CHAPTER XIV

THE MELTING OF MILLIONS

IT would have been worse than useless to have tried to jump into the breach just before the car started. At the least, Tom Halstead would have been made a prisoner by these desperate plotters.

Free, though he could not immediately aid Mr. Delavan, the young skipper could at least carry word of what he had seen. He could rouse Eben Moddridge to action, or, anyway, to the putting up of money that would put other and more capable men in action.

Yet the boy felt like grinding his teeth in chagrin and bitter disappointment as he saw that swift touring car glide swiftly off the grounds to the road.

He had started to run after the car, hoping to overtake it before it got fully under speed, and to catch on in some way behind. But almost at once he saw that there was nothing to catch hold of at the rear, and immediately afterwards the car shot ahead at a speed of forty miles an hour.

“Whee! I hope the officers stop them, somewhere, for speeding,” thought Halstead, with a half hopeful grin as he slowed down to a walk. It would hardly do, however, to expect the car to be stopped for going only forty miles an hour on Long Island.

As the young skipper stepped out, panting, through the gate, he remembered the necessity of proceeding cautiously, lest he run afoul of Justin Bolton, who could not be far away, and was on foot. That scheming financier carried a revolver, and had shown himself not slow to use it. After half an hour Halstead felt that the danger of meeting Bolton was slight, and hurried on faster.

It was late in the evening when Tom Halstead entered the hotel grounds at East Hampton. A short distance away he had halted long enough to remove all excessive amounts of dust from clothing and shoes. In order to appear neither excited nor in haste, he sauntered slowly enough through the grounds, approached the veranda, stood there two or three minutes, walked about a bit in the lobby—long enough to see that two of the New York reporters were still on the scene—and at last escaped, without attracting special notice, up the stairs. Now he hastened to the door of Mr. Moddridge’s rooms, and knocked briskly.

“It’s Halstead, Mr. Moddridge,” he replied, in answer to a shaking query from within. The door flew open like magic.

“Halstead? Where have you been all these hours?” came the peevish question, as Eben Moddridge, in negligee attire and looking like a more than ill man, faced the young skipper. “You——”

Tom went inside, closed the door, and led the nervous one to an inner room. Here the motor boat boy poured out the whole story of what he had been through.

“Why, your new boy, Butts, hasn’t been near me with a word of this,” gasped Moddridge, presently.

“That must have been because he didn’t know you, of course,” evaded Halstead, easily. “But now, Mr. Moddridge, it will be necessary to pull all your wits together if you’re to save your friend and yourself. What should be the first move?”

“Oh, dear,” cried the nervous one, pacing the floor, “I honestly don’t know. I don’t see my way. Why did Delavan ever allow himself to get into such a dreadful mess? If he had followed my advice——”

“If your advice is any good, sir,” put in Tom, crisply, “it ought to be useful, just now, in finding out the way to extricate Mr. Delavan from his present troubles. Now, what ought to be the first step?”

With most men Halstead would have thought himself presuming to go so far. But the case was tremendously pressing, and it took more than a little to get Eben Moddridge started.

By slow degrees Moddridge pulled himself together. He wouldn’t hear to calling in the reporters and making the whole story public as far as it was known.

“The public would regard it all as a cock-and-bull invention, gotten up to hide Delavan’s supposed flight,” the nervous one rather sensibly declared. “And, if we were to drag Bolton’s name in, Bolton would be very likely to give us the trouble of proving the whole story, mostly on your unsupported word, Halstead, with a little corroboration, of course, from your very eccentric new steward—Butts, did you call him? Besides, if Frank Delavan were here, I think he would prefer to scheme secretly to punish Justin Bolton, instead of going after him openly.”

“Who is this Bolton?” asked Tom Halstead.

“A man whom Delavan helped to make the start of his fortune. But Bolton is unscrupulous and dangerous; Frank had to drop him years ago.”

The idea of sending for detectives Eben Moddridge also declined to entertain.

“No matter how secretly we may think we hire detectives,” he objected, “it is pretty sure to leak out. The Wall Street public would take that as a sensational feature, and P. & Y. would drop lower than ever in the market. No, no, Halstead; we won’t think of hiring detectives until we have tried other means. Now, what remains to be done!”

Tom Halstead pondered before he answered:

“Bolton’s intention seems to be to take Mr. Delavan off Long Island on that racing launch. It will probably be at some point within twenty or thirty miles of here, either east or west. If we could put enough men on watch, we could find out when that launch attempts to put out to sea. But you object to using detectives. I wonder if there are any other men we could trust, instead of using detectives? Say,” proposed the young skipper, suddenly, “you both trust your broker, Coggswell, don’t you?”

“Very thoroughly,” admitted Moddridge, pausing in his nervous walk to stare hard at the young skipper.

“Then why not get hold of Coggswell, at his home to-night, over the telephone? Ask him to send out some of his clerks whom he knows to be reliable. He might even send out a few other young men that he could vouch for?”

“But what good would they be?” asked Eben Moddridge.

