CHAPTER XV THE MIDNIGHT ALARM
"Still the sound of machinery," muttered Dick Davis, pacing the bridge just before dark. "I imagine the skipper of that other craft wishes he could have put a mute on his engines."
"He has even taken to blowing his fog-horn again," replied young Halstead. "It's just sheer luck that he hasn't been run down by some vessel coming from the opposite direction."
"I guess our fog-horn has protected him," suggested Dick. "We may have passed some other craft whose fog-horns didn't carry sound as far as ours. Hearing our fog-horn, such vessels might have given us such a wide berth that the 'Victor' naturally escaped collision."
It was about eight o'clock, when Tom and Joe were finishing the evening meal in the captain's cabin, that a sudden sharp blast came through the bridge speaking tube.
"Right here at the other end, Mr. Davis," Captain Tom answered.
"I think you'll be interested in coming to the bridge, sir. The fog is lightening a bit, and I can see a couple of stars overhead."
"Whew! That's good news! Do you still hear the 'Victor's' machinery?"
"Yes; I've been keeping very close to her."
Halstead quickly told the news to Joe Dawson. Both reached for their ulsters, then ran out on deck. Tom's first discovery was that he could hear, distinctly, the subdued clank-clank made by the invisible steam yacht.
Yes; the fog was surely lifting. Overhead, especially, things were clearing.
"We seem to be running out at the edge of the fog-bank, Mr. Davis," was the young captain's greeting, as he climbed to the bridge, followed by the young chief engineer.
For five minutes or more Tom Halstead stood there, watching the fog.
"I'm sure enough of the news, now, to go aft and tell Mr. Baldwin," he declared, finally.
Tom found all the cabin passengers at table in the deck dining saloon, aft of the owner's quarters. They were not more than two-thirds through the meal, but the table became instantly deserted.
Twenty minutes later the watchers at the port rail made out, briefly, a part of the hull of the "Victor." The two craft were but little more than two hundred yards apart.
Ten minutes later both craft passed almost completely out of the fog. A cheer went up from the deck of the "Panther." There was no answer from the pursued craft.
Running up to the bridge, and snatching up a megaphone, Joseph Baldwin bawled lustily:
"We're still with you, you pirates! You can't shake us!"
Still no sound of human voice came from the steam yacht. The answer was of another sort. Great clouds of smoke began to pour from the "Victor's" funnel.
"They're going to try a spurt," chuckled Halstead, gleefully. "Well, let 'em. We don't even have to get up more steam for a spurt. All we have to do is to feed in the gasoline quicker."
Within five minutes the "Victor" was racing along at more than twenty miles an hour. On board the "Panther," however, Joe Dawson did not even feel it necessary to go below to look at the motors. Jed Prentiss was down there in the engine room, and Jed was a boy who knew what he was doing. Second Officer Davis gave the speed orders from the bridge; Jed carried out the orders. The "Panther," now widening the interval to four hundred yards in this clearer atmosphere, ran along parallel with the steam yacht.
"They may fool us yet," chuckled Halstead, turning around to the owner. "But they'll have to do it with something better than speed."
"If they get away from you, Captain Halstead," replied the owner, his face beaming, "I promise, in advance, to forgive you. It won't be your fault. Lord, how you've hung to them! What a report I shall have to send Delavan on the officers he sent me!"
Then, suddenly, Halstead thought of the prisoner down in the brig.
"Pass the word for Second Steward Collins," he directed, and that yacht's servant soon reported.
"You didn't forget to feed the prisoner, Collins?"
"Oh, no, sir," and the steward rattled off the names of the dishes that had been supplied the man in the brig.
"He seems to have fed nearly as well as we did," laughed Skipper Tom. "Well, that's right; just because we lock a fellow up is no reason why we should starve him. The prisoner had a good appetite?"
"Excellent, sir."
"He's locked in tightly?"
"Yes, sir."
Ten minutes later Captain Halstead took the trouble to go below to the brig.
It was somewhat stuffy down there, but that couldn't be helped.
From the center of the ceiling a single incandescent lamp supplied the illumination of the room.
As Tom Halstead peered in through the grating he saw Cragthorpe seated on a stool in the far corner.
