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.”