A Mystery Story for Boys

The
GALLOPING GHOST

By
ROY J. SNELL

The Reilly & Lee Co.
Chicago

COPYRIGHT 1933
BY
THE REILLY & LEE CO.
PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE [I Kidnaper’s Island] 11 [II Whispers in the Night] 22 [III “We Must Escape”] 30 [IV The Ghost Appears] 38 [V Red Wins to Lose] 49 [VI The Red Rover Gets the Breaks] 56 [VII A Journey in the Night] 67 [VIII “The Rat”] 78 [IX Red Goes Into Action] 89 [X The Invisible Footprint] 100 [XI Hotcakes at Dawn] 109 [XII Johnny Gets a “Jimmy”] 116 [XIII Light on the Water] 127 [XIV Drew Lane Steps Into Something] 137 [XV “Shootin’ Irons”] 146 [XVI The Branded Bullet] 156 [XVII Johnny’s Jimmy] 164 [XVIII Dreaming at Dawn] 173 [XIX Night on Isle Royale] 180 [XX Riding a Moose] 190 [XXI The Shoe] 200 [XXII On the “Sleeping Lion”] 207 [XXIII A Visit in the Night] 213 [XXIV Uncle Ned Does His Bit] 226 [XXV The Trail Leads North] 236 [XXVI Battle Over the Waves] 245 [XXVII A Haunted Bay] 255 [XXVIII The Light That Failed] 262 [XXIX Silent Night] 269 [XXX Hollow Chuckles] 276 [XXXI “Play by Play”] 289 [XXXII “70,000 Witnesses”] 296 [XXXIII The Flea Flicker] 309

THE GALLOPING GHOST

CHAPTER I
KIDNAPER’S ISLAND

Red Rodgers rolled half over, squirmed about, then sat up. For a long time he had felt the floor beneath him vibrate with the throb of powerful motors. His eardrums, beaten upon as they had been by the roar of those motors, now seemed incapable of registering sound.

Not the slightest murmur suggesting life reached his ears. “Not the rustle of a leaf, nor the lap of a tiny wave; not the whisper of a village child asleep,” he told himself. “Can I have gone stone deaf?” Cold perspiration started out upon the tip of his nose.

And then, piercing the silence like a siren’s scream in the night, came a wild, weird, mad, hilarious laugh.

Startled by this sudden shock of sound, he shuddered from head to foot. Then, at once, he felt better.

“At least I am not deaf.”

“That laugh,” he mused a moment later, “it was almost human, but not quite. What could it have been?”

To this question he could form no answer. The wild places, wilderness, forest, lakes, rivers, were sealed books to Red. He had lived his life in a city, lived strenuously and with a purpose.

“Some wild thing,” he murmured. “But where am I?” His brow wrinkled. “I’ve been kidnaped, dragged from my berth in a sleeping car, thrown into a speed boat, carried miles down a river, bundled into this airplane, whirled for hours through the air, and landed here. But where is here? And why am I here at all?”

“Hours,” he whispered slowly. A stray moonbeam lighted a spot on his knee. He placed his wrist there and read the dial of his watch.

“Yes, hours. It’s five after midnight. And to-morrow, hundreds of miles away, I was to have made at least two touchdowns. The crowd would expect at least one sixty-yard dash by the Red Rover.”

“The Red Rover.” That was the name the fans had given him. Well, the Red Rover would not run. He smiled grimly. But, after all, what did it matter? They were to play Woodville. What was Woodville? A weak team. Old Midway’s cubs could beat them. It was a midweek game, mainly for practice. He wasn’t needed for that. But Saturday’s game! Ah, well, that was another story.

“But kidnaped!” He brought himself up with a start. “I’ve been kidnaped! Dragged from my berth. Whirled all the way to some place where wild creatures laugh at midnight.”

Kidnaped. The whole affair seemed absurd to him. He had read of kidnapings. There had been many of late. It had always made his blood boil when some innocent child, some helpless woman had been carried away to a dismal hole and held for ransom. “Low-lived curs,” he had called the kidnapers.

“Ransom!” He laughed a low laugh. He was a college student, a football player for two months of the year, a night clerk in a hotel the rest of the year, an orphan boy working his way through the university. He thought there were three dollars in his pocket, but he could not be sure.

“Kidnaped! Must have got the wrong fellow this time. Tell ’em who I am, and they’ll turn me loose; hustle me back, like as not.”

He was wrong. They would neither turn him loose nor hustle him back.

“All right, Red. You can get out.” These words were spoken as the airplane door swung open.

“Red!” the boy thought with a start. “So they do know who I am. They did mean to get me. I wonder why!

“Whew!” he whistled as a cold breeze struck his cheek. “Cold up here.”

“Cold enough,” the other grumbled. “Come on, shake a leg! This boat swings about.”

“Boat.” It’s strange how a single word tells a long story. The whiff of cold air had told him that they had flown north. Now he knew that they had landed on water. But what water? And where?

“There you are.” A hand in the moonlight guided him to a seat in the stern of a small boat.

Red opened his eyes wide at the scene that lay before him, a broad, deep bay fringed by a black ribbon of spruce and balsam. The moonlight, forming a path of gold across the water, fell upon some dark object. As the oars of the boat creaked, the dark object made a splashing sound; it moved.

As if reading the boy’s thoughts, the oarsman ceased his labors to cast the circle of a powerful flashlight in the direction of the moving creature.

With a quick intake of breath Red stared enchanted; for there, not twenty yards away, standing at the end of the small island which he had reached at this moment, was a moose.

Nowhere in all his life had the boy beheld such complete majesty. Erect, silent, powerful, the monarch of the forest stood there defiant and unafraid.

“Where in all the earth could one find a spot such as this?” Red breathed to himself. “A spot so sheltered that even the shyest of the forest’s great ones shows no fear.”

He had expected the oarsman to drag a rifle from the prow and fire point-blank at this moose. Instead, he sat there for a second, his rough face disfigured by a semblance of a smile; then, pocketing his flashlight, he once again took up his oars.

For Red there was little enough time for thought. The boat swung about. Before them lay a point of land, perhaps the end of an island. At its extreme end was a little half-clearing where a score of girdled birches pointed their barren trunks, like dead fingers, toward the sky.

At the edge of this clearing was a small log cabin. From this a pale light gleamed. Toward this cabin the boat directed its course.

“‘This is the forest primeval.’” The words sprang unbidden to the boy’s lips. “‘The murmuring pines and the hemlocks, bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight, stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic, stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms.’

“And to-morrow was to have been—”

As he closed his eyes he saw what it was to have been: a wild, shouting throng; college songs, college yells, bands, waving banners. “Go, Midway! Go!” Two squads battling for victory. Wild scrambles. Futile dashes. And, with good fortune, a mad dash of fifty yards to triumphal victory.

“Life,” he whispered, “is strange.”

The boat bumped. A narrow landing lay beside him.

“We get off here.” There was something impersonal in the tone of this strange pilot of the night. “This’ll be home for you, son, for quite some considerable time.”

“I hope you’re wrong,” Red thought.

The room he entered a moment later was small and very narrow. In one corner was a cot, in another a table and chair. Across from the table was a curious affair of sheet iron that, he guessed, might be a stove. The place was agreeably warm. There must be a small fire. On the table a candle burned.

Turning about to seek for an explanation of all that had been happening and of his strange surroundings, he was not a little startled to find himself alone. The door had been silently closed behind him. And locked? Well, perhaps. What could it matter? He was, beyond doubt, surrounded by water, the merciless water of the north country—some north country in November; surrounded, too, by determined men, hostile men, perhaps, who had apparently ordained that his stay in the cabin should be a long one. Once again, as he dropped into the chair, there came to his mind that forceful interrogation:

“Why?”

As before, he could form no adequate answer.

His mind was busy with this problem when, with startling suddenness, his attention was caught and held by the low sound of voices.

“Have you signed?” It was a man who spoke. The voice was not gruff; a low, smooth, persuasive voice, too smooth, too persuasive.

Quite in contrast was the answer. Unmistakably feminine, it came sharp and crisp as the crash of icicles fallen from the eaves. “I will never sign.”

“But consider.” The man’s voice was not raised, still smooth, persuasive. “You are on an island.”

“An island. I thought so,” Red whispered to himself. “But who can this girl be?” That the one beyond the partition was a girl he did not doubt.

“I will never sign!” the girl broke in upon the other’s oily speech. “My father owes you nothing.”

“Consider,” the other persisted. “You are on a narrow island within a bay. The water of the bay is icy cold. You might swim it in safety, though I doubt it. Should you succeed, it would be but to find yourself upon a much larger island. That island is fifteen miles from the nearest mainland, a hundred from the farthest. Can you swim that, or row it even if you should find a boat? Ah, no. The waters of this great lake are terrible in their fury. And Superior never gives up her dead.”

There was something so sepulchral about these last words that the listening boy shuddered in spite of himself.

“On such an island there are people.” The girl’s tone was stubborn, defiant.

“There is no one.” The tone of the speaker carried conviction. “In summer, yes. In winter, no. We are here alone.”

“Then,” said the girl, “I shall stay here until summer comes. Winter will soon be here. And ‘if winter comes,’” she quoted, “‘can spring be far behind?’”

“Very far.”

There was a quiet cadence in the speaker’s tone that sent chills coursing up Red Rodger’s spine. At the same time he hardly suppressed a desire to shout: “Bravo!” to the girl.

The closing of a door some seconds later told him that this was a cabin of at least two rooms and, strangely enough, between these rooms was no connecting door.

CHAPTER II
WHISPERS IN THE NIGHT

As Red Rodgers stretched his feet out before the tiny stove in his narrow room, his brow wrinkled. Here was a situation for you! A football game to be played to-morrow four or five hundred miles away. He laughed a silent, mirthless laugh.

“Football,” he whispered. He was surprised to find within his being a certain feeling of relief. He relaxed to the very tips of his toes. “Football.” He had seen a lot of it. Too much. This was his first year on the varsity. Almost without willing it, or even realizing it, he had become the central attraction of his team. He was the hub about which the offense circled. His had been the power and the glory, the power to dash and beat, weave and wind his way to many a touchdown, the glory of the victor.

“The power and the glory.” Little enough Red cared for glory. But power? Ah, yes! All his life he had striven for power, physical power for the most part. But he meant in the end to go forward, to succeed in life.

Born and raised in a city of mills, he had, from the age of fourteen, played his little part in the making of steel. For three summers and at every other available hour he had toiled at steel. Bare to the waist, brown, heat-burned, perspiring, he had dragged at long bars, raking away at steel bars, but recently formed by rushing, crashing rollers, that were still smoking hot. Other hours he had spent on the gridiron. The one helped the other. Struggling with steel, he had become like steel himself, hard, elastic, resisting. As he went down the field men were repelled from his Robot-like body as they might had he been a thing of white-hot metal.

And then had come his great opportunity. A quiet, solidly built man, with wrinkled face, bright eyes and tangled hair, had watched his high school football exploits from the sidelines. From time to time he had beckoned and had whispered: “Hold the ball closer to your body. Lean. Lean far over. Don’t run for the sidelines. Break your way through.”

There had been an air of authority and knowledge not to be questioned about this old man. Red had listened and had tried to follow the other’s teaching.

Then, one day during his senior year at Central High the old man had touched him on the arm and had pronounced magical words:

“The university will need you.”

Red had thrilled at these words. He knew now, on the instant, that this was the “Grand Old Man” of football, the fairest, squarest coach that ever lived.

It had been good to know that the university would need him, for long ago he had learned that in his upward climb he would need the university. The university had found him. He had found the university. In his freshman year, a cub, there had been bitter days and hours of triumph. But why think of all that?

With a restless motion he rose, took three steps, the extent of his cabin, retraced them and sat down. “Like a beast in a cage!” he muttered low. “I’ll not stand it!”

He thought soberly: “No, this is not to be endured. Better the hard grind of football.”

But this girl in that other log-walled prison cell? His mind did a sudden flip-flop.

“She’s rich,” he mused. “At least her father is. That crook said he was. She did not deny it.” Red did not approve of rich people. They had too much, others too little. He thought still less of their children. It mattered little to him that the sons and daughters of certain rich men had endeavored to make friends with him since his success at football. He could not understand them, was puzzled by their ways, and wished quite sincerely that they would leave him alone.

“Soft,” he had said to his roommate, “that’s what they are. No experiences worth having.”

“But this girl over there beyond the log wall,” he said to himself now, “she’s different. Got spunk. Stands up and defies them, she does, when she knows they are beasts, as all kidnapers are. Tells ’em she’ll freeze here all winter rather than do the thing they want her to do. Nerve, that’s what!”

He was conscious of an invisible bond that bound his life to that of the girl. “In the end we may fight it out together.”

The hour was late. Once again the drowsy warmth of this narrow cell settled down upon him.

“Football,” he mused. “A tough business. Thousands screaming their lungs out, ten, twenty, thirty, forty thousand people losing their heads while you must keep yours. Wish this were the end, wish it were all over. Wish—”

Once again, in the twinkling of an eye, his mood changed.

“For all that,” he muttered beneath his breath, “I’ve got to get away!” Leaping to his feet, he stood there, hard, straight, square, with purpose written in every line of his well formed body. “To-morrow’s game, that is nothing. But Saturday’s game, that is everything. It is the end. Final, that’s what it is. Defeat or victory, that’s what it means. The championship or nothing. And Prang, the Grand Old Man, says it depends on us!

“That means me!” There came a stoop to his shoulders as if a load had fallen upon them. “For the Grand Old Man, for the school that gave me a chance, for my mother, for clean sport all over the world, I must escape. I must play. I must win. I must! Must! Must!”

Yet, even as these words formed themselves into thought he seemed to hear others. “On a narrow island within a bay. Icy water. Another larger island. Fifteen, seventy-five, a hundred miles from shore. Superior never gives up her dead.” Of a sudden the boy cursed the school days when he had neglected his study of geography. He saw it all now. Geography was travel. And how could one find travel dull?

“But travel!” Again that silent, mirthless laugh. “Who expects to travel as I have?”

His thoughts were not finished. From somewhere had come a long, low, hissing sound. It was followed by a whisper:

“Over here! Come close to the wall.”

“Must be that girl.” His heart skipped a beat.

“What did they take you for?” the whisper demanded.

“I—I don’t know.”

“Don’t know?”

“Fact.”

After that a great silence settled over the place. This Red could not understand. Why had she started the conversation if she did not expect to finish it?

“Oh, well,” he told himself at last, “girls are queer anyway.” He settled back comfortably in his place.

Truth was, the girl suspected him of being a decoy placed there by the kidnapers. In the end she came to see that she had little to lose if she confided in a decoy.

Again came her long-drawn signal, demanding attention. And after that:

“Don’t you want to escape?”

“Never wanted anything half so much in my life!” Then in a sudden burst of confidence he told her of the game that was to be on Saturday, of the veteran coach’s fatherly interest in his career, of his hopes, his fears, his secret ambitions. All this he poured into a not unwilling ear. Only he did not tell her he was the far-famed “Red Rover.” This he reserved for the future.

“Good!” the girl exclaimed, still in a whisper. “Then our purposes are one. We must join hands. Put her there! Shake on it!”

This, considering that a log wall eight inches thick lay between them, was of course impossible. But they pledged themselves in pantomime.

CHAPTER III
“WE MUST ESCAPE”

“We must find some way of escape.”

The girl’s tone, low, mellow, earnest, was scarcely more than a whisper.

“But we are upon an island within an island. Or did that man lie to you?”

“He did not lie.”

“What then?”

“We can do but one thing at a time. We must escape. And after that—” She did not finish.

The boy found it difficult, this discussing plans with one he could not see, had never seen.

“I could soon cut a small hole between two logs,” he told himself.

He thought of suggesting this, but considered it better to wait.

