“Picked up anything?” called Tom Halstead, eagerly.
“Yes, sirree!” uttered Joe, delightedly, thrusting a paper into his chum’s hand. “The Jepson freight liner, ‘Glide,’ is making an extra trip out of schedule. Here’s her position, course and gait. We ought to be up to her within two and a half hours.”
Tom himself took the news to Powell Seaton. That gentleman, on hearing the word, leaped from the lower berth in the port stateroom.
“Glorious!” he cried, his eyes gleaming feverishly as he hustled into an overcoat.
Then he whispered, in a lower voice:
“Tom Halstead, you’re—you’re—It!”
“Eh?” demanded the young motor boat skipper.
“You’ll take the papers on to Rio!”
A gleam lit up Halstead’s eyes. Yet, in another instant he felt a sense of downright regret. He was not afraid of any dangers that the trip might involve, but he hated the thought of being weeks away from this staunch, trim little craft of which he was captain and half-owner.
“All right, sir,” he replied, though without enthusiasm. “I’ll undertake it—I’ll go to Rio for you.”