The Motor Boat Club and The Wireless: or, the Dot, Dash and Dare Cruise

“Come to my stateroom, sir, if you please,” requested Captain Hampton, and Tom followed.

“When you take a man with a fractured skull ashore, the authorities may want some explanation,” declared the ‘Constant’s’ sailing master, opening his desk. “Here is a statement, therefore, that I have prepared and signed. Take it with you, Captain–”

“Halstead,” supplied Tom.

The motor boat boy glanced hurriedly through the document.

“I see you state it was an accident, Captain Hampton,” went on Halstead, lowering his voice. “Our charter-man, Mr. Seaton, intimated that he believed it might have been a deliberate assault. Have you anything that you wish to say on this point, sir?”

“I don’t believe it was an assault,” replied the ship’s master, musingly. Halstead’s quick eye noted that Hampton appeared to be a sturdy, honest sea-dog. “Still, Captain Halstead, if you would like to question the steward who found Mr. Clodis at the foot of the main saloon companionway–”

“Have you made the investigation thoroughly, sir?”

“I think so – yes.”

“Then nothing is likely to be gained, Captain, by my asking any questions of a steward you have already questioned.”

The mate came back to report that Mr. Clodis had been carried over the side, and that his baggage had been taken aboard the “Restless.”

“I know you don’t want a liner held up,” Tom went on, slipping Captain Hampton’s report of the accident into his pocket. “I’ll go over the side, sir, as soon as you can ascertain whether Mr. Clodis had any papers that ought to be sent ashore with him.”

“There are none in the injured man’s pockets,” replied the steamship’s sailing master, “and none were deposited with the purser. So, if there are any papers, they must be in Mr. Clodis’s trunk or bag.”

“Thank you, sir. Then I’ll bid you good-bye and hurry over the side,” said Halstead, energetically.

As they stepped out of the stateroom a passenger who had been lingering near stepped up.

“Oh, one moment,” said Captain Hampton, suddenly. “Captain Halstead, this gentleman is Mr. Arthur Hilton. Since leaving New York he has received some wireless news that makes him anxious to return. He wants to go ashore with you.”

Arthur Hilton had stepped forward, holding out his hand, which Tom took in his own. Mr. Hilton was a man of about thirty, smooth-faced, with firm set jaws. Though evidently not a Spaniard, he had the complexion usual to that race. His dark eyes were keen and sharp, though they had a rather pleasant look in them. He was slender, perhaps five feet eight inches tall, and, although his waist and legs were thin, he had broad, rather powerful looking shoulders.

“You can set me ashore, can’t you, young man, for a ten-dollar bill?” inquired Hilton.

“Certainly, if Captain Hampton knows no reason why you shouldn’t leave the vessel,” Tom answered.

“Mr. Hilton has surrendered his passage ticket, and there is nothing to detain him aboard,” replied the steamship’s master.

“Your baggage ready, sir?” asked Tom.

“Nothing but this bag,” laughed Hilton, stepping back and picking up his hand luggage.

“Come along, then, sir.”

As Tom Halstead pressed his way through the throng of passengers gathered on deck, he heard several wondering, and some admiring, remarks relative to the youthfulness of the skipper of so handsome and trim a yacht.

Hilton followed the young skipper down over the side. Tom turned to help him to the deck of the “Restless,” but Hilton lightly leaped across, holding his bag before him. Tom Halstead, as he turned, got a good look at that bag. It was one that he was likely to remember for many a day. The article was of dark red leather, and on one side the surface for a space as large as a man’s hand had been torn away, probably in some accident.

“Here’s the passage money, Captain,” said Hilton, passing over a ten-dollar bill. Murmuring his thanks, the young skipper crumpled up the bill, shoving it into a trousers pocket, then hurried aft.

Clodis was a short, almost undersized man of perhaps forty-five, stout and well dressed. His head was so bandaged, as he lay in the lower berth of the port stateroom, that not much of his face was visible.

“He’s unconscious, and probably will be for hours,” stated Dr. Burke, as Captain Tom appeared in the doorway. “If he comes to, I’ve left some medicine with your steward, to be given the patient. Of course you’ll get him ashore and under medical care as promptly as possible, Captain.”

“Surgeons are on the way from Beaufort to meet us,” the young skipper nodded.

“Then I’ll return to my ship,” declared Dr. Burke, rising. “But I’m glad to know that Mr. Clodis is going to be met by a friend.”

As the doctor hurried over the side, Hilton turned to walk aft.

“Stay forward, if you please, sir,” interposed Captain Tom. “No one is to go into the cabin until the patient has been removed under a doctor’s orders.”

There was a frown on Hilton’s face, which, however, almost instantly vanished. Joe brought a deck arm chair and placed it for Mr. Hilton on the bridge deck.

“Good luck for you and your patient, sir,” called down Captain Hampton over the rail, as he prepared to get under headway.

“Thank you, sir,” Tom acknowledged. “We’ll take the best care of Mr. Clodis that we know how.”

With Hank on duty in the cabin, Tom Halstead had to cast off and make his own start as best he could. He managed the double task neatly, however, and, as he fell away the “Constant’s” engine-room bell could be heard for half-speed-ahead.

The little auto-whistle of the “Restless” sounded shrilly, to be answered with a long, deep-throated blast from the liner’s steam whistle. With this brief interchange of sea courtesies the two craft fell apart, going on their respective ways.

“Full speed on the return?” called Joe, from the doorway of the motor room.

“Yes,” nodded Captain Tom. “But look out for vibration. Our sick man has had his skull cracked.”

By the time the yacht had gone scooting for more than a mile over the waves, Captain Halstead, left hand on the wheel, turned to Hilton.

“Did you hear how our sick man came to be hurt, sir?”

“I didn’t hear of it until a couple of hours after it happened,” replied Hilton. “I understand that Mr. Clodis fell down the stairs leading to the main saloon, and was picked up unconscious. That was about all the word that was given out on board.”

Captain Tom nodded, then gave his whole attention to making Lonely Island as speedily as possible. There was no land in sight, and the trip back was a long one. Yet the young skipper had his bearings perfectly.

They were still some eight miles off Lonely Island when Hilton roused himself at sight of a low-hulled, black schooner scudding north under a big spread of canvas.

“You’re going to pass close to that boat, aren’t you, Captain?” asked the bridge deck passenger.

“Yes, sir; pretty close.”

“As I understand it, you’re going to land at an island some miles off the coast, whereas I wish to reach the mainland at the earliest possible moment, and catch a railway train. So, Captain, if you’ll signal that schooner and put me aboard, I shall feel under sufficient obligation to hand you another ten-dollar bill.”

That looked so much like earning money rapidly that Halstead called Joe up from the motor room to set the signal. The schooner lay to until overtaken. Hilton discovered that the schooner was bound for Beaufort, and the bargain was quickly completed. A small boat put off from the sailing vessel and the bridge deck passenger, his noticeable bag included, was transferred.

The “Restless” was nearer Lonely Island, and the schooner was hull down, when Captain Tom suddenly started as Joe Dawson stepped upon deck.

“Blazes, Joe!” exclaimed the young skipper. “I’m afraid we’ve done it!”

“I’m afraid so, too,” came quietly from the young engineer.