
and dim blue eyes, that blinked like a rat's, stood revealed.
"Come in, come in, gentlemen," he bowed, with mock politeness. "I'm
glad to see such a numerous and representative party. Now, what kin I
do you for?"
He chuckled once more at his little jest, and the boys involuntarily
shrank from him.
There was nothing to do, however, but enter the hut, and Hank
accommodated his guests with a cracker box apiece as chairs. On a
table, roughly built out of similar boxes, a battered old stable lamp
smoked and flared. A more miserable human habitation could not be
imagined.
"Hank," began the captain, "speak me fair and above board, mate--who
give yer that letter ter bring ter me ter-night?"
"What letter?" blankly responded Hank, a look of vacancy in his shifty
eyes.
"Oh, yer know well enough; that letter yer give me at supper time."
"Captain, I'll give you my davy I don't know what you're talking
about," returned the beachcomber.
"What!" roared the captain: rising to his feet and advancing
threateningly. "Yer mean ter tell me, yer rapscallion, that yer don't
recall landin' at Topsail Island earlier ter-night and givin' me a note
which says ter come urgent and immediate ter see young Rob Blake here?"
"Why, captain," calmly returned Hank, with an indulgent grin, "I really
think you must be gettin' childish in your old age. You must be seeing
things. I hope you ain't drinking."
"You--you scoundrel, you!" roared the old captain, almost beside
himself with rage, and dancing with clenched fists toward Hank.
The beach-comber's filthy hand slipped into his rags in a minute, and
the next instant he was squatting back on his haunches in the corner of
the hut, like a wildcat about to spring. In his hand there glistened,
in the yellow rays of the lamp, a blued-steel revolver.
"Don't get angry, captain. It's bad for the digestion," grinned the
castaway. "Now," he went on, "I'm going to tell you flat that if you
say I came to your island to-night, you're dreaming. It must have been
some one else.
"Come on, boys," directed the captain, with an angry shrug. "There's no
use wastin' time on the critter. I'm inclined ter think now that
there's somethin' more than ordinary in the wind," he added, as they
left the hut, with the half-idiotic chuckles of its occupant ringing in
their ears.