Chapter VI · A WATER TRAIL.

“A rather close organization, you see,” said Pawlinson finally, and with a placidity that was galling.

“What do you mean?” I queried shortly and a bit irritably. The incident hadn’t improved the temper of either of us.

“I mean that Stroth had everything pretty nicely arranged, didn’t he? For your reception, that is. Even to depositing you way out here, where——”

“Hold on!” I snapped sharply. “You yourself were duped as well as I was, and we’ve got no time for words. What do you make out of this?”

“What do you make out of it yourself? According to your own account, you left Stevens yesterday headed off somewhere in the launch from College Point.”

“But that certainly was he just now,” said I.

“Most positively; and his little scheme has thus landed us not only well out of the way of the whereabouts of Stroth, but I know enough of this town to know that we can’t get another cab inside of fifteen minutes. How do you figure the little devil happened in Portland, anyway?”

Pawlinson again favored me with one of those searching looks which were making me hate him more and more heartily.

Fact was, I was getting vastly sick of the entire job. But a sudden thought did, momentarily, throw me into ejaculation.

“By Jove, I’ve got it!” I cried. “Berth number nine!”

“Berth number nine! Here, come, man, we’ve no time to waste! We’ve got to get onto some track immediately.”

“And you must have been the one who occupied number three on the sleeper last night,” I continued.

“You deduce well,” said he, with a grin.

“Well, when I got my own reservation, the ticket seller told me that berth nine was taken from Stamford. So that’s it. Stevens, after running the launch somewhere up the Sound toward Connecticut, left it there and boarded the same train, and from there on——”

“And from there on,” grunted Pawlinson, “even I can follow. But look here. Why didn’t you come out with this sooner?”

“I didn’t connect the thing at all,” I replied.

“No; it seems not.”

“What I can’t make out, though,” I went on, unheeding his manner, “is this: Why in thunder all the care taken to effect the boarding of the Portland steamer by launch from Port Washington?”

“Simply enough understood, Grey,” he said, “when you realize that I had every dock and railway station covered. And a mighty good scheme it was—that of handling the thing by water. I might have known——”

He broke off short. A thought had hit him which brooked not an instant’s further delay in speculation. Much as I had come to dislike the man, I could but admire his promptitude and vim.

He tugged me into a brisk run, and we caught a trolley car which he had managed to whistle to a stop on the instant it was crossing the nearest avenue’s corner.

“To the water,” said he, in indefinite explanation, when we were seated. “The water, that’s it! The cue word in this little job, I believe.”

“What do you mean?”

“Not until to-day have I ever known Stroth to use Stevens for a thing but water work. Fact is, where Stevens is there’s a water trick.”

“You mean that you think——”

“I mean that I’d be willing to stake a hefty sum that the schooner is lying this very minute not two hundred yards off Orr’s Island, right here in Casco Bay.”

“The schooner?”

“Stroth’s boat—the one I was telling you about.”

“But, heavens and earth, man,” said I, raising my voice a bit from the whisper we had kept in the car, “open and aboveboard, broad daylight like this?”

“Didn’t I explain that she carries yacht papers, and isn’t even suspected by a soul?”

“But you seem to know all about her, and I can’t see——”

“I agree with you heartily, my boy. You certainly can’t.”

What kept my hands off of him, I don’t understand, unless it was the reverence I had come to have at his very name as handled among us cubs. And whatever retort I might have mustered was broken short by his jumping off the car suddenly.

“This way,” said he, leading a brisk pace that kept my shorter legs almost trotting.

After three blocks of silence, which our speed necessitated, he whirled sharply upon me. We stood on the sidewalk before police headquarters.

“What kind of a gun do you carry?” he barked out.

“Automatic,” I replied, tapping my chest nearly under my left arm where I favor carrying a firearm.

“Know how to use it?”

“Yes,” said I.

My answer must have carried conviction.

