A TEST OF REAL NERVE
"What an idiot I was not to stop to consider that Sambo Ebony could snap
those cords!" groaned Tom, staring disconcertedly about him. "Yet, if
Nicolas were safe I wouldn't so much mind the escape of the black. I shall
see him again, and I shall know him wherever I see him."
"Let's look for the trail," proposed Foreman Corbett, holding one of the
lanterns close to the ground.
The trail, however, was easy neither to distinguish nor to follow.
"We may as well leave here and search farther," concluded the young
engineer. "Before we go, though, we'll get the magneto and take it with
us."
Then the procession turned toward the land end of the retaining wall.
"If Nicolas doesn't show up soon," Tom murmured to the foreman, "I shall
notify the Blixton police and offer a reward for news of him. That little
fellow is too faithful to be left to his fate."
"What would the negro want of Nicolas?" queried the foreman.
"Revenge," Tom replied. "It makes a big bully like him furious to be
handled the way Nicolas treated him. But I can't understand how Nicolas
failed to repeat his clever trick with the black."
Arrived at the water front the magneto was dumped into the motor boat.
"Seems to me I would smash that thing all to pieces," Suggested Foreman
Corbett. "It has done harm enough around this wall."
"I don't believe in destroying anything that is useful," Reade answered,
shaking his head. "Besides, we are going to capture Sambo yet, and then
we shall want that magneto for evidence."
"What are you going to do to find Nicolas?" Corbett wanted to know.
"I wish I had even an idea," Tom sighed. "Corbett, I wish you would hurry
over to Blixton and rout out the police. I've an idea that Sambo may have
a hiding place in the town. Nicolas, too, may have been taken that way.
I'll sit down and write out a good description of the rascal."
This Reade did, handing the paper to the foreman.
"Who'll take charge here? Corbett asked.
"I will, until you get back, but hurry."
As soon as the foreman had gone Tom stepped into the motor boat, taking
the wheel.
"Tune up the engine, Conlon," Reade directed the engine tender. "I'm going
to take a run around to the west side of the wall. I'm going to try to
find the tubes of high explosive that I'm satisfied were planted in the
wall."
"That's a fine job for a dark night, sir," grumbled Conlon. "Suppose we
run into the bombs, and they prove to be contact exploders, too?"
"That's one of the risks of the business," Tom retorted grimly.
Before the motor boat had gone far Tom called one of the men aboard to take
the wheel. Then the young chief engineer began to experiment with the
searchlight.
"What's the idea, sir?" asked Conlon, looking on.
"I want to depress the light, so that we can use it to look down into the
water."
"And try to find the bombs?"
"Exactly," Reade nodded.
"Lucky if we don't find the bombs with the keel of the boat," observed
Conlon.
Tom succeeded in rigging the light so that he could use it. By the time
that the boat was around at the west side of the retaining wall Tom ordered
the boat in close alongside. Then, with the depressed searchlight he
discovered that he could see the sides of the wall to a depth of some eight
feet under the surface.
"That may be enough for our needs," Reade murmured. "Now, run the boat
along, slowly and close. I want to scan every bit of the wall."
Less than five minutes later Tom Reade, one hand controlling the
searchlight and peering steadily into the water, sang out:
"Stop! Back her---slowly. There, come back five feet. So! Hold her
steady!"
As the engine stopped Conlon stepped forward, kneeling by Reade's side.
"There are the bombs, man!" cried Tom exultantly. "See them---the two
upper ones?"
"I see something that gleams," admitted Conlon.
"Well, we'll have them up and aboard in a hurry. Then you'll see just
what they are."
"You're not going to try to raise the things with the boathook, are you?"
queried the engine tender, a look of alarm in his eyes.
"That might be risky," admitted Reade. "I'll go over the side after them
and bring them up.
"Don't, Mr. Reade!" urged Conlon with a shiver. "That'll be worse still.
You're likely to blow yourself into the next world!"
"I think not---hope not, anyway," answered Tom steadily. "Have you a pair
of pliers in your tool box that'll cut small wires?"
"Yes," replied Conlon.
"Get them for me."
Reade removed his coat, shoes and socks, then took the pliers.
"Let one of the men jump ashore with the boathook and hold the boat
steady," was Reade's next direction.
This being done, Reade deflected the searchlight for one more look into the
water. Then, the pliers in his right hand, he mounted to the rail of the
boat.
"Be careful, sir---do," begged Conlon. "What I'm afraid of is that the
bombs are contact exploders."
"It's likely," nodded Reade. "I'll be as careful as I can."
