“That was a queer rumpus on Boston Common the other day,” began the florid-faced man. The subject had been changed. No further mention was made of the “Meteor.” Tom Halstead felt tremendously disappointed. He had hoped to hear more that would be of interest to himself. But the pair in the seat ahead did not again refer to the “Meteor.” So Tom, after stealthily making a few pin pricks in his newspaper, settled far down in his seat, holding the paper before his face as though reading. In reality he was studying what he could see of the faces of the men who had so suddenly aroused his interest. With the paper close enough to his face the pin holes were almost as good as windows.
Over those last few miles droned the train. Tom felt cheated in not hearing more, but to all appearances the strangers had forgotten the existence of the “Meteor.” When the train was yet a mile out from Wood’s Hole the two men arose, going to the forward end of the car. The train slackened in speed, the two men dropping off on the further side of the car from where the boys sat. By the time that Halstead deemed it prudent to slip across to a window opposite, the two men were out of sight.
“Now what on earth can be the reason for those two fellows desiring any injury to a gentleman’s private yacht?” muttered Tom, rejoining his chum.
“At all events, it’s handy to be well warned in advance,” returned Joe with a quiet grin.
“Yes, if we run across that pair within twenty cable lengths of the boat we’ll know ’em and be on our watch,” answered Halstead with a meaning flash in his eyes.
They had little more time for puzzling their heads, for the train was now rolling in at the little station at Wood’s Hole. There were less than a dozen people to disembark. Out of such a small crowd anyone looking for two young motor boat experts would have little difficulty in selecting the two boys with weather-tinted faces, who wore suits of strong, serviceable navy blue, soft brown canvas shoes and straw hats. So a tall, slender man of forty-five, dressed in outing gray and wearing an expensive fine-straw hat, came at once toward them.
“Captain Tom Halstead?” he inquired, looking from one boy to the other.
“That’s my name, sir,” Tom answered. “You are Mr. Horace Dunstan?”
“Yes. And heartily glad that you did not disappoint me.”
“There was no good reason why we should, sir,” Halstead rejoined, then presented his chum. Mr. Dunstan shook hands with both very cordially, although he was not able to conceal entirely his astonishment at their youthfulness.