The Motor Boat Club off Long Island: or, A Daring Marine Game at Racing Speed

“We’re in a hurry,” replied Halstead. “Really, we can’t spare the speed.”

“But we’re in distress,” argued the man in the other boat. “We ask you for a tow that you’re quite able to give. What’s the answer?”

“That,” retorted Skipper Tom. He pointed at the mast of the “disabled” craft, to which was rigged a small, furled mainsail. “The wind is right, and you can easily make port, even under a small spread of canvas. You’re not in actual distress, and we are in haste. Good-bye!”

Joe’s grinning face appeared at the engine room hatchway for a moment, though it vanished below as the half-speed ahead bell rang. The “Rocket” forged ahead, followed by ugly words from the racing craft.

“Neatly done, Halstead,” greeted the voice of Mr. Delavan, as that gentleman, holding a napkin, appeared at the cabin door below for an instant. “I heard it all.”

“If that fellow hadn’t had his canvas rigged we might have had to stand by him,” replied Halstead.

A few minutes later it was seen that the racing craft was coming in slowly, under that small sail. It looked probable, then, that the break in her engine had been genuine.

Going at full speed, the “Rocket” was not long in making Shinnecock Bay. Soon afterward the young captain ran his craft in at a pier, on which stood a waiting automobile.

“I’ll be back for the rest of my lunch soon, steward,” announced the owner, stepping ashore. He entered the automobile, and was whirled away through the streets of East Hampton. Mr. Moddridge remained in the cabin, though he played nervously with knife and fork, eating little.

In fifteen minutes Francis Delavan returned, walking lazily from the touring car to the deck of his boat, his face expressive, now, of indolent content.

“Take us out a little way, captain,” requested the owner. “We want some good, cool sea air in which to finish the meal, eh, Moddridge?”

“I – I’m too excited to eat,” protested the smaller man. “Tell me, is everything all right at the New York end?”

“Oh, yes, I fancy so,” drawled the owner. “Steward, some more of that excellent salad, if you please.”

As Captain Tom slipped his craft out of Shinnecock Bay once more they made out the mysterious speed boat, still under sail and at a distance, making slowly for the Long Island coast.

“Whatever those fellows have guessed at or discovered,” chuckled Mr. Delavan, glancing at the other boat and then at his watch, as he came on deck, “they can’t hope to reach a telephone in time to catch the Stock Exchange open to-day. Good! Prentiss, come up here. Call Dawson aft if he can leave his engine.”

As the little group met near the wheel Francis Delavan drew out a pocket-book, which he opened.

“Young gentlemen,” he observed, “I believe Moddridge and I have been able to play a most important game in the money world to-day. That was largely through the bright services of my new crew aboard the ‘Rocket.’ Accept this card, each of you, as a little indication of my appreciation.”

The “card” that was held out to each was a twenty-dollar bill. Halstead glanced at it hesitatingly, while his two comrades looked at him.

“Don’t be backward,” urged Mr. Delavan, good-humoredly. “This sort of thing doesn’t happen every day. You’ve really earned it to-day, and my luncheon will set better if you take the money.”

“Thank you,” said Tom, in a low voice. “But we’re under regular salaries to serve your interests, Mr. Delavan.”

It was a little whiff from the gale of fortune that the two Wall Street men believed had blown their way this day.

CHAPTER III

THE BUYER OF SOULS

WHEN the “Rocket” was tied up at her pier at East Hampton, at a little before four o’clock that afternoon, and while Tom and Jed were still busy at the hawsers, the owner and his guest slipped away.

“No orders for the rest of the day, or to-morrow,” remarked Halstead, as soon as he realized the fact. “Oh, well, the orders will probably come down later on. We’ve enough to keep us busy for a while, anyway.”

There is, in fact, always enough to be done aboard a good-sized motor cruiser when the crew have her in at her berth. There is the engine to be gone over, deck and steering tackle to be inspected and perhaps repaired, the searchlight and signal lanterns to be taken care of, and a hundred other routine duties. The steward has his hands full of “housekeeping” affairs.

