WHAT WILL HAPPEN NEXT?--CONCLUSION.
"Well, that explains why the stairway wasn't guarded, all right,"
commented Sandy, as they continued their way.
They had reached the bottom, and were about to strike off across the
flat beach, when a figure suddenly emerged from the door of the
lighthouse.
At the same time, as bad luck would have it, a flash of lightning
from the nearing storm revealed the lads' figures clearly. But it
did more than that, it showed Sandy that the man approaching them was
followed by two or three others.
The fellow gave a shout as he saw the boys, and started for them.
They dodged, and were about to make off, when another man blocked
their path.
"Inside the light-house!" gasped Sandy. "It's empty, I think!"
"Good!" exclaimed Jack. "If we can get in there and bolt the door,
we are safe against a siege."
The two lads doubled like hares and darted into the open door of the
light-house. As they slammed it to, and slid the bolts, they could
hear a yell of rage from without.
As Sandy had surmised, the place was empty. For the time, at any
rate, they were safe. Moreover, there was food on the table, and
this was a welcome sight to them.
"Queer, isn't it?" asked Sandy, with his mouth full, "that after
taking all that trouble to escape, we should come back into the
light-house after all."
"It certainly is," agreed Jack, likewise eating hastily. "Hark!"
"Open that door at once, you young varmints!"
"I'll break every bone in your bodies when I get hold of you," roared
Walstein.
"Let 'em rave," grinned Sandy; "that door will withstand a siege."
"If it's anything like that one upstairs, it will," laughed Jack.
The lad felt a strange exhilaration. The feeling was born of the
sense of his wits and his chum's being pitted against those of the
ruffians outside. So far, the lads had won out unmistakably.
Walstein began to shout and bellow and pound on the door, using all
sorts of bad language.
"Don't swear," shouted Sandy. "It won't do you any good. We're in
here, and here we'll stay."
"Oh, you will, will you?" struck in another voice. It was that of
Barkentin. "We'll see about that."
He gave a peculiar whistle. It rang shrill and clear through the
night. The two dogs, on watch in the upper part of the tower, heard
it. One of them gave an answering bark.
"After 'em, Rex! Sic 'em, Cæsar!" came Barkentin's voice.
A deep baying howl of peculiar savagery followed.
The two lads paled. Here was a peril they had quite forgotten. The
two dogs, as they well knew, were ferocious to a degree.
Sandy looked about him. The most dangerous weapon in sight was a
blunt dinner knife. The baying of the dogs grew louder. The
pattering of their feet could be heard on the inner stairs of the
light-house.
"Shut the door!" cried Jack, thinking they could cut off the stairs
in this way.
"There isn't one," cried Sandy.
"Seize 'em, boys! Tear 'em, boys!" came Barkentin's voice from
without.
The next instant the dogs burst into the room with savage, gleaming
eyes, bristling hackles and mouths gaping redly.
Some big game hunter has said that there is no more dangerous
creature in existence than a ferocious dog, whether rendered so by
training or disposition.
The two that rushed on the boys were Great Danes, crossed with some
fiercer breed, powerful as panthers, and even more to be dreaded.
Sandy snatched up the nearest thing to him--a dinner-plate. He
hurled it with full force at the first dog, as it leaped straight for
his throat. Jack raised a chair and fought desperately with his
antagonist. Outside came Barkentin's raucous voice:
"Tear 'em, boys! Seize 'em, boys!"
The dogs hesitated for only an instant, as the boys met their attack.
Then, speedily rallying, they rushed on them once more, with fangs
bared and dripping, and sharp, white teeth exposed.
But the brief interval had given Sandy's sharp eyes time to observe
something. In one corner of the room was what appeared to be a
trap-door. Calling to Jack, he made for it, and raised it by an iron
ring affixed to its upper side. It swung back, and the two boys
flung themselves through it and slammed it behind them, just as the
teeth of the foremost of the dogs almost closed on Jack Dacre.
