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

CHAPTER XVIII
THE FIRST KINK OF THE PROBLEM SOLVED

Again the roaring chorus rang out.

“What’s this? College boys’ joke on me, or a floating mad-house?” huskily roared down the freighter’s captain from the bridge.

“It’s all right, captain,” sang back Tom Halstead. “We’ll make it plain to you as soon as we get a chance. We’re neither as bad nor as dangerous as we seem.”

The “Glide’s” headway had all but ceased by this time, and the side gangway was at last in place. The “Restless” was run in close, while Hank stood up on the top of the forward deck-house with a coil of line, waiting until it came time to leap across onto the platform of the freighter’s gangway and make the line fast.

As quickly as the line was secured Captain Tom Halstead followed Butts, and dashed on past him up the steps of the gangway. Ab and Dick came down to meet him, each grabbing one of the young skipper’s hands and wringing it.

Then they turned to give the same greeting to Joe Dawson, who gasped:

“Gracious, but it does seem good to meet fellows of the Club and from the old home town at that!”

Mr. Seaton, though following in more leisurely fashion, now passed them, going on up to the deck. There he met Captain Rawley.

“Don’t mind what my young men do, captain,” begged the charter-man, “and don’t mind if they delay you for a few minutes. I’ll make good the damage.”

“Help yourself to a little of my time, then, sir,” grimaced the freighter’s captain. “Anything that I can spare from the proper time of the run, you understand.”

“How on earth do you fellows happen to be on this ship, of all places in the world?” demanded Tom Halstead.

“Easy enough to explain,” laughed Dick Davis. “Port authorities at Rio were good enough to order six motor boats for harbor purposes. My dad got the chance of building the boats at his yard at Bath. The Rio motor boats are on board, down in the hold, and Ab and I are sent along to deliver the motor boats, put them in running order at Rio, and, if necessary, teach the natives how to run such craft.”

“Did you fellows know we were signaling you by wireless?” Joe was asking Ab Perkins. “Did you know that you were going to see us?”

“Didn’t know a blessed thing about it,” admitted Ab Perkins, almost sheepishly. “Dick and I were asleep in our stateroom. We were getting ready to come out on deck when we felt the old tub slackening speed. Then we came out to see what was happening. We looked over the rail, and —wow!”

Ab again seized Joe Dawson’s hand, giving it another mighty shake. Then the irrepressible Ab reached out for Tom’s hand, but Dick Davis was drawing Halstead up on deck.

Readers of the first volume of this series will remember both Ab and Dick well. They, too, were boys born near the Kennebec River, and took part in the stirring adventures narrated in The Motor Boat Club of The Kennebec, just before Tom and Joe left for the next scenes of their activities, as related in The Motor Boat Club at Nantucket and The Motor Boat Club off Long Island. Ab Perkins and Dick Davis were two of the most valued of the early members of the Club.

All in a twinkling, Tom Halstead was seized by an idea. He looked about for Powell Seaton, saw that gentleman talking with Captain Rawley, and caught the charter-man’s eye.

“See here, Mr. Seaton,” whispered Halstead, as soon as he had gotten his employer aside, “there’s no great need for me to go to Rio.”

“No?”

“Of course not. Give the papers to Dick Davis, with exact instructions as to who is to receive them at Rio Janeiro, and those papers will get into exactly the hands for which you intend them.”

“You feel certain of that, Halstead?” demanded Powell Seaton, his voice tremulous with anxiety.

“Absolutely sure, sir. Dick Davis can be trusted as long the world holds together. There isn’t the faintest yellow streak in him, either. Square, straight, keen, brave – that’s Dick Davis. And Ab Perkins would go through the jaws of anything with Davis! Why, Mr. Seaton, they’re Motor Boat Club boys! You can trust them to the same degree as you’re willing to trust me. Moreover, they’re going down to Rio on a mission to the Government. They’ve got a better chance to get ashore, unmolested and unwatched, than any other stranger would have.”

“Get your friends together, then, somewhere where we can have a private corner,” begged Powell Seaton. “We’ll talk this matter over – we’ve got to talk like lightning, at that.”

