“Absolutely! But that is four miles from Blake’s Point. Four miles of raging black waters. And Lake Superior never gives up her dead. No. No, son. You’ll be staying here a spell yet. And why not? Really you should see a little of Rock Harbor while you’re here. That’s what they say in summer.” He laughed. “Why not now?”
Red was to see something of Rock Harbor indeed. Pictures of this unusual little corner of the world were to hang for many a day on the walls of his memory. Some of these he would cherish, and some he would be glad to forget.
* * * * * * * *
Next morning, in the distant city, there was a council of war. Drew Lane, Tom Howe and Johnny Thompson sat around Drew’s desk. Coffee had been sent up in a tin pail. They were imbibing freely as they talked.
“The police drag-net caught never a thing,” Drew announced. “They’ve vanished, all that gang belonging to the fiery-eyed fellow, the big man and his son, the three just alike, and the two others. And that,” he sighed, “leaves us just where we were. We have the gun that was fired at you, Tom, but we haven’t the man. The Red Rover is still a captive. And why? Will you answer me that? Have the authorities over at Old Midway received demands for ransom money?”
“Not a scratch.” Tom’s brow wrinkled. “Had them on the wire half an hour ago. There’s another case up just now, too; just as strange in a way. Little lady named Berley Todd; old man Todd’s daughter, steel magnate, or something of the sort. Not a word from her either, though that’s not our problem. We’re out to find the Red Rover.”
“Yes, and that promises to be enough to keep us awake nights.
“Tom,” Drew’s tone changed, “did you ever hear of a pocket knife convicting a man?”
“Stabbing case?”
“No, whittling, just plain whittling.”