The place in which they now found themselves was pitchy dark. But
Sandy had some matches in his pocket. He kindled one, and the light
showed them that they were in an underground tunnel of some sort.
They set off down it at a good speed, not knowing where it would lead
them, but with a wild desire to leave those two dogs as far behind as
possible. As they sped along, they could hear the creatures
searching and whining at the trap-door.
The two lads had progressed for some distance--with alarming results
to Sandy's matches--when they came to a door which barred their
further progress. It was fitted with a bolt, and after an instant's
hesitation, they drew it.
As they did so, and the door swung open, a startling thing happened.
A man rushed out like a thunderbolt and sprung straight for Sandy.
"Take that, you rascal!" he cried.
"Hoots mon, what ails ye!" yelled the Scotch lad, for the flicker of
the match had enabled him to see that the man was gaunt, cadaverous,
and apparently the victim of ill-treatment. They had little to fear
from him.
"Great Scott!" exclaimed the man. "I know that voice. Isn't that a
lad named Sandy MacTavish?"
"It is. But who the dickens are you? Here, wait till I get another
match." So saying, the lad kindled another lucifer.
As its light fell on the features of the man who had sprung out on
them, both lads gave an exclamation of dumfounded amazement:
"Sam Hartley!"
"Yes, it's me, all right!" rejoined the detective, with scant regard
for grammar. "But what in the world brings Sandy MacTavish and Jack
Dacre here?"
"The same agency which brought you, I guess," exclaimed Jack; "a band
of rascals. But tell us what this place is, and how they ever
entrapped you in it."
The Secret Service man who had aided the boys in the valley against
the counterfeiters and again helped them when in peril from Chinese
smugglers in the Great Northwest, soon told his story.
He had been sent out by the Department of Justice to round up the
gang of miscreants that had been decoying vessels to their fate by
false lights. As usual, he worked alone, and, disguised as a
fisherman, collected much evidence against them. But in some way
they came to suspect him, and one night they raided the hut in which
he had taken up his abode, and made him prisoner. Ever since then
they had kept him a captive, trying, without success, to get him to
reveal how much evidence he had gathered.
"But why didn't the government search for you?" asked Jack.
"Why, they know I always work alone, and sometimes don't communicate
with Washington for months. I suppose, in time, they'd have
organized a hunt for me, but by that time, I guess, there wouldn't
have been much of me left to find." He held up a skinny arm.
"I tell you, the board and lodging at this place is something
fierce," he said, with an attempt to turn his misery into a joke, in
his old cheerful fashion.
"Hark!" exclaimed Jack suddenly.
There was good reason for his exclamation. Even at the depth at
which they were located, they could hear the sounds of firing, as the
furious volleys, of which we know, were leveled at the submarine.
"Something's going on up above," decided Sam Hartley. "Wonder what
can be up?"
"Maybe those rascals are quarreling among themselves," said Jack.
"Let's go back and enter the light-house through the trap-door,"
suggested Sandy.
But Sam Hartley shook his head.
"I know a better way than that," he said. "You notice that this
cell, in which I have been confined, is merely a section of the
tunnel closed in?"
The boys nodded.
"You opened the door by which my jailers brought me food when you
slid that outside bolt," he said; "but at this other end there's a
kind of a bulkhead. I succeeded in working it somewhat loose, but my
failing strength would not permit my proceeding with the job. But
through cracks in it I've smelled fresh air. I'm sure it opens out
of doors. What do you say if we try to force it by our united
efforts?"
The bulkhead referred to by Sam Hartley was an affair of boards and
what seemed to be driftwood, held together by iron braces. As he had
said, it was in a shaky condition.
Together they all three set to work on it, and after half an hour's
work Sandy cried:
"Hooray! One more shove, and down she comes!"
The shove was given, and with a will. As the Scotch lad had
prophesied, the partition fell with a crash, amid a cloud of dust.
As it fell, a strong whiff of fresh air blew in their faces.
