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

CHAPTER XIX
A TRUCE, UNTIL —

“SO yo’ are Cap’n Tom Halstead. Yes, I reckon yo’ be,” assented the tall, lanky individual whom Tom and Joe found on the deck of the “Restless.”

These two motor boat boys had put off from shore some time in advance of the rest of the Tremaine party.

It had taken them the better part of two days, by carriage, to make the journey down to Tres Arbores, and Tom and Joe had put off at once, leaving Jeff to come out with the Tremaines, Miss Silsbee and Oliver Dixon.

Tom’s astonishment at meeting this stranger, instead of Officer Randolph, showed in his face.

“I’m Bill Dunlow,” volunteered the lanky stranger, thrusting a hand into one of his pockets. “Yo’ see, it was like this: Clayton Randolph had to go up into the interior after a prisoner – ”

“Oh!”

“So he done put me abo’d this boat. Told me jest what yo’ wanted in the way of a watchman, and he lef’ this note fo’ yo’.”

Tom looked over the note, in which Clayton Randolph informed the young captain of his protracted call to police duty, adding that Bill Dunlow was a “right proper man” to take his place.

“It’s all right,” nodded Tom. “I hope, Mr. Dunlow, you haven’t been too lonely out here on this boat.”

Halstead settled with the stranger, who then went ashore in the boat that was returning for the others of the party.

“What are you scowling at?” demanded Joe Dawson, looking keenly at his chum after the boat had left the side.

“Was I?” asked Tom, brightening. There had been reason enough for his scowl.

“Randolph isn’t here, so I can’t take Mr. Tremaine to him. Confound the luck. Off we go to Tampa, and the mystery of the vanished money isn’t cleared up. I wouldn’t attempt to tell Mr. Tremaine without being backed by Officer Randolph or a letter from him. As for going up to that other town, and getting confirmation from Randolph’s elder son, that would be out of the question. The young man wouldn’t say a word about the express company’s business, unless he had orders from his father. And Randolph is away, heaven alone knowing when he’ll be back here. Oh, I hope Randolph also left a note for Mr. Tremaine. But no such luck!”

No wonder Tom Halstead was agitated as he paced the deck from bow to stern. As long as the mystery of the vanished money remained not cleared up he would never feel easy about the stain that it left clinging to Joe and himself – principally to himself.

The boat was coming out again from shore.

“Everybody in it except Dixon,” discovered Halstead, with a start. “I wonder if that fellow has made an excuse to get away? Has he fled? Yet that doesn’t seem just likely, either, after all the attention he showed Ida Silsbee on the way down from Lake Okeechobee. I guess he figures that, if he can once marry Tremaine’s ward, then, no matter what leaks out, Tremaine will keep silent for Ida Silsbee’s sake.”

The boat was soon alongside.

“One passenger shy,” hailed Halstead, forcing himself to laugh lightly.

“Yes,” nodded Henry Tremaine, indifferently. “Dixon happened to think, at the last moment, to go up to the post office, to see if there was any mail for any of our party. Very thoughtful of the young man. We’ll send the boat ashore for him, and he’ll be out here on the next trip.”

Tom Halstead watched the shore closely enough, after that. However, at last, he had the satisfaction of seeing Oliver Dixon wave his hand from the landing stage, and then embark in the rowboat.

“Any mail, Oliver?” asked Mr. Tremaine, as the young man stepped up over the side.

“Two for you, sir, and one for Mrs. Tremaine,” replied young Dixon, handing over the letters. “None for Miss Silsbee, nor any for the crew.”

“None for me, eh?” asked Captain Tom, his tone pleasant enough, to mask his thoughts. “I hope you had some mail for yourself, Mr. Dixon?”

“A bill and two circulars,” nodded the young man, carelessly enough, though he shot a keen look back to meet Skipper Tom’s inquiring gaze.

“Is there anything to prevent our sailing at once, now, Captain?” asked the charter-man. “I know the ladies are keen to be on their way; to the delights of Tampa.”

“I shall have to hold up a little while,” replied Skipper Tom, pointing to the bridge deck chronometer. “I have discovered that it has been running slow while we were away. In navigation it is a matter of importance to have the chronometer just right to the second. But it ought not to take me long. If there’s a watchmaker in Tres Arbores, he can adjust the chronometer within half an hour. Then I’ll come right back, ready to sail.”

Henry Tremaine nodded. Oliver Dixon had gone below, of which fact the young skipper was glad. It gave him a chance to get ashore before Dixon could offer, on some pretext, to accompany him.

The chronometer that the young skipper took over the side with him actually registered twenty-two minutes behind standard time. Sly Tom! He himself had set the hands back while awaiting the coming of the Tremaine party.