“Then I’ll keep you in on the game a bit longer,” he decided, talking more to himself than to me. “I wouldn’t have time now to acquaint a new man with the facts sufficiently. Come on in.”

I followed him up the stoop, through the door, and across the hall. I recognized the man at the desk. It was Sergeant Hallins, a man who had once been with Chief Garth.

“Why, hello, Grey!” cried the sergeant heartily, thus proving that the recognition was mutual.

I was distinctly pleased at his genial greeting for two reasons. For one thing, I had a very favorable impression of him from my short, former acquaintance; but, at this moment, it suited me nicely enough thus to prove to Pawlinson that I was not exactly a nonentity.

But Pawlinson, for some reason, did not appear at all to like the fact that we knew each other; though it was apparently not because Hallins failed, in turn, to recognize him.

“Sergeant Hallins,” said he, “you got my wire from New York yesterday at this office?”

For a moment Hallins looked from him to me, and back again, until finally I tumbled to the fact that this was the first time they had met each other.

“Mr. Pawlinson,” said I, by way of introduction. “You gentlemen must pardon me, for, of course, I thought that you knew each other.”

Hallins shot Pawlinson another swift glance, a puzzled one, before he replied:

“You mean the wire about the schooner, Mr. Pawlinson?”

“Naturally; since it was the only one I sent,” drawled the Washington detective in that sarcasm which I now saw was not for me alone. “Did she arrive in Portland Harbor to-day?”

“Yes,” replied Sergeant Hallins. “The schooner Ruby Light arrived here shortly after dawn, and dropped her hook off Orr’s Island, as usual.”

There was a distinct hesitancy, coupled to what was almost bewilderment, in Hallins’ tone.

“And you have kept note of her movements to-day?”

I could see the imperiousness of the tone grated upon Hallins as much as it had upon me; but he replied civilly enough:

“One of my men in the rôle of a bumboatman was on her decks for upward of an hour. It seems that she is fitting out for a rather longer run than usual.”

“Ah!” grunted Pawlinson sharply. “And she sails—when?”

“That he was not exactly able to gather; for the boatswain, a decidedly uncommunicative chap, had to be handled softly.”

“Uh!” broke in the other. “The boatswain was in command?”

“Yes. It seems that he was waiting for Captain Stevens.”

In spite of myself, I started at the name; for as yet I hadn’t stumbled to what way Hallins could have known more about the vessel than I myself. But it came out next breath.

“You must pardon me, Mr. Pawlinson,” continued Hallins haltingly, but as though he must put in the words, “but are you quite positive that you are on the right trail? Dead positive, that is?”

“Why do you ask?” snapped out Pawlinson viciously.

“Simply because I could be almost as dead positive that everything is right in that quarter. I’ve known that boat for some years now. Even when I was working in New York, I used to spend my vacations in Casco Bay, and she has been owned all that time by Mr. Stroth. Why, I’ve even met the owner myself, and upon one occasion was his guest aboard for an afternoon.”

“When was that?” gritted Pawlinson, in a voice which, for all its harshness, carried some uneasiness.

“About four summers ago. Now, what I’m getting at is,” went on the sergeant hurriedly, “the schooner is still owned by the same gentleman, a known yachtsman and above suspicion.”

“Oh, is he?” Pawlinson came to finality. “Well, now, to come to the point, yes. I do know exactly what I am doing; and, furthermore, I’ve no time to waste starting to do it. You say your man who got aboard to-day couldn’t get even an inkling when the start was to be made?”

“Nothing from those on board. But this my man did gather: The vessel can’t start without gasoline; or, at least, the Ruby Light usually does carry considerable.”

“How is that? Can’t start? What’s to keep her?” Pawlinson’s was intense as he fired the questions.

“Why, it happens that the supply tank at the club float where she usually fills sprang a leak early in the day, and the consignment of reserve barrels of ‘gas’ can’t reach her till eight-fifteen at the earliest.”