"It's as I thought," declared Sam Hartley, "this tunnel opens on the
lake shore."
"Did that rascally gang dig it?" wondered Sandy.
"No," rejoined the detective, "I guess it's of Indian origin. There
are drawings on the wall. In one case that I worked up, I had to
study such things, so that I recognize them. I guess Indians dug
this tunnel, and then the gang, when they found it, speedily took
advantage of the fact that it was here to make a secret 'getaway'
place."
As we know, from what old Sam on board the submarine had said, such
was the case.
"Well, let's get to the air and find out what's going forward," said
Jack impatiently.
The others were nothing loath. But they found their way barred by a
strange assortment of encumbrances in the passage-way. Bales,
barrels, boxes, kegs, all these cluttered it up, almost to its roof.
It was hard work effecting a passage among them.
"Boys, do you realize what we've stumbled on?" said Sam Hartley, as
they worked at the task of displacing them.
"I guess it's the stuff the gang removed from vessels they had
wrecked," surmised Sandy.
"Correct," said Sam. "Look at the different names upon them. They
are all of craft that I have read about as being mysteriously
missing."
"Well, if you've got a path clear, let's get out," said Sandy dryly.
"I've burned my last match."
They groped their way forward down the passage. Inwardly each was
wondering why the gang did not pursue them. Had they but known it,
each member of that precious organization was busied in getting
aboard the tug, as it had been surmised by the rascals that the
submarine would speedily bring the authorities to the island.
"Look! The stars!" cried Jack, as at last they emerged from the old
Indian tunnel upon a sandy beach.
The storm had cleared off like magic, and the canopy of night
sparkled with a thousand points of light.
"Hullo, what's that?" cried Sam suddenly.
Something black, and looking not unlike a whale, had suddenly emerged
from the surface of the waters.
"A whale!" cried Sandy.
"Rubbish! What would a whale be doing in the Great Lakes?" scoffed
Jack.
"I don't care; it is one."
"Look," cried Sam suddenly, "there's a light coming from it.
It's--it's--by all that's wonderful, it's a submarine!"
The rays of the searchlight enveloped the figures on the beach.
Suddenly the conning tower hatch shot open and Tom's figure emerged.
"Jack! Jack!" he hailed.
"It's Tom!" went up an incredulous shout.
Sam Hartley's amazement was no less than that of the boys. The
submarine's boat was sent ashore for them, and before long they were
all talking at once in the cabin of the good craft _Huron_. What
slappings of the back, hand-shakings and mad antics ensued, I leave
you to imagine.
Till dawn they hovered about the island, and then, as they found that
the rascally band had really escaped, they set out for Brownhaven.
But a short part of the distance had been covered, however, before
some spars and a hull that looked familiar were espied. It was the
_Sea Ranger_. She proved to have on board Mr. Chisholm Dacre and Mr.
MacTavish. The gentlemen happened to be in Buffalo on business when
Tom's message was relayed to them. In a special train they had made
all speed for Brownhaven, where they had found the _Sea Ranger_
repaired ahead of the expected time. With a hastily picked crew,
they had set out at once for Castle Rock Island.
"Well, you boys display a faculty for getting in and out of trouble
far in excess of any I have ever seen," laughed Mr. Dacre, after they
had formed Obadiah Ironsides' acquaintance and made a full survey of
the marvels of the submarine.
"Well, so long as they _do_ get out of it, that's the main thing,"
said Mr. MacTavish. "Such experiences make real men of them, eh, Mr.
Ironsides?"
"I think so," said the inventor.
The talk then drifted to the finding of the hidden spoils of the
wreckers.
In due time, Mr. MacTavish, as owner of the island, turned these
stolen treasures over to the government, and later he was awarded his
share, which was given over, however, to old Sam, as a partial
recognition of his services. Both Mr. Dacre and Mr. MacTavish wished
to reward Mr. Ironsides, but the only recognition of his assistance
in rescuing the lads that the inventor would take was a letter of
introduction from Mr. MacTavish to an influential naval official at
Washington. It may be said here that this letter was the ultimate
means of his securing a lucrative contract to build submarines for
Uncle Sam's navy. You have all heard of the Ironsides type of diving
torpedo boat--the best and most efficient made.
