CHAPTER II—BOUNCER WAKES UP
While our two young motor boat enthusiasts lie wrapped in the first sound slumber of the summer night, lulled into unconsciousness by the soft lapping of the salt water against the sides of the “Meteor,” let us take a brief glimpse at the events which had brought them here.
Readers of the preceding volume in this series are aware of how the Motor Boat Club came to be organized. It now numbered fourteen members, any one of whom was fully qualified to handle a motor boat expertly under any ordinary circumstances.
Every member was a boy born and brought up along the seacoast. Such boys, both by inheritance and experience, are usually well qualified for salt-water work. They are aboard of boats almost from the first days of life that they can recollect. Seamanship and the work required about marine machinery are in the air that surrounds their daily lives. It is from among such boys that our merchant marine and our Navy find their best recruit material. It was among such boys that broker George Prescott had conceived the idea of finding material for making young experts to serve the owners of motor cruisers and racers along the New England coast.
Tom and Joe were undoubtedly the pick of the club for skill and experience. More than that, they were such fast friends that they could work together without the least danger of friction. Though Halstead was looked upon as the captain, he never attempted to lord it over his chum; they worked together as equals in everything.
Mr. Dunstan had long known Mr. Prescott in Boston, where both had offices. So, when trouble happened in the “Meteor’s” engine room, Mr. Dunstan had sent the broker a long telegram asking that gentleman to send by the next train the two most capable experts of the Club. He had added that he wanted the boys principally for running the boat on fast time between Nantucket and Wood’s Hole, for the owner had a handsome residence on the island, but came over to the mainland nearly every day in order to run in by train to his offices in Boston. The “Meteor,” therefore, was generally required to justify her name in the way of speed, for Mr. Dunstan’s landing place at Nantucket was some thirty-five miles from Wood’s Hole.
Further, Mr. Dunstan’s telegram had intimated that he was likely to want the young men for the balance of the season, though his message had not committed him absolutely on that point. The pay he had offered was more than satisfactory.
Wood’s Hole is a quaint, sleepy little seaport village. The main life, in summer, comes from the passing through of steamboat passengers for Martha’s Vineyard and Nantucket. The night air is so quiet and the sea scent so strong that even the city visitors at the little hotel find it difficult to stay up as late as eleven o’clock.
On this night, or rather morning, at one o’clock, there were but two honest people in the whole place awake. Over at the Marine Biological Laboratory, Curator Gray and an assistant were still up, bending drowsily over a microscope in one of the laboratory rooms. But that building was too far from the “Meteor’s” pier for the scientists to have any hint of what might be happening near the motor boat.
It was the night before the new moon. The stars twinkled, but it was rather dark when the figures of two men appeared at the land end of the pier. On their feet these men wore rubber-soled canvas shoes. Not a sound did they make as they started to glide out on the pier.
But Bouncer woke up.
“Gr-r-r-r!” the bull pup observed, thrusting his head up, his hair bristling. All this required but a few seconds. In another instant Bouncer was at the rail, his nostrils swelling as he took a keen look down the length of the pier. Then an angrier growl left his throat. It ended in a bound and Bouncer landed on the pier. His short legs moving rapidly under him Bouncer rushed to meet the soft-shoed gentlemen.
That last, angrier note from the bull pup roused Tom Halstead as a bugle call might have done. He leaped to his feet, snatching at his trousers. Joe stirred, half alertly. When he heard his chum’s feet strike the engine-room floor Dawson, too, sprang up.
“Mischief, just as we thought!” breathed Tom.
Down at the land end of the pier there was a sudden mingling of startled human voices.
“Por la gracia de Dios!” sounded an excited, appealing wail.
“Get away, you beast, or I’ll kill you!” roared another voice in English.
Bang! That was the noise from the throat of a big-calibered pistol. It was followed, just as Tom bounded to the deck, pursued by Joe, by the rapid pounding of a horse’s hoofs and the rattle of wheels.
“There they go!” cried Tom, leaping to the pier in his bare feet and racing shoreward over the boards. But it was too late for the boys to overtake the prowlers, who were now behind a fast horse.
“Did they shoot that fine dog?” growled Joe, his voice rumbling with indignation. Bouncer answered the question for himself by running to meet them, his tail a-wag, guttural grunts of satisfaction coming from his throat, while a signal flag of information fluttered from his mouth.
“He took hold of one of ’em,” chuckled Tom. “Good old fellow, you’ve brought us a sample of their cloth. Good boy! May I have it?”
