The Motor Boat Club off Long Island: or, A Daring Marine Game at Racing Speed

CHAPTER V
MR. MODDRIDGE’S NERVES CUT LOOSE

UP in Mr. Delavan’s suite of rooms Eben Moddridge paced the floor in great excitement. For Captain Tom Halstead had just finished his story of the night’s queer happening.

Francis Delavan, on the other hand, drew slowly, easily, at his cigar, his outward composure not in the least ruffled.

Yet, at the outset, Moddridge had been the one to doubt the young motor boat skipper’s strange yarn. Delavan, on the other hand, had believed it implicitly. At the end the nervous smaller man was also a believer.

“Frank,” declared Eben Moddridge, “this is a simply atrocious state of affairs. There is a plot against us, and a desperate, well-organized one.”

“Let them plot, then,” smiled Delavan. “It’s all right, since we are warned. Yet, Halstead, I’m just a bit disappointed that you didn’t pretend to fall in with the schemes of your strangers. You would have learned more of what is planned against us.”

“I don’t believe they intended to tell me anything definite, sir,” Captain Tom answered, slowly. “They spoke of a signal, on seeing which I was to pretend that the ‘Rocket’ was disabled and unable to proceed. I have an idea, Mr. Delavan, that all their other instructions would have been as vague, as far as real information is concerned.”

“I dare say you are right, my boy,” nodded the “Rocket’s” owner. “You did best, after all, no doubt. I must confess myself puzzled, though. Your descriptions of the two men don’t fit any possible enemies that I can call to mind.”

“They were most likely agents, acting for someone else, don’t you think, Mr. Delavan?”

“Undoubtedly, captain.”

“Frank,” broke in Eben Moddridge, in a shaking voice, as he halted, looking the picture of nervous breakdown, “you must engage detectives instantly.”

“Nonsense, Eben,” retorted his friend.

“Or at least, two or three strong, daring men who will remain with you, to defend you against any possible attack.”

Mr. Delavan laughed heartily.

“Eben,” he demanded, “what on earth ails you?”

“Oh, I am so nervous!” moaned the other. “I see dangers, horrors, ahead of us!”

Francis Delavan grinned. Then, noting the ashen-gray look on his friend’s face, he stepped over, walking with the nervous one and laying a kindly hand on the other’s shoulder.

“Eben, you always let yourself get unduly excited. What you need, just now, is a good, sound night’s sleep.”

“Sleep?” shuddered the nervous one. “I couldn’t think of it. My nerves – ”

“You’ve let them cut loose again, Eben, and make life a burden to you. There’s no need of it.”

“But you know, Frank, the big money deals we’re engaged in. You know well that some men would give their souls to possess our information, both that which we have and expect to get.”

“True, perhaps,” admitted Mr. Delavan, nodding. “But the only way they have tried to reach us is through the bribing of our young captain. Halstead and his friends can’t be bribed, so the rascals can’t hope to do anything. I have full faith in our crew.”

“Something terrible is almost certain to happen, just the same,” insisted Mr. Moddridge, his voice quaking.

“Oh, nonsense, man! Go to sleep. Your nerves need rest.”

“Laugh at me,” muttered Moddridge, his face now showing a sickly smile. “But the day will come soon, Frank, when you will wish you had listened to me.”

“But haven’t I listened to you?” inquired Mr. Delavan, with a mock-injured air. “Eben, are you going to be disappointed because I won’t let my nerves rule me, too?”

“I wish your nerves did get the upper hand once in a while,” groaned the smaller man. “Then you’d know what I feel. I tell you, Frank, the immediate future looks dark – dark!”

Mr. Delavan laughed jovially.

“Something fearfully unfortunate is going to happen,” insisted the man of nerves.

“Something very unfortunate,” assented Delavan. “We’re going to add something in the way of millions to our fortunes, and those millions will have to be looked after. Eben, a rich man’s lot isn’t a happy one, is it?”

“Happy?” groaned Moddridge. “I should say not.”