He set about planning their escape methodically. The staple that held the padlock to his door was large. It was clinched on the inside. By working first with a nail pulled out of the wall, then a bit of wire, he managed to straighten these points. Then, little by little, without sound, he pushed the staple back until only the points showed.

“Two or three good yanks and the door will fly open,” he confided to the girl.

“But mine? How are we to manage it?”

Red pondered this problem. He could, he told himself, pass his crude instruments through to her. But were her fingers strong enough for the task? He doubted this.

He studied the wall that lay between them. He was at a loss to account for this wall, which had, from all appearances, stood there for some years. Then it occurred to him that a trapper had built the cabin, using one room for himself, the other for his dogs. Campers of a later date had doubtless cleared up the dogs’ kennel and made a bunk room of it without removing the partition.

“But this partition,” he whispered excitedly, “is not notched into the cabin wall. The logs were merely laid up, one upon another, then a white birch pole spiked in each corner to hold them into position. Once the poles are removed, the logs may be taken down.”

“And then?” the girl breathed.

“Your room will be mine and mine yours.”

“Until they discover.”

“They will not discover. We will not remove the logs until the hour set for our escape. When they discover the cage door open, the birds will have flown.”

It was with strangely mixed feelings that Red began the task of removing the white birch poles which held the logs in place. Until that moment the girl had seemed quite remote, one living in another world, a rich man’s daughter. But as the last spike yielded and the last pole stood leaning lightly in its place, as he realized that the logs that lay between them could be removed as easily as stones are piled or grain shocked, he became conscious of a new sort of comradeship such as he had experienced with none other.

“We are in for it,” he breathed, “for better or for worse.”

“For better or for worse,” came the girl’s faint answer. “And, oh, I’m sure it is for better than we dare dream.”

“Only one thing could be truly good: to get back to Soldiers’ Field on time.” Red thought this, but he did not say it.

With the preparations all made there remained but to wait. To one of Red’s nature, this was hardest of all. He was ever for action.

“But we must wait,” he said to the log wall before him, in tones loud enough for the girl’s ears. “The guard will be on the alert early in the night. Later he will relax his vigil.”

“Yes, yes. We must wait!” came from the other side of the wall.

“I’m putting out my light, retiring for the night.” These words, ending in a subdued laugh, came from behind the wall half an hour later, telling Red that for the eyes of the guard she had retired for the night.

“Retired for the night,” Red thought soberly. “Wonder when we will retire, and where?”

As he thought of the cold black waters of this inland bay, a mental picture of his own form, lying ten fathoms deep where the fishes play, came to him. He saw his hands waved about by the currents. Then with a shudder he shook himself free from the illusion.

Fifteen minutes later he too “retired for the night.” After that, with the cabin shrouded in darkness, he sat and listened to the sounds of the night.

Curious sounds they were to one who knew nothing of wild life; the shrill, long-drawn whistle of some bird calling to his mate; the throaty call of a bull moose from down the bay, and that piercing scream of the loon, never failing to set his blood running cold.

He thought he caught the sound of footsteps. The guard! What if he appeared and discovered all that had been done? He listened long for a rattle at the lock, but none came.

At last, standing erect, he stretched himself like a cat, then said in a hoarse whisper:

“I’m taking down the wall.”

In absolute silence he lifted the birch poles from their places. He put a hand to the topmost log. It did not yield to his pull.

“Spiked on the other side.”

He tried the second one.

“Ah!”

It came away. Without a sound he placed it at his feet. A second, a third, fourth, fifth. Still no sound.

An opening three feet wide now lay before him. He put out a hand. It touched some one. Groping about, he found the girl’s hand, then guided her through the opening.

“It is strange,” he thought. “I have never seen this person. Is she dark or fair, beautiful or ugly?”

One or two things he could know. She was short and rather plump. Her muscles were hard. He was surprised at this. He had supposed that rich men’s daughters were always soft and white.

He drew the girl to a place on the bench beside him. She was trembling. As her shoulder pressed against his, he felt the wild beating of her heart. This would never do. She must be calm.

As for his own feelings, he had gone cold all over, just as he had at the beginning of every gridiron battle.

“Warm enough when time comes for action,” he told himself. It had always been that way.

The time for action had not yet come. They continued to listen there in the dark; a boy and a girl; the girl kidnaped for ransom which she refused to assist in collecting, the boy carried away and held for he knew not what.

The ticking of their watches sounded loud in this lonely place. Water lapped on the shore. From time to time there came a low bump-bump.

“Rowboat tied to the dock,” Red whispered to the girl. “Wonder if we could get it?”

She made no reply.

From somewhere back in the forest a hoot owl began his silly noise. Red did not know what it was. He asked the girl about it. She explained briefly.

“Hope he keeps it up,” he sighed. “Cover up any little nasty sounds we may stir up.”

“Will there be noises?” The girl seemed to shrink. Then suddenly her form stiffened. “Count me in on—on anything. They are dirty dogs, these kidnapers; deserve the worst!”

“Yes, the very worst!” Red agreed.

He felt loath to leave this place of warmth and momentary peace. There was something altogether agreeable about being so near to this girl he had never seen. “Well, the zero hour approaches.”

“Yes.” She sprang to her feet. “Let’s make it now!”

“Now it is.”

He rose to stand beside her. So for one full moment, side by side in the dark, they stood.

At last, with a long-drawn sigh, he seized her hand to lead her out into the night.

CHAPTER IV
THE GHOST APPEARS

The mysterious disappearance of Red Rodgers, or the Red Rover, as every one knew him, caused a great commotion. Had a President been assassinated it could not have caused a greater stir.

Not an hour had passed after he vanished before the newspapers came out with an extra with a story telling in detail all that was known about the affair.

“Red Rover,” the story ran, “has never cared for crowds. Being the star of the team, he has often of late been all but mobbed by impetuous youths, foolish old women and infatuated girls. For this reason he had formed a friendship with the watchman at the tracks by the river where the trains are made up. To-night, once safely past this watchman, he went directly to his berth and turned in for the night.

“It is to be assumed that he fell asleep at once, for, though the watchman was not two hundred yards away, he heard no outcry such as might be expected had the boy been surprised while asleep and gagged before fully awake.

“There are few clues,” the story went on to state. “In their haste the kidnapers dragged a pillow from the berth. It was this pillow, standing out white in the moonlight, that attracted the watchman’s attention. The watchman distinctly recalls hearing the sudden whir and thunder of a powerful motor shortly before making this discovery. He believes this to have been the motor of a speed boat, and has the impression that it went south.

“Various motives have been brought forward. The Rover, some say, was kidnaped for ransom. He is the all-important factor in the game to be played at the end of the week. Without him Old Midway cannot hope to win. For this reason the kidnapers may have believed that a sum might be extorted from officials of the university for his return. Knowing the stand that President Lovell of Old Midway has taken against kidnapers, and the work the Crime Institute of that university has done in this connection, it is the opinion of those close to the president that no ransom will be paid.

“We have before us the question: Was the Red Rover kidnaped for ransom or as a retaliation for work against master criminals carried on by the university? There are those who will whisper that the school against whom the Red Rover was to have played is behind this affair. This, to any fair-minded person, is unthinkable.

“Sergeants Drew Lane and Tom Howe, two of the keenest young minds of the city’s detective force, have been assigned to the case. It is the hope of the entire city that their labors will bear fruit and that the Red Rover’s beloved sorrel top will be seen in the line when the line-up is formed for the greatest game of the year.”

An hour had not passed after the discovery of the crime, when the broad-shouldered, athletic Drew Lane, with derby pushed well back on his head, stood beside his slim, hawk-nosed partner overlooking the car yards at the spot where the Red Rover had vanished.

“Let’s have a look inside the car,” suggested Howe.

“You look.” Drew Lane turned toward the river. “If a speed boat left the river near this spot, there’ll be marks to show. May get a sure tip showing the direction she was headed. That’s important.”

Sergeant Howe swung up to the platform of the car, then slipped quietly inside. The place seemed deserted. A double row of curtains, one on either side, flanked the narrow, dimly lighted aisle.

“Ready for the night. All the other players get on at the depot, I suppose,” Howe mumbled in a low monotone.

He paused to look and listen. He had always found a sleeping car, made up for the night, a spooky affair. Dim lights, silence, long rows of curtains. And behind the curtains, what? Death? Perhaps. Men have died of heart disease in their berths. Died of a knife in the heart as well.

“Capital place for a murder.”

Involuntarily he looked behind him. Had he caught the sound of light footsteps?

There was no one in sight. “Boo! Who’d bother to bump off a city detective!” He laughed a low, unpleasant laugh. “We’re supposed to be too dumb to do anything disturbing to criminals.

“All the same!” He straightened up with a snap. “This is a case where we must win. We simply must! The Red Rover must be in the line-up when the big day comes. And it’s up to Drew and me!” Howe was a loyal son of Old Midway. Loyalty to his Alma Mater compelled him to do his best. More than that, Red Rodgers was the type he admired, a silent worker.

“He works,” Drew Lane had said once, with a note of admiration in his voice. “He’s like you, Howe. He digs in and says never a word.”

“Digs in,” Howe muttered. “That’s what we must do; dig in hard.”

With that he went gliding down the aisle to pause before Section Nine.

“Ah!” he breathed as he parted the curtains. “Seems I am in time. Nothing disturbed.”

His keen, hawk-like eyes took in all at a glance. The hammock, where clothing was deposited for the night, was gone.

“Just yanked it down and took it, clothes and all. You might think from that that Red had something they wanted in his clothes. Guess not, though.”

His eyes wandered from corner to corner of the narrow space. “Covers gone. Wrapped him in them and tied him up. Need to do that. Scrapper, Red is. Take six of those soft, beer-soaked bums to hold him if he had an even break. You—”

He broke off to stare at the center of the lower sheet which still remained on the bed. At its very center was a deep dent.

“Stepped there,” he told himself, “one of ’em.”

Switching on his flashlight, he examined the sheet in minute detail.

“Not a mark,” he muttered. “Take it along all the same.”

“You all goin’ t’ take that sheet?” The porter was at his elbow.

“Sure am.” Howe showed his star.

“All right, Mister Police. Ah cain’t stop you. But t’ain’t no sort of use. Ain’t no marks on that sheet. I examined it particular.”

“Were you here when the thing happened?” Howe’s eagle eyes snapped.

“No. Oh, no, suh! Ah don’t come on ’fore half a hour ago.”

“But you weren’t far away,” Howe thought to himself. “Hiding in the linen closet, like as not. Bribed you, maybe. Wonder how much it would cost to buy a porter?”

“What’s your number?” he demanded sharply.

“Three twenty-seven.” The porter’s wide eyes rolled. “But hones’, Mister Policeman, I don’ know nothin’, nothin’ at all! But you take that sheet, just take it right square along.”

“Did you find something, Sergeant?” a fresh voice broke in.

“Just a sheet that had been stepped on.” Howe looked into the frank, fearless eyes of a boy. It was Johnny Thompson. You know Johnny.

“Gee!” Howe muttered. “I’m glad to see you! Are you in this with us?”

“All my heart and hand!” The hand Johnny gave to Howe was as hard as a rock. “This will be a night and day affair. I’m glad. That’s the sort I like.”

“Day and night and all the time,” Howe answered. “But let’s get out of here. The section is due to move, and I’ve finished. Drew’s scouting around down by the river.”

Thus, while the forces that make for evil had been whirling Red Rodgers northward, the forces that make for good, like faithful watch dogs, were assembling, making ready to take up the trail, heedless of the perils that most certainly lurked beside the way.

The pair had just alighted from the car when of a sudden a startling figure appeared before them. Rounding the end of the car it started toward them—a skeleton with bones bleached white, a white robe flowing behind it! This was the form that in the dim light of the car-yard approached them.

With an involuntary exclamation Johnny started back. Not Tom Howe. With the spring of a panther he was upon the creature. Next instant he was sprawling upon the ground. He had received such a blow on the head as put him out for the count of ten. Then, with a laugh as hollow as a voice from a graveyard at midnight, the skeleton set off at a long striding gallop. He was lost from sight before Johnny could recover from his surprise or Tom Howe could scramble to his feet.

“A—a galloping ghost!” Johnny exclaimed, as he bent over his companion. “Are you hurt?”

“No—not much.” Howe was coming round. “Hardly at all. But, man! Oh, man! What hard knuckles that ghost has!”

“What’s this? A ghost?” Once more a new voice broke in upon them.

Johnny looked up, then scowled. He had recognized the voice of a reporter from the city’s pink journal. He hated the paper and disliked this reporter. But when one speaks of a ghost he needs must explain.

Explain he did, and that with the least possible number of words.

“A ghost! A galloping ghost on the scene of a kidnaping that is sure to cause a nation-wide search! What a scoop!” The reporter was away even before Johnny had completed his meager description.

“A galloping ghost.” Johnny pronounced the words slowly as Howe, now quite recovered, stood up beside him, then scowled. “What do you make of that?”

“Not a thing,” Howe answered bluntly. “But, after all, the real question is, is this ghost for us or against us?”

“Do ghosts always take sides?”

“Oh, inevitably!” Howe laughed a short cackling laugh that went far toward relieving the tension of the moment.

“Come!” he said. “Let’s see what Drew has been doing. He—

“Watch out! Duck!” Seizing Johnny’s arm with a vice-like grip, he dragged him down.

Not an instant too soon. There came the crack of a pistol, followed by the dull thwack of a bullet against the side of the car just over their heads. And after that a cold, dead silence.

CHAPTER V
RED WINS TO LOSE

Drew Lane, Tom Howe’s team mate, had not seen the Galloping Ghost. In truth it was some distance from the sleeping car to the river bank. After picking his way across the tracks, flashing his light this way and that in search of clues—some article dropped in hasty flight, a broken match, a cigaret thrown away—he came at last to a narrow stretch of rock-strewn, cinder-embedded ground.

Here his mood changed. Snapping off his light, he thrust one hand deep in his coat pocket and sauntered forward like some college youth taking the air.

This was Drew Lane’s favorite pose. With his faultless derby, his spotless suit of sea-green and his natty tie, he carried it off well. Many a tough egg had called him a “fresh college kid,” only to find himself the next moment lying on the sidewalk feeling of a lump on his jaw caused only by Drew’s capable fist.

That fist at this moment was curled around a nasty looking thing of blue steel. At a second’s notice Drew could set that blue steel pal of his spouting fire, right through his pocket. And his aim, while indulging in this type of shooting, was the despair of all evil doers.

Drew was approaching what appeared to be a dangerous spot. In the half darkness before him a great steam shovel mounted on a dredge stood with crane outstretched like some fabled bird ready to bend down and pluck his lifeless body from the river. Plenty there were, too, who would have witnessed the act with a grunt of satisfaction.

As he approached the dredge a small craft, moored ahead of the dredge and smelling strongly of fish, gave forth a hollow bump-bump.

Fearlessly the young detective hopped aboard this fishing schooner. For a moment his light flashed here and there.

“No one,” he muttered.

Hopping ashore, he made his way to the scow supporting the dredge. Having reached it, he dropped on hands and knees, to creep its entire length. From time to time, with the aid of his flashlight, he examined several posts and the outer surface of the scow. When at last he stood once more upon his feet it was with a grunt of satisfaction.

“Went south,” he muttered. “Speed boat, all right. Wonder how far? Go up the river in the morning. Find out—”

His thoughts were broken short off by the bark of an automatic. One shot, that was all; then silence.

With the spring of a panther Drew was off the barge, across the narrow open space and lost in the labyrinth of sleeping cars.

In an astonishingly short time he was close to the scene of the mysterious kidnaping.

“Tom! Tom Howe!” he called softly. “Are you there?”

There came no answer. Only from the river came the hollow bump-bump of the fishing schooner. “Tom! Tom Howe!” he called. Still no answer.

Then, without warning, the car before him began to move. For lack of a better thing to do, he hopped aboard and went rattling away into the city’s great depot.

