CHAPTER X
THE TRAITOR AT THE AERIALS
“Wait! Don’t take anything too seriously. I’ve—got to—think!”
Powell Seaton had stood, for two or three moments, staring from Halstead to the other motor boat boys.
“Humph! Well, this is good, but I don’t like it,” grimaced Hank Butts, taking two steps backward.
Powell Seaton began to pace the room, his hands at his head. He looked like one who suddenly found it impossible to think.
Hank opened his mouth to say something angry, but Captain Tom checked him with a look and a gesture.
“May we search in that closet for you, sir?” called Halstead, when a thud told that the owner of the bungalow had dropped heavily back into his chair.
“You may look there, if you want to. Anyone may look there—now!” uttered the amazed one.
Without saying more Tom, in deep agitation, began the task he had invited upon himself. Joe Dawson came and stood looking quietly over 106 his chum’s shoulder, ready to help if necessary. As for Hank, he stood, a picture of injured pride, staring at the distracted man.