“Then I’ll tell you what to do,” proposed Mr. Delavan. “Turn your miserable fortune over to Halstead, and then sit by to watch him going to pieces with worry.”

Mr. Moddridge, however, refused to be comforted, or to take a humorous view of anything.

“Halstead,” said Mr. Delavan, going over and resting a hand on the young captain’s shoulder, “I don’t expect to need the ‘Rocket’ for any purpose to-morrow, but I can’t tell definitely yet. Go back on board. To-morrow keep all hands on board or close by, so that you can take the boat out if needed. Enjoy yourselves all you can. Eat the best that you can find aboard. Don’t bother about to-night’s happenings – my friend, Moddridge, will attend to all of that. If it happens that you, or Dawson, are approached again by strangers, let them think that you might be induced to fall in with their plans, after all, and then you can let me know what follows. Moddridge and I are playing a peculiar and big game with the money market, and I’ve no doubt that others would like to steal or bribe their way into it. But I trust you. Good night, my boy.”

So Captain Tom strolled back to the pier, thinking over a good many things. As he came in sight of the “Rocket” at her berth he noted that the only lights showing were one deck light, aft, and the gleam that came through the port-holes of the crew’s quarters forward. It looked as though Joe Dawson and Jed Prentiss had turned in for the night, or were about to do so.

One of the small Shinnecock Bay freight boats lay in at the other side of the same pier. A good many cases and barrels were piled up, as though awaiting shipment. Captain Tom stepped over to his own side of the pier, still thinking intently.

Just as the young skipper turned toward the “Rocket’s” gang-plank a heavy object came up over one of the freight piles, flying through the air. Some instinct of danger made young Halstead leap aside. Bump! An iron hitching weight struck the gang-plank with a bang.

For just an instant Captain Tom stood gazing at that heavy missile almost in a daze.

“That was aimed at my legs. The intention must have been to cripple me!” leaped to his lips.

Then, in a lustier voice, he roared:

“Joe! Jed! Tumble out on deck! lively, now!”

CHAPTER VI
THE SIGN OF MISCHIEF

THE next instant after that rousing hail there was a sound of scrambling below. Halstead did not wait. Turning, he raced around the end of that pile of freight. He was in time to hear a loud splash in the water astern of the little freight steamer, though not in time to see who or what jumped. Then he heard Joe and Jed on the “Rocket’s” deck.

“Over here, fellows!” he called. “And come quickly!” Then as his two friends, partly disrobed, rushed to his side, Captain Tom pointed to the water.

“Someone threw a weight at me,” he explained. “He jumped in. Watch to see him rise. Jed, you watch from the other side of the pier. Joe, take the end – and hustle!”

Thus distributed, the crew of the “Rocket” watched and listened for the rising of Tom Halstead’s recent assailant. Time went by, however, until it was certain that no human being could any longer remain under water. Yet no head showed, nor was any being heard making the shore. Then the two other boys came back to their young leader, who was looking extremely thoughtful.

“I wonder,” mused Tom, aloud, “whether I’ve had a good one played on me? You see that weight resting yonder on our gang-plank. That was thrown at me from behind this pile of freight. After yelling for you fellows, I rushed over here just in time to hear a splash. And now it has struck me that some mighty smooth chap may have pitched another weight into the water, then doubled around the freight and so got ashore and away.”

“That was the trick, I guess,” nodded Joe Dawson, thoughtfully. “But what on earth was it all about, anyway, Tom?”

“We’ll take a look over this freight tub first, and then I’ll tell you,” proposed Halstead, swinging himself on board the little steamer. But every door and hatchway on that craft had been made fast for the night, and there appeared to be no one aboard. Then the young skipper led his friends back to the “Rocket.”

“Now, let’s have the yarn,” begged Jed, who, from being sleepy ten minutes before, was suddenly very much awake.

After they had seated themselves on the top of the cabin, Halstead, in low tones, described his brief adventures of the evening.

