“No, my boy. You stay where you are. I’ll be back before long. I can’t imagine what can be the matter; but whatever it is, I can take good care of myself.”
With these words Mr. Chadwick sprang to the platform of the gangway, and under the guidance of the two men he made his way up the steps. An instant later he was gone from view.
The boys exchanged glances.
“Well,” blurted out Tom, “if this doesn’t beat the band! These fellows waste powder enough for a Fourth of July celebration to summon aid, and when it comes they don’t appear to know whether they want it or not.”
“Looks mighty fishy,” admitted Jack. “I wish Dad had let me go with him. But see here, Tom, we’re forgetting all about our stowaway. Say, who are you, anyhow?” he demanded, turning to Dick Donovan and scrutinizing him sharply. Dick looked considerably abashed.
“I guess it’s up to me to make explanations,” he said. “My name is Dick Donovan. I’m a reporter. I was told to run down the ‘Mystery of the Skies’ or get fired. I sneaked into your shed when you went out to take a look at this yacht, and then when you came back unexpectedly while I was snapping your machine, I got rattled and hid under the seat. Wow! By the sky-scraping sultans of Syria, but you gave me a royal old scare!”
“That is nothing to what you are going to get if you write a line about all this in your paper,” snapped Tom. “What do you mean by playing the sneak about our work-shed and spying on us,—eh? What do you mean by it?”
He doubled up his fists threateningly; but Dick Donovan only smiled.
“Don’t get mad,” he said. “I’ll admit it wasn’t the right thing to do, and you chaps appear to be pretty white and I’m ashamed of myself for spotting you.”
“You ought to be,” growled Tom.