* * * * * * * *

It was during this same night, at a somewhat later hour, that Red Rodgers and the mysterious girl stood in the obscurity of the cabin doorway. Breathing hard and peering out into the night, they were poised as if for flight.

The slight hold of the lock had been broken. They were free to go. But which way? They were on an island. How long was this island? How large was the island? What was its nature? Was it all tangled forest? Were there trails, clearings, deserted cabins? To these questions Red could form no answers.

“We’d better have a try for their boat,” he whispered.

In answer the girl pressed his arm.

Then together they stole out in the night. The shadow of a giant spruce tree swallowed them up.

After that, to an impersonal observer there might have appeared a gliding bit of darkness from time to time, followed by two black figures leaping at one another by the foot of the small dock.

The action of the figures increased in its intensity, yet there was no sound. They writhed and twisted. One went down upon a knee, but was up again on the instant. They went over in a heap to roll upon the ground. They tumbled about until they reached the dock and all but tumbled into the icy water.

Then, as suddenly as it began, the struggle ceased.

For ten brief seconds one figure sat upon his opponent. Then he beckoned. A third figure appeared. Groping about the dock, this figure at last seized upon some object that cast little shadow. This it handed to the crouching figure.

Some seconds of suspense, and at last two figures, one tall, one short, stood side by side looking at the water and the dock.

As they stood there, some trick of the moonlight and shadows made their two forms appear to melt into one; and that form presented a spectacle of abject despair. Thirty seconds this pose was held. Then the shadow appeared to explode and two figures melted into the shadows to the right.

What had happened? Red Rodgers had fought a battle and won, only to find that he had in reality lost. While groping his way toward the dock he had been detected and pounced upon by the kidnapers’ guard.

From earliest childhood Red had been prepared. A boy, reared among the tough fists of a steel town school, must be. When, in his teens, he had wrestled with red hot steel, this instinct for absolute preparedness had been intensified. Football had added to this training. When one considers that he was as quick as a panther, as strong as a lion and as cool-headed as a prize fighter, one must know that the flabby guard stood little chance. Instantly Red’s arm was about his neck in a clinch that prevented the least outcry.

The outcome of the battle you already know; but not quite. When the boy had conquered his opponent, when he had bound and gagged him, he went to look for the rowboat. Then it was that his lips formed a single word:

“Gone!”

And the girl, who in the moonlight seemed pitifully small, echoed:

“Gone!”

Where was this boat? Had it drifted away? Or had a second kidnaper rowed away to a second island, lying a stone’s throw away, for help?

No answer could be found. One thing remained to be done: to vanish into the night. This the strange pair lost no time in doing.

CHAPTER VI
THE RED ROVER GETS THE BREAKS

Drew Lane entered his room at three o’clock that morning. He and Tom Howe occupied a room together in the Hotel Starling. It was a very large place. Their room was on the top floor.

Throwing his coat over a chair he sank into a place by a table in the corner and allowing his head to drop on his arm tried to collect his thoughts. He had been following clues. A reporter from the News had given him a “hot tip” that grew cold almost at once. Casey from the State Street Police Station had given him another. It had led to nothing. After that he had begun setting traps. Calling in three trusted stool-pigeons, he had laid out their tasks for them. Having consulted his chief, he had begun laying plans for raiding all known hang-outs for kidnaping gangs. After that he had picked up a copy of the city’s pink sheet and had read in glaring headlines:

GHOST NO LONGER WALKS. HE GALLOPS.

He had read with some surprise the story of the Galloping Ghost.

“Rotten bit of sensation,” he muttered. “I saw no ghost. Don’t believe Howe did either. But that shot? Who fired it?”

He glanced at Howe’s bed in the corner. Howe lay across it fully clad, sound asleep.

“Like to ask him,” Drew muttered. “Like—”

He made a sudden move with his arm. Some unusually hard object rested beneath it.

To his surprise he found on the table a coarse brown envelope. On the face of it was scrawled:

Sergeants Lane and Howe.

Turning it over, he dumped its contents upon the table. A handful of shavings and one very misshapen bullet, that was all; or so he thought until he thrust in a hand and drew forth a much crumpled bit of paper.

With a quick intake of breath, he flattened the paper on the table.

Words were scrawled across the page. The writing was very bad, as if a right-handed man had undertaken to write with his left hand. In time he made out the message.

Here are some important clues. Guard them with care. When raids are made you will collect firearms. Collect pocket knives as well. You will hear from me later.

“The G.G.”

“Some crank,” Drew muttered.

Then a thought struck him all of a heap. How had the message gotten into their room?

“Howe brought it.

“No. That is impossible. Had he read that note he would have folded it neatly. That’s Howe every time.”

Well, here was fresh mystery. And what of these clues? A bullet. That was always important. But where had it been found? He examined it closely. “Wood sticking to it,” he muttered. “Been dug out.”

But what of the shavings? These too he examined. After studying them carefully he was convinced that some one, while waiting for a second person perhaps, had occupied his time whittling a bit of soft wood he had picked up.

“The world is strewn with such piles made by whittle-bugs,” he told himself. He was tempted to toss them into the waste paper basket. Instead he slid them back into the envelope.

After that he read the note through again. “Collect pocket knives.” His voice took on a note of disgust. “What could be the good of that?”

“‘You will hear from me again.’ Well, here’s hoping.”

He threw the envelope to a back corner of the table. But startling revelations would drag it again to the light.

“Collect pocket knives.” Down deep in his heart he knew that he would start this collection to-morrow. He hated doing silly things. But more than this he dreaded making fatal blunders. “A clue is a clue,” he had said many times, “be it faint as a moon at midday.”

* * * * * * * *

The battle Red Rodgers waged after leaving the cabin at the edge of the narrow clearing on that mysterious island was something quite outside his past experience. True, he was not unacquainted with struggle and peril. More than once in the vast steel mill he had watched hot sheet steel, caught by a defective roller, curl itself into a serpent of fire, and had dodged in the nick of time. On the gridiron, with mad crowds screaming, with forms leaping at him from right and left, he had over and over battled his way to victory.

Now he faced neither man-made steel nor man himself, but nature. Before him in the dark lay a primeval wilderness; a small wilderness, to be sure, but a real one for all that. Here, on a rocky ridge scarcely one hundred yards wide, for ages without number trees had fought a battle to the death.

He had not gone a dozen paces when he tripped and fell.

He felt ashamed that the girl must put out a slender hand to guide him. “I—I’ve never been in a forest,” he half apologized.

“Not even by day?” The girl’s awed whisper showed her astonishment. Her next remark gave him a shock. “Then you have never truly lived.”

Gladly would he have argued this point. But this was no time for mere talk. It was a time for action. They were on an island within a bay. The bay reached far, to a larger island. The larger island was far from the mainland. If the kidnaper’s statement was to be accepted, there were no people on this larger island save the kidnapers themselves.

“I wonder if there are other cabins on this island?” He whispered this more to himself than to the girl. She answered nevertheless.

“There are none. We must get away as far as we can. To the far end of the island. Then we must think what is to be done next. Come, we must go. Follow close behind me.”

For a full half hour after that they waged a silent battle with nature. Over fallen trees that now tore at them with their tangled branches and now sank treacherously beneath their feet, around rocky ridges that offered dangerous descents into tiny valleys so dark that one might not see his hand before him, they struggled on until with a sigh the girl whispered:

“A trail.”

Too engrossed was Red in the unaccustomed struggle to ask: “What has made this trail?”

He was soon enough to know. In his pocket he carried a small flashlight. Judging that they were now far enough from the cabin to use this, he pressed the button, then cast the light down the trail.

Instantly he sprang back. The light was reflected by a pair of large and burning eyes.

A confused impression of brown hair, of antlers like spiked slabs of wood, and those burning eyes held him rooted to the spot until the girl’s hand at his elbow guided him off the trail and into the broad-spreading branches of a fir tree. There, after a false step, he tumbled into the fragrant boughs.

Without willing it, he drew the girl after him. After that, for a full moment he remained half reclining, feeling the wild beating of the girl’s heart and listening for he scarcely knew what.

When he heard the sound he recognized it; a slow, soft-padded plump-plump, and he was relieved.

“The thing we have met on the trail,” he told himself, “was not a horned demon, but a giant moose.” That he had been utterly at a loss, and that the girl had directed their course in a safe and sensible manner, he also recognized.

After listening to the padded footsteps until they faded out into the silence of the night, he assisted the girl to her feet and whispered:

“You are not a real person. You come from a book. Your name is Alice, and we are having adventures in Wonderland.”

“I am real enough.” She laughed a low laugh. “My name is not Alice, but Berley Todd. I am five feet tall and I weigh ninety pounds. My favorite dish is blueberries with ice cream on top.” She laughed again.

“And that moose, I suppose, was quite an old friend.”

“I suppose not. But a moose will not harm you if you give him the right of way, which I suppose is fair enough since this is his forest.

“But come. We must be near the end of the island.”

Red did not ask, “How do you know this?” He merely followed on.

Scarcely a moment had passed when they came out upon a pebbly shore. And there, as he flashed his light about, he discovered a nondescript raft of spruce logs. Dragged half way up on the shore, it seemed for all its crudeness to be a rather substantial affair.

“I suppose,” he said in a low tone, “that this entire affair has been arranged. You knew the raft was here.”

Becoming suspicious, he flashed his light into a pair of very innocent-appearing blue eyes. “I suppose,” he said slowly, “you know why I have been carried away.”

“Don’t you?” The eyes opened wide.

“As I live, no.”

“Then you’ll have to ask some one else. It’s plain enough why they took me. Want my dad’s money. Expect my help in getting it. They’ll have no help from me!

“And now, Mister Man-who-don’t-know-why-he’s-here, let’s thank kind Providence for this raft which some summer fisherman left here, and shove off. Looks like we might go across with nothing more than wet feet. What luck!”

“And what do you think is on the other shore?”

“Cabins. Cabins and cottages, fireplaces, blankets, easy chairs, and things to eat; not so near, but not so far away, either.”

Red stared at her in silence. Did this girl speak from knowledge of the island, or was she romancing, bolstering up courage with dreams that might prove false?

He dared not ask. Putting his stout shoulders to work at shoving off the raft, he had it afloat at once. Then, after selecting a stout spruce pole and assisting the girl to a place beside him, he shoved away toward that other shore that, looming dark and distant, seemed to beckon and to whisper of “cabins and fireplaces, blankets, easy chairs, and things to eat.”

“Well,” he sighed, “thus far we get the breaks.”

CHAPTER VII
A JOURNEY IN THE NIGHT

While Drew Lane sat meditating on the various aspects of the kidnaping, Tom Howe groaned and sat up.

“Drew,” he drawled, rubbing his head, “I’ve been felled by a ghost, a galloping ghost.”

“You don’t mean to say you believe that stuff!” Drew held up the pink sheet.

“I believe,” said Howe with a wry grin, “that I have a large lump on the top of my head and that it’s sore. I believe it was put there by a thing that looked like a ghost. That’s all I have to say about that.”

“Well, then, what have you to say about this?” Drew held up the envelope containing the shavings and bullet.

“What is it?”

Drew showed him the contents and read the note.

“Curious sort of writing,” he ended. “And look how he signed it: ‘The G.G.’”

“That,” drawled Howe, “could stand for ‘The Galloping Ghost.’”

“It must!” Drew struck the table with his fist. “But why all the secrecy?”

“That,” Howe replied thoughtfully, “will probably come out later. The only question that matters seems to be: Is this ghost with us or against us?”

“With us. Can’t be any doubt about that.”

“Then we’d better follow his suggestions.”

“Collect pocket knives?”

“Why not? Interesting collection. What sort of knives do crooks carry? Bet you can’t tell. Well, now we’ll know.”

“Guess you’re right. But say!” Drew exclaimed. “What did you get from the car, the one the Red Rover was snatched from?”

“A bed sheet.” Howe held it up.

“Marked?”

“Not a mark.”

“Then what—?” Drew stared at his partner.

“Some one had stepped on the bed, probably with his shoe on. I thought I’d try the ultra-violet ray on it. Surprising what it brings out sometimes.”

“Probably worth a try.” Drew was not enthusiastic. Howe had gone in for scientific crime detection lately. Drew was still for going out and getting his man.

“Howe,” he demanded after a moment of silence, “who fired that shot back there in the train yards?”

“You answer that. A hand was all I saw, a hand thrust out from behind a car. Fired point-blank at me. And missed.”

“This may be the bullet,” Drew mused, weighing the battered bullet from the mystery envelope in his hand.

“It might be. Don’t seem likely, though. That bullet struck the side of a steel car.”

“Might have glanced. Mighty fine evidence. Find the gun that fired this bullet and you’ve got the man. Gun scratches the bullet as no other gun would. Microscope brings out that, doesn’t it?”

“Sure does. You find the man and his gun. I’ll do the rest.” Howe gave vent to a low chuckle. “Nothing would please me more! Not a nice thing, this being shot at.”

“Kidnapers are not nice people.” Drew’s tone changed. “Fact is, they’re about the worst people in all the world. Should be shot at sunrise, every man of ’em.

“It’s not so bad,” he philosophized, “stealing diamonds. They’re only a lot of stones after all. And money. ‘Who steals my purse steals trash. ’Twas mine. ’Tis his, and has been a curse to thousands.’

“But think!” He sprang to his feet. “Think of the cowards that steal a human life, a helpless woman, an innocent child, and then send back word, ‘Money, much money, or we will take the life of this one we have snatched.’

“That—why, that’s like going into battle holding a woman before you to stop the bullets! Howe, old boy, we’ve got a task laid out for us, a man-sized task, and we’re going to do it! You see if we don’t!”

Howe smiled in a quiet way. A quiet chap, was this slender detective; quiet, but feared in the underworld as many a big blustering cop was not.

“Drew,” he said after a long silence, “why did they snatch the Red Rover?”

“Revenge, perhaps. The university has been fighting kidnapers. Think what a bold stroke it would be to carry off their super-star just a few days before the final great game of the season!”

“Sounds pretty,” said Howe thoughtfully. “But it doesn’t click. Crooks waste little time on revenge. Dough is what they are after. Money. Money. Money. That is their long cry.”

“But where’s there money in snatching a football star?”

“Who knows? Perhaps they’re being paid.”

“Paid? By whom?”

“Northern wants to win. Isn’t Northern Old Midway’s ancient rival? Doesn’t the championship hang in the balance? What’s a few thousand dollars when such a prize is at stake?”

“But universities are not like that!”

“Not the schools. Of course not. But alumni. Who can say what some rich and over-enthusiastic alumnus would risk to see that game won?”

“Not much sense to that.”

“Perhaps not. But what then?”

“They may be hoping that Old Midway will dig deep to get their star back.”

“If that’s the racket we’ll know soon enough. There’ll be letters, phone calls, demanding ransom. What say we turn in? To-morrow is just around the corner. And to-morrow we must be out and after ’em.”

“What’s the first move?”

“Trace that speed boat down the river, the one that carried him away. It went south, that’s clear enough. I saw where they tied up to an old scow. Scraped her side when they left; rubbed off a lot of mud. The shape of the spot showed plain enough which way they were going. Somehow we’ve got to find their hide-out and get the Red Rover back.”

Had the speaker been privileged to see the Red Rover at that moment ankle deep in icy water, making his way as best he could with pole and improvised paddle on a raft that, turning round and round, seemed to go nowhere, he would surely have understood that a long trail lay before him. Not being granted such a vision, he crawled into his bed and went sound asleep.

* * * * * * * *

There was no sleep for Red Rodgers and his mysterious little friend on the raft.

There had been clumsy, flat-bottomed boats in the rust-blackened slips where monster ore boats lay near Red’s boyhood home, but no rafts.

Just how does one propel a raft? By a long pole where water is shallow. But one does not endeavor to drive the raft in the direction he wishes to go. He is more likely to achieve his end if he shoves in the opposite direction. For a raft, like an ox, a mule or a reindeer, is likely to go its own cranky way.