While Mr. Seaton sought Captain Rawley, Tom shot back along the deck to where Joe, Hank and the two Rio-bound members of the Motor Boat Club stood talking.

“Hank,” said Tom, in a low voice, “Hepton is all alone down on the ‘Restless,’ except for our prisoner aft. Hepton may be all right, and I think he is – but one of our own crowd ought to be on board our boat.”

“I’ll be the one, then,” half-sighed Hank Butts, turning to descend the side gangway.

Captain Rawley promptly agreed to turn his own cabin over to the friends who wanted a private chat.

“But only for five minutes, mind you,” he insisted. “Then I must be on my way.”

Behind the closed door of the captain’s room Powell Seaton and Tom Halstead swiftly explained what was wanted.

“Will we do it?” said Dick Davis, repeating the question that had been asked him. “Why, of course we will. There’s only one answer possible. Tom Halstead is fleet captain of the Motor Boat Club, and a request from Captain Tom is the same thing as an order.”

“You will go straight to the American consulate at Rio Janeiro, then,” directed Mr. Seaton. “From the consulate you will send a messenger to bring to you Shipley D. Jarvis, whose address is the American Club. The American consul will be able to assure you that it is Shipley D. Jarvis who comes to you. You will turn over these papers to Mr. Jarvis in the presence of the American consul. A letter from me is in the envelope with the papers. That is all, except–”

After a brief pause Mr. Seaton went on to caution Dick Davis and Ab Perkins as to the dangers against which they must guard on the way. This Tom Halstead supplemented with an exact description of Anson Dalton and of Captain Dave Lemly, of the now seized “Black Betty.”

“Either, or both, of the rascals may board this ship a little further along,” cautioned Mr. Seaton. “Night and day you must be on your guard against them.”

Then Tom Halstead quickly outlined to Davis a system of apparently common-place wireless messages by means of which Davis might be able to keep Mr. Seaton informed of the state of affairs, for some days to come, on board the “Glide.”

Some further last instructions were added. Powell Seaton wound up by forcing a few banknotes into the hands of both these unexpected messengers.

“Wait until we’ve succeeded,” proposed Dick Davis.

“This is for expense money, for sending wireless messages, and other things,” replied Mr. Seaton. “Your real reward will come later on.”

“When we’ve succeeded,” nodded Davis.

So much time had been taken up by this talk that now all had to step out on deck.

“We’re ready to go aboard our boat, sir,” Skipper Tom reported.

“You and Dawson go, Halstead,” nodded Mr. Seaton. “I want not more than sixty seconds with Captain Rawley in his own room.”

When the charter-man of the “Restless” came out once more the thick pile of banknotes in his pocket had grown a good deal thinner, but Captain Rawley had been enlisted as a friend to the cause.

“Good-bye, old chums,” cried Dick Davis, gripping a hand of Tom and Joe with each of his own.

“Good-bye! Good luck now, and all the way through life!” murmured Tom, earnestly, and with a hidden meaning that Davis caught.

As speedily as Tom and Joe had assisted Powell Seaton aboard the motor boat, Hank cast off, while the crew of the “Glide” began to raise the side gangway.

There were more rousing farewells between the two groups of Motor Boat Club boys. Then the hoarse whistle of the “Glide” sounded, and the freighter began to go ahead at half-speed.

The “Restless” fell away and astern, yet she followed the freighter. That she should do so had been understood with Captain Rawley, and with Dick and Ab. Powell Seaton intended to keep the “Glide” within sight for at least thirty-six hours, if possible, in order to make sure that the seventy-foot drab boat did not attempt to put Anson Dalton or any other messenger on board.

“If we stick to the sea for a hundred years, Joe,” laughed Skipper Tom, as he followed the bigger craft at a distance of eight hundred feet, “nothing as lucky as this is likely to happen again. I was afraid I was booked for Rio, for sure, and it made me heartsick to think of leaving the ‘Restless’ so long and living aboard a big tub of an ordinary, steam-propelled ship!”

“I’ve taken the step, now, and can’t very well change it,” declared Mr. Seaton, who looked both pale and thoughtful. “Halstead, all I can hope and pray for is that your comrades on the ship ahead are as clever and watchful, as brave and honest as you think.”