“Whatever someone’s plan is,” he wound up, earnestly, “it seems to be a sure thing that they don’t want this boat to keep in commission. That weight, if I hadn’t jumped, would very likely have broken one of my legs. So, fellows, do you believe we’ve any right to sleep all hands at the same time, while tied to this pier?”

“Though I’m soon going to be pretty drowsy,” admitted Joe Dawson, “I honestly don’t believe we’ve any right to go below without a watch. I’m ready to stand my share of watch.”

“Me, too,” pledged Jed, ungrammatically.

“Then we’ll divide the night, to six in the morning, into three watches,” concluded the young motor boat skipper, looking at his timepiece. “You fellows go below as soon as you like. I’ll take the first third of the night.”

Joe and Jed were not long in going below, but the former was soon on deck again.

“Here’s something from the engine room that may come in handy, in case of need,” hinted Dawson, laying two wrenches on top of the deck-house beside the young captain. “You can use ’em for clubs, or throw ’em, if you see anything more’n shadows about.”

Tom Halstead laughed, though he held the wrenches, balancing them and figuring on what sort of missiles they would make at need.

The night grew late as Captain Tom still watched. Even the lights in the nearby hotels began to go out. All life on the water had stopped some time before. Halstead had already brought the weight aboard and stowed it in the cabin below. He wanted to show it to his employer in the morning.

Once or twice Halstead thought he heard suspicious sounds near the pier. Each time, gripping a wrench in his right hand, he went boldly to investigate. No real sign of a prowler, however, appeared as the time glided by.

“It’s so quiet I could almost think I had been dreaming things to-night,” thought Tom, musingly, as he looked out at the few lights that shone over the water. “We fellows will have to try to keep this weight-throwing affair from Mr. Moddridge, or the poor fellow will have another heavy nervous attack. I don’t believe Mr. Delavan will tell him, if we don’t.”

At two bells past midnight (one o’clock) the young skipper called Jed on deck, then turned in. The crew’s quarters on the “Rocket” consisted of two tiny staterooms, each containing two berths, and little else. Tom and Joe berthed together. Joe was breathing soundly, in deepest sleep, when Halstead turned in. The latter, later in the night, was so deep in slumber that he did not know when Jed called Joe to take the last night watch on deck.

Captain Tom, in fact, knew nothing until Joe Dawson stepped into the little stateroom and shook him by the shoulder.

“It’s nearly eight o’clock, old fellow,” rang Joe’s cheery voice, “and Jed has nearly finished cooking the best breakfast he could find on board. Can’t you smell it?”

“Indeed I can,” answered the young skipper, turning out hastily, and with an almost guilty feeling over having slept so long. What if the owner should come aboard, wanting an immediate start made? While dressing he made a remark of that kind to Dawson, who only smiled.

“Where’s the boat that belongs at the port davits?” asked the young skipper, as he stepped on deck and immediately noted the absence of the small boat.

“Oh, a fellow came along and asked if he could have the boat for a little while,” said Joe, dryly.

“And you let him have it?”

“I figured that I had to,” laughed Joe. “The fellow was our owner.”

“Mr. Delavan? What did he want the boat for?”

“He said Mr. Moddridge was sound asleep, for a wonder, and that he had slipped down for a little early morning exercise.”

“What time did he take the boat?” questioned Captain Tom.

“About six o’clock. He rowed out south over the bay, and I haven’t seen him since.”

“Well, I suppose it’s the owner’s business if he wants to borrow his own boat and go for a row on the bay,” replied Tom.

“Breakfast!” hailed Steward Jed. The chums disappeared below decks forward, and for the next half hour gave most of their thoughts to the enjoyment of the morning meal. Then the young engineer and captain returned to the deck.

“Mr. Delavan said he wasn’t likely to use this craft to-day, and I’ll be as well pleased if he doesn’t,” said Halstead. An August morning mist was just more than barely visible as it formed out on the ocean, rolling slowly inward. The remainder of the forenoon was likely to be as foggy as on the day before.