This Red learned soon enough. Scarcely had he begun poling than the raft started spinning like a top. It was only under the girl’s expert direction that he at last started for the shore that loomed dark and ragged in the distance.

They had not gone a dozen yards when the bottom sank beneath the end of the pole.

“Now we must paddle.” Heedless of the icy water, the girl dropped upon one knee, seized a narrow slab of wood and began a vigorous dip-dip that in time, it seemed, must take them somewhere.

Following her example, Red, on the opposite side, did his bit.

Under this treatment the raft behaved admirably. Keeping in view only the shore they had left, they paddled for a good half hour when, with a shock that all but sent them splashing into the water, they struck a hard object that gave out a hollow sound.

“Shore?” There was relief in Red’s tone.

“No shore.” The girl stood up. Her head struck something and she bounced down again.

“Thunder and guns! What now?” Red turned about to stare with all his eyes. The thing they had bumped into was a hydroplane, the very one that had carried them to this deserted spot.

“Oh!” The girl seized his arm. “Can—can you fly it?” Hope and fear were mingled in her tone.

“I—I’m sorry,” Red stammered. “To-night I took my first airplane journey.

“And I can’t say I wanted to come,” he added as a witty afterthought.

“But say!” he exclaimed suddenly. “You just hang on here a bit. I—I’ll be right back.”

They were beneath one of the machine’s great wings. Reaching up, he swung himself to the upper surface, and disappeared into the dark.

“Dangerous business,” he muttered to himself. “May have heard that bump, those fellows. May see my light. Might come upon us here any minute, but it’s a chance you can’t pass up.”

By dropping here, climbing there, then moving over to the right, he reached one of the twin motors. There, after flashing his light for a moment, he put out a hand, fumbled about, then pocketed a small object. These actions were repeated when he reached the second motor.

After that, with a sigh of relief, he dropped back upon the raft.

“Fix ’em!” he muttered. “Fix ’em plenty, the dirty dogs!

“Now come on. Let’s get out of here quick! Wish we could take one of those pontoons for a boat; but that’s impossible.”

A cloud had gone over the moon. He felt the girl’s cold hand as she steadied him down to a safe place of balance on the raft, and he chided himself for being so long.

“Cabins,” he whispered. “Cabins with fireplaces, easy chairs, blankets, and things to eat.”

All this seemed very, very far away. And yet with youth “hope springs eternal.”

Once again they worked their imperfect oars. In a surprisingly short time they once more bumped. With a low cry of hope, the girl sprang ashore.

“There should be a trail,” she called back.

“Moose trail?”

“Moose and men. Here! Here it is! We go this way.”

She led on over a trail so carpeted with moss that their footsteps made no sound.

“This girl knows a lot about this island,” Red said to himself. “How come?”

Once again he was tempted to believe that she was in league with the kidnapers. “That doesn’t make sense either. Mixed up mess. Just have to tramp on and see how it all comes out.”

He tramped on.

CHAPTER VIII
“THE RAT”

The path followed by Red Rodgers and the girl was little more than a wild animal trail along the edge of a wilderness.

Evening dew had placed its cold wet hand over all. Here they passed through clumps of alder that showered icy drops upon them, here waded waist deep in ferns that were like a tossing sea, and here again they crowded their way through clusters of young spruce huddled close together like children afraid of the night.

They had not gone a quarter of a mile when they were soaked to the skin. Still, without a word, the girl, gripping Red’s small flashlight, trudged pluckily forward.

“We could lose ourselves in this wilderness,” Red commented.

“Not if we follow the shore.”

That, Red told himself, was true enough. But where would the shore lead them? To cabins, fireplaces, chairs, things to eat? He fancied that this girl had been romancing, dreaming to keep up her courage.

“Queer old world,” he told himself. “Here I was, twenty-four hours ago, watched over like a child. Must eat this, must not eat that. Must sleep so long. Was there an ache, a slight sprain? Send for the rub-doctor. Did I cough once? Send in the M.D. And now this. In the wilderness. Drenched to the skin. No doctor. No osteopath. No one to tell me what to eat. Free!

“And yet, such freedom! I may be caught any time and brought back.

“Back to what?” He shuddered. Well, they’d have to find him. That would be difficult. And then they’d have a fight on their hands. He was strong, as strong as a bull moose. They’d not get that girl again without a fight.

“Queer sort of girl,” he mused. “Queer place this. You meet a moose on the trail, you politely step aside and he walks calmly past. You’d think he’d snort and vanish or roar a challenge and charge. Never heard of such things. That girl’s got the place bewitched. I—”

“Look!” The girl had come to a halt. One hand was on his arm. With the other she parted the bushes. “Do you see?”

“See what?”

“That dark spot over yonder.”

“Y-yes.”

“It’s another island. There’s a cabin on it, and a boat house. Boats too. And in the cabin there is a fireplace and easy chairs, blankets, and—and things to eat.” She swayed a little.

“It—it’s not far.” She steadied herself on his arm. “I—I think I could swim it.”

“But you’ll not!” Red began stripping off his coat. “I’ll swim it and bring back a boat. Here, hold this. I’ll take off my shoes, too. The rest doesn’t matter. I’ll be soaked anyway.”

Another moment and he was in the water swimming strongly.

Red was a fine swimmer. In the slips where rusty ore boats lay at anchor in his home city he had learned to swim before he could talk well.

The distance to the island he found surprisingly short. Before he knew it he was touching rocky shoals that led up to a low bank lined with spruce and birches.

As he stood there shaking the water from him like a spaniel, he saw a dark bulk to his right.

“Boat house.” He flashed the electric torch, which he had carried across in his teeth.

“And there’s the cabin.” Once again his light darted about. There appeared to be a number of small cabins grouped around a larger central one.

“Mysterious sort of place!” he told himself. “Wonder who built it. Who lives there? And when?”

A cold blast of wind came sweeping up the narrow channel. It chilled him to the bone.

“Going to storm. I must get back.

“A fireplace and easy chairs, blankets, things to eat,” he whispered as he stumbled along over the slippery stones.

He thought of the girl standing back there alone, drenched with dew, chilled by the wind.

“I must get back. At once!” He quickened his steps.

On reaching the shore side door of the boat house, he found it locked. With a mutter of disgust, he hurried along a narrow plank walk to the other end. There he plunged waist deep into water, to make his way beneath the great outer door.

“Room for a rowboat beneath this door,” he murmured. “Let ’em keep their launch. No gas anyway.”

A swing of the light showed him a sizeable launch suspended above the water. But that which gladdened his heart was a staunch little rowboat tipped on its side and resting on a narrow ledge at the right of the hole of black water.

“All we ask,” he grumbled. “Oars? Ah, yes! There they are. Now to tip her over.”

This he accomplished without a sound. The oars dropped silently into their places. He was in the act of pushing the boat into the black hole of water when a blood-curdling scream, coming from the shore side, froze every drop of blood in his veins.

“They—they got her!” he gasped. “And after all this!”

For a space of many seconds his heart stood still. Then it raced like an engine without a governor.

“They’ve got her. Will they keep her? We’ll see!”

Red’s fighting blood was up. And could Red fight? Ask the boys of the gridiron. Count them as they go down before him; one, two, three. Yes, Red could fight. He could fight steel and had; could fight hard opponents on the gridiron. And as for these kidnapers—dirty dogs, buzzards, beasts in human form—he’d show ’em!

* * * * * * * *

It was at this same hour that Tom Howe received a visitor, and a very curious specimen of humanity he was. You will need to become well acquainted with him, as he plays an important role in our story. That is one of the jolly features of this life we live; on life’s stage the humblest individual can, and often does, play an important role.

This visitor, who knocked timidly on the young detective’s door just as he was dressing, was known all up and down the river front as “The Rat.” I say he was known; the truth is that he was known to but a few. As a sort of compensation, those few knew him very well. Tom Howe knew him well.

He had a curious occupation, did the Rat. He found out things that people wished to know. And his particular province was the river. He never left it save to deliver a message. At night, in a narrow boat, little more than a canoe and painted dark gray inside and out, he might have been seen cruising up and down the river. Or rather, he was not likely to be seen; his craft and his dirty, dull-colored garb blended in with breakwaters, with piles and all manner of dark and shadowy places.

Thus the Rat lurked about the river at night, gathering scraps of information which might be sold for a price to certain gentlemen who wished to know such things.

Was the Rat particular regarding the character of his customers? Probably not. Some were favored before others, for all that. Tom Howe and Johnny Thompson might have his services at their very best, and that with no thought of charge. Every creature, even a rat, has a sense of gratitude. Johnny Thompson, who, as you will recall, was a great friend of Drew Lane and Tom Howe, had once found the Rat dying of fever. He and Howe had saved him from the hospital, which he dreaded with the fear of death, by hiring a nurse to care for him in his river front hovel.

Now, after an all-night search at Howe’s request, he had something of importance to report.

The Rat had a way of seeming in a great rush. He puffed as he talked and from time to time his sharp nose shot forward, his small black eyes popped just as a rat’s will.

“Dat speed boat, it—it—dat boat,” he puffed now, “you know de Wop what camps under de Twelfth Street bridge?”

“Yes, I know,” Howe replied eagerly.

“De Wop saw it. Fine speed boat. Very fast.”

“What color?”

“Col-color? Can’t see. Too dark.

“You know de Chink got laundry by de river just past de scrap yard?”

“Yes, I know him.”

“He heard de speed boat.” The Rat took a turn around the room.

“So it went that far?”

“Dat far!” The Rat bulged his eyes. “Dat’s not a start. You know de t’ree bums dat hang round de old warehouse way down de river, de big warehouse?”

“Yes.”

“Dey saw it.”

“That’s not strange,” Drew Lane put in. “A speed boat comes near being a curiosity that far down the river. They’d be sure to notice it.”

“Dat’s it.” The Rat took another turn around the room. “Dat’s what I say.

“You know de gypsies campin’ by de river? Cottonwood trees grow on dat place.”

“Yes. I know the place.”

“Dey don’t see it, don’t hear it.”

“Perhaps they were asleep.”

“No, no. Not dat. Squattin’ by de fire, playin’ cards. Dey don’t hear dat boat. Don’t see it, I tell you.”

“Then,” said Drew Lane, “our search narrows. The boat landed somewhere between the old warehouse and the gypsy camp. Can’t be more than six blocks apart. Let’s see, what’s out that way?”

“Some homes,” said Howe. “Some shacks—abandoned, tumble-down places—a roadhouse or two. The airport is not far away.”

“That’s right, the airport.” Drew said these words with little animation. At that moment the airport did not enter deeply into his conscious thoughts. In time it was to take on a deep significance.

“All right, Rat. Good work! Here’s your breakfast.” Howe pressed a bill into the Rat’s paw-like hand.

At this instant there came a loud banging at the door.

With a startled glance the Rat sprang for a second door at the opposite end of the room. This door opened into Tom Howe’s tiny laboratory for the scientific study of crime. The window of this room looked out on the fire escape.

Neither Drew Lane nor Tom Howe paid the slightest attention to the Rat’s going. He was by nature what his name implied; a loud banging at any door found him seeking a hole through which he might escape.

“Who’s that at this hour of the morning?” Drew grumbled.

“Search me.” Tom Howe slipped a blue-barreled automatic into his coat pocket, gripped it firmly in his left hand, then threw the door wide, to exclaim:

“Oh! So it’s you!”

CHAPTER IX
RED GOES INTO ACTION

All his life Red Rodgers had been trained for action. In the steel mills there come times when men are divided into two classes, the quick and the dead. Red was not dead. The instant that piercing cry, coming from the opposite shore, reached his ears, he was alert, ready to act. His hand, already on the side of the rowboat, relaxed.

“Oars creak,” he murmured.

Across the dark pool rested a canoe. He was there in a flash, canoe in the water, paddle in place.

“But a weapon!”

He was, of course, unarmed. As his eyes roved about in that narrow space, they fell upon a pike pole. With a stout eight-foot handle and a steel point it was a weapon of a sort, spear or club, whichever he might choose. Reaching for this, he placed it without a sound in the canoe.

Then he slid out into the silent night. The wind, he found, was growing stronger. It chilled him through. “Be warm enough soon.” He set his teeth grimly.

Waves sweeping in from somewhere down the channel threatened to overturn his fragile craft. He handled it with skill. Great black banks of cloud came rolling across the sky. The darkness was intense; yet he knew his direction. He pressed forward—to what? He could not say.

“If it’s a fight, it will be a good one.” His hands grasped the paddle with a grip of steel. “God is on the side of the fellow who fights for the right. There’s nothing right about men who carry away innocent girls and then demand a reward for their return!”

He was sending the canoe forward with strong, sweeping strokes. Now he judged himself to be halfway across, now two-thirds. His pulse quickened. Had he heard a sound? Some one moving?

A question came suddenly into his mind. He ceased paddling. How should he come upon them? In the canoe? He’d be knocked into the water, first pop. Better to land below, then creep upon them.

“Six inches of moss everywhere. I’ll make no sound.”

He changed his course. The canoe shot away.

He beached his canoe among alder bushes, then, pike pole in hand, crept forward. Holding his breath he parted bushes here, crossed a log there, climbed over a moss-covered boulder, then paused to listen. No sound save the rush of water against rocky shores. Boo! How cold it was! How the clouds raced! Going to snow.

“Should be about there,” he told himself, and his pulse pounded.

Ten more steps on the yielding moss, and again he paused. “Just one or two more trees.” A black old spruce stood before him. “Just one or two, and then—”

But what was that? A voice? Some one humming low? Yes, there it was!

“Oh, bury me not on the lone prairee, where the coyotes howl ee-e—”

The song trailed off into nothing.

He stood there too astounded to move. The voice was that of a girl.

“It must be that girl, Berley Todd. But she—she screamed.”

Having regained his power of motion, he rounded the spruce tree’s spreading branches.

And then the moon rolled out from behind a cloud.

What he saw held him spellbound. There stood the girl, her graceful figure swathed in dew-drenched clothing, her face scanning the black waters as she still sang:

“Oh, bury me not on the lone prairee—”

A gasp of astonishment from his lips startled her. She turned with the suddenness of a frightened deer. Then, as she saw his figure outlined against the spruce tree, she cried:

“It is you! I’m glad. I’m drenched with the dews of Heaven. I’m frozen to a statue. Please, let’s hurry!”

Red said never a word. In response to her request he hurried. Five minutes had not passed when their canoe bumped on the other shore. They skirted the boat house, rounded a long low cabin and at last reached a door.

The door, which was fastened, yielded to Red’s sturdy shoulder. Then they were inside.

“Oh-o!” the girl breathed. “How warm it seems! As if there were a fire.”

“There will be soon.”

Red flashed his torch about the room. A large fireplace, built of channel rocks, was just before him. As if they had been expected, the fire was laid, and a box of safety matches lay on the rustic mantel.

A match flared, a slow yellow flame mounted higher and higher and filled the room with light.

“Oh!” the girl cried suddenly. “You are the Red Rover? I—I’m glad!”

“That’s what they call me.” Red did not smile. “I—I’m sorry.”

“Sorry! Why are you sorry?”

“Sorry that you know. I’d rather be plain Red Rodgers who works in a steel mill and has ambitions of his own to become a foreman or a steel tester, or something like that.”

She looked at him in a puzzled way. Then her mood changed.

“Do you know, I believe you’re wet. See! You are making puddles on the floor. And I—I’m sort of dampish myself.”

“We’ll have a look about,” said Red.

Fifteen minutes later they returned to the fire. The girl had garbed herself in patched knickers a size too large, and a flaming red jacket. Red wore a mechanic’s coveralls.

And now he said: “Perhaps you will tell me why you screamed.”

* * * * * * * *

But what of Drew Lane and Tom Howe? And who was the one who stood banging on their door at dawn?