Once on shore the young captain hurried to the post office, where he indited an urgent letter to Clayton Randolph. Tom informed the local officer that he had received the latter’s letter, but that it had disappeared before it could be put to use. Halstead urged Officer Randolph, on his return, to send to the captain of the “Restless,” at the Tampa Bay Hotel, another letter by registered mail.

“If you can enclose any other evidence it will be of the greatest value,” Tom wrote, also, by way of stronger hint.

Into the letter Halstead slipped a ten-dollar bill. After sealing the envelope, he handed it to the postmaster, saying:

“Register this, please. And don’t give it to any other than Clayton Randolph – not even to anyone authorized to receive his mail.”

That business attended to, Tom Halstead paid three bills against the boat, then hurried back to the water front, after having set his precious chronometer back to exactly the right time. Again he took boat out to the yacht, and bounding up on deck, his face was wreathed in smiles.

“Old Chronom. is all right, now,” he called to Henry Tremaine, who was seated in one of the deck chairs, smoking. “Now, we’ll start, sir, just as soon as we can get the anchor up.”

Jeff, who had found time to run home to his mother and inform her of his great luck, lent a strong hand in the preliminaries to starting.

“Do yo’ reckon, Cap’n, yo’d let me pilot the ‘Restless’ out o’ this harbor and some o’ the way down the bay?”

“Go ahead,” smiled Captain Tom, who was feeling unusually contented, at last. “Enjoy yourself all you like, Jeff, until it’s time to go below and turn to preparing the evening meal.”

So Jeff Randolph stood proudly by the wheel as the “Restless” pointed her nose down Oyster Bay, over a smooth sea, on her way to that great Florida winter resort, Tampa.

After their rest the twin motors ran, as Joe phrased it, “as though made of grease.” Everybody aboard appeared to be unusually light-hearted.

“It’s a pleasure to cruise like this,” murmured Henry Tremaine, lighting a fresh cigar.

Jeff, happy over his new vocation, put all his lightest spirits into the preparation of the evening meal. As a guide he had had much experience with cookery. The meal went off delightfully.

Dixon, stepping up the after companionway after dinner, a cigarette between his lips, encountered the young sailing master.

“Good evening,” Tom greeted, pleasantly.

“Oh, good evening,” returned Mr. Dixon, smiling and showing his teeth.

“Did you ever see a pleasanter night than this on the water?” asked Halstead.

“Not many, anyway. I hope the ladies will soon come up to enjoy it.”

“I hope so,” nodded Tom. “Somehow, this sort of a night suggests the need of singing and stringed instruments on deck, doesn’t it?”

He spoke with an affectation of good will that deceived even Oliver Dixon, who, after glancing keenly, at the young captain, suddenly said:

“Halstead, you didn’t seem to like me very well, for a while.”

“If I didn’t,” spoke the young skipper, seriously, “it may have been due to a rather big misunderstanding.”

“Of what kind?” demanded Dixon.

“Well, connected with that miserable affair of the missing money.”

“O – oh,” said Dixon, looking still more keenly at the motor boat skipper.

“I knew,” pursued Tom Halstead, “that I didn’t take the money. For that reason, I suppose, I wondered if you were the one who had taken it? Lately, I have had reason to see how absurd such a suspicion would be.”

“What reason?” demanded Oliver Dixon, his eyes almost blazing into Tom Halstead’s face.

“Why, from Mr. Tremaine I’ve gleaned the idea that you’re so comfortably well off in this world’s goods that taking his few thousands of dollars would be an utter absurdity for you. So the vanishing of that money is back to its old footing of an unexplainable mystery.”

“Did you say anything to Henry Tremaine about your suspicion?” inquired Dixon, looking searchingly at the boy.

“No,” retorted Tom Halstead, curtly. “I had only my suspicion of the moment – no proof. I always try to play fair – and I’m glad I did.”

The companionway door was being opened below. The ladies were ready to come up on deck.

Oliver Dixon held out his hand, as though by strong impulse.

“Halstead, you’re a brick!” he exclaimed. “You’re the right sort of young fellow. I don’t mind your first suspicion, since you realize how groundless it was. We shall be better friends, after this. Your hand!”

Tom took the proffered hand – not too limply, either.

“I hope I’ve lulled the fellow’s suspicion until I can strike,” thought the young sailing master.

While Oliver Dixon said hurriedly to himself:

“This fellow was dangerous, but now I begin to think he’s a fool. If I can keep him lulled for a few days more I may have all my lines laid. Then I can laugh at him – or pay someone to beat him properly!”

