THE ENEMY'S VICTORY.
Evidently the peculiar color which the submarine craft _Huron_ had
been painted answered its purpose of practical invisibility
excellently. For the tug came right on, driving straight for the
diving boat, without any of those on board apparently being aware of
the proximity of the queer vessel.
Tom's excitement and suspense were painful as the tug drew closer.
Were his brother and his chum on board? How big a crew did the tug
carry? What would be the outcome of the plan, which had been
determined upon after a consultation, and which was nothing more nor
less than to hold up the tug and search her thoroughly.
Beside Tom in the conning tower stood Obadiah Ironsides, the
professor and Jeff Trulliber. Rosewater had been pressed into
service as an oiler in the engine room, while old Sam made some
trifling adjustments of the machinery.
The party had retired to the conning tower, as they would be less
conspicuous there than on deck, and those on the tug would not take
alarm. It had been agreed upon, likewise, that Mr. Ironsides was to
carry on the preliminary questioning of Rangler, or whoever was on
board the tug, as in that case, the rascals would not take alarm and
conceal Jack and Sandy, in the event that they were on board.
Closer and closer ranged the tug, a great white "bone" creaming at
her bow. As she got within hailing distance, Mr. Ironsides emerged
from the conning tower and took up a position on the submarine's deck.
"Ahoy! On board the tug!" he shouted, placing his hands funnel-wise
to his mouth.
"Ahoy, yourself!" came back a rough voice from the pilot-house of the
tug. "What sort of a sea-going peanut roaster is that?"
"The submarine boat _Huron_. I wish to speak to you."
"Have to wait till some other time, then. We're busy now," was the
rejoinder, and the window of the pilot-house, which had been raised
while Rangler thrust out his head, was slammed down once more.
"Hold on, there!" cried Mr. Ironsides. "I must speak to you, I tell
you. It may have serious consequences for you if you don't stop."
This speech was greeted with a derisive laugh from the tug. But
presently it slackened speed and the submarine crept up to it.
"Well, what do you want?" asked Rangler harshly, leaning out of his
pilot-house and looking down on the gray whaleback of the submarine.
"Food and water," said Mr. Ironsides, with excusable prevarication.
"We have run out of them."
"Serves you right for navigating the lakes in that fool contrivance.
Well, I know the law. I suppose I'll have to give 'em to you. Make
fast and come on board."
Tom, who could see all that was transpiring from the conning tower
without danger of being seen, saw Mr. Ironsides spring lightly on
board after he had made fast a rope that two of the crew of the tug
threw to him.
"Wonder what he is going to do?" thought the boy to himself, as he
saw the inventor leaping up the stairway leading to the pilot-house.
He entered the structure and could be seen eagerly conversing with
Captain Rangler.
As a matter of fact, the inventor had decided on a bold stroke. It
was nothing more nor less than to state his mission to Captain
Rangler in so many words, and represent himself as having been sent
out by the police of Rockport.
"Captain Rangler," he began, "my name is Ironsides. I am connected
in an unofficial capacity with the police of Rockport, from which
place you are suspected of having kidnapped two boys. I demand that
I be allowed to search your craft."
"What sort of talk is this?" blustered the captain. "Me--Captain
Rangler--kidnap boys? You're mistaken, my friend. I'm not in any
such business."
"In that case, you will allow me, of course, to search your craft?"
"Certainly; go as far as you like. But I'd have you know that it
hurts my feelings to be accused of such rascality."
The crafty ruffian actually put on an injured air, as he said this,
as if he had been a man of the highest integrity, righteously angered
at a false accusation.
So cleverly did he act, that even Mr. Ironsides was dumfounded.
"I wonder if Tom Dacre wasn't mistaken?" he thought to himself.
"This fellow appears to be honest enough."
Aloud, however, he said:
"Thank you, captain. I'll take advantage of your offer and search
your craft. You understand, of course, that this is no aspersion on
your character. My orders are to search every craft on the lake in
search of the kidnapped lads."
"Oh, that's all right," said Captain Rangler easily. "Make yourself
at home. Go over this here boat from stem to stern. I'll warrant
you'll find nothing but what's legitimate."
Mr. Ironsides started from the cabin to begin his search. As he did
so, Captain Rangler, who was leaning out of the pilot-house window
once more, gave a perceptible start, and uttered an exclamation.
Tom had, incautiously, ventured too close to the lens of the conning
tower, in his anxiety to see what was going forward. Captain
Rangler, who, up till that moment, had really believed that Mr.
Ironsides was a police investigator, instantly recognized the lad,
and also guessed what was on foot.
"Jim," he called to a sailor, "I want you to conduct Mr. Ironsides
all over this craft. Take him everywhere. Don't leave a spot
uncovered--and Jim"--the sailor came closer, while Rangler sank his
voice to a whisper--"don't let him come on deck again. You
understand?"
The sailor nodded, and joining Mr. Ironsides, made a great show of
conducting him over the tug. They started in at the cabin, and by
turns visited every nook and corner of the craft. The last place
visited was the forecastle, a stuffy little hole in the bow of the
tug.
"Well," said Mr. Ironsides, "I really see no trace of any lads here.
I guess there must be some mistake about it."
"I guess so, sir," said the sailor respectfully; "must have got the
wrong craft, sir."
"So it would seem. However, my man, here's a dollar for your
trouble." The sailor touched his forelock and stuffed the bill into
his pocket. As he did so, he exclaimed suddenly:
"Beg pardon, sir. Somebody on deck is calling me. Back in a minute,
sir."
With monkey-like rapidity, he sprang toward a ladder, and in a flash
was on deck.
"I guess I might as well go, too," thought the inventor, and was
preparing to follow when a startling thing happened.
The hatch by which they had entered was suddenly clapped to.
"Here! Here!" shouted the inventor, thinking a mistake had been
made. "Let me out. I'm----"
"You'll get out when we're good and ready," came a harsh voice from
the other side of the hatch. At the same time the rasping sound of a
bolt being secured on the outside came to the crestfallen inventor's
ears.
While this scene was transpiring on the tug, Captain Rangler and two
of his men had slipped from the stern of their craft down upon the
deck of the submarine. Tiptoeing forward, as softly as cats, they
gained the conning tower.
A sharp, metallic clang was the first intimation that Tom and his
companions had that Captain Rangler once more held the upper hand.
The hatch of the conning tower had been slammed to by the ruffian,
and the outside fastenings--used when the submarine was in port--had
been locked.
Tom Dacre and the others were as effectually prisoners on their own
craft as Mr. Ironsides, the inventor, was in the dark and malodorous
forepeak of the tug.