You will be surprised when I tell you it was none other than our old friend, Johnny Thompson. Johnny was not in the habit of banging on doors at dawn. At this moment, however, his business was urgent.

“Just saw the Chief,” he panted. “He sent me over hot-foot with a message for you. He says you are to get those kidnapers without delay and return the Red Rover to his squad.”

“That right?” Drew Lane arched his brows. “Didn’t tell you where we’d be likely to find these kidnapers, did he?”

“He did, and he didn’t,” Johnny replied shortly. Being young and only an amateur detective, he held the Chief of Police in great respect. For that matter, so did Drew Lane.

“The Chief says,” Johnny went on after swallowing hard, “that ‘the public is already aroused. Why couldn’t they have snatched a senator or a governor instead of the greatest football star of the age?’ That’s what he said.

“There wasn’t much time for saying anything.” Johnny’s excitement grew. “Telephone jangling all the time. Newspaper men, university professors, rich graduates, and all the little fellows who’ve bought tickets for Soldiers’ Field to see the Red Rover rove—all calling at once and demanding that something be done!

“The Chief says you are to raid these places.” He passed a slip of paper to Drew. “Suspected of kidnaping—the gangs that hang out in these places.”

“Not without good reason,” Drew grumbled. “You’d think—”

The telephone rang. Drew snatched the receiver. “Sergeant Lane speaking.”

He listened a moment, then:

“No, Chief. Just got the message. We’ll get those raids off at once.... Yes, some evidence—a bed sheet....

“No—no marks. Bullet, and some shavings....

“Seize all guns, oh, sure! How about jack-knives?...

“Not customary? Not against the rules, is it?... A pocketknife is a weapon?... Thought so. All right, I’ll collect ’em.”

Johnny thought he heard the Chief grumble something about “fool college kids collecting pocket knives.” Then Drew hung up.

“Well,” Drew drawled, “time for a cup of coffee and a plate of hots; then we’ve got to get out and give the public a great thrill by bringing those kidnapers right in.”

“It won’t be as easy as that, will it?” Johnny asked.

“Not by a whole lot! The Red Rover must be in his place on the gridiron of Soldiers’ Field when the big game starts or the Police Department is forever disgraced.”

“It’s worse than that,” Johnny put in solemnly. “The Chief says it means his job and yours if we fail.”

“We? Are you with us?” Drew looked at the boy detective hopefully.

“To the bitter end!” Johny grinned. “Never had less of other things to do, and never wanted to do anything quite so much as to help find the Red Rover.

“Think what it means!” he enthused. “Think what sort of fellow the Red Rover is. None of your rich man’s pampered sons! A steel mill worker, that’s what he was. But he’s a student as well as a star. Been leading his class in chemistry and math. Been working his way, too. They say Marmon, the big meat packer, offered to pay his way. He’s a graduate of Old Midway. But Red turned him down; said it wasn’t his idea of good sportsmanship, nor the idea of the Grand Old Man’s. Said he was going on his own.

“And he has. Three years. Steel mill worker in summer, hotel clerk in winter. Who wouldn’t hunt for a chap like that?

“Never had the swell-head either. Always pushing the other fellows ahead of himself when he could. They say he has practically refused to take a play through on more than one occasion when he considered the game won. Insisted on the other chaps having a chance at a touchdown. Went in for interference instead and did double duty. Who wouldn’t want to go out and help get some dirty crook who’s snatched a chap like that? What did they want him for? Revenge, or to get a wad of filthy greenbacks?”

“Bravo!” Quiet Tom Howe sprang to his feet and clapped his hands. “Bravo! That’s a grand oration! I could go to work now without my coffee.

“And, by George, I will! Come on in here, Johnny. I want you to help me try a thing out.” Tucking under his arm the bed sheet he had taken from the Red Rover’s car berth, he disappeared inside his cubby-hole of a laboratory. Johnny followed.

“I’ll bring up a can of coffee and some doughnuts,” Drew called.

“O. K.” was the muffled answer.

CHAPTER X
THE INVISIBLE FOOTPRINT

“I scream?” The girl in the patched knickers sitting before the roaring fire stared at Red Rodgers. “Why should I scream?”

“I don’t know.” Red was puzzled. “I only know I heard you.”

“But I did not scream.”

It was Red’s turn to start. He had heard a scream. No man, even in mortal agony, could scream in that manner. What did it mean? Who—?

His thoughts were broken off by a sudden burst of laughter. It was the mystery girl.

“That—that,” she stammered, with an effort at self control. “It was not I who screamed, but a loon, a silly old loon! Have you never heard a loon scream in the night?”

“Never.”

“Then you are to be forgiven. When a loon goes about the business of screaming in earnest, he can put a drowning woman to shame. We who have heard them often become so accustomed to them that we scarcely hear them at all.”

Red stared first at the girl, then at the fire. He was wondering in a vague sort of way just how much he had missed by living all his life within the confines of a city. He was to wonder this many times before this business of being kidnaped and carried to a deserted island was over.

“I wonder what that old loon is doing here?” the girl mused. “All his pals must have gone south by now. The gulls stay all winter. Some kinds of ducks, too, and the jays and the chickadees. It can’t be very lonely here even in winter. Wouldn’t it be thrilling if we had to stay here on and on?”

Red stared harder at the fire as he tried in vain to think what that would be like.

“You seem to know a lot about this island,” he blurted out quite suddenly. “How does it happen that kidnapers bring you to a place where you have been before? Seems a trifle mixed.”

“I’ve wondered about that.” Her big blue eyes were round and frank. “I think I’ve got it figured out. Do you believe in God?”

“Why, yes, I—I do. I’ve prayed about football sometimes; asked the One who gave me my body to help me keep it clean and fit; asked Him, too, to give me a clear brain and a sharp eye for every play.”

“Oh,” she breathed, dropping a hand gently on his arm, “I’m glad! Because I—I believe in God. I hope He outwits evil men. And I—I’ve sort of felt that He saw that those men were going to carry us off, you and me, so He sort of winked, don’t you know, like the man in the moon seems to do, and He said: ‘I’ll have those kidnapers take that boy and girl to the island where the girl has spent her summers as long as she can remember.’ And so, don’t you see? Here we are.”

“That,” said Red with conviction, “that’s great!”

Reaching for a large spruce log, he threw it on the fire. When the shower of sparks had subsided, he turned to her eagerly.

“What place is this? Tell me about it, all you can. We—we may be parted at any moment. And I—I need to know a lot. In the end they may get us, at least one of us, and the other must be able to make his way out, in the end, to see that justice is done.”

At the thought of the kidnapers he strode to the door and opened it a crack.

“Safe enough for the present.” His tension relaxed. “It’s snowing, snowing hard. They’ll never find us here in a snowstorm.”

“You are right,” she replied quietly. Her eyes closed. They remained closed so long that Red thought her asleep. But again they opened. “You are right, they will not find us in the snow. You should know about this place. I will tell you all I can. And then—then we must rest, for long, hard hours are before us. It is difficult, perhaps impossible, to escape from this place in November. But we must try.”

“What place is this?” the boy asked once more.

“What? You don’t know our island?” The girl’s eyes opened wide. “This,” her tone became impressive, “this is Isle Royale!”

“She expects me to be greatly surprised,” Red said to himself. Out of respect for her desire he did his best to show great astonishment. The truth was that the part of social science that deals with the world we live in had interested him very little. He was all for chemistry, physics, mathematics. He had no more notion where Isle Royale was than the Little Diomede Island, or King William’s Land. He had never heard of it. “But she evidently thinks it a great place,” he told himself, “so great it shall be.”

“Tell me more about it,” he demanded at last. He was truly interested. If he was to escape from this island, wild and uninhabited as it appeared to be, he must at least know his way about.

* * * * * * * *

In the meantime, Tom Howe, in his box-like laboratory, had revealed to Johnny Thompson’s astonished eyes a bit of scientific crime detection that for sheer cunning would have put any ancient astrologer or alchemist to shame.

Having spread the bed sheet taken from Red Rodger’s berth out on a small table, he had switched on a 200-watt lamp and had proceeded to examine it inch by inch as he slid it across the table.

“Not a mark,” Johnny commented, as the examination was completed.

“I’m not so sure,” Howe drawled. “A man stepped on that sheet, a very heavy man. He left a deep dent in the mattress and bedding. It’s hard to step on anything as clean as a sheet without leaving some sort of mark.

“Let’s see.” He drew the sheet endwise until the very center rested on the smooth top of the table. “It would be about there.”

He turned off the powerful light. At once the room was plunged in utter darkness.

Then, while Johnny waited as breathless as a child at his first picture show, a curious violet light pervaded the room.

“Look!” Tom Howe whispered, pointing to the center of the sheet.

Johnny did look, and there, to his vast astonishment, he beheld quite clearly outlined the footprint of a man.

“The sole of a heavy shoe!” He was dumbfounded. “It was not there before! And see! There are the marks of the nails; a heavy workman’s shoe. You could count those nails. And a heel of some hard, prepared stuff with the maker’s name wrong way over.”

“Yes,” Howe added quietly, “and a deep, jagged cut across the sole. Slipped on some sharp stone perhaps, when the sole was wet. That marks the shoe. It’s not like any other shoe in the world. Find that shoe, find the man who wears it, and we have made a discovery of great importance.”

“But I don’t understand!” Johnny was puzzled. “That mark was not there a moment ago.”

“Nor is it now.” Tom Howe chuckled. The violet light faded; the brilliant white light flashed on. The footprint was gone.

“Magic!” Johnny murmured. “Some form of magic. You can’t convict a man with magic.”

“Not magic, but science!” Howe’s tone was impressive. “Crooks are learning to use science as an aid in committing crimes. We must use science to detect crimes.”

Once again the white light was gone; the violet light returned and with it that mysterious vanishing footprint.

“You see,” Howe explained, “when that fellow entered the car to assist in carrying the famous football star away, he had been walking over a surface that contained some chemical solution. If he had passed over damp coffee grounds, or through a forest where rank vegetable matter rotted, the effect would have been as you see it now. His foot would have left a mark invisible in white light, but quite clearly outlined when subjected to the rays of an ultra-violet lamp.

“This lamp,” he went on, “has detected the secret writing of many a spy and jailbird. A spy, wishing to forward a secret report, dips his pen into a liquid made by soaking a few quinine pills in water. This writing will not show in white light until it has been treated. He writes some commonplace letter over this message and sends it forth. Our Secret service men seize it, put it under the ultra-violet lamp, and there it is; you can read every word. The moment the lamp is snapped off the message is gone.

“A criminal may dip the corner of his jacket in coffee, return to his cell, wring out the coffee and write with the coffee a secret message to some one who plots his deliverance. He, too, may be caught by this ultra-violet lamp.

“So now,” he concluded, “we have only to find the man who wears this shoe. Very simple in a city of three million.” He smiled a slow smile. “All the same, it’s a step.”

“An invisible step,” Johnny chuckled.

CHAPTER XI
HOTCAKES AT DAWN

When a person is thrown with a stranger in an empty land he is sure to learn much of that other’s ways. It was so with Red Rodgers. He was destined to learn much regarding the true nature of that mysterious young person who called herself Berley Todd. One fact he learned at once: that she was fond of doing things in a dramatic manner. In her own mind she was ever on the stage. Red had asked her to tell of her beloved Isle Royale. She was weary, had been awake all night. She had been cold and wet. She was hungry. Surely this was no time for telling of a place she loved.

“A cabin,” she recited, “a fireplace, chairs, blankets. We have all these. And now for the last of all—things to eat.”

Lighting a candle that stood on a ledge beside the fireplace, she went into the kitchen of the cabin. Soon she was calling to Red.

Together they carried in two large tin boxes of what were quite evidently left-overs of the party camping there that summer.

“Crackers, dried beans, oatmeal, a little rice.” The girl named the packages as she drew them forth. “Tea, coffee. Hurrah! Some coffee and prepared pancake flour. Hotcakes at dawn!” She tossed the package to the ceiling and caught it as it came down. “What could be better than hot cakes and coffee at dawn?”

Glancing toward the window, Red discovered that she was right; dawn was breaking. But to his relief he saw that snow was still falling fast.

“If those fellows get on our trail,” he thought with a shudder, “they’ll keep on it until they get us. They’ve got to.”

Red brewed the coffee. The girl mixed the batter and fried the cakes.

The meal was eaten in silence. Red found himself in no mood for talk; nor did the girl.

“It—it’s like a communion,” he told himself with a gulp. He was sobered by the thought of the future that lay just before them.

“You know,” said the girl, as the last cup was drained, “since this thing had to happen, I am glad you are you.” A curious smile overspread her face.

“Thank—er—thanks,” Red stammered. “I’ll do my best to be myself.”

“And now,” said the girl, leading him to a place beside her on a rug near the hearth, “I’ll show you about Isle Royale.”

Dragging a quantity of ashes out on the smooth hearth, she busied herself for some time smoothing them out, drawing her finger through them here and dropping a pinch of them there.

“Now,” she sighed at last, “ashes are land, bare spaces are water. See this little pile here? That’s the island we are on. See, it’s in a narrow stretch of water. That’s Tobin’s Harbor. It’s about three miles long. See this one over to the right? That’s Rock Harbor. It’s much longer. Off to the left of Tobin’s Harbor is Duncan’s Bay. It may not matter. And it may. You can’t tell where we’ll end up.

“See that bit of a pile here? That’s Passage Island. There’s a lighthouse out there with people in it, a big light and a foghorn. Listen, you can hear that horn now.”

Red listened and to his waiting ears came the distant hoot of a giant foghorn.

“How simple it all is!” He heaved a sigh of relief. “All we have to do is to get out to the lighthouse before those fellows catch up to us.”

“Yes,” she sighed, “that’s all. But it’s four miles out there. This is the stormy season of the year. We have only a rowboat. And remember this—” Her tone was as solemn as a parson’s at a funeral. “Remember this: ‘Superior never gives up her dead!’”

“Is all that water you’ve left there Lake Superior?” Red was truly impressed.

“Yes, and a great deal more. Miles and miles and miles. Isle Royale is nearer Canada than the United States. It is not near enough to any place to do us much good in November. The lighthouse is our hope. But after the snow it will blow. I am almost sure of that. So, you see, that which was begun to-night may not be finished at once, my friend the Red Rover.

“And now—” Her eyes closed for a moment. “Now I would be glad to tell you of my island home. I love it as I do no other home. If danger did not threaten, I should dearly love to remain here, even now when everyone is gone.”

“Everyone?”

“There may be fishermen staying at the other end of the island. But that is forty-five miles away. Forty-five miles of wilderness, do you understand?”

“I understand,” said Red Rodgers. A new note had crept into his voice. He was beginning to sense the brave part this girl was playing.

“And now you must rest.”

He set about preparing a place for her on a broad seat before the fire.

“But you—” she protested.

“Oh, I’ll sleep with one eye open, here in a chair. As long as snow continues to fall, we are safe.”

“And when the sky clears you will call me?”

“Never fear.”

“While I sleep I will dream what we are to do next.”

“Success to your dreams.”

Turning his back on her, Red busied himself by drawing a crude map of the island modeled after her relief map of ashes.

“Going to be tough,” he whispered with a sigh. “Tough for both of us. But somehow we’ll make it. We’ve got to!”

After another look at the falling snow, he curled up for three winks. He slept them through, all unconscious of the commotion his disappearance had stirred up. The hundreds of columns printed about him in the papers all over the land, the scores of detectives on the trail of the kidnapers, the thousands of earnest persons in all walks of life who had volunteered to do all in their power to help bring him back—all this he would have found, had he known it, a matter for surprise and great bewilderment. For the Red Rover was, above all, a very humble and modest young man who loved doing things for their own sake, and who thought little of honor or great reward. That the world at large had been so greatly stirred by his disappearance he did not dream.

CHAPTER XII
JOHNNY GETS A “JIMMY”

That day Johnny Thompson, in quite an accidental manner, came into possession of certain facts that, while increasing his perplexity at the time, were destined in the end to go far toward solving a great mystery.

