CHAPTER XIX

A TRUCE, UNTIL——

“SO yo’ are Cap’n Tom Halstead. Yes, I reckon yo’ be,” assented the tall, lanky individual whom Tom and Joe found on the deck of the “Restless.”

These two motor boat boys had put off from shore some time in advance of the rest of the Tremaine party.

It had taken them the better part of two days, by carriage, to make the journey down to Tres Arbores, and Tom and Joe had put off at once, leaving Jeff to come out with the Tremaines, Miss Silsbee and Oliver Dixon.

Tom’s astonishment at meeting this stranger, instead of Officer Randolph, showed in his face.

“I’m Bill Dunlow,” volunteered the lanky stranger, thrusting a hand into one of his pockets. “Yo’ see, it was like this: Clayton Randolph had to go up into the interior after a prisoner——”

“Oh!”

“So he done put me abo’d this boat. Told me jest what yo’ wanted in the way of a watchman, and he lef’ this note fo’ yo’.”

Tom looked over the note, in which Clayton Randolph informed the young captain of his protracted call to police duty, adding that Bill Dunlow was a “right proper man” to take his place.

“It’s all right,” nodded Tom. “I hope, Mr. Dunlow, you haven’t been too lonely out here on this boat.”

Halstead settled with the stranger, who then went ashore in the boat that was returning for the others of the party.

“What are you scowling at?” demanded Joe Dawson, looking keenly at his chum after the boat had left the side.

“Was I?” asked Tom, brightening. There had been reason enough for his scowl.

“Randolph isn’t here, so I can’t take Mr. Tremaine to him. Confound the luck. Off we go to Tampa, and the mystery of the vanished money isn’t cleared up. I wouldn’t attempt to tell Mr. Tremaine without being backed by Officer Randolph or a letter from him. As for going up to that other town, and getting confirmation from Randolph’s elder son, that would be out of the question. The young man wouldn’t say a word about the express company’s business, unless he had orders from his father. And Randolph is away, heaven alone knowing when he’ll be back here. Oh, I hope Randolph also left a note for Mr. Tremaine. But no such luck!”

No wonder Tom Halstead was agitated as he paced the deck from bow to stern. As long as the mystery of the vanished money remained not cleared up he would never feel easy about the stain that it left clinging to Joe and himself—principally to himself.

The boat was coming out again from shore.

“Everybody in it except Dixon,” discovered Halstead, with a start. “I wonder if that fellow has made an excuse to get away? Has he fled? Yet that doesn’t seem just likely, either, after all the attention he showed Ida Silsbee on the way down from Lake Okeechobee. I guess he figures that, if he can once marry Tremaine’s ward, then, no matter what leaks out, Tremaine will keep silent for Ida Silsbee’s sake.”

The boat was soon alongside.

“One passenger shy,” hailed Halstead, forcing himself to laugh lightly.

“Yes,” nodded Henry Tremaine, indifferently. “Dixon happened to think, at the last moment, to go up to the post office, to see if there was any mail for any of our party. Very thoughtful of the young man. We’ll send the boat ashore for him, and he’ll be out here on the next trip.”

Tom Halstead watched the shore closely enough, after that. However, at last, he had the satisfaction of seeing Oliver Dixon wave his hand from the landing stage, and then embark in the rowboat.

“Any mail, Oliver?” asked Mr. Tremaine, as the young man stepped up over the side.

“Two for you, sir, and one for Mrs. Tremaine,” replied young Dixon, handing over the letters. “None for Miss Silsbee, nor any for the crew.”

“None for me, eh?” asked Captain Tom, his tone pleasant enough, to mask his thoughts. “I hope you had some mail for yourself, Mr. Dixon?”

“A bill and two circulars,” nodded the young man, carelessly enough, though he shot a keen look back to meet Skipper Tom’s inquiring gaze.

“Is there anything to prevent our sailing at once, now, Captain?” asked the charter-man. “I know the ladies are keen to be on their way; to the delights of Tampa.”

“I shall have to hold up a little while,” replied Skipper Tom, pointing to the bridge deck chronometer. “I have discovered that it has been running slow while we were away. In navigation it is a matter of importance to have the chronometer just right to the second. But it ought not to take me long. If there’s a watchmaker in Tres Arbores, he can adjust the chronometer within half an hour. Then I’ll come right back, ready to sail.”

Henry Tremaine nodded. Oliver Dixon had gone below, of which fact the young skipper was glad. It gave him a chance to get ashore before Dixon could offer, on some pretext, to accompany him.

The chronometer that the young skipper took over the side with him actually registered twenty-two minutes behind standard time. Sly Tom! He himself had set the hands back while awaiting the coming of the Tremaine party.