“I don’t see that speed boat in anywhere,” commented Jed, looking over the harbor.

“She must put up at some other point of the Bay,” Tom replied. “Well, the game of her people was beaten to-day, so I don’t suppose we shall have to feel any more concern about the speed boat.”

Never did Tom Halstead make a more erroneous guess. That same speed boat, as subsequent events will show, was destined to become intensely involved in the affairs of all aboard the “Rocket.”

At five o’clock Jed began to busy himself, in the galley forward, with the preparation of such a meal as young appetites, sharpened by the sea air, demanded. An hour later that meal was ready, and eaten to the last morsel.

Darkness found Tom and Joe pacing the pier together, while Jed reclined lazily in one of the wicker deck chairs on the deck aft.

“I really wish Mr. Delavan had given us some hint of to-morrow’s orders,” muttered Halstead.

“If he wanted to sail early to-morrow I believe he’d have said so,” replied Joe.

“That might be true enough for most days,” argued Halstead. “But think what an unusual day this has been for him. His mind is on the biggest game of a money king’s year.”

“He seemed to take it easily enough,” rejoined Dawson.

“Why, that’s his business mask, Joe. Our new owner is a man who has made himself successful by not allowing himself to get so rattled that he gets everyone around him on pin-points. He felt the excitement of the day’s work well and plenty. Don’t have any hazy ideas about that.”

“But what a fearfully nervous chap little Mr. Moddridge is,” observed Dawson. “It really makes one begin to stutter, just to look at him when he’s worried.”

“Joe,” announced the young skipper, after a look at his watch, “if you and Jed will stay with the boat I’m going to run up to the hotel, just to see if there’s any definite word for us.”

“Don’t take the word from Moddridge, then,” laughed Dawson.

The young skipper didn’t hurry; there was no need of that, and the night, away from the water front, was warm and close. East Hampton is a busy summer resort, and the streets were thronged with girls in summer white and holiday mood, a sprinkling of young men, a good many children and some older people. Not a few turned to gaze after the erect young sailor, in his natty uniform, as Halstead strolled along taking in the sights. Tom knew where the Eagle House was, for that was where he and his mates had first reported to the “Rocket’s” owner. In a few minutes he stepped into the lobby of that handsome summer hostelry.

“Is Mr. Delavan in?” he asked of a clerk at the office desk.

“Mr. Delavan left about half an hour ago,” was the answer. “He and his friend went away in an auto, but I think they went only for a short spin to get the air. If you wish to wait, captain, make yourself at home here.”

“Thank you,” nodded Tom, courteously. “I believe I will wait.”

Passing out onto the porch the young skipper seated himself near the railing. Wind, fog and sunshine had all left their impress of drowsiness on Halstead. Before long he sat with half-closed eyes, thinking slowly of the events of the day, and wondering not a little what unusual business it could be that Messrs. Delavan and Moddridge were pursuing. Back of the young captain men and women were strolling up and down the veranda in little groups, laughing and chatting.

Half sleepily Tom felt a paper touch against his hand. More or less instinctively his fingers closed upon it. Then, with something of a start he sat more upright, bringing that hand from his side to his lap.

It was a single, small sheet, folded once. Opening it, Captain Tom read these typewritten words:

As a most important matter of business take a walk at once, out over the Bridge Road. Continue walking, perhaps for a quarter of a mile, until you are accosted. Remember that Fortune rarely knocks at any man’s door. This is your opportunity to line your pockets with greenbacks of large denominations. Come and meet one who truly enjoys seeing a young man prosper, and who will take pleasure in showing you how you may soon have a fine bank account. But come at once, as your well-wisher’s time is very limited.

“Arabian Nights! Fairy tales!” smiled Captain Tom Halstead, showing his teeth. “Who is putting this up on me, and what is the joke, I wonder?”

He was about to toss away the piece of paper, after tearing it up, when a new thought stayed him.

“There may be something real in this,” thought the boy. “Mr. Delavan and his friend certainly appeared a bit worried over that racing craft. If there’s anything behind this note Mr. Delavan will want to know what it’s about, and so shall I.”