Tom did not speak. The fellow glared at him, then looked away.
"The door is locked tightly, all right," murmured Captain Halstead to himself, after rattling the bars and examining the lock.
No sooner had he turned away, and stepped out of sight, than Cragthorpe rose like a caged tiger. A leer expressive of the utmost cruelty parted his teeth. He shook his fist menacingly after the departing young skipper. He was able to do that much, for Mr. Costigan, following the usual course in such cases, had removed the handcuffs after depositing the prisoner in the brig.
"Perhaps you think I'm here, simply awaiting your pleasure, my young salt water cub!" snarled Cragthorpe to himself.
Tom Halstead, however, gave the fellow little further thought. He was too happy over the lifting of the fog. It is possible for two craft of the size of these to run all day within two hundred yards of each other through a fog, judging each other's positions only by sounds. The slow speed of fog-time makes this possible. Yet it requires splendidly expert seamanship on both craft. The ordeal is bound to be wearing on the deck and watch officers. Tom and his three mates felt utterly tired after their experience, but the passing out of the belt of the fog had brought huge relief to them.
Up to ten o'clock that evening the "Victor" maintained her fast speed. The air was now thoroughly clear in every direction. Tom could have kept the other craft in sight even had the steam yacht shown no lights. But the commander of the "Victor" had all his running lights going.
"You'll call us, if anything whatever happens that's worth our knowing, won't you, Captain?" asked Joseph Baldwin, joining the young sailing master, who stood close to the bridge steps on the port side.
"Yes, sir. Certainly."
"All of us chaps in the cabin are going to turn in soon," continued Mr. Baldwin, with a slight yawn. "We're fagged, both from the lack of sleep and the suspense. Now, however, our minds are easier. Yonder is the boat that carries Frank Rollings and the millions he stole from the bank. Our fuel will last as long as theirs will. We can follow as far as they can go."
"Wouldn't it be a jarring surprise if it turned out that we've been following a dummy, Mr. Baldwin?" Halstead asked. "What if we follow for days and days, yet, and then learn that neither Rollings nor his plunder is on board?"
Joseph Baldwin started, then retorted:
"Yes; but it won't happen, Captain. In the first place, the detectives of the Bankers' Association found out positively that Rollings had gone aboard, and that the yacht had then got under way at once. The captain of that boat was expecting Rollings—was prepared for him—and has the defaulter on board at this moment."
"I hope so, sir, for I'm satisfied that we're yet going to lay alongside of that craft and search her."
"Of course we are. Good night, Captain."
"Good night, sir. I'm going to turn in, myself, for a while."
Half an hour later the young skipper was sound asleep. So, for that matter, were all the officers and crew who were not on duty.
Sky and surrounding atmosphere continued clear through the rest of Dick Davis's watch on the bridge. That young second mate was pacing back and forth contentedly. The two yachts, now making about a fourteen-mile speed, were close together, and Davis had little to watch save the general handling of the boat.
Out of a hatchway forward a head was cautiously thrust up. Davis did not happen to see that head. There was no reason why he should be looking for it.
The owner of that head saw Davis turn and pace over to starboard. Swiftly, and silently, the man sprang out of the hatchway, after observing that the quartermaster's head was bent over the compass. The sailor in the wheel house with the quartermaster was not looking in Davis's direction at the moment.
So the prowler gained the port side of the deck-house, and stole aft without hindrance. It was Cragthorpe, the late prisoner in the brig. Now, besides being free, he carried a five-gallon can of gasoline that he had found below deck.
Away back to the after deck he ran, crouching low. There he halted, staring about him. An evil smile flickered over his lips. With little conscience, he was also without fear for himself.
An instant later he began sprinkling gasoline about him. The task was quickly accomplished. He drew out a box of blazer matches, striking one of them and tossing it down where a pool of gasoline lay.
There was a flare, in a second, but Cragthorpe had vanished almost as quickly as the flare appeared.
Dick Davis caught a glimpse of the glow.
"Quartermaster, send your man aft to investigate a blaze there. Let him run!"
The blaze, however, was spreading and mounting so fast that the alert young second officer did not have to pause to guess.
"Fire!" shouted the sailor, running forward. But Dick Davis had already sprung to the alarm bells.