“Good!” “Fine!” fairly chortled Pawlinson, rubbing his hands together delightedly. “No, you’re right, Hallins, she’ll not start without gasoline, and plenty of it. She never does. She uses her engine a lot.”

Then his voice whirled from gloating to practicality; then to a bit of uneasiness as he glanced over his shoulder out of a window where the sky was dimming to dusk. “What time is it now?”

Hallins glanced at his watch.

“Five to seven.”

“As late as that?” cried Pawlinson. “I can’t believe it. But here, man, we’ve still time to make it. I want ten of your best men, which, with myself and Grey here, will make twelve. And I want the police launch—she’s fast, isn’t she?”

“The police launch?” cried the sergeant bewilderedly.

“Why, yes, of course! You have such an article, haven’t you? Come, come, man, I’m in no mood for delay!”

“But your later wire!” blurted out Hallins.

“My later wire?” Pawlinson fairly yelled. “What in thunder are you getting at?”

“Here!”

Hallins strode hurriedly over to his desk and caught up a yellow telegraph blank.

“I received that not thirty minutes before you stepped in yourself. I thought, of course, you knew what you were about when you sent it.”

“I sent it? I?” shrieked Pawlinson, as he tore open the sheet, where we both read:

“Send patrol launch well manned immediately to Trawly’s Rock. My orders from Washington.

“Pawlinson.”

“And you have sent it?” cried Pawlinson.

“I did wonder that the thing wasn’t in cipher,” admitted Hallins, getting scared. “But I didn’t dare disregard the command from Washington. But who did send it?”

“I wonder if that Stevens——” I broke in excitedly.

“Oh, you do wonder, do you, Grey?” Pawlinson snarled. “Well, for once I shouldn’t be surprised if you were right.”

Nothing could quench the biting vitriol of his tongue.

“Checkmated at every turn! And a pretty pair of asses we are!” he was pleased to put himself thus in with me.

“Now look here, Hallins,” he went on, while I inwardly admired the rapidity with which he shifted the greatest chagrin to action. “And look sharp! When did you send the patrol launch?”

“I guess it must have been ab——”

Here the door swung open, and a clean-limbed young fellow strode over to Hallins.

“Launch’s gone, pop,” said he boyishly. “And the men’re tickled to death at the little outing.”

Then the lad sensed the tenseness of us all.

“Why, what’s the matter?”

“Matter enough!” said Pawlinson shortly, “But no time now to explain to you, boy. Now look you, quick? You have just come from the water front?”

“Yep!” answered the lad, not a bit abashed. “I was here when dad gave the order—he’s training me for the game, you know—and I trotted on down to see ’em start, and——”

“You like the water—know boats? Most boys do. Eh, what?”

Young Hallins grinned.

“Hear that, dad?” he cried. “Me like boats, eh?”.

“The boy’s crazy,” explained Hallins, regaining his composure somewhat. “He’s got the fastest thing in the harbor—built it himself, too.” The proud parent showed here.

“She’s good for twenty-five an hour flat,” boasted the youth.

“Where is that boat now?” barked out Pawlinson, and then I caught his drift.

“Down at the float. Old Pete looks out for her for me.”

“What’s she worth?” snapped Pawlinson. “Don’t be afraid to make it high, my boy. Washington’s paying for her. I’ve got to have her.’

“Don’t want to sell her,” came the reply, in as sharp a decision as Pawlinson’s own. “But you can have her to use on that kind of lay for nothing.”

The boy warmed to the snap of adventure.

“But do you know how to run one?” came his next query. “I’ll go myself and run her for you.”

Pawlinson cast an interrogative glance at Hallins.

“No,” declared the father decidedly. “He’s a bit young for his spurs yet, Mr. Pawlinson. But, by all means, take the launch. Anything we can do to right matters, and to——”

“Why, of course! Why didn’t I think of it before?” interrupted my companion. “You, Grey, are up on motors. Yesterday proved that; and I’m glad now I kept you—even after to-day. Come, lad, lead us to that speed boat of yours; and, take my word for it, you won’t lose by it.”

