Brady saw the possibility of that.
“We might try a little search party,” he said. “If it’s cloudy to-night, as seems likely, we might be able to get hold of some pretty valuable information without their knowing we were anywhere near them. It’s worth trying, it seems to me, anyhow.”
So, late that night, after all the oarsmen at quarters were in bed, and, presumably, asleep, Dick Merriwell, Bill Brady, Benton, and Jim Phillips in the Elihu Yale, slipped quietly away from Gale’s Ferry, and went silently down the river, to where the black bulk of the Marina loomed up ominously at her mooring, below the railway bridge, and in the very heart of a fleet of pretty white yachts that formed a sharp contrast to the dingy, slovenly craft that was such a fitting setting for the dark deeds that were being planned by Barrows, Svenson, and their associates.
Hargreaves had been indignant when he was told that he was not to be one of the party, but Dick had persuaded him to stay behind.
“We’re going to try to clear up this whole mess to-night,” Dick told him, “and there’s no telling what sort of trouble we may run into before we get through with it. The crew has got to row Harvard the day after to-morrow, you know, whatever happens, and some one has got to stay with them and take charge. I’ve picked you for that because you’re older than Benton, and understand what’s needed better than he, not because I think there’s any choice between you if it comes to trouble. So that’s your part of the job.”
Hargreaves was a good coach, in the making, and he saw the wisdom of what his superior said. Before a man can enforce discipline and induce others to obey his orders, he must submit to the orders of those above him, and Hargreaves, though he was bitterly disappointed, stayed behind, and wished them “good luck” with a cheery wave of his hand as the Elihu Yale slipped quietly off through the dark water, on the errand that they all hoped would solve the perplexing mystery that had bothered them so much.
Only the harbor lights showed on the Marina when the launch slowed down abreast of the schooner. Her sails were untidily furled, and there was no sign of a watch on deck. Moreover, this time, as they approached, there was the silence of the grave on board. No sounds of revelry came from the dark cabin, and there was no boat alongside. The whole fleet was wrapped in silence and in darkness, for it was after midnight. The parties on the other vessels had long since come away from whatever festivities they had been attending on shore, and, as they looked over to Point Griswold and Pequot Cove on the other side, there were only a few scattered lights to be seen in the cottages, where tired youngsters, already keyed up to concert pitch in anticipation of the great spectacle of Thursday, were getting ready for bed.
“It’s too quiet,” whispered Merriwell to Brady and Benton. They were in the stern, and Jim Phillips, with sharp eyes peeled, was in the bow. “It’s too quiet,” Dick repeated. “I have a feeling that these people on the Marina aren’t as sound asleep as they want us to think. They may try to spring something on us.”
“I’m going aboard her,” Dick said, when the Elihu Yale finally touched gently the black side of the schooner. “You can come along, Jim. Benton, you and Brady stand by in the launch and be ready to make a quick start if you see us coming. You can tell better what to do, if anything goes wrong, after it’s happened. There’s no use making plans now, because they wouldn’t be a bit likely to fit whatever happened.”
And a moment later, his feet cased in rubber shoes that made no sound, he swung himself lightly up the rope ladder that dangled from the Marina’s side, and, with Jim at his heels, dropped lightly to her deck.