“The rest will do the engine good,” said Dawson meditatively. “These engines that are made for racing speeds are all right at the trick if the speed isn’t pushed too often. We did quite some speeding yesterday, so I’m glad if the engine does get a rest.”

“That’s right,” nodded Tom. “No matter if you take the finest care possible of a gasoline motor, if the engine is pushed too hard and some little thing goes wrong, the average owner is likely to think he has an incompetent engineer.”

“That wasn’t the way, though, with Mr. Prescott,” argued Joe. “Nor with Mr. Dunstan, either. They both trusted everything about the boats to us. They’d sooner blame the boat or engine-builders than blame us.”

“From all indications,” pursued Captain Tom, “Mr. Delavan is likely to prove the most indulgent owner of all. Say, I wonder what Mr. Delavan would look like, worried?”

“It would be easier to guess what Mr. Moddridge would look like,” laughed Joe.

“‘Speaking of angels – ’” quoted Captain Tom, dryly. Joe wheeled about to look up beyond the shore end of the pier. Eben Moddridge was coming toward them on a nervous, jerky run. He reached the pier and boarded the boat, all out of breath.

“Is Mr. Delavan aboard?” he demanded, pantingly.

“Mr. Delavan took the small boat from the port davits and went for a row, sir, at about six this morning,” reported Captain Tom.

“And hasn’t returned?” asked Mr. Moddridge, eyes and mouth opening wide at the same time. “Which way did he go?”

“Out toward the inlet, sir,” Joe answered, pointing southward.

“And the fog rolling in there now!” exclaimed Moddridge, looking more nervous every instant. “Then what are you doing here? Why aren’t you out yonder trying to find your employer?”

“We will start, if you wish,” Captain Tom agreed.

“Wish?” echoed the nervous one, “I command it!”

Eben Moddridge, not being the owner, could issue no order that the young skipper was bound to obey. But Halstead himself thought it would be wholly wise to go out in search of his employer. The “Rocket’s” bow and stern hawsers were quickly cast off by Jed, while Joe gave the wheel a few vigorous turns in the engine room. The craft fell off from the pier, then, at slow speed, nosed straight out for the inlet.

“Jed, take a forward watch, at port side,” called the young skipper. “Mr. Moddridge, do you mind keeping a lookout at starboard?”

The nervous one stationed himself on the side indicated, not far from the young helmsman.

“Something has happened to Frank! I know it, I know it!” muttered Eben Moddridge, in deep agitation. “Oh, why did I sleep so late? Why didn’t I keep an eye open to watch that reckless fellow? But he’ll never consent to be governed by me.”

Tom, though he said nothing, smiled a bit grimly, at thought of what it would be like for one to be ruled by Eben Moddridge.

At first, despite the growing fog, the searchers could see for a few hundred feet to either side of them. This gradually narrowed down to two hundred feet, or so, at the inlet. A little further out they could make nothing out distinctly at a distance greater than sixty feet Captain Halstead sounded the whistle frequently, now.

“Stop the boat!” yelled Eben Moddridge, frantically, after a while, as he peered ahead at starboard. “Don’t you see it? Don’t you see that?”

He was pointing, jumping up and down, staring wildly. Tom caught sight of the object, too. He did not stop the boat, but slackened her speed down to little more than bare headway, throwing the helm hard over and bringing the boat’s nose sharply around to starboard.

“Jed, a boat-hook!” shouted the young skipper. “Be ready to make fast as soon as we get alongside.”

Joe Dawson sprang up from the engine room for a brief look. No wonder he started, for the “Rocket” was slowly, cumbrously, describing a circle around an object that proved to be the port boat, bobbing up and down on the light waves. The small boat was keel up. Eben Moddridge, as he stared at it, became speechless from dread and terror.

Jed, at the right moment, made fast with the boat-hook, drawing the small craft in alongside. While he was doing so Joe suddenly cried:

“And say! Look there!”

Coming in on the start of the flood tide, floated a straw hat and a coat – beyond a doubt those lately worn by Francis Delavan.

“Now, what do you say to that?” gasped Eben Moddridge, turning deathly pale and looking as though he must sink to the deck.

