A CRAFT OF MYSTERY.
Tom, lying quiet amid the blankets, heard some one cross the cabin
and come to a pause so close to him that he could hear the man's
heavy breathing.
"Wake up, there, Tom Dacre," the man said.
The lad did not move, and the command was repeated in a louder tone.
This time Tom, cleverly imitating the gapings and vacant expression
of one just aroused from sleep, opened his eyes.
He had no difficulty in recognizing the features of Captain Walstein,
even though a long growth of reddish beard now flourished on the
lower part of his face. The man's cap was shoved back, and his
leonine head of bristling, light-colored hair showed as prominently
as ever. His features were heavier and more floridly colored than
when Tom had seen him last, but that was the only difference, except
that his costume was a rough one,--the ordinary garb of a Great Lake
tug-boatman, in fact.
Close behind him, as he entered the cabin had been Dampier. He had
paused at the door, to watch events, in the furtive manner that habit
had made second nature to him. As Tom appeared to awaken from a
sound sleep, however, he, too, came forward. His snake-like eyes,
set like two glittering, coal-black specks in his sallow face,
gleamed as they met Tom's frank gaze.
"Well," said Walstein, after a pause which Tom did not break, "ain't
you surprised to see us?"
"Ye-es," struck in Dampier, in his soft voice, "it must be quite a
shock to you to encounter old friends."
"So far as friends are concerned, we'll leave that out," spoke up Tom
boldly, "and the surprise part of it is an unwelcome one, I'm sure."
"As you'll see a good deal of us for the succeeding few weeks, you'd
better make up your mind to keep a civil tongue in your head,"
snorted Walstein.
"I keep a civil tongue, as you call it, for those I consider my
equals and superiors," said Tom; "neither of you come in that class."
"So-o, my young fighting cock," whistled Dampier softly, "I reckon
we'll have to clip your wings a bit. Aren't you grateful to us for
pulling you out of the water when all your friends drowned?"
From what he had overheard of the men's conversation, Tom knew that
this latter statement was an untrue one. However, he did not
contradict it.
"You mean that the _Sea Ranger_ is sunk!" he exclaimed, in a voice
into which he managed to put a good deal of shocked amazement.
"That's right," said Walstein, rubbing his hands. "We ran into her
and sank her last night, and saved you."
"I'm surprised at that," declared Tom. "I recollect your saying
before you were sent to prison for your actions in the tropics, that
you'd like to wring all our necks."
"Well, it suited us to save you, anyhow," retorted Walstein. "Where
were you going in that craft?"
"That can't matter much to you since she is sunk," parried Tom. "The
question is, what are you going to do with me?"
Dampier grinned unwholesomely.
"Oh, it's really too early to tell you that yet," he said, "but
before you get free again, we mean to have back a good part of that
treasure you and your uncle robbed us of."
"That you tried to rob us of, you mean," said Tom, flushing angrily.
"Well, have it anyway you like it," said Walstein, in his rumbly,
throaty tones. "I just want to tell you this, though, that you are
in our power, and it will do you no good to try to get away till we
want you to."
"That will depend," rejoined Tom.
"Depend on what, pray?"
The question came from Dampier.
"On whether I see a chance to get away or not," replied Tom.
Walstein muttered something about "taking the impudence out of the
brat," but Dampier laid a hand on his arm. Then he spoke with
extraordinary vehemence.
"See here, Tom Dacre," he hissed, coming quite close, and shaking one
long, yellow finger almost in Tom's face, "I hate you. Captain
Walstein hates you, too. We've got good reason to, as you know.
We're going to get even with you, and get good and even, too."
Before Tom could reply they both left the cabin, leaving the lad in a
very unenviable frame of mind. His case looked hopeless, and
whatever might have been the intentions of Walstein and Dampier when
they entered, they had left again without giving Tom any clue as to
what his fate was to be.
Before long, he grew tired of lying still, and got out of the bunk.
He was in his shirt and trousers, which were still damp, but his coat
was flung down on a nearby chair. Slipping it on, he made for the
door of the cabin.
But he had hardly got it open before a gruff voice warned him to "Get
back in there, if you know what's good for you." A hulking big
tug-boat man stood outside the door. He was evidently stationed
there to prevent any attempt to escape on the part of the prisoner.
Poor Tom felt that the blockade was quite effectual.
There followed a dreary hour, in which it began to be borne in on the
lad that he was exceedingly hungry and thirsty as well. He opened
the door once more. The same sailor was on guard.
"Say, don't I get something to eat?" queried Tom pleasantly, in
response to the man's growl to "Get back."
"Dunno, an' dun't care," grunted the sailor sullenly.
But Tom's appeal bore fruit, for half an hour later another sailor
entered with a tray, on which was coffee, fruit, and a big dish of
ham and eggs.
"Well, they don't intend to starve me, anyhow," said Tom, as his eyes
fell on this unusual fare for tugboatmen to serve. He fell to
heartily, and ate everything before him. So hungry had he been that
it was not till the conclusion of his meal that he found leisure to
examine the elaborate knife and fork that had been handed him to eat
with. He gazed at the richly chased tableware with some interest
now, however. It bore a name stamped on both knife and fork.
"S. S. DETROIT CITY."
That was what Tom read. The words caused his pulses to bound. He
was actually then, as the overheard conversation had led him to
expect, on board the mysterious wreckers' tug that the police of
every big lake city were searching for. He recalled reading of the
wreck of the _Detroit City_--a lake passenger steamer,--on a bitter
February night. The craft had been lured to her fate--it afterward
proved--by lights that had been tampered with.
"And these are the rascals into whose power I have fallen," gasped
Tom, his eyes fixed on the bits of tableware which bore the name of
the ill-fated craft.
Soon after, Walstein and two sailors entered the cabin. Under the
leonine-headed seaman's direction, the sailors ordered Tom to thrust
his hands into a pair of rusty and antique-looking handcuffs. His
legs, also, were pinioned. This done, he was borne through the door
and along the deck, to another doorway. Then his conductors--or
rather jailers--conveyed him down a steep flight of metal steps and
through the boiler room of the tug, into a dark, ill-smelling hole,
suffocatingly hot.
Into one corner of this place they flung him.
"I guess you can howl yourself sick in there, and no one will hear
you while we're at the dock," chuckled Walstein brutally, as he went
out, slamming the bulkhead door behind him.
Soon after the vibratory motion of the engines ceased, and Tom could
hear shouts and tramplings on deck. He guessed they were making fast
to some dock, but where their stopping place was, he had, of course,
no means of knowing.
In spite of Walstein's words, Tom did shout. He yelled and cried out
for help till his throat was sore and cracked, and his voice a mere
whisper. But no help came to the dark, stuffy place in which he had
been flung.