Walstein, Dampier and Co. were eagerly sought, both by the government
and by private detectives engaged by Mr. Dacre and Mr. MacTavish.
But no trace of them was found, except a wrecked and abandoned tug on
a wild part of the Canadian shore. The ruffians escaped into the
wilderness unpunished.
As for Castle Rock Island, it has been turned into a delightful spot.
The old tower once more beams forth its friendly rays at night, and
nearby a neat bungalow has been built. The rest of the island has
been turned into a big game preserve, where the Bungalow Boys delight
to hunt. The island is a favorite haunt with them and their boy
friends--and some older ones--and, sitting on the veranda of their
pleasant island dwelling, they never tire of conversing about the
stirring days they spent "On the Great Lakes."
We should like to relate in detail something of their happy days on
the island, but we must leave our young friends for a time. The
object of this present narrative has been fulfilled. Our boys have
been brought safely through dire perils and adventures.
Those who care to follow still further their travels may meet them in
new surroundings and novel experiences in a forthcoming volume
dealing with life in Alaska.
That land is full of interest and offers abundant opportunity for
adventure, and therefore we can assure our readers that they will
participate in an exciting tour if they choose to join "The Bungalow
Boys Along the Yukon."
THE END.
BOY INVENTORS SERIES
Stories of Skill and Ingenuity
By RICHARD BONNER
THE BOY INVENTORS' WIRELESS TELEGRAPH.
Blest with natural curiosity,--sometimes called the instinct of
investigation,--favored with golden opportunity, and gifted with
creative ability, the Boy Inventors meet emergencies and contrive
mechanical wonders that interest and convince the reader because they
always "work" when put to the test.
THE BOY INVENTORS' VANISHING GUN.
A thought, a belief, an experiment; discouragement, hope, effort and
final success--this is the history of many an invention; a history in
which excitement, competition, danger, despair and persistence
figure. This merely suggests the circumstances which draw the daring
Boy Inventors into strange experiences and startling adventures, and
which demonstrate the practical use of their vanishing gun.
THE BOY INVENTORS' DIVING TORPEDO BOAT.
As in the previous stories of the Boy Inventors, new and interesting
triumphs of mechanism are produced which become immediately valuable,
and the stage for their proving and testing is again the water. On
the surface and below it, the boys have jolly, contagious fun, and
the story of their serious, purposeful inventions challenge the
reader's deepest attention.
HURST & COMPANY - Publishers - NEW YORK
BORDER BOYS SERIES
Mexican and Canadian Frontier Series
By FREMONT B. DEERING.
THE BORDER BOYS ON THE TRAIL.
What it meant to make an enemy of Black Ramon De Barios--that is the
problem that Jack Merrill and his friends, including Coyote Pete,
face in this exciting tale.
THE BORDER BOYS ACROSS THE FRONTIER.
Read of the Haunted Mesa and its mysteries, of the Subterranean River
and its strange uses, of the value of gasolene and steam "in running
the gauntlet," and you will feel that not even the ancient splendors
of the Old World can furnish a better setting for romantic action
than the Border of the New.
THE BORDER BOYS WITH THE MEXICAN RANGERS.
As every day is making history--faster, it is said, than ever
before--so books that keep pace with the changes are full of rapid
action and accurate facts. This book deals with lively times on the
Mexican border.
THE BORDER BOYS WITH THE TEXAS RANGERS.
The Border Boys have already had much excitement and adventure in
their lives, but all this has served to prepare them for the
experiences related in this volume. They are stronger, braver and
more resourceful than ever, and the exigencies of their life in
connection with the Texas Rangers demand all their trained ability.
HURST & COMPANY - Publishers - NEW YORK