Tom bent down to stroke the dog, who submitted very willingly. When Halstead took hold of the large, irregular fragment of cloth the bull pup grunted once or twice, then let go.
Back all three went to the boat. Tom lighted a lantern, then held the cloth forward.
“Brown, striped trouser goods,” he chuckled. “Joe, whom have we seen with trousers of this pattern?”
“That Spanish-looking chap in the seat ahead on the train,” muttered Dawson grimly.
“Now if Mr. Dunstan doubts that some one wants to put his boat out of commission we’ll have something definite to call to his attention,” uttered Tom excitedly. “Bouncer, you stocky little darling!”
Joe looked the dog over carefully to make sure that a bullet had not even grazed that reliable, business-like animal.
“If they had touched you, old splendid,” growled Joe, “we’d have had a good clew or two for avenging you. But those rascals didn’t even hurt your grit. You’re ready for ’em again—if they come!”
For some time the boys were too excited to lie down again. When at last they did, they kept their trousers on, ready for any further surprise. Bouncer took up his old post on the deck above, seemingly free from any trace of excitement.
It was nearly half-past six in the morning when Joe next opened his eyes. In a hurry he roused his chum. Donning bathing trunks and shirts both dropped over the side for a refreshing swim. Then after drying and dressing, Halstead went forward into the galley, while Joe snatched a few minutes at the work left over from the night.
Breakfast was a hurried affair, for there was still much to do about the motor. It was after nine o’clock when Tom stood back, looking on inquiringly while Joe put on the finishing touches.
“Now I’ll turn on the gasoline and see if we can get any news,” proposed Joe. A few moments later he started the ignition apparatus and gave the drive wheel a few turns.
Chug! chug! the engine began slowly. Joe, oil can in hand, looked on with the attention of a scientist making an experiment. Bit by bit he increased the speed of the engine, smoothing the work with oil.
“Give us a little time and the old motor’ll mote,” observed Dawson quietly.
“Yes,” nodded Tom equally observant.
Had they been more of amateurs at the work they would have felt elated, for the engine responded to all increased speeds that were tried. But these two had worked enough about motors to know that such an engine may come to a creaking stop when everything appears to be running at the best.
Chug! chug! It was a cheery sound as the minutes went by and the motor did better and better.
“I’m almost hopeful that everything is in shape,” declared Dawson at last.
“Good morning, boys!” came a pleasant hail from the pier. “I see everything is in fine trim.”
“It looks that way, Mr. Dunstan,” answered Tom, stepping up above and, by way of salute, bringing his hand to the visor of the Club’s uniform cap that he had donned this morning. “But motors are sometimes cranky. We don’t dare begin to brag just yet.”
“This morning’s mail brought me a letter from Mr. Prescott,” went on the owner, holding up an envelope. “He has written me seven pages about you. It seems that you are great pets of my friend’s. He tells me that I can place every confidence in you.”
“Why, that’s mighty nice of Mr. Prescott,” replied Tom quietly. He was greatly pleased, nevertheless, for he could now see that Mr. Dunstan’s opinion of them had gone up several notches.
“Well, well,” continued the owner, as he glanced smilingly down into the engine room; “are you going to cast off now and take me over to Nantucket? It’s four days since I’ve seen my home and that lucky little rascal, Ted.”
Tom didn’t know or inquire who Ted was or why that “rascal” was so very fortunate. Instead he replied:
“We were thinking of a little trial trip first, sir, just to see how the craft will behave under way.”
“Good enough,” nodded the owner. “But I’m aboard, so why can’t I go with you?”
“Of course you can, sir.”
Tom ran ashore to cast off while Joe did some last fussing over the motor. Having cast the stern-line aboard and coiled it, Tom now came forward, throwing off the bowline, boarding with it.
“Start her up at very slow speed ahead, Joe,” called down the young captain, taking his place at the wheel and throwing it over a little.
With the first throbs of the propeller the “Meteor” began to glide away from the pier. Mr. Dunstan had taken his post at Halstead’s right. The water being deep enough, the young captain moved out confidently.
“Just a little more speed, Joe,” Tom called, when the pier end was some two hundred yards astern.
A little faster and still a little faster the propeller shaft turned, until it settled down to good work. The “Meteor” was moving at about twelve miles an hour.
“Fine!” cried Mr. Dunstan joyously. “We’re all right now.”
“We’re not yet quite out of the—well, I won’t say woods, but sea woods,” smiled Tom quietly.