A great fear was tugging at the heart of Captain Tom Halstead, though he managed to reply, calmly enough:

“I don’t know just what it means, Mr. Moddridge, but it’s surely the sign of mischief of some sort.”

CHAPTER VII
WORKING OUT THE PUZZLE

JED, amid all the excitement, deftly captured with the boat-hook the painter of the small boat, then towed that little craft astern, making it fast.

Captain Tom now manœuvred the “Rocket” alongside of the floating coat. The straw hat was also recovered and pulled aboard.

“They’re his – both the hat and the coat!” cried Moddridge, in shaking accents. “See, here are even letters belonging to Delavan in this pocket!”

The nervous one never looked nearer to swooning than he did at that moment. He tried to rise, but would have tottered backward had not Joe Dawson caught him and steadied him.

“Easy, sir. You’ll best keep your wits now, all of ’em,” counseled Joe, quietly. “If there’s any work to be done, you’ll have to direct it, you know.”

With Joe’s aid Eben Moddridge reached the rail. Then Joe brought a chair and Mr. Moddridge sat down.

“You can’t see the – the – poor Delavan?” fluttered Moddridge, in the greatest agitation, as he stared out over the waters.

“We haven’t sighted Mr. Delavan as yet,” Captain Tom replied. “But you may be sure, sir, we’re going to make a most thorough search.”

“Prentiss, help me below,” begged Moddridge, his face still ashen white and his teeth chattering. “I – I can’t stand any more of this.”

Indeed, the poor fellow’s looks fully bore out his words as Jed helped him below.

“Put him in a berth,” Tom murmured after them. “Better stay with him for the present, Jed.”

Then the “Rocket” was started on a very slow cruise over all the waters nearby. After a few minutes Captain Halstead began to feel that further search, especially in the fog, would be useless. Yet he continued the hunt for more than an hour. No further traces, however, were found of the boat’s owner – or late owner. Which?

Every few minutes Jed was sent up to deck to ask uselessly for news.

“How’s Mr. Moddridge getting along?” queried Captain Tom, at last.

“If he does any worse,” confided Jed, “he won’t live to reach the pier. I never saw a man more unstrung. He keeps insisting that he knows Mr. Delavan is dead – drowned.”

“And I’m almost equally positive that nothing of the sort has happened to Mr. Delavan,” Tom Halstead retorted.

“You – ?” gasped Jed, wonderingly, but could go no further, his astonishment was so intense.

“I’m of the same opinion as Tom,” Joe Dawson added, quietly.

“You two have been talking it over, then?” Jed queried.

“Not very much,” Joe replied. “But there are some things about this case that look mighty queer for a drowning.”

“But it looks,” protested Jed, “as though Mr. Delavan had accidentally tipped the boat and gone overboard.”

“When you once begin to think,” retorted Joe, stubbornly, “it looks like nothing of the sort.”

Jed Prentiss looked wonderingly from one to the other, but Tom cut in with:

“Take the wheel, Joe, and keep the whistle sounding, for the fog is still thicker than I like to see it. I’m going below to talk with Mr. Delavan’s friend. Jed, you’ll be more useful on deck, at present.”

Moddridge was lying in a berth in the cabin, moaning and holding a handkerchief over his eyes.

“I’ve come to ask you what I’m to do, sir?” Tom called briskly, thinking thus to rouse the nervous one to action.

The only response was another moan.

“Come, rouse yourself, please, and think what’s to be done in your friend’s interests,” urged the young skipper.

There was another moan, before Moddridge answered, in a sepulchral voice:

“Don’t ask me, Halstead.”

“Right! I guess I won’t,” Tom rejoined, thoughtfully. “You’re so utterly upset that I guess I can furnish better instructions myself.”

“Oh, yes, please,” begged the other, helplessly. “And leave me alone, Halstead, or else keep quiet.”

“But I’ve got to ask some questions, sir, and you’ll have to answer them,” Tom went on. “So, sir, it seems to me that you will do best to come on deck, into the open air.”