A five-minutes fast run brought us to the waterside; and there, moored cleverly in a sheltered nook behind some piling, lay a slim, gray craft of which that boy builder might well be proud.

Pawlinson and I clambered into the cramped cockpit, and luck favored us in that I was familiar with the make of engine.

I immediately took hold and started her.

“Good! You know ’em!” chuckled the boy; and I felt the genuine compliment.

“How far to Trawly’s Rock, lad?” cried Pawlinson, taking the wheel.

“About ten miles from here, and right past Peak’s Island,” yelled young Hallins. “That’s the quickest way.”

Then he raised his voice even higher, for the engine was no silent affair:

“But if you’re intending to land at the rock, you’ll have to have a dink.”

“A dinghy?” grumbled Pawlinson petulantly. “What for? Seconds count now, you know.”

“Here, I’ve got you,” replied the boy, whirling on an old fossil who had been silently viewing our departure. “Old Pete’ll lend you his punt. She tows like a breeze. She will cut down your speed; but you just got to have one if you mean to land there.”

Old Pete mumbled something around his pipestem;

“How’s that?” I queried impatiently.

“Oh, that’s all right,” assured young Hallins. “I’ll make it all right with Pete after you’ve gone.”

And, without further parley, he passed me the painter of one of those small scows that have justly won their way into favor among yachtsmen as tenders.

At first mention of this small delay, Pawlinson had gritted out an impatient imprecation; but a glance I later cast at him saw his brow clear at a thought.

A quickly thrown clove hitch of the punt’s painter; then I threw in the propeller. The shaft was chain-driven.

She picked up speed immediately; and, even towing the small boat as we were, I reckoned on about seventeen miles an hour. But, notwithstanding, I was impatient at the check, for I soon saw that the lad had not overestimated when he spoke of twenty-five for the beauty.

“Confound that scow!” I ejaculated as we headed out into the bay.

“Can’t be helped, my boy,” replied Pawlinson almost genially. “It might come in useful, you know.”

I believe now that he must have had his plan cooking even then.

TO BE CONTINUED.

HAZING THE PROFESSOR.

A party of smart young students in a small town in Kentucky, last winter conceived the brilliant idea of hazing their new teacher. It was decided to invite him to accompany them coon-hunting some night, and, after leading him about in the woods until completely bewildered, to abandon him, and leave him find his way back to the village or remain in the woods all night. Now, as the pedagogue was a stranger, and weighed nearly two hundred pounds, this scheme seemed too funny for anything, and many a hearty laugh did they have over it. The invitation was given and accepted, and the appointed night came, cold and clear, with several feet of snow on the ground. Everything moved on as per arrangement, the professor seeming guileless and unsuspecting, but from beneath his puffy eyelids now and then gleamed an amused twinkle. The party had plodded through the snow for several hours, and the ringleader was about to give the signal to disperse, when the professor sank to the ground with a groan of agony.

“Oh, oh!” he moaned; “oh, one of my attacks again! Quick, boys, for mercy’s sake, get me to a place of shelter, or I’m a dead man!”

Talk about scared boys! Here they were five miles from the nearest house, and an apparently dying man on their hands. Something must be done, and quickly, too. A litter was hastily improvised, with coats for cushions, and the suffering professor gently laid thereon, and homeward they started, a sorry set of practical jokers, taking turns at carrying their massive preceptor. No sounds were heard but the heavy breathing of the professor and the grunts of the students, who were straining every nerve to keep from jostling the patient. After what seemed to be scores of miles, the weary, bedraggled fellows carefully set down their burden, to snatch a few minutes’ rest before entering the town, which was within a stone’s throw, when, what was their surprise to see the professor rise leisurely from his comfortable couch, and coolly observe:

“Much obliged, boys! much obliged! But one word: The next time I wished to play practical jokes I wouldn’t select an invalid for a subject.”

The boys are not over it yet.