First the launch ran swiftly down the river to the railroad bridge. There Dick, who was at the wheel, started to spin around to go over the course slowly, but Bill Brady called on them to listen.
“Something doing on one of those yachts,” he said. “Funny sort of a crowd to be here.”
The pop of corks and the sound of voices raised in song came over the water. It was a strange affair for that place and on that night. There were family parties, for the most part, on the yachts, and, even though one of them were made up of men alone, Dick thought it unlikely that any men from either Harvard or Yale were likely to disturb the peace of their neighbors in such a fashion.
“Suppose we run down and see what vessel it is that’s making all the trouble,” he said quietly. “It may seem like eavesdropping, but if they’re all right, there’ll be no harm done, and we can sheer off again.”
There was no protest against this suggestion. A sudden tense feeling had come over all the men in the swift power launch. They felt that they might be in a fair way to stumble thus by accident on some hint that would help to clear up the mystery that was oppressing them all.
Sounds carry far over water, especially at night, when quiet reigns. In New London there are a number of saloons and low drinking places near the waterside, and from some of these there came noises that were a good deal like those that had already attracted the attention of those in the launch. For a moment, indeed, after they shot through the arches of the bridge and hung on the black water—for there was no moon—Dick thought that they might have been mistaken. But then there came again, and unmistakably this time from the water, a burst of revelry, and the motor was started again. It took a few minutes to locate the vessel, which was explained, when, as they stole up to within a cable’s length of her, by the fact that she showed only anchor lights.
It was the Marina from which the noise came. Once they were near her, there could be no mistake about that. But, probably with the idea of making it hard for any one who became interested in the din to locate it, her cabin lights were masked by tightly drawn curtains, and she looked, as she lay there, swinging easily with the tide, as if her whole complement, passengers and crew, had turned in. Which was far from being the case.
On board the Marina there was a sharp division. One party, with Svenson—whose tremendous capacity to punish wine and liquor would have served to explain one reason why so competent a navigator had had to lower himself to mix up with those whose plans were, to say the least of it, shady—at its head, filled the cabin, drinking, singing, laughing, and generally enjoying itself. Prominent, too, in this choice company, was Dennison, whose money was being used for the wagers on which his associates expected to clear such a handsome profit.
But on the deck, entirely sober, and very thoughtful, were two men who had other things to do than befuddle their minds with drink. One was Harding, the notorious gambler who had so often tried to ruin Dick Merriwell and his friends; the other was the one whose brains were responsible for the present enterprise: Barrows, who had lost his chief means of livelihood with the closing of the race tracks around New York, after gambling was forbidden by law.
“I don’t see why you don’t come in on this deal, Bill,” said Barrows, almost pleadingly. “It’s a sure thing. It simply can’t fail. And the pickings are immense. Those Yale men think they’ve got the race won already. They’re just counting the money they’re going to have to spend when the bets are settled, and we got down a thousand this afternoon at the Iroquois at four to one. It’s as safe as a government bond.”