Could it be possible?
He drew a long, deep breath. A dreadful suspicion had entered his head. He tried to cast it off with scorn; but, somehow, the thought would not down. Were the boys testing his courage? Had they actually gone away with Victor on the motor yacht? Did the crowd wish to find out how he stood in relation to the “flopper” class? And yet it wasn’t like honest, straightforward Bob Somers to act in such a way.
The precious book of anatomy fell unheeded to the floor, as Tom restlessly paced up and down, while conflicting ideas chased each other swiftly through his brain.
“I don’t—can’t believe it,” he said, aloud. “Of course not! What a silly idiot I am. The crowd’ll be here soon. Mustn’t let ’em think they had me aeroplaning.” He smiled grimly as an idea struck him. “I’ll just sprint down to the wharf and settle it.”
So Tom, with unseemly haste, again dashed down-stairs, and did almost “sprint” through the streets in the direction of the river. It was quite a long distance, too, but probably few had ever covered it in so short a time.
The moment his eyes rested on the familiar pilings at which Captain Bunderley’s motor yacht was usually moored he stopped short and uttered a low whistle. His suspicions were not without foundation, after all.
The “Fearless” had gone.
Yes, the “Fearless” had gone! There could be no doubt about it. Tom Clifton felt a strange variety of emotions assail him. He eagerly scanned the river, half expecting to see the yacht somewhere on its surface. But his search was in vain.
“Well, well! Victor must have actually managed to pull off that trick,” he growled.
Smarting with indignation, the lad covered the space between him and the end of the wharf in record time.