The Motor Boat Club in Florida: or, Laying the Ghost of Alligator Swamp

“Come, get up!” commanded Dawson, energetically. “Get a gun and come down by the door. Tom Halstead is missing, and I’ve got to go after him.”

Though Jeff was, at first, inclined to resent the arousing, as soon as he understood what was in the wind the Florida boy tumbled off his cot in lively fashion and began to pull on his clothes.

“Anything up, Dawson?” softly called Henry Tremaine, poking his head through the doorway of his bedroom.

“Tom Halstead went into the woods, and hasn’t come back,” quivered Joe. “I’m going to look for him.”

“Don’t stir until I get down below,” called Henry Tremaine, sharply. “I’ll be there in a minute and a fraction.”

Nor did Joe Dawson have to wait long ere Henry Tremaine, with hunting rifle in hand, bounded out from the house, followed by Oliver Dixon.

“Dixon will stand on guard here, while the rest of us go into the woods,” declared Tremaine. “Now, lead on quickly, the way you saw Halstead go.”

Off at a quick run started Joe Dawson. They entered the woods, spreading out in a line as they went.

“Here – everybody!” yelled Henry Tremaine, within two minutes. His hail brought Joe and Jeff to him on the jump.

“Look at the ground here,” cried the owner of the bungalow, hoarsely. “There’s been a struggle here.”

“And good old Tom was in it!” panted Joe, making a dive for the ground, then holding up one of the brass uniform buttons bearing the monogram of the Motor Boat Club.

The three discoverers stood staring blankly at one another for the next few seconds.

“See if there’s a trail – look about for it,” commanded Tremaine, himself beginning to search about over the ground.

“Here’s the start of one,” called Jeff, presently. “And now it dies out. Hunters of the Everglades, I reckon, were the men who did this trick. They know how to cover trails. Yet perhaps they’ve given us a clue, for the trail, as it starts, heads toward the water.”

Feverishly these startled ones pressed on to the lake’s edge. As they came down to the water they saw no craft out yonder – nothing but the morning mist over the surface of the lake and the many small islands visible from where they stood.

“Great Scott!” roared Joe. “Look at the pier! The launch is gone – taken from under our very noses!”

It did not require a second look to make sure that the motor boat was, indeed, gone!

CHAPTER XII

WHAT BEFELL THE YOUNG SKIPPER

MINDFUL of the danger from rattlers, which makes the section near the Everglades a dangerous one to travel by night, Tom Halstead proceeded into the forest with great caution.

Every here and there, too, were boggy bits of land in which the feet would sink.

So much care did his choice of path need that the motor boat skipper did not have time to give much heed to anything else.

“Hss-sst!”

That sharp, yet low, sound came to his ears before he had been engaged ten minutes in exploring the dark forest.

Halstead halted instantly, gooseflesh beginning to come out over him, for his first thought was that he was nearing one of the dreaded rattlesnakes.

“Oh, pshaw!” he muttered to himself, after a moment. “Rattlers don’t hiss; they rattle. It must be I imagined that sound.”

Once more he started forward.

“Hss-sst!”

Again the youthful skipper stopped dead short, this time feeling less startled, though he became, if possible, more alert.

“That isn’t a ghostly noise, either, even if there were such a thing as a ghost,” the boy muttered inwardly. “I must be getting close to the makers of the noises. Confound this darkness!”

Tom stood quite still, peering in the direction from which he fancied the slight noise had come.

Suddenly Tom Halstead felt himself seized from behind. There was no time to cry out ere he pitched violently forward on his face, which was instantly buried in the soft grass of a bog. At least two men were a-top of him. Barely had he struck the ground when the young skipper felt the hunting rifle torn from his grasp.

Powerful hands gripped at his throat, the while his hands were yanked behind him and bound. Then he was rolled over onto his back. The grip about his throat was continued until his mouth had been forced open and filled with a big handful of the hanging moss that grows so picturesquely on Florida trees. This was swiftly and deftly made fast in place by a cord forced between his teeth and passed around his head.

“Now, I reckon the young cub can be yanked onto his feet,” came in a low, cool voice from one of the assailants.

Tom Halstead was brought up onto his feet with a jerk. At last, he was able to see all his captors as well as the almost total darkness permitted.

Two of them were white men, in ragged jeans and wearing coarse woolen jackets and nondescript caps. The other two men were negroes; if possible they looked more ragged than their white companions. All seemed to be between the ages of thirty and forty.

“Whew! But this is a hard-looking crowd,” reflected young Halstead, as coolly as he could. “So this is the composite Ghost of Alligator Swamp? Humph! I’ve found the ghost, but I wish it were under better circumstances!”

“This yere,” whispered one of the white pair, to his companions, “is the one we want – the fellow that’s captain of the yacht down in Oyster Bay.”

“Now, why on earth do they want me, especially, and how on earth do they recognize me so easily?” wondered Tom Halstead, with a new start.

“We’se right glad t’ see yo’, suh!” remarked the other white man, with an evil grin. “So glad we won’t even trouble yo’ to walk. Jabe, I reckon yo’ can carry the young gentleman. Pick him up.”

Humming softly, the more stalwart negro of the pair clasped Halstead around the waist, easily raising the helpless boy to one of his broad shoulders.

“Don’ make no trail, now,” warned one of the whites who appeared to be the leader, as he led the way carrying Halstead’s captured rifle.

Their path took them down straight to the water’s edge. From there they worked around to the pier, which, in the darkness, was not visible from the front of the bungalow.

“Thanks to the pair o’ oahs in this yere boat I reckon we can borrow it,” observed the leader, in a low tone. “Jabe, put ouah passenger in the bow o’ the boat an’ set close by him. We can’t have him lettin’ out no yells.”

After Tom had been disposed of in the bottom of the boat – Jabe unconcernedly resting one foot on the body of the prostrate prisoner – the others got in cautiously.

Casting off, one of the white men and one of the negroes possessed themselves of an oar each. With these they noiselessly shoved off into deeper water, after which they took to sculling softly. Thus they went along until they had placed the first of the little islands between themselves and the bungalow. Now, the other pair took oars and began to row in earnest. The oars were always kept in the boat for use in case the motor should break down. The boat was a heavy, cumbersome thing to row, but these men seemed possessed of enormous strength. By the time that daylight began to creep into the eastern sky, some three miles down the lake had been covered.

“Now, I reckon we can staht the motor a little bit, anyway,” observed the leader of these rascals. “Ef we run easy fo’ a few miles, then we’ll be fah enough away so that ouah noise won’t be heard from Marse Tremaine’s house, anyway.”

As soon as the oars had been shipped this fellow bent over the motor. It was evident that he knew something about starting such an engine, for he soon had the motor running all but noiselessly and carrying the boat along at more than four miles an hour. One of the negroes had taken the wheel.

“An houah of this,” chuckled the leader, “and I reckon we can go at the fullest kind o’ speed – straight for the Evahglades.”

As he could not speak, Tom Halstead had been putting in his time with the liveliest kind of thinking, while he silently watched his captors.