“I’m forgetting my duty,” cried Mr. Dunstan in sudden self-reproach. “I must act a bit as pilot until you know these waters better.”
“Why, I studied the chart, sir, nearly all the way from Portland,” replied Tom. “I think I am picking up the marks of the course all right.”
“You can’t see Nantucket from here, but can you point straight to it?” inquired Mr. Dunstan.
“I’m heading straight along the usual course now,” Tom replied.
“Right! You are. I guess you know your way from the chart, though you’ve never seen these waters before. Keep on. I won’t interfere unless I see you going wrong.”
“Shall I head straight on for the island?” asked Halstead. “Or would you rather keep close to the mainland until we see how the engine behaves?”
“Keep right on, captain, unless your judgment forbids.”
Tom, therefore, after a brief talk with his chum through the open hatchway, held to his course, to the south of which lay the big island of Martha’s Vineyard, now well populated by summer pleasure seekers.
Notch by notch Joe let out the speed, though he was too careful to be in a hurry about that. He wanted to study his machine until he knew it as he did the alphabet. Every fresh spurt pleased the owner greatly.
“Your Club has some great fellows in it if you two are specimens,” said Mr. Dunstan delightedly. “Prescott knew what he was writing when he told me to stand by anything you wanted to do.”
By the time when they had the Vineyard fairly south of them and the craft was going at more than a twenty-mile gait, Tom judged that he should inform the owner of the happening of the night before. He therefore called Joe up from the motor to take the wheel. Then Halstead told Mr. Dunstan what had taken place, exhibiting the fragment of cloth secured by Bouncer and connecting this, in theory, with the swarthy man they had seen aboard the train.
Bouncer, looking up in his master’s face and whining, seemed anxious to confirm Tom Halstead’s narration.
“Why, there’s something about all this that will make it well for us all to keep our eyes open,” said Mr. Dunstan.
Tom, watching the owner’s face, felt that that gentleman had first looked somewhat alarmed, then much more annoyed.
“There’s something that doesn’t please him and I shouldn’t think it would,” the young captain reflected. “Yet, whatever it is he doesn’t intend to tell me, just yet, at all events. I hope it’s nothing in the way of big mischief that threatens.”
“Of course I’d suggest, sir,” Tom observed finally, “that Dawson and myself sleep aboard nights.”
“You may as well,” nodded the owner, and again Tom thought he saw a shadow of worriment in the other’s eyes.
“Are you going to let Bouncer stay aboard, too, sir?” Tom asked.
“Ordinarily I think I’ll let the dog sleep at the house nights,” replied Mr. Dunstan, immediately after looking as though he were trying to dismiss some matter from his mind.
Joe, too, had been keen enough to scent the fact that, though Mr. Dunstan tried to appear wholly at his ease, yet something was giving that gentleman a good deal of cause for thought. Mr. Dunstan even went aft, presently, seating himself in one of the armchairs and smoking two cigars in succession rather rapidly.
“We’ve put something into his mind that doesn’t lie there easily,” hinted Joe.
“But, of course, it’s none of our business unless he chooses to tell us,” replied Halstead.
A little later Joe Dawson went down into the engine room to get the best reasonable work out of the motor. Even at racing speed the “Meteor’s” bow wave was not a big one. There was almost an absence of spray dashing over the helmsman. Tom did not need to put on oilskins, as he had often done on the “Sunbeam.” The “Meteor’s” bow lines were so beautiful and graceful, so well adapted to an ideal racing craft, that the bridge deck in ordinary weather was not a wet place.
As they neared cool, wind-swept Nantucket, Mr. Dunstan came forward once more, to point out the direction of his own place. This lay on the west side of the island. As they ran in closer the owner pointed out the mouth of a cove.
“We’ve come over in two hours,” announced Mr. Dunstan, consulting his watch as they neared the cove.
“Now that we understand the boat and the engine,” answered Tom, “we ought to go over the course in less than an hour and a half.”
“Fine!” pronounced the owner. “That’s what the boat was built for. Do that and I can make the trip to my Boston offices every week day—if I decide that it’s best to do so.”
Tom noted a certain hesitancy about those last few words. Again he felt sure that some mystery threatened the owner’s peace of mind.
Into the cove and up alongside the pier the “Meteor” was run. From here large and handsome grounds and a huge white house, the latter well back from the water, were visible.
“We’ll leave Bouncer on board for the present,” said Mr. Dunstan. “I’ll take you up to the house so you can get used to the place. By and by we’ll have lunch. And I want to show you my boy, Ted.”