These facts were discovered as he went about the business of purchasing a large bouquet of chrysanthemums. No, Johnny had not gone soft. He was not buying flowers for a cigar clerk nor a telephone operator. Far from that. There was a school for crippled children just around the corner from his lodging. He had come to know many of these children. They loved flowers, as all right-minded children do. He was sending them a bouquet. Drew Lane and Tom Howe had gone about the business of conducting a raid which, they assured him, would be quite a tame affair.

“They’ll be expecting us,” Drew grinned. “There’s never a big bank robbery pulled but next day all the successful bank robbers are called on by the police. It’s the same with kidnapers.”

“If you know they’re bank robbers or kidnapers, why don’t you just send them down to State’s Prison and have it over with?” Johnny asked.

“That would be neat and quite simple.” Drew smiled a broad smile. “But the Constitution grants every man a trial. You’ve got to prove what down deep in your heart you know, so you have to go out and get the facts.”

“And we’ll get some facts to-day, whether they realize it or not,” Tom Howe put in. “Drew’s going to collect a gallon of pocket knives. That’s something.”

“It may be a lot,” said Drew soberly.

So Johnny went to the shop at the foot of the river bridge to buy flowers. He liked this shop and its dark-skinned proprietor. The man’s name was Angelo Piccalo.

“Hello, Johnny!” Piccalo welcomed him. “Some flowers to-day?”

“Yes. Big yellow ones for the kids—crippled kids.”

“Crippled keeds.” The flower merchant grinned a broad grin. “The biggest, the ver’ best!”

The flowers had been boxed and paid for, the proprietor stood in his doorway bidding Johnny good-bye, when a motor horn sounded close at hand. Johnny started. He believed it a car. To his surprise, though he looked up and down the street, there was no car near enough to have produced that sound.

“Speed boat.” Angelo Piccalo grinned once more. “My boy. Name Angelo. See! Fine boy, that one. No cripple heem!”

The boy who grinned up at them from the river was surely no cripple. Some eighteen years of age, he was the picture of perfect youth.

“Go to college next year,” Piccalo confided. “Beeg gentleman some time, my boy!”

Johnny will never know why he went down the iron steps that led to the landing place where the speed boat rested. There were times when he almost regretted having done so.

“Hello, Angelo!” he greeted. “That’s a fine boat.”

“Not so bad.” The younger Angelo’s eyes took him in at a glance. “Not much speed. Trade it in for a better one soon.”

“This flower business must pay very well,” Johnny told himself. “Bet he’s got a car, a fast one. Going to college, too.”

Angelo had bent over to lift up the rear seat of his boat. He was looking for something. Plainly it was not there. Another object was there that apparently annoyed him.

“Who’s been making my boat into a junk wagon?” He lifted out a bent iron bar and was about to drop it in the river, when Johnny stopped him.

“Hey! Don’t do that!”

“Why not? You want it? All right. Here it is.” The boy tossed the bar to Johnny’s feet. It fell with a noisy jangle.

Thinking he had caught some sound from above, Johnny looked up in time to surprise a black look on the older Piccalo’s usually smiling face. One moment it was there. The next it was gone.

“Strange!” Johnny thought. “I must have been mistaken.” Yet he knew he had not been, and found himself disturbed by that insistent question, “Why?”

“That’s a curious band you have for your wrist watch,” he said to the boy in the speed boat. “All green.”

“Made of green stones,” Angelo explained. “Got ’em on Isle Royale last summer. Fine place, Isle Royale. Plenty big fish, wild moose. Plenty pretty girls.” He grinned broadly. “Found these stones on the beach up there.”

Johnny picked up the iron bar, climbed the stairs and walked away. This bar might at one time have been used by a merchant for opening boxes and at another by some gentleman of evil intentions in opening the window of some other person’s home. It is, I believe, known in some circles as a “jimmy.”

Feeling a little foolish walking down the street, he wondered why he had saved the bar at all.

“Hate to see the work of some man’s hands wasted,” he told himself. “Many a poor shopkeeper on Maxwell Street would be glad to own it.”

At that he wrapped it in his morning paper and at last deposited it in back of a small desk in Drew Lane’s room. There it was to remain until the time appointed. Then it was to offer its bit of evidence regarding certain dark deeds committed on a night in November of that same year.

* * * * * * * *

The snow that had fallen steadily since the hour before dawn upon that tiny island in Tobin’s Harbor of Isle Royale ceased at ten o’clock.

Standing before the window, Red Rodgers watched a scene of matchless beauty unfold before him. Dark, unruffled waters widened moment by moment until at last trees, great dark giant spruce and slender ghosts of birches, began appearing.

When at last the snow fog had vanished altogether he saw on the not-too-distant shore spruce and balsam standing like rows of tall tents of the Indians.

And even as he stood there some dark object moved amongst the birch trees.

“A moose!” he exclaimed under his breath. Then again he wondered that the girl had shown no fear at their encounter with an antlered monarch back there on the trail.

“Life,” he told himself, as he watched the great sleek creature on the opposite shore step out to stand ankle deep in water, head high, antlers gleaming, “Life is strange! Here I have lived all my life in a city. Never would have known of this other world but for the work of these outlaws who carried me away. And now—”

He paused. Well, what of now? He could form no answer.

He turned about to look long and steadily at the sleeping girl.

Yes, life surely was strange. Nothing like this had come to him before. As he looked at the perfect repose of that face, something welled up within him.

“She trusts me,” he whispered. Until this moment he had not known that such perfect trust existed in the world. “She trusts me. She believes in me. Her father may be rich. That does not matter. I will neither desert nor betray her. We shall fight it out together, to the bitter end.”

To this serious-minded boy who until this moment had known little of life as it is lived save on the gridiron and in the steel mills, this was a solemn covenant never to be broken.

“But now,” he asked himself, “what is to be done now?”

This problem he thought through with care. “They’re likely to be looking for us,” he told himself. “Yes, their search will be rather a wild one, when they know.” He put a hand to his pocket. Then his face sobered. Had he made a mistake?

“If only we can make a clean get-away they are sunk!” he muttered, clenching his fists. “I am not sorry I took the chance.”

Once again his thoughts returned to the problem at hand. “A step in the snow will betray us,” he told himself. “Now the unmarked snow says we are not here. Better to wait for darkness.”

Having come to this conclusion, he sank deep in his chair and fell fast asleep.

He awoke some hours later to be greeted by the faint aroma of tea brewing and biscuits baking on the hearth.

“It’s dark now,” a voice whispered in his ear. “We must be moving soon. But first we must eat.”

Red ate that meal in silence. He was thinking hard. “The game for to-day is over,” he told himself. “We have won. No radio must tell me that. They didn’t need me to-day. Probably the Grand Old Man would not have put me in to-day at all; save me for Saturday’s game. He said I was getting slow on my feet. Well, probably I was. Tired, that’s what I was. Football takes it out of a fellow.

“Saving me.” He grinned in spite of himself. “I was saved all right; put away for the winter, like as not; pickled like a cucumber in a jar.”

Without really thinking what he was doing, he rose and began pacing the floor.

“Worried?” The girl smiled up at him.

“Yep, quite a little. About Saturday’s game.” He dropped into a chair. “You see, our coach, the Grand Old Man, we call him, is getting along in years. This may be his last season. Who knows? It’s almost sure to be his last winning team. Five of our best men graduate this year. Breaks up the line. And, well, you know, the coach is such a square shooter, he’s so human and kind, seems to love his boys so, that you just naturally want to do things for him.”

“Yes, I know,” said the girl quietly. “And I know the success of the team depends on you, Red Rover. Read all about it in the papers. You’re going to play on Saturday. And I’ll be cheering on the side lines.”

Red flashed her a grateful smile. “That’s right, keep on kidding me. It all helps.”

“I’m not kidding. We will get away.”

“But tell me more about this island. Well, no, perhaps we had better be on our way.”

Rising, they went to the window. A large silver moon was tipping every wave with a point of light.

“We can’t go to the lighthouse to-night.” There was a note of finality in the girl’s voice. “The waves out there are as high as a house.

“And we’d better not venture out just now, either. The moon’s too bright. In an hour or two there may be clouds. See, they are coming in from the north.”

“And where shall we go when the clouds are here?”

“Home.” The girl whispered the word softly. “To my island home.”

CHAPTER XIII
LIGHT ON THE WATER

“My island home,” the girl said musingly. “How can I tell you about it so that you will love it as I do?

“This is Isle Royale.” She spread her arms wide as if to gather its miles of wide expanse into one embrace. “Beautiful bays and tiny lakes where the loon and the wild duck come to build their nests.

“A hundred enchanted islands where gulls soar and scream at sundown, where the sea hawk soars above you to complain in his shrill voice of your intrusion.

“Deep dark pools beside the shelving rocks where black shadows play and spotted trout dart away.

“This is Isle Royale.” Her eyes were dreamy as she stared at the fire, that petite, vivacious little lady, Berley Todd. “This is the place where I have always played my summer away.

“And to think—” Her tone changed. “To think that those men might have killed me. Then I would have played no more.

“To think,” she mused, “never again to feel the lift of my boat as I danced along in Tobin’s Harbor or out on the open lake. Never again to skim along before a gentle gale. Never to climb the low mountains and look away, away, away to where the blue begins!

“You know,” her tone became confidential, “we were always children on this island. Sometimes we’d take blankets and a grub box, boys and girls together, four, six, ten, a dozen of us, and tramp away to the top of Mount Franklin. There, beside a fire on the rocks, we watched the twilight fade and counted the stars as they came out one by one.

“Then, rolling up in our blankets, we slept beneath those stars. Playing all summer long. Don’t you love to play?”

“I don’t know,” said Red slowly.

“But you have played! Football. You play football. That’s a game.”

“Is it?” He smiled a curious smile. “Well, perhaps. But it’s work, too, if you win. You have to keep everlastingly at it. And the thing you keep everlastingly at is pretty sure to seem like work.

“Play,” he mused, “play all summer. Play all winter would be good enough for me.” Football had taken its toll of his young life. He was weary, desperately weary; not the weariness that comes from a day of sudden, arduous toil, to be dispelled by a night’s repose, but the dull, dragged-out weariness experienced by an Arctic dog team after a five hundred mile trek over the frozen snow.

“Tell me,” the girl demanded suddenly, “what do you like?”

“What do I like?” Red spoke slowly. “I can’t tell you that. I can only tell you what I have liked in the past.”

“Tell me.” She laid her hand on his arm.

“This,” he said slowly, as if recalling some scene in the remote past, “this is what I have liked: to stand before an open hearth in the steel mill where twenty tons of scrap-iron, together with limestone and tungsten, boil at white heat; to reach in a long ladle and sample it as the New England farmer samples his maple syrup; to watch the sample cool, to crack it with a hammer, to study its gleam; to do this again and again until at last you make a motion that says, ‘The batch is done.’

“Then to throw a lever and watch that white hot metal, twenty tons of it, pour into a massive brick-lined pot of steel that hangs suspended from a crane.

“Then—” He paused to take a long breath. The girl was staring at him with all her eyes. “Then to stand beneath that twenty tons of molten steel and make the gesture that sets flat cars in motion, flat cars loaded with forms to receive the steel. Then to watch the white hot steel pour once more; to follow its course until the forms have been lifted off and the billets of steel stand, red hot, sizzling in the snow, row on row.”

He looked at her as if uncertain whether or not to go on.

“Yes—yes. Please?” whispered Berley Todd.

“To climb a steel stairway—” He took a fresh start. “To seize a lever that swings a crane. To lift a red hot billet of steel into its place before heavy steel rollers, then to lift it and toss it, to turn it and bump it, to roll it here and roll it there, to press it and cut it, then slide it to one side, a long, perfect steel rail over which rich and poor, presidents and princes may ride in safety. That,” he ended, “has seemed to me a very large sample of life.”

“Oh!” she breathed. And again, “Oh!”

She said never a word. For all that, he sensed the fact that she had grasped the meaning of all this and was glad.

“You’ll go back to that,” she said after a time.

“When studies and football are things of the past. I hope so.”

“But you’ll learn to love my island just a little, won’t you? And you will come back here when summer has come and the loons are nesting in Tobin’s Harbor?” There was pleading in her voice. She loved Isle Royale. How could others fail to love it?

“I feel,” said Red with a curious smile, “I sort of feel that I will come, too.

“But look!” He sprang to his feet. “The clouds are here. The moon has vanished. Time to be going!”

He did not now say: “Where shall we go?” He knew they were to row up the bay half a mile, then climb over a ridge to her family’s summer home. He was more than eager to reach that home. Curiosity regarding that home entered into that desire. But more than that was the feeling that there she would know of many places of hiding. And hide they must until they could leave the island.

“I’ll bring the boat around.” He vanished into the outer darkness.

Closing the door softly behind her, Berley Todd stepped out upon the short platform which served both as doorstep and dock. What emotion surged through her being as she stood alone there in the dark? Only she could answer that.

Soon came the low dip-dip of oars, and they were away.

“We’d better cross straight over,” she said in a low tone. “Then we can follow the shore. We’ll come at last to a small landing. Better try to keep in the shadows if the moon comes out.”

That this was wise counsel he was soon enough to know.

Just as they reached the opposite shore the moon, breaking through the clouds, painted the channel with a million spangles of silver.

Swinging the boat about quickly, Red drew it into the shadow of an overhanging cedar.

Resting there for a moment, they allowed their eyes to wander back. There, lighted up by the silver moon was the cabin that had offered them sanctuary for a day. Would they ever forget it? How could they?

And who would wish to forget so lovely a picture? Great spruce trees towered toward the sky. Half hidden by the lesser growth of birch and balsam, the cabins stood. There were three in all, yet in this uncertain light they seemed but one.

“It is one of the loveliest spots on earth!” The girl took one long deep breath that came near being a sob. “It is so beautiful it seems like a dream. Like a southern home beside a river in a moving picture.

“A man built it years ago. He built into it all his love for nature and the great out-of-doors. He had planned it that those he loved might be happy there. And they have been very, very happy.

“Wouldn’t this world be wonderful if all men were like that? If we lived for others more than for ourselves? If no one were greedy or ambitious for power? If we all lived the life God has given us for the pure joy of living?” Then again she murmured, “It’s like some southern home.” Her voice trailed off into silence.

Then, after a moment, she began again, only this time she was singing, singing so softly that she would not waken a sleeping bird:

“Carry me back to old Virginia,

The place where I was born.”

And then, as if the island home were but a beautiful dream, the moonlight faded, leaving all in darkness.

Once again Red Rodgers took up the oars and they glided onward over the dark mysterious waters of the night.

It was strange, this passing on and on into the unknown. Water and air seemed to meet. Did they ride in air or on water? What could it matter?

Only the rough outline of tree tops served to guide him. Off to the right a tiny island loomed for a time, then faded into the night.

Before them some wild creature swam. Was it duck or beaver? Who could say? Nothing appeared to matter. All was swallowed up in the mystery of the night.

Then, by a sudden flash of light, all was changed.

“There!” the girl whispered. “There, to the left, is the dock!”

A moment more and they glided silently alongside the narrow platform.

“Tie up here.” The girl stepped from the boat.

Until this time they had not flashed a light. Why did the girl flash Red’s light now? Who can say? She did throw it on for a second. Instantly a low cry escaped her lips.

“Look! Footprints!” Dismay was registered in her tone. “They—they have gone before us!”

It was true that the narrow circle of light revealed the prints of a very large boot in the snow. To the right of the dock a boat was tied.

The girl snapped off the light. For a moment they stood there in silence side by side, a moment only, then the girl gripped Red’s arm until it hurt.

“Look! Look! Light on the water! They are behind us and before!”

Some distance away, on the black surface of the water a pale light shone.

