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

As for the Tremaines and their ward, they had met friends from the North, and were enjoying themselves. There were drives, automobile rides, short excursions, and the like. At night there was the hotel ball to take up the time of the ladies.

“It’s rather a new world to us, chum, and a mighty pleasant one it is too,” said Joe Dawson, quietly.

As for Halstead, though he remained outwardly cool and collected, these were days when he secretly lived on tenterhooks. He haunted the mail clerk’s desk all he could without betraying himself to Dixon.

When asking Randolph to write him at this hotel the young skipper had planned to run up each day from Port Tampa. Now, however, being at the hotel all the time, young Halstead chafed as the time slipped by without the arrival of the letter he expected.

This afternoon, realizing that there was no possibility of a letter before the morrow, Halstead slipped off alone, following the street car track up into the main thoroughfare of Tampa.

Presently, in the throng, Halstead found himself unconsciously trailing after Tremaine and young Mr. Dixon.

“By the way, you’re known at the bank here, aren’t you, Tremaine?” inquired Dixon.

“Very well, indeed,” smiled the older man. “In fact, I’ve entertained the president, Mr. Haight, in New York.”

“Then I wish you’d come in with me, a moment, and introduce me,” suggested the younger man.

“With pleasure, my boy.”

As they stepped inside the bank Halstead passed on without having discovered himself to either of the others.

Henry Tremaine, inside the bank, led the way to Mr. Haight’s office.

“Mr. Haight,” he said to the man who sat at the sole desk in the room, “my friend, Mr. Dixon, has asked me to present him to you. He’s a good fellow, and one of my yachting party.”

Mr. Haight rose to shake hands with both callers.

“I wish to cash a check for a thousand,” explained Dixon, presently.

“You have it with you?” inquired President Haight.

“Yes; here it is.”

“Ah, yes; your personal check,” said Mr. Haight, scanning the slip of paper. “Er – ah – er – as a purely formal question, Mr. Tremaine, you will advise me that this check is all right?”

Oliver Dixon laughed carelessly, while Henry Tremaine, in his good-hearted way, responded:

“Right? Oh, yes, of course. Wait. I’ll endorse the check for you.”

Nodding, Mr. Haight passed him a pen, with which Tremaine wrote his signature on the back of the check. With this endorsement it mattered nothing to the president whether the check was good or not. Henry Tremaine’s written signature on the paper bound the latter. Mr. Haight knew quite well that Tremaine’s name was “good” for vastly more than a thousand dollars.

“I’ll endorse anything that my young friend Dixon offers you,” smiled the older man, as he passed the check back to the bank president.

“With such a guarantee as that,” smiled Mr. Haight, affably, “Mr. Dixon may negotiate all the paper he cares to at this bank.”

“I may take you up, later on,” smiled the younger man. “I’ve taken such a notion to Tampa that I think I shall buy a place here, and spend a goodly part of my winters here.”

“In that case, if you’ll favor us with your account – ” began Mr. Haight.

“That is exactly what I shall want to do,” the young man assured the bank president.

The money was brought, in hundred dollar bills, and Dixon tucked it away in his wallet. After handshakings all around, the two callers departed.

On coming out of the bank Oliver Dixon trod as though on air. He was beginning to feel the importance of a man who is “solid” at a bank.

Having turned back along the main thoroughfare, Halstead met the pair as they came out of the bank.

“You look rather aimless, Captain,” observed Tremaine, halting and smiling.

“I’m just strolling about taking in the sights of this quaint little old place,” replied Tom.

“And I’ve been making Dixon acquainted at the bank, so that he can cash his checks hereafter without difficulty,” replied Mr. Tremaine. “As I am in a position to know that the young man has a good deal of money about him, I think we ought to require him to lead us to the nearest ice cream place. Eh?”

“He’ll do it,” laughed Tom, easily, “if he’s as good natured as he is prosperous.”

Nodding gayly, young Mr. Dixon wheeled them about, piloting them without more ado in the right direction.

The night’s dance was on at the Tampa Bay Hotel. The strains of a dance number had just died out. Out of the ball-room couples poured into the great lobby of the hotel, rich and fragrant with the plants of the tropics. Doors open on the east and west sides of the lobby allowed a welcome breeze to wander through. Women wore the latest creations from Paris; the black-coated men looked sombre enough beside their more gayly attired ball-room partners. All was life and gayety.

Tom Halstead, who did not boast evening clothes in his wardrobe, had dropped into a chair beside a window in one of the little rooms off the lobby. The breeze had blown the heavy drapery of the window behind his chair, screening him from the gaze of anyone who entered the room – a fact of which the young skipper was not at that moment aware.

Into this room, with quicker step than usual, came a young woman. Into her face had crept lines of pain. She looked like a woman to whom had come a most unwelcome revelation.

At her side, pale and over-anxious, stepped a young man. Yet his face was strongly set, as the face of a man who did not intend to accept defeat easily.

The young woman wheeled abruptly about, looking compassionately at her escort. Then she spoke; it was the voice of Ida Silsbee:

“I can’t tell you how wretched this has made me feel, Mr. Dixon,” she said, in a low voice. “So far, I have given no thought to marriage.”

“Do – do you love anyone else?” he inquired, huskily.

“No,” she answered, promptly. “I am heart-free – utterly so.”

“Then why may I not hope?” he demanded, eagerly.

“No, no; it would be worse than unkind for me to let you even hope that I might change my answer. I do not care for you in the way that a woman should love her husband.”

“Have you any real objection to me?”

“Yes,” she answered, clearly, steadily, meeting his eyes. “My objection is not one that should cause you any humiliation, Mr. Dixon. It is simply that you do not combine the qualities that I would expect in the man I married.”

“But you have not known me long. Perhaps – ”

“I have seen enough of you, Mr. Dixon, to feel certain that I should never feel a deep affection for you.”

“If you have discovered anything about me,” he pleaded, intensely, “I might be able – would be able – to change for your sake.”

“That, of all, is least likely,” she replied, honestly, seriously. “If you were the man to win my heart, Mr. Dixon, you would already have shown the traits, the characteristics, that would interest me in a man.”