JACK FORMS A PLOT
The next morning Jack lost no time in making his way toward Hank
Handcraft's tumble-down abode. He found its owner in, and likewise
disposed to be quarrelsome.
"'Oh, here you are at last!" exclaimed the hairy and unkempt outcast,
as the bully approached heavily through the yielding sand. "I'd about
given you up, and was seriously contemplating making a visit to your
home--"
"If you ever did," breathed Jack threateningly.
"Well," grinned Hank impudently, with his most malicious chuckle, "if I
did, what then?"
"I'd have you thrown out of the house," calmly replied Jack, seating
himself on a big log of driftwood, once the rib of a schooner that went
ashore on the dangerous shoals off Hampton and pounded herself to
pieces.
"Oh, no; you wouldn't have me thrown out!" chuckled Hank, resuming his
task of scaling a mackerel. "Cause if you did, I'd go to the chief of
police and tell him something about the robbery of the armory and the
cracking of old man Hudgins' safe."
"You wouldn't dare to do that!" sneered Jack. "You are implicated in
that as badly as we are."
"That's a matter of opinion," rejoined Hank, industriously scraping
away at his fish, and showing no trace of any emotion in his pale eyes.
"Anyhow, what I want right now is some cash. You agreed to pay me well
for what I did the other night, and I haven't seen the money yet."
"Be a little patient, can't you?" irritably retorted the other. "Money
doesn't grow on trees. Now listen, Hank. How would you like to get a
nice little sum of money--more than I could give you--for camping out
on Kidd's Island, in the Upper Inlet, for a few days?"
Hank's fishy eyes showed some trace of feeling at this.
"What do you mean?" he asked. "Is this a new joke you're putting up on
me?"
"No, I am perfectly serious. You can make a good sum by following our
directions, and I'll see that you get into no trouble over it."
"Well, if you can do that, I'll keep my mouth shut," chuckled Hank in
his mirthless way; "but if I don't get some money pretty quick, I'm
going to make trouble fer somebody, I tell you!"
"Haven't you got some place where we can talk that is less exposed than
this?" said Jack, looking about him apprehensively.
"Sure, there's my mansion," grinned Hank, pointing over his shoulder
with a fishy thumb.
"That's the place," said Jack, "although I wish you'd clean it out
occasionally. Now listen, Hank, here's the plan--"
Still talking, the ill-assorted pair entered the ruinous shack.
* * * * * *
Motor-boat engines were popping everywhere. The club house was dressed
in bright-colored bunting from veranda rail to ridge pole. Ladies
strolled about beneath their parasols with correctly dressed yachtsmen,
asking all sorts of absurd questions about the various boats that lay
ready to take part in the various events. It was the day of the
Hampton Yacht Club's regatta.
Among the throng the Boy Scouts threaded their way, watching with
interest the events as they were run off, one after the other. But
their minds were centered on the race for the trophy which, although
there were several other entries, had been practically conceded to Sam
Redding's hydroplane.
"She's a wonder," said one of the onlookers, pointing from the porch to
the float, where Jack Curtiss, Bill Bender and Sam were leaning over
their speedy craft, stripping her of every bit of weight not absolutely
necessary. On the opposite side of the float the crew of the Flying
Fish, the Snark, the Bonita and the Albacore were equally busy over
their craft.
"Douse the engine with oil," directed Rob, as Merritt gave the piece
of machinery a final inspection; "and how about that extra set of
batteries?"
"They're aboard," rejoined Tubby, who was perspiringly removing
cushions and other surplus gear from the fleet boat.
"That's right; if it comes to an emergency, we may need them," said
Rob. "Nothing like being prepared."
"Do you think we have any show?" asked Tubby, who was to be a sort of
general utility man in the crew. Rob was to steer.
"I don't see why not," rejoined the other, wiping his oily hands on a
bit of waste. "The race is a handicap one, and we get an allowance on
account of our engine not being as powerful as the hydroplane's."
The course to be run was a sort of elongated, or isosceles triangle.
The turning point was at the head of the inlet, a buoy with a big red
ball on it being placed just inside the rough waters of the bar. It
made a course of about five miles. The race for the Hampton Motor Boat
Club's cup, for which the boys and the others were entered, was twice
round.
The waters about the club house were so dotted with motor craft which
darted about in every direction that Commodore Wingate of the club and
the other regatta officials had a hard time keeping the course clear
for the contestants. On the threat, however, that the races would be
called off if a clear course was not kept, order was finally obtained.
The boys were too busy to pay much attention to the results of the
other races, but a member of the club who had won the Blake trophy for
the cabin cruiser boats, warned the boys to beware of the turn above
the far buoy.
"It's choppy as the dickens there," he said, as he made his way to the
club house, "and you want to take the turn easily. Don't 'bank' it, or
you'll lose more than you gain."
The boys thanked him for his advice, and laid it to heart to be used
when the race was on.
Sam's boat having been tuned up to the last notch of readiness, Jack
Curtiss strolled consequentially about on the float, making bets freely
on the hydroplane's chance of winning.
"I'll bet you twenty-five to any odds you like that the hydroplane wins
the race," he said, addressing Colin Maxwell, the son of a well-to-do
merchant from a neighboring town. Young Maxwell had heard nothing of
Jack's mean trick in the aeroplane contest, and therefore didn't mind
talking to him.
"I like the look of the Flying Fish pretty well," was the response,
"and I'll take you up. You'll have to give me odds, though."
"Oh, certainly," responded the bully, with a confident grin;
"twenty-five to thirty, say."
"Make it thirty-five."
"All right; done," said Jack. "You know me, of course; no necessity of
putting up the money."
"Oh, not the least," rejoined the other politely, though had he known
the state of Jack's finances he might have thought differently.
The bully went about making several bets at similar odds, until finally
Bill Bender came up behind him and in a low voice warned him to be
careful.
"What are you going to do if we lose?" he breathed. "You haven't got a
cent to pay with."
"Oh, it's like taking gum from a busted slot machine," rejoined the
bully, with a laugh. "They can't win. We know what their boat can do,
and the race is practically conceded to us. Besides--" he placed his
hand close to Bill's ear and whispered a few minutes. "I guess that's
a bad scheme, eh?" he resumed in a louder tone, though his voice was
still pitched too low for those about to hear him. "If it's done
right, we'll ram them and it'll never be noticed."
"Hum, I'm not so sure," grunted Bill. "However, if we really perceive
we are losing, I don't see what else we are to do. Are you going to
steer?"
"Sure. Sam lost his nerve at the last moment--like him, eh? It's a
good thing, though, I'm to be at the wheel, because I don't think Sam
would have had the courage to carry out my plan."
"Not he," said Bill, with a shrug. "He's got the backbone of a snail."
More of this interesting conversation was cut short by the "bang" of
the pistol which warned the contestants of the racing boats to get
ready.
"The race for the Hampton Yacht Club's trophy will take place in five
minutes!" cried the announcer.
The five contestants cast off from the float and slowly chugged out to
a position in the rear of the starting line and behind the committee
boat. Then came the nervous work of awaiting the starting gun. The
boys had all donned slickers, and the crew of the hydroplane wore
rubber coats which covered them completely. A sort of spray hood had
been erected over the hydroplane's engines.
"That means she's going to do her best," remarked Rob, pointing to this
indication that great speed was expected. "That's what we want to do,
too, isn't it?"
At last came the gun that started off the Snark, the Bonita and the
Albacore, which were all of about the same speed.
"Our turn next," said Rob, who had previously received his instructions
from the committee.
"Well, I'm all ready," said Merritt, nervously twisting a grease cup.