“Come!” she whispered. “I know a hundred hiding places! We can best escape them here!” She led him to the foot of the hill, then began to climb, leaving him to follow in the dark as best he could.

CHAPTER XIV
DREW LANE STEPS INTO SOMETHING

That same night Drew Lane “stepped into something,” something that was quite unexpected and—well, you’ll see.

During the day he had conducted his raids on the city’s two “kidnaping centers.” They had turned out as he had prophesied they might—quite tame affairs. Most of the gentlemen, expecting a call, had stepped out. The raids yielded three guns, sixteen pocket knives and no information of importance regarding the mysterious disappearance of the Red Rover. Indeed the protestations of innocence, the ready offer of assistance which he received on every hand led him to believe that this was a job pulled off by some one quite outside the well-ordered circle of kidnaping gentlemen.

“Honest, Lane, we don’t know a thing!” one smooth-spoken gentleman assured him. “We don’t want the Red Rover snatched. Why should we? Our money is up on him, a lot of it. We want him to come through with a touchdown, a whole flock of ’em. Tell you what—” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Your pay isn’t too big. Know where you can pick up a piece of change? I do. You just step out and bring the Red Rover back. The boys here will make up a purse for you. Just you say: ‘The Red Rover plays,’ and you’ll hear the clink of gold.”

“Do men gamble on football?” Drew had opened his eyes wide.

“Do they? Why, say! They—”

But something—a wink, a thrust in the side, a dark look, something—silenced the talkative one. He said no more. He had said enough, however, to put Drew in a thoughtful mood.

His collecting of pocket knives was received on the whole as a huge joke. It was suggested that he go out on a sand lot and take up a jack-knife collection from the boys playing ball.

Drew felt a bit silly about it himself and, since he had no notion what purpose it was intended to serve, he was tempted to chuck it. In the end he carried it through. So sixteen pocket knives all duly labeled reposed in the drawer of his desk.

All of which has nothing whatever to do with the thing he “stepped into” after darkness had fallen.

He had gone into a place for a belated dinner. This place, he knew, had a bad reputation. That was why he wished to eat there. A born detective, Drew was always looking for things, and sometimes he found them.

Having ordered baked flank steak, French fried potatoes, pie, and black coffee, he sat back in his chair to stare dreamily about him. He was truly hungry. “Flank steak all filled with dressing! Um!” he whispered. Little did he dream that the meal would never be eaten.

Just before him eight men were grouped around a double table. Their meal over, they sat drinking amber liquid from tall glasses.

“Might be soda water,” Drew mused. The men were far more interesting than their drink. They were a strange lot. Three of them, dark complexioned gentlemen with short black moustaches, looked exactly alike. They were dressed alike and often all spoke at the same time. They laughed together in a sort of symphonic chorus. To the right of these was a large man with a huge red nose who roared when he laughed. A smaller and younger man, who might well have been his son, sat beside him. Across from these were two others who did not fall under Drew’s gaze.

The man at the end caught and held Drew’s attention. A small man, he said never a word, but all the time sat poised as if for a spring.

“Looks like a jack-in-the-box,” Drew told himself.

This little man’s eyes were roving from one to another of his companions. Once, these eyes, swinging in a wide circle, took Drew in. Cold steel-gray eyes that glittered, they sent a chill coursing down his spine. He felt in his pocket. Yes, the safety on his automatic was snapped off.

It was then that Drew’s keen mind registered an important fact. This little man with the fiery eyes was branded, or so it seemed; there was a double scar on the right side of his forehead. Together these scars, one red, the other purple, formed a Maltese Cross.

“Know him anywhere,” Drew told himself. “And yet, those scars might be faked, little touches of colored wax. It’s been done.”

Drew was expecting something to happen. The room was like a country place before a thunderstorm. One expects the roar of it long before the first peal comes rolling in.

When the thing did happen Drew was ready. It was nothing much at that, you might say. The little man half rose in his chair. As he did so something heavy slipped from his pocket and fell to the floor with a crash. It was a blue-barreled automatic.

Without so much as glancing about, the little man reached down to pick it up.

A look of pained surprise overspread his face as he realized the gun was not on the floor.

Then, as if a thought had struck him all of a heap, he whirled about to fix his fiery eyes on Drew Lane and to remark in a tone as smooth and hard as glass:

“You got that.”

“Sure did.” Sliding back his chair, Drew stood up, thrust both hands deep in his pockets, then with a trick he had learned by long practice, threw out the lapel of his coat to display his star pinned underneath.

He said never another word—just stood there smiling a little. What more was to be said? The man had carried concealed weapons. This he had no right to do. As an officer Drew was doing his duty.

The little man’s face went red all over, like an angry sunset. His eyes swept the circle of his companions and, as if attached to strings held in his hand, they arose—the three all alike, the big man, his son and the other two.

Drew Lane was young. But he was no novice. He knew what it meant. He was prepared.

“Gentlemen,” he spoke in an even tone, “you can take me. You are eight to one. But I’ll get two of you first.” His eyes fell a trifle.

There was not a man in the group but read his meaning. In his pockets were two automatics. Time and again he had won the police prize for straight shooting from the hips. One false move and a member of the little man’s gang would get a bullet in his heart or his brain. Drew was good for exactly two of them.

It was a tense moment. Perhaps the glittering eyes of that little man had never wavered. Perhaps they would not have wavered now. Who could say? No one. For at that instant the lights went out, and on the instant, save for the feeble light of one small window, the place was dark.

A deep silence fell upon the room. Without realizing it, Drew began counting under his breath: “One, two, three, four, five, six.” Perhaps he was counting the seconds before things began to happen. Keeping a tight grip with either hand on the things of blue steel in his pockets, he waited, silent, breathless.

He had just become conscious of a clock that ticked loudly in a corner, when a low gasp caught his attention.

Without knowing why, he fixed his eyes upon the one small window. Other eyes were fixed upon that narrow window. How many pairs of eyes? Who could say? It was dark.

Something was moving by the window. Not a person—no, surely not that! A skull perhaps, an ugly skull with hollow eye sockets from which a pale light gleamed. A sigh passed over the room like the low moan of the sea at night.

And then something stranger happened. The skull disappeared and a ghost with bones bleached white and a long, flowing sheet went racing away across an empty space beside the building. Again the long sigh swept across the room.

And then the lights went on. These lights disclosed eight gentlemen standing just as they had stood before, staring rather stupidly at one another—the three alike, the big man and his son, the little one with glittering eyes and the other two. Drew Lane had vanished.

For a full minute by the clock on the wall they stood there staring at one another. Then the big man said in a loud voice:

“The Galloping Ghost!” After which he let forth a roar of laughter that suggested a crazy baboon roaring in the night.

Ten minutes later the place was raided by the police. There was no one there.

One fact about this affair seems important. Drew Lane retained possession of the automatic that had fallen on the floor. This automatic was the key to a situation. What situation? This, for a while, was to remain a mystery.

CHAPTER XV
“SHOOTIN’ IRONS”

As Red Rodgers followed the girl in the dark over the narrow trail that led away from the dock where they had discovered mysterious footprints in the snow, he found himself climbing what seemed to him an almost perpendicular wall. Here he stumbled over a boulder, there slipped on a stretch of earth that appeared to stand on end, and here found himself clawing madly in air for some form of hand-hold. That the girl knew the trail well enough became evident at once. She reached the crest of the ridge far in advance of him.

“Here! Give me your hand,” she breathed as he came up. “It’s not so steep on this side. Almost not steep at all.”

Red heaved a sigh of relief, then prepared to follow on.

The trail was much longer on this side. It seemed strange, this prowling about in the darkness on an island he knew only by name.

As his eyes became more accustomed to the darkness he made out vague black bulks to the right and to the left. “Trees,” he told himself.

When one of these black bulks let out a low grunt and vanished into the night, he stopped short.

“Moose,” the girl said in a low tone. “All over the island. Like the bears of Yellowstone. That was probably old Uncle Ned.”

“Uncle Ned?”

“I’ll tell you about him some time,” she whispered.

Dense darkness lay before them. The girl plunged into this darkness, the shadow of a narrow stretch of forest.

Red’s ears caught the low murmur of water; his gaze fell upon the white gleam of light upon the water.

“We—we’ll go to the left. Lots of places there to hide.” Once again the girl led the way, but not for long. Suddenly she stopped dead in her tracks to whisper:

“See! A light!”

As Red looked he caught a yellow gleam that came filtering through the branches.

“Wha—what shall we do now?” For the first time the girl appeared at her wits’ end.

“That light comes from a cabin.” Red tried to think the thing out straight. “Might be best to try for a look. Then we’ll know what we’re up against, at least.”

Except to give him her hand the girl made no reply.

Slowly now, with pulses pounding, they made their way forward.

To the left of the trail they saw a white bulk, a cabin. They passed another. Then suddenly he dragged the girl from the trail. An unexpected sound had reached his ears, a dog’s bark.

“A dog!” Berley Todd shuddered. “Why would they bring a dog in the plane?”

“To track us. No wonder they were so sure we wouldn’t get away!”

“But listen! That dog’s inside. Let’s go back while there’s a chance.”

“It can’t be ten steps farther. I’m for a look. You—you stay here.”

“Not alone.” She gripped his arm hard. “I—I’ll go.” It was she who led now.

A dozen paces more and they stood within sight of the window through which the light shone. And then a tall man, who was just in the act of removing a ten gallon hat, moved in front of the light.

“Oh! It’s Ed!”

There was a melodious ring in the girl’s voice that told plainer than words that they had found a friend.

“Ed who? Who’s Ed?” Red was puzzled by this fresh turn of affairs.

“Just Ed. A scout. He has a camp on the island in summer. Always before he left with the rest. But now he’s here, and I’m glad!” There was a ring of pure joy in her voice. “Now—now we are three, three of us and a dog. Come on!” She dragged him forward. “Come on before he turns that dog loose!”

As Berley flashed the light for an instant the boy read, above the door:

TRAILSIDE.

He wondered what that stood for. There was no time now for talk. Berley’s hard little knuckles had made contact with the door.

The next instant they stood blinking in the light that came from the cabin. Before them, holding his dog by the collar, was a tall, well-built man whose graying hair said he might be forty. His face, though seamed and tanned from constant exposure, bore the touch of eternal youth, a heritage of those who spend their lives in wild and silent places.

For a space of seconds he stared at them. Then his face lighted with a smile as he exclaimed:

“Why! It’s the little half-portion, Berley Todd! Put her there!” He extended a brawny brown hand.

Then, as if struck by a sudden thought, he drew back and stared.

“But—but what are you doing here at this time?”

“Came by plane,” Berley explained with a laugh. “Didn’t you hear us arrive?”

“N-no.” The look on the guide’s face was strange to see.

“You wouldn’t of course. We came in the night.

“And this—” She pushed her companion forward. “This is the Red Rover. You’ve heard of him, haven’t you? The famous football star, the Red Rover?”

“Y-e-s?” The guide continued to stare. It was plain that he believed little of that which he had just heard. And who could blame him? What chance was there that the most famous football star of the season should go off into a wilderness in an airplane a few days before the big game of the year?

“It’s cold. We—we’d like to come in,” the girl pleaded.

The scout stared for ten seconds, then exclaimed:

“Beg pardon! Been a long time since any one was here. Didn’t expect to see a soul until spring. Come in. Got a big kettle of Mulligan stew on the stove. Big feed, what?”

“Can’t be too big for us!” said Berley, closing the door and, to the scout’s bewilderment, turning the key in the lock, as she said quite calmly: “I’d like to pull the shades if you don’t mind.”

“Why, yes. Just pull ’em right down.” The scout stared afresh.

“You see,” explained “the little half-portion,” dropping into a chair, “Red, here, and I ran away. We—we don’t want any one to know we are here. Not a soul—except, of course, you.”

“Thanks for the compliment, Miss. But I assure you there’ll not be a soul here until spring. Do you plan to stay that long?”

The muscles of Berley’s mouth were twitching desperately. It was great fun, this posing as the stolen bride of a famous football star, but bottling up her mirth was quite another matter.

“Why—why, we—” She tried hard to steady her voice. “We—we haven’t made any definite plans, have we?” She turned to Red. Then, as if a second thought had taken possession of her, she demanded:

“Red, what did you do to that plane when you left me out on the raft at the back of Tobin’s Harbor?”

“I took the breaker assemblies out of their magnetos.”

“Whatever that means.” She wrinkled her brow in a peculiar way.

“It means,” Red measured his words, “that they will have to send to the factory for parts before they can fly; in other words, that they can’t leave the island.”

“That makes it bad.” Berley seemed worried.

“For them.”

“For us. They’ll be after us night and day to get those parts back. They’ll not leave a stone unturned. If we leave the island before they do, they are trapped here. Even if they reached the lighthouse no one would aid them.”

“And the officers will come here after them.” Red went on where she left off. “My old friend, Drew Lane, will be here in his red racer. Grand coup, I call it! A bit hazardous, but what is life but a series of exciting adventures? If you can make those adventures count for good, why that’s fine and dandy, I’d say.”

“It is.” Beaming, Berley put out her hand.

Then, turning to the puzzled scout, she exclaimed: “Ed, you’ve got us all wrong. We haven’t eloped. We’ve been kidnaped, one at a time, and have escaped together. Now Red has got to get back to the gridiron for Saturday’s game and I to the bleachers. You are elected to help us. You may get shot and all that, but you’ve got to come along. You’ve been drafted.”

Understanding very little of all this, but game to the last, the scout threw open a cupboard to drag down two huge pistols.

“Then,” he said solemnly, “it’s shootin’ irons. Inherited them from my dad. Never had much use for ’em except to take a crack at a prowlin’ coyote now and then, but I reckon I can hit a tin can at fifty yards mighty nigh every pop. And that’s good enough for coarse work. I’m with you, little half-portion, with you to the end.” Then, as if she were a child, he seized her about the waist and bumped her head against the ceiling.

“Mulligan’s done,” he announced a moment later. “What am I really drafted into? You’ll tell me that, won’t you, over the Mulligan stew and coffee?”

CHAPTER XVI
THE BRANDED BULLET

To inform you that Drew Lane made his escape from a perilous position while the Galloping Ghost was doing his bit would be to waste words. There are times, of course, when it is an officer’s duty to stand his ground and shoot it out with the outlaws who chance to cross his path. This was not one of those times. Drew Lane went for reinforcements. That he did not return in time was an unavoidable misfortune. He was obliged to content himself with turning in a detailed report of the affair together with an accurate description of the individuals who composed the band.

“I’d know that little fellow with the fiery eyes anywhere,” he said to Tom Howe, as he sat at his desk. “His scar marks him if nothing else does.

“But those three fellows that look just alike. Suppose they scatter. How’s a fellow to tell which is which? Clever, I call it. Suppose one is suspected of a stick-up. Suppose he’s put in the ‘show up’ on Sunday morning. Then suppose the victim says: ‘That’s the man.’ But suppose the other two are in the line and the victim says again and yet again: ‘That’s the man.’ And each time he’s seeing a different one. Which of the three will be tried and convicted?”

“There’d be a mix-up,” Tom grinned.

“Sure would.

“But look, Tom.” Drew placed a thing of blue steel on the table. “Here’s the automatic that the little fellow with fiery eyes dropped. He’s the sort that shoots on sight. He may have done some shooting right here in town. It might just happen that you’ve got a bullet in your collection that came from his gun.”

“Might at that.” Tom took the gun. “Quite a collection of bullets I’ve got right now. There’s the one that stopped Patrolman O’Malley down by the Stock Yards. There’s the one that passed through the Chink’s heart and landed in a wall down in Chinatown. Six or seven more. I’ll try it out. Want to come along, Johnny?”

Johnny Thompson dropped the book he was reading. “I’ll be glad to!” Anything that had to do with scientific crime detection might claim this boy’s attention, be it day or night.