“If wondering about Dick and Ab is all that ever worries me,” laughed Tom Halstead, easily, “I don’t believe I shall ever have any wrinkles. I know those boys, Mr. Seaton. We were born and raised in the same little Maine seacoast town, and I’d trust that pair with the errand if it were my own diamond field at stake.”

The fog had lifted sufficiently, by this time, so that clear vision was to be had for at least a quarter of a mile.

Skipper Tom whistled as he handled the wheel. Joe Dawson was so relieved in mind that, after a careful look at the motors, he threw himself upon one of the berths opposite and dozed. Hank put in his time looking after preparations for supper.

“What ails you, Halstead?” demanded Seaton, pausing abruptly beside the young skipper.

For the boy had turned, suddenly, to a sickly pallor.

“It has just struck me, sir,” confessed the young motor boat skipper, “that, if Dalton has the slightest suspicion of what we’ve done to outwit him, he’s just the man who will be desperate enough to put his whole set of papers in at the nearest cable office for direct sending to Rio Janeiro!”

CHAPTER XIX
HELPLESS IN THE NORTHEASTER!

“I’ve already thought of that,” nodded Powell Seaton.

“And it doesn’t worry you, sir – doesn’t make you anxious?” questioned Captain Tom Halstead.

“No. Of course, Dalton might cable the full contents of the papers. If the paper could fall only into Governor Terrero’s hands it would be well worth the cable tolls. But if such a cablegram were sent, openly, to Terrero, or one of his representatives, it would have to go, first of all, through the hands of the Government officials who have charge of the cable.”

“But couldn’t Terrero fix that?” asked Halstead.

“No; Rio is out of his state, and beyond the sphere of his strongest influence. Now, if I were to land in Rio Janeiro, I would be arrested on a warrant issued by Terrero’s judges, up in the state of Vahia, and I would have to go to Vahia for trial. Undoubtedly Terrero’s rascally officers would shoot me on the way, and report that I had tried to escape.”

“Then what harm could it do to Terrero’s chances for Dalton to send him the cablegram direct?”

“Why, either the cable officials in Rio are very great rascals, or else they are honest officials. If they are rascals, they might hold the cablegram long enough to act for themselves on the information it contained. On the other hand, if they are honest officials, then they would undoubtedly notify the Government of such a stupendous piece of news. The Government would then very likely take charge of my diamond field itself, which would be wholly legal, for the Government already owns many, if not the greater number, of the producing diamond fields of that country. So, if the Government, acting on information from its cable officials, took possession of the news and of the diamond field, what good would the cablegram do Governor Terrero? No; you may be very sure that Dalton won’t send the contents of the papers by cablegram. He undoubtedly has the strongest orders from Terrero against doing that.”

“I feel better, then,” Tom admitted. “For the moment it came over me, like a thunderbolt, that Dalton might nip all our work in the bud by sending a cablegram. Still, couldn’t he send it by code?”

“No; for only the ordinary codes can go through the Brazilian cable offices, and the Government officers have the keys to all the codes that are allowed. Rest easy, Halstead; Dalton won’t attempt to use the cable.”

“Then, if he doesn’t get aboard the ‘Glide,’ we’ll beat him out to Brazil – that’s the surest thing in the world!” cried Tom, with as much enthusiasm as though the great fortune at stake were his own.

They were still following in the wake of the “Glide.” Once in a while Dick Davis or Ab Perkins had the operator on the freighter flash back a wireless message of a friendly, personal nature. Joe answered all these.

For thirty-six hours this pleasant stern-chase lasted. By night the helmsman of the “Restless” kept the searchlight enough in use to make sure that the drab boat did not appear.

“Dalton and Lemly lost the ‘Glide,’ if they were looking for her, in the fog,” chuckled Halstead, in huge satisfaction. “Any Rio-bound boat they can catch now is hopelessly to the rear of the ‘Glide,’ I reckon.”

Joe, by wiring back, and asking other wireless vessels to relay, from time to time, had ascertained that there was no other steam vessel, bound for Rio, in close pursuit.