“Do you – you – really think so?” faltered the stricken one.

“It will be much better for you to be in the air, Mr. Moddridge.”

“I’d go if I could, but I feel that I simply haven’t the strength to get there,” mumbled the nervous man.

“I’ll show you how,” responded Captain Tom, briskly, almost cheerily. “Steady, now, sir. There; it’s as easy as can be.”

Tom Halstead lifted the little man bodily out of the berth, getting a good hold on him and carrying him out to the after deck, where he deposited the collapsed burden in one of the wicker arm-chairs.

“Now, in the first place, Mr. Moddridge,” began Tom, “try to get it fixed in your mind that your friend isn’t drowned – that there isn’t the least probability of any such fate having overtaken him.”

“Nonsense!” declared Eben Moddridge, feebly.

“Perhaps you think Mr. Delavan stood up in the boat, and it tipped and let him over,” argued Tom. “But that was next-door to impossible.”

“How impossible?” demanded Moddridge, taking notice sufficiently to sit up a little more.

“Why, the port boat, Mr. Moddridge, on account of her heavy keel, her comparatively broad beam and other peculiarities, belongs to a class of what are called ‘self-righting’ boats. It would take a deliberate effort, by a very strong man, to capsize such a boat. She’s towing astern now. After a good deal of effort we righted her.”

For a moment Eben Moddridge looked hopeful. Then he sank back once more, all but collapsing.

“Nonsense,” he remonstrated. “Any little boat of that size can be easily tipped over.”

“The boat can’t be capsized easily, I assure you,” Tom argued. “I know the type of boat, and understand what I am talking about. Now, we found the boat capsized. It probably took more than one man to do it. Mr. Delavan could hardly have done it alone. If it took others to help in capsizing the boat, what is more likely than that others have seized him, and then upset the boat in order to make it appear that he had fallen overboard and been drowned? Mr. Moddridge, are there, or are there not, men who would be glad to seize Mr. Delavan for a while, for the benefit of what information they might expect to frighten or torment out of him?”

“Yes, yes, yes!” cried the nervous man, firing up for the instant and rising to his feet full of new, brief energy. Then he sank back into the chair.

“But I don’t believe that happened,” he went on, brokenly. “I am quite convinced that my friend was drowned by the capsizing of the small boat.”

“Wait a few moments, Mr. Moddridge, and we’ll show you, then,” proposed Captain Tom, turning and making a signal to Joe Dawson. “Jed, keep the bridge deck, and sound the whistle regularly.”

Captain and engineer disappeared below, going to their room. They were quickly back, clad only in their bathing suits.

“Now, you keep your eyes on us, Mr. Moddridge,” young Halstead requested. “Mr. Delavan is a heavy man, but Joe and I, together, are much heavier than he. We’ll show you how hard it is to upset a boat of this type.”

Though the boat’s own oars had not been recovered, there was another pair aboard that would serve. Joe brought these, while Halstead brought the port boat alongside of the barely moving motor boat. Both boys stepped down into the smaller craft. Joe applied himself at the oars. A slight lifting of the fog now made objects visible for a radius of some two hundred feet.

“Watch us,” called Tom, when the port boat was some forty feet away from the “Rocket.”

Both boys stood up, each resting a foot on the same gunwale of that little port boat. They bent far forward. The boat heeled; they even forced it to take in some water from the gently rolling sea. Then, as they stepped back, the little craft quickly righted itself.

“Now, come on, Joe,” proposed the young skipper. “We’ll both stand with our backs to the gunwale. We’ll tip the boat, and then fall backward into the water, just as though it were a real accident.”

Wholly at home on or in the water, the two chums went through the manœuvre with reckless abandon. Once more they succeeded in making the little craft heel over and take in some water.

“Now!” shouted Halstead.

Both boys lurched heavily backward, striking the water and causing the port boat to heel more than it had done. Both splashed and disappeared under the water, but the boat righted itself as soon as relieved of the weight of their bodies.