Tom Howe and Johnny dropped down to the basement where a bullet might be fired into a barrel of sawdust without disturbing the guests of the hotel. Drew finished his report, dispatched it by a messenger and then, having extinguished his lamp of gleaming white light, switched on one of faint blue that gave the whole place an air of spooky mystery. It was thus that he could best think out the problems which lay directly before him.

“A whole day gone,” he told himself. “And what have we? A bed sheet taken from a sleeping car. An invisible footprint on that sheet. But whose footprint? Shall we ever know? A bullet.”

He spread out a sheet of paper to examine it afresh. “A second message from the dead,” he murmured. “At least from the Galloping Ghost. Pretty hard-fisted ghost at that. Knocks Tom down; then when he is gone, digs a bullet from some post or railway tie, and presents it for our inspection. He says here that the bullet is the one fired at Tom out there by the Red Rover’s sleeping car. ‘Find that man.’ And then—sure, find him if you can!

“But this jack-knife business,” he mused on. “The Ghost says one of the kidnapers has the whittling habit, that while waiting for Red to fall asleep he sat on a pile of ties and whittled at a soft stick. A knife blade, he says, when examined under a microscope shows some irregularities on its edge, even the sharpest of ’em. I suppose that’s right. But what of it?”

He sat for some time in a brown study from which he emerged with a start and a low exclamation:

“Something to it! What? Might be a lot! I’ll have to get Tom digging into that. He and his microscope have solved many a baffling crime.”

Once again he settled back into meditation. “Speed boat tied up far down the river. Airplane hangar nearby. Police have searched all buildings near there. No result. Looks like an airplane job. Spirited away in an airplane. What could be simpler? Wonder if the night mechanic at the airport knows anything? If he does, like as not he wouldn’t tell.

“One thing sure!” He brought his chair down with a bang. “We’ve got to get action, and get it quick!”

Seizing the evening paper he scanned its front page. GHOST GALLOPS AGAIN was sprawled across the front page. And below, RED ROVER STILL MISSING. POLICE HAVE NOTHING TO REPORT.

“Well—” Drew smiled grimly. “Hold your horses. We may report something yet.”

Again he read, in smaller type: “The public is aroused by this daring crime. A large purse is being raised as a reward for the return of the Red Rover. The Midway coach is game. He is drilling his team hard in the face of almost certain defeat.”

“Too bad!” Drew shook his head. “Probably his last great game. They say he is to retire at the close of this season. Everything was set for a glorious victory. And now this! The plans wrecked by a gang of outlaws who deserve nothing but to die horribly. And here we are doing our best, working night and day, following blind trails, getting nowhere. We—”

He broke short off as a fist banged the door and a voice demanded:

“Open up! Let me in!”

It was Johnny. As a bringer of good news he had outstripped Tom Howe.

“Drew! Drew!” he panted. “That’s the gun!”

“What gun is which gun?” Drew grinned in spite of himself.

“That bullet fits that gun.”

“Which bullet fits what gun? Sit down and tell me about it.” He pushed him into a chair.

After a breathing spell Johnny was able to tell a connected story. He and Tom Howe had gone to the basement and had fired three bullets from the gun Drew had picked up on the floor of the place where, for a very good reason, he had eaten no supper. Having fired the bullets into sawdust, they had picked them out and had examined them under the microscope.

“You know how it is,” he went on. “Every gun barrel has microscopic defects on the inside. These leave their marks on the bullet. The bullet left by the Galloping Ghost apparently struck the steel car a glancing blow and then entered a block of wood. One side was flat, but the other showed its marking clearly. And the scratches on that bullet, four of them, clearly marked, exactly matched the ones fired from the gun you took from that little fellow with a branded forehead and fiery eye.”

“They did!” Drew dropped in a heap on a chair. “So that was the man! And I had him, had him in my hands! And I let him go! What a break!”

Johnny, as he recalled the circumstances, was not sure whether Drew had had the little man or the little man and his gang had had Drew; but he said nothing.

“We’ll get ’em. We’ll get ’em yet!” Drew came to his feet with a bound. “Get the Chief on the wire. He’ll send out a drag-net. A mob like that can’t cruise about this city without being caught. They’re marked men, every one of them!”

Was he right? Only time would tell.

CHAPTER XVII
JOHNNY’S JIMMY

In the meantime Red Rodgers, the object of all this activity in a great city, sat at a small table in a cozy cabin on Isle Royale, hundreds of miles away, calmly sipping the broth from a delicious Mulligan stew (which, by the way, is made by cooking up everything you have in the way of meat and vegetables, then adding much sliced bacon and many onions).

The stew was good. The cabin was warm. The hour was late. When Red had emptied his bowl he sat back to nod drowsily.

“It’s good to be lazy and comfortable and to do nothing,” he murmured. It seemed to him now that he had somehow been drugged. Never before had he felt so little desire for action. “I wish those crooks would leave us alone,” he thought to himself. “I wish I could sleep for a week.”

But what was this? A voice sounded in the room, a strange voice. And what was this man saying?

“The listening world will be interested to know that while the football star, officially known as the Red Rover—”

“Red—Red Rover.” The boy sat up, quite awake now. “Why, that is the radio! They’re talking about me. And here I am listening in.”

“Yes,” the scout chuckled, “that’s Chicago. Haven’t listened to that station before, or I’d have known. Bet they’re broadcasting reports every hour.”

“About me?”

“Why not? You’re a star.”

“A star to-day; to-morrow a steel mill worker. What does one star more or less matter?”

For all that, he sat up and listened with increasing interest as the speaker told of all that was being done to apprehend the kidnapers and return the Rover to his team.

“Good old Drew Lane,” he murmured. “He’ll get ’em. You’ll see.”

But after all—. His spirits drooped. After all, what could it matter? He might discover who the kidnapers were. But would he trace them to Isle Royale? Ah, no. That was expecting too much!

He felt a tightening at his throat as he thought of his team mates and the coach, the Grand Old Man, doing their best to stave off defeat. “It’s not that I’m so important as an individual,” he told himself humbly, “but I’m part of the piece, like one stone in an arch. Without me the team must fail.

“Why am I here?” he cried out suddenly, springing to his feet. “How can I get away?”

“Perhaps you can’t,” the guide said quietly. “We’ll do the best we can.

“Listen!” The guide blew out the lamp, then quietly opened the door. Bing, the dog, uttered a low growl. He was silenced by his master.

From somewhere away off in the dark came a weird, wild call. It was answered here and answered there. Then such a chorus as never before was heard on sea or land rose above the sound of rushing water and sighing pines.

“Wolves,” Ed commented briefly. “Bush wolves. Hundreds of ’em on the island. They’re all singing to-night. There will be a storm. Listen again.

“There is a little sea to-night. To-morrow it will be raging. The distance from Rock of Ages on this island to the mainland is seventeen miles. Rock of Ages is forty miles from here. There are power boats here, but no gasoline. You’d have to row. You’d never make it.”

“Our only chance is Passage Island,” Berley Todd put in.

“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.”

“Why, yes. Let me see. There was one. A fellow shot a former partner of his. Trapper he was, I think. He built a blind of green willow branches. Cut the branches with his pocket knife. Shot the fellow behind this blind. The sheriff found the blind. Then he found the knife in the fellow’s cabin. He sent the knife and willow stubs to the Crime Laboratory. They studied the knife blade and the cuttings. That was the knife all right; irregularities in the cuttings were the same as on the knife blade. The trouble was, they couldn’t prove that the knife had not been planted in the fellow’s cabin, so the thing fell through.”

“Sounds interesting.” Drew drained his cup. “Wish you’d take a look at these through your microscope.” He pushed a handful of shavings toward his partner. “The Galloping Ghost left them, you remember.

“And here is the collection of pocket knives. You’ll be able to tell whether one of these did the whittling.

“You see,” he explained, “some fellow connected with the kidnaping sat and whittled while he waited for the Red Rover to fall asleep.

“Strange how often men’s habits convict them,” he philosophized. “If you’re a whittler you’ll have your knife out on every occasion, whittling, just whittling.

“This man,” he took up a shaving, “must be a nervous sort. See how short these are. If he were a meditative person, quite at ease, he would take long, smooth strokes.”

“I’ll look these over.” Tom swept the shavings into an envelope. “There might be something in it. Can’t afford to neglect the least clue. If it interests the old G.G. it should have our attention. By the way, what’s your idea about this Galloping Ghost? Who is he? And what’s he after?”

“You answer.” Drew grinned. “All I know is that he seems to be on our side. That’s enough for the present. I—

“Be careful!” He turned suddenly to Johnny. “Don’t bend that. It might be important.”

“What is it?” The boy held up a thin bit of sheet aluminum that had been pressed into a curious form.

“That,” Tom explained, “is an impression taken from the bottom of a sleeping car window. When the Red Rover was kidnaped the window was jimmied. The end of the bar made a deep impression in the wood. It was an old bar with several nicks in it. If I ever come upon it I could identify it by this impression.”

“This,” said Johnny, “is getting too deep for me. Invisible footprints on sheets. Shavings from some whittler’s knife. Impressions in wood. These are to bring a man to justice. Pipe dreaming, I call it.

“By the way!” he exclaimed. “I have a jimmy bar all my own. Saved it from a watery grave.”

Stepping to the corner he produced a paper-wrapped package and then revealed the bar he had taken from the speed boat of Angelo Piccalo, Junior.

“Let’s have a look!” Tom Howe’s eyes fairly bulged.

“Say, boy!” he cried ten seconds later. “That’s the bar! Where’d you get it?”

“Why, what do you mean? The bar?”

“I mean it’s the bar that pried that car window open. See! The impression fits exactly. I say! Where’d you get it?”

“Nothing to get excited about,” Johnny grumbled. “Some one stuck it in the back of Angelo’s speed boat. Young Angelo, you know, son of the flower shop man.”

“Back of the boy’s speed boat. Humph!” Slouching down in his chair, Tom fell into a brown study.

“I’ll dig into this whittling business,” he said, at last rousing himself. “There might be something in it. You never can tell.”

CHAPTER XVIII
DREAMING AT DAWN

After ten winks caught in the scout’s cozy cabin, Red Rodgers and Berley Todd were up before dawn.

“I don’t think much of the bush wolves as weather prophets,” Red said in a hoarse whisper. He was ever conscious that their lives were in danger. “What a morning! We must get a rowboat and be away for Passage Island.”

“In the light of day?” The girl pressed his arm hard. “They’d see us. Then all would be at an end. But no, perhaps not. There are islands, small islands all in a row that lie half a mile off this main shore. Once behind those, we would be hidden.”

“Let’s have a look. Which way is the shore?”

“Over this way.” The girl led him down a path that, circling a clump of bushes, led them past a group of buildings that loomed large in the blue-gray dawn.

They passed through tall grass drenched with dew, to climb at last a pile of rocks and finally reach a great boulder that overlooked the water.

In this moment of hushed silence just before dawn, the water was like glass, smooth white glass.

“What could be sweeter? We must find a boat at once.” Red turned his eyes upon the girl.

He realized at once that she had not heard him. She was listening instead for some sound that must come from far away.

Without willing it, he also listened; heard it, too, a long, deep, long-drawn sigh. No human sigh was this, but the sigh of great waters. He heard it again and yet again.

“It is as if Father Superior were waking from his sleep,” the girl whispered. “It tells of a coming storm. We must not go. We must wait.”

They had not long to wait. As the water took on the faint pink of dawn a mist appeared to rise from afar and to steal upon them.

One by one the distant points of land became misty suggestions, mere ghosts of earth. Like ten thousand great white fish leaping in the sea, two miles away white-caps appeared, while in the foreground with the gray-black sky as a reflecting mirror, the water took on a startling clearness.

Gulls ceased to soar and scream. Settling upon a rocky ledge, they stood erect, silent, like uniformed officers observing the outcome of a battle. From time to time a member of the party, some aid-de-camp, came soaring in to report the results of his observation.

And all the time ten thousand spots of gleaming white advanced. Now they were two miles away, a mile and a half, a mile, half a mile. Like some dirigible swept from its mooring, a fragment of cloud detached itself from the vast mass and came sweeping over. It left in its wake a disturbing chill.

And now the spots of white lay before them, at their very feet. A burst of wind swept the hair back from the girl’s temples. The wind increased in volume. Waves began beating at the rocks. A few large rain drops spattered.

And then, with a suddenness that was startling, the storm broke. Rain came down in torrents. Wind twisted at the birches, and set all the spruces whispering and sighing. The ever-increasing roar of water on the rocks vied with the din of crashing thunder. The sky, laced and interlaced by lightning, revealed itself as some vast shroud. There are no storms like the storms of November.

But even the fury of nature is futile. Men do not agree upon man’s destiny. No more does nature agree upon its own. Rain beating upon the water subdued it. White water vanished. The beating of waves subsided. Having outdone itself, in its mad fury, the wind swept the clouds to other lands and other waters. A brief half hour and a scene of surpassing beauty, a tiny world studded with diamonds lay before the waiting pair.

“It is over,” Red whispered from the depths of a great spruce where they had found shelter.

“For now,” came the girl’s experienced reply. “For all that, we do not stir from this spot. Superior has moods all its own. And remember, Superior never gives up its dead.”

Leading the way out from their sheltered nook, she perched herself upon a high rock. Red took a place beside her. When she spoke again a dreamy look had overspread her countenance.

“This,” she said, spreading her arms wide, “this is Isle Royale. Forget the drifting leaves, the gray tossing branches. It is summer now. Night has come and a great golden moon paints a patch of silver down the bay. The rippling water seems alive. Every tiny wave bears a tinier craft upon its bosom—the silver schooner of a fairy.

“Listen! From far down the bay comes, wafted on by the breeze, the faintest suggestion of a song. What is it, the whisper of a bird talking to his mate?

“No. There comes the put-put of a motor, yet even this seems to keep time to the music that, gathering power and sweetness, floats on and on down the bay. A craft appears. All white in the moonlight, it seems as unreal as a fairy’s dream.

“Strange men who drift about our island in tiny gas boats. Like gypsies they are. They are here. Who are they? You do not care to know. Where did they come from? The mines, the forests, the pulp mills perhaps. This does not matter. They are here. They have a tune for you. They belong to the night.

“So, with the moon hanging high, they drift down that silver patch of moonlight to vanish into the night. And still, long after they are lost from sight, comes wafted in by the wind and waves faint, sweet music that one cannot forget. This,” she sighed, “is Isle Royale in summer. And you have not seen it, and have never heard it.”

“But all this—” Red smiled down at her. “All this is play. And I never play.”

“But you will! You must!” she exclaimed in a breath. “You will play with me here. See! A storm is rising, a three days’ storm.

“See! It is light. We are in danger! We must hurry back to our refuge.” Like a gleam of white light she was away.

CHAPTER XIX
NIGHT ON ISLE ROYALE

Once again it was night on Isle Royale. All day a wild south-easter had lashed the waters of Lake Superior into foam. All day in the scout’s cabin Red Rodgers and Berley Todd had waited for that which they felt to be inevitable—the arrival of the kidnapers and the battle that must follow. Or would there be a battle? The snow had melted. No footprints remained. Perhaps Ed could make the outlaws believe they were not there.

For a time after a breakfast of sour dough flapjacks they sat discussing possibilities. After that, overcome by their long vigil, they slept.

Now that night had come, they were as wide awake as night owls.

“It’s tough to be waiting without knowing what they are about,” Red exploded at last. “I’d almost rather meet them face to face and fight it out.”

“Oh, no! Not that!” The girl shuddered. “But we might have a look at them from the Palisades. Surely we’d not meet them on that trail. And, if we should, we could lose ourselves on the instant.”

“Safe enough,” Ed commented.

“What are the Palisades?” Red rose as if prepared to go.

“The highest point on this ridge,” the guide explained. “Trees are cut away there. You can look down a hundred feet to Tobin’s Harbor. Their camp’s back there. If there’s a light showing they will still be in camp. If one moves on the water, you’ll know they are out looking around.