Mr. Seaton took his trick at the wheel occasionally. So did Hepton. Joe gave most of his time to the wireless installation, though he maintained charge of the motors, Hank doing most of the work there. All had sleep enough during the cruise south. Joe used some of his spare time in carrying out his former plan of connecting the wireless table with the helmsman by means of a speaking tube.

They were well down the coast of Florida when even anxious Powell Seaton declared that there was no need of cruising longer in the wake of the “Glide.” He felt certain that the freighter had entirely eluded the vigilance of those on board the drab boat.

By this time the supply of gasoline was nearly out. Tom had cautioned the charter-man that so long a run would use up about the last of their oil. There was, however, a small sail fitted to the signal mast. Now, when the crew of the “Restless” turned back, the sail was hoisted and power shut off.

“We’ve oil enough to run perhaps three-quarters of an hour, sir,” the young skipper explained. “We’ll have to use that up in making port when we get in sight.”

Sailing aboard the “Restless” proved lazy work at the outset. With this small sail there was not wind enough to carry the boat at much more than two miles per hour on her northwest course for the nearest Florida town where gasoline was likely to be had.

“We’ll have a jolly long sail of it,” laughed Skipper Tom, “unless the wind should freshen.”

“Well, we don’t care,” smiled Mr. Seaton. “At least, you won’t be overworked. And our minds are easier – mine especially.”

“All of us have easier minds,” Halstead retorted. “Don’t you understand, sir, that the rest of us have taken this whole business to heart? We couldn’t be more concerned than we are to see the affairs of our charter parties come through all right.”

“Oh, I believe that,” nodded Powell Seaton. “You boys have been the strongest sort of personal friends to me in my troubles. You couldn’t possibly have made my affairs, and my dangers, more thoroughly your own troubles.”

Two hours later a wireless message came back from the “Glide.” It was from Dick Davis, and couched in vague terms, but meant to inform those aboard the “Restless” that the drab seventy-footer was still out of sight. An hour after that a second message reached the motor boat. Soon after the “Restless” found herself unable to answer, though still able to receive.

“Hank, are you feeling particularly strong to-day?” inquired Mr. Seaton.

“I’m always strong, sir,” replied the young steward.

“Then why not rack your pantry stores in order to supply the biggest thing in a meal for all hands this evening? I feel more like eating than I have any day in a month.”

“You’d have to go to a sure-enough number-one hotel to find a better meal than I’ll put up for this evening,” retorted Hank, grinning gleefully, as he started for the galley.

In such lazy weather Tom Halstead felt that he could go below for a nap, especially as Joe was around. Hepton was left at the wheel. Tom speedily closed his eyes in one of the soundest naps he had enjoyed in many a day. He was awakened by Hank, who came into the stateroom and shook him by the shoulder.

“Weather’s all right, up to now,” Butts informed the young captain. “Still, we don’t like the looks of the sky, and the barometer is beginning to show signs of being eccentric. Won’t you come up on deck for a minute, anyway?”

Tom was out of his berth in a twinkling. There was enough of the sea-captain in him for that. The instant he reached the deck his gaze swept around anxiously, inquiringly, at the sky.

“The clouds up on the northeast horizon don’t look exactly friendly, do they?” he inquired of Joe.

“Don’t know,” replied Dawson. “Haven’t seen enough of them yet.”

“I’m thinking you will, soon,” replied Halstead. “How’s the wind been?”

“From the east, sir,” replied Hepton, who was at the wheel.

“It’s working around to northeast, now,” muttered Halstead. “And it was almost from the south when I turned in.”

Tom stood by the barometer, watching it.

“Trouble coming,” he said, briefly.

Within half an hour his prediction began to be verified. The darkish, “muddy” clouds first seen on the northeast horizon were looming up rapidly, the wind now driving steadily from that quarter. Even with all the smallness of her single sail the “Restless” was heeling over considerably to port.

“Lay along here, Hank, and help me to put a double reef in the sail,” Tom ordered. “I don’t want this little bit of canvas blown away from us.”

As Tom called, he eased off the sheet, and Hepton lounged away from the wheel.