Once on shore the young captain hurried to the post office, where he indited an urgent letter to Clayton Randolph. Tom informed the local officer that he had received the latter’s letter, but that it had disappeared before it could be put to use. Halstead urged Officer Randolph, on his return, to send to the captain of the “Restless,” at the Tampa Bay Hotel, another letter by registered mail.

“If you can enclose any other evidence it will be of the greatest value,” Tom wrote, also, by way of stronger hint.

Into the letter Halstead slipped a ten-dollar bill. After sealing the envelope, he handed it to the postmaster, saying:

“Register this, please. And don’t give it to any other than Clayton Randolph—not even to anyone authorized to receive his mail.”

That business attended to, Tom Halstead paid three bills against the boat, then hurried back to the water front, after having set his precious chronometer back to exactly the right time. Again he took boat out to the yacht, and bounding up on deck, his face was wreathed in smiles.

“Old Chronom. is all right, now,” he called to Henry Tremaine, who was seated in one of the deck chairs, smoking. “Now, we’ll start, sir, just as soon as we can get the anchor up.”

Jeff, who had found time to run home to his mother and inform her of his great luck, lent a strong hand in the preliminaries to starting.

“Do yo’ reckon, Cap’n, yo’d let me pilot the ‘Restless’ out o’ this harbor and some o’ the way down the bay?”

“Go ahead,” smiled Captain Tom, who was feeling unusually contented, at last. “Enjoy yourself all you like, Jeff, until it’s time to go below and turn to preparing the evening meal.”

So Jeff Randolph stood proudly by the wheel as the “Restless” pointed her nose down Oyster Bay, over a smooth sea, on her way to that great Florida winter resort, Tampa.

After their rest the twin motors ran, as Joe phrased it, “as though made of grease.” Everybody aboard appeared to be unusually light-hearted.

“It’s a pleasure to cruise like this,” murmured Henry Tremaine, lighting a fresh cigar.

Jeff, happy over his new vocation, put all his lightest spirits into the preparation of the evening meal. As a guide he had had much experience with cookery. The meal went off delightfully.

Dixon, stepping up the after companionway after dinner, a cigarette between his lips, encountered the young sailing master.

“Good evening,” Tom greeted, pleasantly.

“Oh, good evening,” returned Mr. Dixon, smiling and showing his teeth.

“Did you ever see a pleasanter night than this on the water?” asked Halstead.

“Not many, anyway. I hope the ladies will soon come up to enjoy it.”

“I hope so,” nodded Tom. “Somehow, this sort of a night suggests the need of singing and stringed instruments on deck, doesn’t it?”

He spoke with an affectation of good will that deceived even Oliver Dixon, who, after glancing keenly, at the young captain, suddenly said:

“Halstead, you didn’t seem to like me very well, for a while.”

“If I didn’t,” spoke the young skipper, seriously, “it may have been due to a rather big misunderstanding.”

“Of what kind?” demanded Dixon.

“Well, connected with that miserable affair of the missing money.”

“O—oh,” said Dixon, looking still more keenly at the motor boat skipper.

“I knew,” pursued Tom Halstead, “that I didn’t take the money. For that reason, I suppose, I wondered if _you_ were the one who had taken it? Lately, I have had reason to see how absurd such a suspicion would be.”

“What reason?” demanded Oliver Dixon, his eyes almost blazing into Tom Halstead’s face.

“Why, from Mr. Tremaine I’ve gleaned the idea that you’re so comfortably well off in this world’s goods that taking his few thousands of dollars would be an utter absurdity for you. So the vanishing of that money is back to its old footing of an unexplainable mystery.”

“Did you say anything to Henry Tremaine about your suspicion?” inquired Dixon, looking searchingly at the boy.

“No,” retorted Tom Halstead, curtly. “I had only my suspicion of the moment—no proof. I always try to play fair—and I’m glad I did.”

The companionway door was being opened below. The ladies were ready to come up on deck.

Oliver Dixon held out his hand, as though by strong impulse.

“Halstead, you’re a brick!” he exclaimed. “You’re the right sort of young fellow. I don’t mind your first suspicion, since you realize how groundless it was. We shall be better friends, after this. Your hand!”

Tom took the proffered hand—not too limply, either.

“I hope I’ve lulled the fellow’s suspicion until I can strike,” thought the young sailing master.

While Oliver Dixon said hurriedly to himself:

“This fellow was dangerous, but now I begin to think he’s a fool. If I can keep him lulled for a few days more I may have all my lines laid. Then I can laugh at him—or pay someone to beat him properly!”

Diplomatic Tom! Crafty Dixon!

The ladies had come on deck.