“I can take the map of this coast, sir, and lay out stations for these young men, so that there’ll be one or two of ’em every few miles east and west of here. I can give them perfect descriptions of the racing launch. They can be provided with marine glasses. Just the instant that any one of them spots the racing launch he can telephone me. Then, whether the launch has Mr. Delavan aboard, and is putting out to sea, or is going after him, I can do my best to follow in the ‘Rocket.’ Since you are opposed to hiring detectives, Mr. Moddridge, that’s the best thing I can see that is left to do.”

After some further talk the nervous financier agreed to this. He called up Broker Coggswell by ’phone, at the latter’s home in New York. Mr. Coggswell agreed to send down twenty capable and honest young men by the earliest train in the morning.

That being all that could be done for the present, Captain Tom Halstead returned to the “Rocket.” Joe Dawson and Hank Butts were both up, waiting for him. For the next hour, sitting on the deck house of the boat, in the dark, still watches of the night, talking in whispers, the boys discussed all the latest phases of the puzzling affair. Then Tom turned in below, Joe doing likewise, leaving Butts on deck for the first watch.

“He can be wholly depended upon, can’t he, Tom?” Dawson asked.

“Who? Hank Butts? Joe, even though Hank has struggled into one of Jed’s uniforms, he may still look like a Simple Simon, but don’t lose any sleep worrying about Hank!”

Early in the morning the young skipper was astir again. Hiring a bicycle he wheeled rapidly to the next railway station above East Hampton. There the young men sent by Broker Coggswell left the train. Their leader reported to Halstead with the whispered watchword provided by the New York broker. Tom led them off in private, unfolded the map he had brought with him, and assigned to each young man the station he was to watch day and night. For this purpose the young men were sent away in pairs. When the instructions had been given and fully understood, Halstead leisurely pedaled back to East Hampton.

“Those young fellows all look bright,” he thought. “If they serve faithfully, they may be able to give us the very warning that we shall need.”

Eben Moddridge, who rarely slept more than two or three hours at a time, was awake when the young skipper called on him. Moddridge had arranged for a direct wire from his room to Coggswell’s office in New York, and was feverishly awaiting the hour of nine, when the great Stock Exchange would open for the day’s dealings in money.

“I feel as though my death sentence must come through this instrument,” groaned the nervous financier, tapping the telephone.

At last the call came. Now Moddridge had abundant excuse for being nervous. The day in New York opened with P. & Y. at 87.

“Two points lower,” sighed the nervous one, “and the bankers will begin to call in the loans with which Frank and I have been buying Steel.”

Half an hour later P. & Y. touched 85.

“We’ve got to put up some money to the banks now,” stated Coggswell. “But Steel has been doing a little. If you authorize me, I can sell out some Steel and allied securities, and meet the first demand from the banks on your account.”

“What shall I do?” shivered Moddridge, turning appealingly to the “Rocket’s” skipper.

“Why, I don’t know a blessed thing about the game,” Tom admitted, promptly. “But I should take Coggswell’s advice. He seems to have a clear head.”

Eben Moddridge acted on the suggestion. But the New York newspapers were printing columns about the disappearance of Delavan, and more about the shakiness of P. & Y. stock. By noon the P. & Y. stock had dropped to 81. Coggswell had closed out more of the Delavan-Moddridge buyings in Steel, and thus had averted a crash for those interests.

“If Steel will only go up as P. & Y. goes down,” smiled Halstead cheerily, “you will be able to keep even.”

“That is, one debt will wipe out the other, and leave Frank and myself penniless,” replied Eben Moddridge, with a ghastly face.

The Stock Exchange closed for the day with P. & Y. at 76, that is, at a selling price of seventy-six dollars per share, instead of a hundred and two dollars per share as it had been forty-eight hours earlier. So far, by sales of Steel and its allied securities, Broker Coggswell had been able to keep the Delavan-Moddridge interests from going wholly to smash.

“But there’s to-morrow to face,” almost shrieked the nervous financier. “To-day millions of our money have literally melted away. If to-morrow brings no change in our luck, we shall both be ruined!”

The only change of the next day was to carry P. & Y. as low as 71, where it remained for the time being. Having between three and four millions of dollars left in private funds, Moddridge, shaking like a leaf, had ordered Coggswell to turn this last remnant of his fortune into the joint Delavan-Moddridge interests. Thus again the banks had been staved off for a little while.

“But the next drop in P. & Y. will eat up all our Steel investments, and Frank and I won’t have another penny to turn in,” sobbed the nervous one. “Then the banks will have to close us out to save themselves. Frank Delavan and I will be beggars!”

Tottering to the bed in the adjoining room, Eben Moddridge threw himself across it, sobbing hysterically.

Tom Halstead, however, gazed after the nervous financier with a new, deeper feeling of respect.

“I don’t understand very much about this Wall Street game, and my head is lined with a maze of figures,” the young skipper muttered to himself. “But there’s a heap of the man in you, Moddridge. When you might have saved a very decent fortune to yourself, you threw it into the whirlpool to try to protect your absent friend. Yon may be a nervous wreck, but hang me if you aren’t a whole lot of a man at bottom!”