CHAPTER V—THE TRICKSTER
“Easy, boy!” Al Torrance advised, hearing Whistler’s cry of surprise. “Want to give us away to that Heinie if he is in hearing?”
But Whistler Morgan, after his startled exclamation, burst through the bushes and hurried down the bank of the hollow. A figure lay at the bottom—a figure dressed in a blue smock, loose trousers, heavy shoes and a cap. The cap was pulled down over the person’s face, and he was rolled sideways so that Whistler could not distinguish a feature.
There was, however, something besides these points that had caused Whistler’s ejaculation and excitement.
“Cracky!” gasped Al, remembering the description his chum had so recently given of the disguise the German spy had donned. “Is that the fellow? And who triced him up that way? Looks like somebody has been ahead of us.”
The other two Navy Boys and Willum Johnson joined Al Torrance at the top of the bank. They, too, saw the huddled figure below over which Whistler was standing.
“Oi, oi!” exploded Ikey characteristically. “They got him tied up ready for the spit yet.”
“Is that the bloomin’ spy?” growled the big British seaman. “Let me get me ’ands on ’im.”
“Easy, Bill,” said Al Torrance. “You know what that brass hat said about your bringing the spy in alive.”
“Hi wouldn’t kill ’im—now I’m cooled hoff,” the ex-coster declared. “But ’ee won’t get awye from hus—no fear!”
Whistler had not joined in this conversation. He turned the body over and Frenchy uttered an ear-piercing yell:
“What do you know about that?” he added. “It’s George Belding!”
“Say!” growled Al. “They could hear you on the Colodia. If that spy is here——”
“He’s got far enough away by this time!” Whistler exclaimed, swiftly getting out his knife to cut Belding’s bonds.
The latter was gagged most cruelly with a stick tied between his jaws. So far had the stick been thrust into the lad’s mouth that the corners were cracked and bleeding. Whistler cut away his friend’s gag first of all.
“The nasty villain!” cried Willum Johnson. “’Ow did ’ee do hit?”
“Are you hurt, George?” demanded Morgan.
“I’m bumped some,” admitted the other American lad. “But I’m hurt most in my dignity,” and he tried to grin.
“The scoundrel cut your lips with that stick,” said Al Torrance. “Where did he go?”
“Ask me something easier. I only know he went—and if he kept on the way he started he’s a long way from here by now.”
“But where are your clothes?” demanded Whistler Morgan.
“What do you think?” cried Belding. “The dirty Heinie is wearing them!”
“Good-night!” gasped Frenchy. “Is it a U. S. sailor he wants to be?”
“Tell us!” commanded Whistler earnestly.
“Why, you see,” Belding responded, getting up now after having rubbed his chafed ankles, “it was like this: Just as soon as you got out of sight, Morgan, the Heinie began to travel. I started right after him, and he came down here into this wood. I believe I wasn’t very smart—or he was smarter than I. Guess that is pretty well proved isn’t it?” and Belding smiled wryly.
“I had in mind all the time that he had two pistols under this smock he wore, so I tried not to attract his attention. You can see I failed in my attempt.”
“How did it happen?” Whistler asked.
“I stepped on a stick. I suppose that was what put him wise to me. Anyway, the stick cracked. I jumped behind a tree. I could see him ahead of me in the path and he did not turn his head or apparently hear the crackling stick. But he must have been sharper than I thought.”
“These ’ere ’Uns,” declared Willum Johnson, “is hup to all sorts o’ tricks.”
“He was a trickster, all right,” agreed George Belding, with much disgust in his tone of voice. “I followed right along like the idiot I was, and all of a sudden the fellow disappeared. I thought he had moved faster, so I went faster.”
“And then what?” asked Al.
“I came up to the tree he was hiding behind, and he stepped out and stuck one of those pistols of his right under my nose!”
“What d’you know about that?” marveled Frenchy.
“Never had that happen to you, did you?” asked George Belding. “It’s the funniest feeling—believe me! The muzzle of the pistol was under my nose, but I felt it right at the pit of my stomach! I couldn’t do a thing, of course. You see fellows disarm an antagonist in moving pictures without getting hurt, but I wasn’t going to take a chance. I know he would have blown my head off.”
“What did he do to you then?” asked Ikey Rosenmeyer, his eyes big with interest.
“He drove me before him down into this hollow. He had got rid of his bundle somewhere. I didn’t see him drop it. His uniform, you know, Morgan.”
“I see.”
“And down here he made me strip off my clothes—even my shoes. I tell you, I just hate that Heinie.”
“That’s wot yuh wants to do,” growled Willum Johnson. “’Ate the ’Un or yuh can’t lick ’im proper.”
“No fear,” said Belding, nodding. “I have stored up a proper hate for them now. This fellow is the meanest of the bunch. He got out of the duds I am wearing as slick as you please—keeping me under the muzzle of his gun all the time.”
“Sounds just like a wild west movie, doesn’t it?” suggested Ikey.
“Nothing so good—don’t think it,” growled George Belding.
“Anyhow, he got these things off and made me get into them. He put on my uniform meanwhile—quick as a cat he is. You got a good look at him, didn’t you, Morgan?”
“I’d know him again,” declared Whistler grimly.
“So would I,” said Belding, shaking his head threateningly. “But what good is that? I bet we never set eyes on the scamp again.”
“My heye!” exclaimed the big British seaman, “let’s ’unt ’im down.”
“He’s had half an hour’s start,” said Belding, hopelessly. “And he was going some when he started—believe me! We’d never catch him.”
“’Ow do you know?” returned Willum Johnson. “Let’s send these little nippers,” indicating Frenchy and Ikey, “back to the bloomin’ port for ’elp, hand then scour the ’ole bloomin’ country.”
“We’d better all go back and report,” Whistler Morgan said seriously. “We fellows can’t be much longer ashore, Mr. Johnson. We’re due at the dock pretty soon.”
“Bli’me!” exclaimed the man. “Hi’ve overstayed my leave already. Hin for a penny, hin for a pun, say Hi!”
But Whistler argued with him, and he became more reasonable. Now that the fumes of alcohol were out of his head he was rather a tractable fellow.
“There is going to be trouble over this,” Al Torrance prophesied. “We’d better give the alarm in a hurry. That Hun must be captured before he does some damage.”
“He can go almost anywhere in a Yankee uniform—if he speaks English,” said Whistler.
“Oh, he speaks it all right,” said Belding.
“Hif Hi could honly ’ave got me ’ands hon ’im!” groaned Willum Johnson, shaking his shaggy head sorrowfully.
But Belding had something very serious to say to Whistler Morgan as the party started to climb out of the wood to the top of the hill overlooking the port and harbor.
“No use talking about it, Morgan,” he said, “but I never took my money out of my clothes. I had a couple of pounds besides silver.”
“Too bad.”
“And that is not the worst. I had papers and letters. Some things in the letters from my father I wouldn’t want many folks to see—and especially a Hun. Father is going to take a big sum in cash with him on the Redbird when he sails for Bahia. Gold, Morgan—thousands and thousands of dollars in gold coin.”
“Whew!”
“Some prize for a Hun U-boat! And think of my folks and your sisters aboard the Redbird! It’s going to worry me until I know this scoundrel is captured and I get back my papers.”