“Too bad,” muttered Hank Butts. “We’ve been making a good four knots since the wind freshened.”

“I’m out of a guess if there isn’t a wind coming that’d take a sail out of its fastenings in ten seconds,” rejoined Halstead, working industriously with the reeves.

A light squall struck them before the boys had finished their task.

“A September northeaster along this coast is no laughing matter, from all I’ve heard of it,” Tom explained as the two boys took the last hitches. “Now, come on, Hank. We’ll hoist her.”

With long rhythmic pulls at the halyards Tom and Butts got the shortened sail up, making all secure.

“You’d better take the wheel, Joe,” sang out the young skipper. “Hepton, stand by to give a hand if the helm moves hard.”

“You seem rather excited over a pleasant breeze like this,” observed Powell Seaton.

“Wait,” said Tom, quietly. “I only hope I am taking too much precaution. I’ve never handled a boat along the Florida coast before, you know, sir, so it’s best to err on the side of caution.”

Hank was sent off on the jump, now, to make everything secure, while Skipper Tom took his place on the bridge deck at starboard to watch the weather.

“I guess there’ll be time, now, Hank, to rig life lines on the bridge deck,” hinted Halstead, coolly. “Never mind about any aft. Whoever goes below can go through the motor room.”

Catching a look full of meaning in the young commander’s eye, Butts hustled about his new task.

“You seem to be making very serious preparations,” suggested Powell Seaton, seriously.

“Nothing like being a fool on the wise side,” answered Skipper Tom, calmly.

Within ten minutes more the wind had freshened a good deal, and the “Restless” was bending over considerably to port, running well, indeed, considering her very small spread of canvas.

Now, the sky became darker. The weather was like that on shore in autumn when the birds are seen scurrying to cover just before the storm breaks.

“I reckon there’s going to be something close to trouble, after all,” observed Powell Seaton, when it became necessary for him to hold his hat on.

Tom nodded in a taciturn way, merely saying:

“If you’re going to stay on deck, Mr. Seaton, you’d better put on a cap, or a sou’wester.”

Mr. Seaton started below, through the motor room. While he was still there the gale struck, almost without further warning.

“Watch the wind and ease off a bit, Joe,” bawled Skipper Halstead in his chum’s ear.

Joe Dawson nodded slightly. The gale was now upon them with such fury that making one’s self heard was something like work.

Despite the prompt easing by the helm, the “Restless” bowled over a good deal as the crest of the first in-rolling wave hit her.

Powell Seaton, a cap on his head, appeared at the motor room hatchway. Tom motioned him to remain where he was.

Clutching at the rail, Tom Halstead kept his face turned weatherward most of the time. He knew, now, that a fifty-five-foot boat like the “Restless,” weather-staunch though she was, was going to have about all she could do in the sea that would be running in a few minutes more.

Nor did he make any mistake about that. A darkness that was almost inky settled down over them. Bending through the hatchway, the young sailing master yelled to Powell Seaton to switch on the running lights.

“For we’ll need ’em mighty soon, if we don’t now,” Captain Tom added.

Hank reappeared with rain-coats, and with his own on. Hardly had those on deck so covered themselves when, accompanied by a vivid flash of lightning and a crashing peal of thunder, the rain came down upon them. At first there were a few big drops. Then, the gale increasing, the rain came in drenching sheets. The decks began to run water, almost choking the scuppers.

The heeling of the “Restless” was no longer especially noticeable. She was rolling and pitching in every direction, accompanied by a straining and creaking of timbers.

Powell Seaton, standing below, clutching for support, and not much of a sailor at best, began to feel decidedly scared.

“Are we going to be able to weather this, Captain Halstead?” he yelled up, as the young skipper paused close by the hatchway.

Though the noise of the now furious gale prevented Tom from making out the words very clearly, he knew, by instinct, almost, what had been asked of him.

“Weather the gale, sir?” Tom bawled down, hoarsely. “Of course! We’ve got to!”

There was a new sound that made the young sailing master jump, then quiver. With a great tearing and rending the single canvas gave way before the roaring gale. In a trice the sail was blown to fluttering ribbons!