Diplomatic Tom! Crafty Dixon!

The ladies had come on deck.

CHAPTER XX
AN INNOCENT EAVESDROPPER

DOWN at Port Tampa, out in the bay, lay the “Restless” at anchor.

Jeff Randolph was aboard the yacht, in sole charge. That Florida boy couldn’t have been coaxed on shore, no matter what the allurement offered. He was supremely happy in the realization of his great ambition.

For four days, now, the Tremaines and their friends, including Captain Halstead and Engineer Dawson, had been at the big, luxurious Tampa Bay Hotel, at Tampa proper, nine miles up from the port.

Both Tom and his chum had demurred mildly, when invited to go with the rest of the party to the hotel.

“Oh, come along,” said Henry Tremaine, genially. “It will do you youngsters good to get away from your yacht once in a while. Up at the hotel you will mix with people, and learn some things of the ways of the world that can’t be learned on the salt water.”

Borne right down in their mild resistance, the boys had yielded and gone with the party.

Nor did either Halstead or Dawson feel at all out of his element in the sparkling life of the great hotel. Both were self-possessed boys, who had seen much of the world. Both were quiet, of good manners, and their shore clothing, once their uniforms were discarded on board the “Restless,” were of good cut and finish.

Altogether, they did enjoy themselves hugely at this fashionable winter resort. Moreover, they made quite a number of pleasant acquaintances in Tampa, and found much to make the time pass pleasantly.

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.”

“And I have not shown those traits?”

“You have not.”

“Then wait! Perhaps – ”

Ida Silsbee laid an appealing hand on the arm of the pallid-faced young man.

“Do not hope. Do not give this unhappy fancy any further encouragement, Mr. Dixon. To say what I am saying now gives me the greatest pain I have felt in many a year. But, believe me, there is absolutely no hope that I can ever love you. My own heart tells me that most positively. You understand, don’t you? It will be worse than folly ever to think of repeating our talk of these last few minutes. I am heartily sorry, but I do not love you, Mr. Dixon, and I am wholly certain that I never shall. Now, please lead me among others that we may be certain not to carry this wholly unpleasant, impossible conversation any further.”

It was said in all gentleness. Yet, as he watched her while she was speaking, Oliver Dixon realized that this young woman knew her own mind thoroughly. He saw, and believed, that he could never be anything to her.

“A heart’s Waterloo, then,” he sighed, with a bitter smile. He bowed, offering her his arm. “I shall not distress you again, Miss Silsbee.”

They turned, passing from the room, joining the throng in the lobby.

Tom Halstead? He had heard every word. Too honorable to play the eavesdropper, he had risen at once. Then he had halted for a brief instant, that he might think what best to do in the circumstances.

From the first word the conversation had told its own story swiftly. Captain Halstead, at the very moment of impulse to step from behind the draperies and proclaim his presence, drew back. By showing himself was he not far more likely to bring great annoyance upon Ida Silsbee?

The scene had passed swiftly. While Tom Halstead was rapidly trying to make up his mind whether he would annoy Miss Silsbee more by showing himself, the pair turned and left the room.

“That makes me feel like a mean hound!” Tom Halstead muttered, indignant with himself, though he was not at fault. “I had no notion of playing the spy, yet I’ve done it. Confound it, there’s only one reparation I can make, and that is to hold my lips padlocked!”

He waited but a decent interval, then stepped from the room, afraid that, if he lingered in his former seat, he might be forced to be a witness to more such scenes. Though Halstead had no means of knowing it, that little room had been the scene of hundreds of proposals of marriage.

“Yet, now that I do know what I had no business to find out in that way,” murmured Skipper Tom to himself, “I’ve got Mr. Tremaine’s interests to think about a bit. If Oliver Dixon knows that he has been defeated, then he’ll be likely to get away in a hurry, and without leaving any address behind, for he has at least the money he stole from Tremaine. That is, if he did steal it. Of course he did.”

Hearing the music and the soft, rhythmic swish of feet over the waxed floor, young Halstead presently glanced in through one of the entrances to the ball-room. Dixon was there, dancing with Mrs. Tremaine. The young man had recovered much of his usual self-possession, even forcing a smile. Then Ida Silsbee, still looking pained, glided by, directed by the arm of Henry Tremaine.

“Does Dixon mean to fly?” Tom wondered. “After all, why should he? He’s having a good time, and he doesn’t fear being found out. Besides, he’s very likely a big enough egotist to imagine there’s still a chance of winning Miss Silsbee. No; I hardly think he’ll run away for a while yet.”

None the less the young motor boat captain determined to keep a close eye over the movements of Oliver Dixon.