Clutching the port rail of the “Rocket,” Eben Moddridge looked on in almost a trance of fascination. A slight gasp left his lips as he saw the young captain and engineer vanish under the waves; but they quickly reappeared, swimming for the port boat, and climbing on board after recovering the oars.

“Now, you ought to be convinced that this boat couldn’t have been capsized and left floating keel-up by any accident to Mr. Delavan,” hailed Tom Halstead, as Joe rowed in alongside.

“I – I am convinced —almost,” chattered Moddridge, excitedly.

“Then please take our word for whatever you can’t quite realize,” begged the young skipper, as he clambered aboard the “Rocket.” “Come on, Joe, we’ll get into dry clothes. Mr. Moddridge, be sure of one thing: if any accident happened to Mr. Delavan, there were others present when it happened.”

With that parting assurance Halstead and his chum vanished below. Almost incredibly soon they were once more on deck, appareled in dry clothing. Jed then went to bale out the port boat, which was next hoisted to her proper davits.

As Captain Tom, still thinking fast and hard, took his place at the wheel, Eben Moddridge, even though he moved somewhat shakily, managed to climb the steps from the after deck and take the chair nearest to the young skipper.

“Halstead,” he queried, hoarsely, “you even went so – so – far as to declare that you d-d-don’t believe Frank Delavan to be drowned.”

“I don’t believe it in the least,” Captain Tom declared, stoutly. “Now, Mr. Moddridge, if we’re to be of real help to you, you must answer some questions, and you must answer them fully and clearly. Will you do so?”

“I – I’ll try.”

“On your honor as a man, sir, do you know of any reason why Mr. Delavan should want to disappear, leaving behind the impression that he had been drowned?”

“G-g-good heavens, no!” shuddered the nervous one. “Want to disappear? Why Frank Delavan has every reason in the world for wanting to keep in close touch with New York, and with me, his associate in some present big deals.”

“Then, if he has disappeared, as seems evident, it must have been through the compulsion of some other parties?”

“Yes – most absolutely, yes!”

“Mr. Moddridge,” pursued the “Rocket’s” young skipper, impressively, “have you any idea who those other persons are?”

Moddridge’s face worked peculiarly for a few seconds, before he replied, slowly, hesitatingly:

“I might suspect any one of a score of men – perhaps almost the same score that Frank Delavan might name under the same conditions. But I pledge you my word, Halstead, that I do not know enough to suspect any one man above all others. It would be all guess-work.”

Hesitatingly as this response had been delivered, Tom, watching his man, felt certain that Eben Moddridge was trying to speak the truth.

“Then,” said the young skipper, at last, very deliberately, “since it’s a pretty sure thing, in our minds, that Mr. Delavan wasn’t drowned through accident, there can’t be much sense in trying further to find his body. Instead, our search must be after those who may be holding him, against his will, aboard some craft in these waters.”

Joe, listening nearby, nodded his approval of this decision.

“We can’t do much, though, until this confounded fog lifts,” groaned young Halstead.

Just as he was reaching to sound the whistle once more Captain Tom’s hand was arrested by a sound that made Joe and Jed also start slightly.

Then out of the fog, three hundred feet away, going at fifteen miles an hour, or more, glided swiftly the same long, narrow racing craft they had encountered the day before.

That strange craft crossed the “Rocket’s” bow, at least a hundred and fifty feet away.

“Racer ahoy!” bawled the youthful skipper, in his loudest voice.

But the swift craft vanished into the fog on the other side.

Was it fancy, or were all three of the young motor boat boys dreaming when they believed that back from that swift-moving racer came a sound of mocking laughter?

“Get into the engine room, Joe,” shouted Captain Tom. “Jed, up forward, on lookout!”

With that the young skipper swung around his speed control. The “Rocket,” obeying the impulse, leaped forward, then gradually settled down into a steady gait, while the young skipper strenuously threw his steering wheel over.

“What are you going to do, Halstead?” demanded Eben Moddridge, leaping to his feet as he caught the infection of this new excitement.