Tom did not dive; the distance was too short. Instead, he let himself down
into the water slowly. Then his head vanished beneath the surface of the
water.
"Whew! The nerve of that young fellow!", thought Conlon with shuddering
admiration.
"Ob co'se Massa Reade done got nerve," nodded the negro at the wheel.
"Dat's one reason why, Misto Conlon, Massa Reade is boss."
"There are other reasons why he's boss," grunted the engine tender. "Mr.
Reade has nerve, but he also has brains in his head. Any man with brains
and the sense to use 'em goes to the top, while I stay down a good deal
lower, and you, Rastus, are still lower."
"Ah reckon Ah got a two-bit hat on top o' only two cents' wo'th o' brains,
Misto Conlon," grinned the darkey.
Conlon was an Irishman, and naturally, therefore, no coward. Yet with the
possibility that Tom would run afoul of a contact-exploding bomb and send
them all skyward, the engine tender waited at the rail with drawn breath.
Finally, there was a ripple on the water. Then Tom's head appeared; next
his shoulders.
"Conlon!"
"Here, sir."
"Here is one of the bombs. Handle it carefully."
"Trust me, sir."
Conlon drew the metal tube, with a piece of wire pendant from it, as
carefully as though it had been a royal baby and heir to a throne. Into
the boat the engine tender lifted the thing, and laid it carefully in a
locker. By the time that Conlon was back at the rail Reade had gone below
again.
"Down dere, aftah mo' death!" grinned the darkey. A colored man can
usually be brave when serving under a white leader in whom he has full
confidence.
Presently Tom came up with another metal tube, like the first.
"I'll hang on and get my breath," Tom informed the men in the boat, as he
rested one hand on the rail. "The other two bombs are about three feet
lower, and it's going to be hard to work at the lower depth."
"Be careful, won't you, sir?" urged Conlon, in a somewhat awed voice. "Mr.
Reade, we can't afford to lose you until this job is completed. Men with
all the nerve you show are scarce in the world."
"I know where there are forty thousand men with at least as much nerve,
many of them having several times as much as I," laughed Tom.
"Where on earth are they?" demanded the Irishman.
"In the United States Navy. If there were a battleship here the jackies
would be fighting for the honor of going down after these bombs."
Then Reade dropped out of sight, once more. Nor was it long before he
had the third and the fourth bombs aboard the boat. Then he climbed in
himself, dripping like a shaggy Newfoundland dog.
"Put in at the dock now," the young chief ordered, and the boat started on
its way.
"Some one signaling from the wall lower down," Tom soon informed the negro
pilot. "Put in where you see the signaling."
"It is I, Corbett," called the foreman of that name. "Mr. Reade, these
two men with me belong to the Blixton police."
"Perhaps you had rather walk down to the dock, then, instead of getting
into the boat," laughed Reade. "We have four bombs aboard, just taken
out of the wall above here."
Accordingly the three turned and walked. At the landing the policemen
gazed curiously at the bombs.
"Do you want to take charge of these?" Reade queried.
"Not particular about it," replied the policeman, with a shrug. "We'd
be scorched for endangering the town if we took those things into Blixton.
Your foreman, Mr. Reade, called us out here to see if we could get trail
of your missing Mexican servant."
"That's a vastly more important thing to do," Tom replied with enthusiasm.
"I want to find Nicolas before I do another thing."
"Come here, Bill," called one of the officers.
Out of the shadows near the shore came a youth leading a dog on a leash.
"This dog is a bloodhound," announced one of the policemen with visible
pride. "Take him to where the scent of the Mexican starts, and the dog
will follow as long as there's any scent left. But, first, we'll have to
have something that the Mexican has worn, so that the hound will know the
true scent."
"That will take but a few minutes," declared Reade energetically. "Come
up to the house, and I'll find something that Nicolas has worn."
Corbett remained behind to take care of the bombs. Tom led the officers
and the youth with the hound on a brisk walk up to the house.
"Wait out here," murmured Tom, "and I'll bring something out. If we all
go into the house we'll wake my partner, Hazelton, and he has enough work
to do in the daytime, without being kept up at night."
While the others remained outside Tom stole into the house. There was a
room in the rear, off the kitchen, where Nicolas slept. Into that room
Reade stepped noiselessly.
It was not necessary to strike a match, for, in the very faint light there,
Tom espied an object on the foot of the bed that he recognized---one of
the Mexican's white canvas shoes.
Tom snatched it up quickly. Then, despite his steady nerves, he staggered
back.