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

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.

CHAPTER XXI

DIXON STOCK DROPS

“JOE, you can keep yourself so easily out of sight, somehow, that I’m going to use you to play the spy to-day,” hinted Captain Tom to his chum, after the two had had an early breakfast together.

“I’m not afraid of anything you use me for,” Dawson retorted.

“You must have a better opinion of me than I have of myself sometimes,” retorted the motor boat captain, thinking of his unintentional eavesdropping of the night before.

“What do you want me to do?” Joe Dawson asked.

“You know the morning train that leaves here, for Washington and New York?”

Joe nodded.

“Get aboard that train as soon as it comes in on the spur. If Oliver Dixon is aboard of it, and doesn’t leave when the Tampa station is reached, then jump out and telephone me here.”

“And then – ?”

“Hustle aboard again, keeping Dixon in sight, but try to keep yourself out of his line of vision.”

“Something must be in the wind,” commented Joe.

“Something is in the wind,” his chum admitted. “If Oliver Dixon tries to leave here to-day, then I shall go to Mr. Tremaine, and he’ll very likely decide to have the authorities telegraph ahead to have Dixon arrested. If that should happen, you’ll be there to see that the officers don’t get someone else by mistake.”

“But Dixon might go around through the town of Tampa, instead,” objected Joe. “He might be too smart to take the northbound train here at the hotel.”

“Yes; or he might go through the town and take the Florida Central train,” assented Halstead. “If he doesn’t leave here by the train, but goes up through Tampa, then you, on board the train, will see him if he gets aboard at the Tampa station. If he doesn’t go by that train, you’ll be here in season to shadow him away in case he tries to leave by the Florida Central. So he can’t start north to-day without our knowing it. It’s best for you to do this work. Then, if Dixon is watching me, he’ll find me sitting on one of the porch chairs from which I couldn’t see him take the train. That will do a lot to throw him off his guard.”

“I know my part, then,” agreed young Dawson. “I’ll do it, too.”

One of the railroads that enter Tampa goes on down to Port Tampa, nine miles below. This road also maintains a spur entering the hotel grounds. All through trains by this road arrive and depart on the spur.

Dixon, however, appeared about the lobby and the verandas that forenoon, looking as though anything but flight was in his mind. Much of his time he spent in the company of Henry Tremaine, and appeared unusually lively and contented.

“No get-away for him,” decided Halstead, later. “He’s going to stay and have some more tries at his luck with Miss Silsbee. Anyway, it’s too late, now, for him to take the morning train north by either railway.”

Joe went as far as Tampa, of course without result. He took the street car back to the hotel, reporting to Tom, by a mere signal, as he passed, the fruitlessness of his mission. Then Joe hung about, in the background, until after the time for the morning train to leave over the Central road. At that time Dixon was chatting with Mr. and Mrs. Tremaine and Ida Silsbee.

Further vigilance, for the present, therefore, seemed unnecessary. Leaving Dixon with the other members of the party, the two motor boat boys hurried over to the bathing pavilion for their morning salt water swim.

It was just after one o’clock when the chums returned through the hotel office.

“Captain Halstead!” called the clerk.

Tom hastened over to the desk.

“You’re just in time, Captain. Here’s a letter registered for you, and under special delivery stamp. The young man just came in with it.”

“Let me have it quick, then, please,” Tom begged, turning upon the messenger from the Tampa post office.

“Sign, first,” requested the messenger.

This Tom did in a hurry, then seized upon his letter. It was postmarked at Tres Arbores, and the boy remembered the writing. The letter was from Clayton Randolph, and repeated, in a more emphatic manner, the news that the officer had already sent Halstead while he was at the lake.

“I’m sending this just as you ask,” Randolph ran on, “though I don’t suppose it’s necessary, because at the same time I sent you the other letter, I dropped one for Mr. Tremaine in the Tres Arbores post office. Of course he got it on his return to this town.”

“Of course he didn’t!” blazed Tom inwardly. “Oliver Dixon got the mail there, and he was smart enough to keep Randolph’s letter from ever reaching Mr. Tremaine.”

“Something interesting that you have?” smiled Joe, watching his chum’s face.

“Interesting?” palpitated Tom Halstead. “Well, rather! Now, where’s Mr. Tremaine?” – as the boys turned away from the desk.

“Speaking of angels,” returned Joe Dawson. “There he is coming in through the doorway yonder.”

“I’ve got to see him on the jump, then. Come along.”

“What’s this?” demanded Henry Tremaine, as Tom almost breathlessly thrust into his hands the letter just received.

“Read it,” begged Captain Halstead.

This the charter-man did, his face changing color as soon as he began to understand.

“Dixon?” he faltered. “Oh, impossible! Yet – confound it! The case does look black, doesn’t it? I must see Dixon, anyway. If this is injustice, then he must have a chance to prove his innocence at once.”

“Do you know where he is?” Halstead inquired.

“No; the ladies have just passed through to luncheon, and they sent me to find the young man. Now, I’m more than ever anxious to find him.”

Henry Tremaine looked worried, though he was not yet ready to believe Dixon certainly guilty. Tremaine’s nature was a large one; he was unsuspicious, usually. He hated to believe anyone guilty of real wickedness.

“Ah, good morning, Mr. Tremaine,” came, cordially, from Mr. Haight, the president of the bank, as that gentleman stepped inside from the porch.

“How do you do, Mr. Haight?” returned the perplexed Tremaine.

The bank president started to pass on, then turned.

“Oh, by the way, Mr. Tremaine, I was very glad to attend to your note this morning – ”

“My note?” demanded Tremaine.

“That is to say, the one you endorsed.”

“The note I endorsed?” gasped Henry Tremaine, paling. “Great Scott, man, who presented it?”

“Do you mean to tell me, sir, that you don’t know of a note presented to-day with your endorsement?” demanded President Haight, in great agitation.

“Great Scott, man, I don’t!” cried Henry; Tremaine. “And I’m still trying to find out who presented it.”

“Oliver Dixon,” rejoined Mr. Haight, in a sepulchral voice.

“Dixon? For how much?”

“Fifty thousand dollars.”

“Did he get the cash?”

“Good heavens, yes!” gasped Mr. Haight, now fully understanding that the whole transaction had been wrong.

“In real money?” insisted Tremaine, on whose forehead the cold ooze now began to stand out.

“Yes, sir; in banknotes. Don’t tell me, Tremaine, that your endorsement was forged.”

“But it was! I have endorsed no notes for anybody.”

“Yet, if it wasn’t your signature, it was as good as a photograph of your writing,” gasped Mr. Haight.

“Oh, Dixon has seen enough of my signature. He had no difficulty in getting plenty of material in that line to copy. Oh – the miserable scoundrel!”

Tom and Joe had heard this conversation quite unnoticed by either of the distracted gentlemen.

“One thing,” cried Tremaine, hoarsely; “I don’t believe the fellow can get far away from here before we can overtake him. This early discovery is most fortunate!”

“He can’t get a train away before four o’clock,” broke in Tom Halstead, energetically. “But he might get some kind of a craft out of Port Tampa. Hadn’t you better get on the ’phone, quickly, and inform the police! Also, you might inquire of the two station agents whether Dixon has bought a ticket away from Tampa.”

“Yes! And you and Joe Dawson hustle over the hotel! We must get hold of this precious, unmasked rascal! Come along, Haight!”

“I guess Dixon stock has dropped,” uttered Joe, grimly, as the two motor boat boys hurried away.

As they were passing the entrance to the dining room they encountered Mrs. Tremaine and Ida Silsbee coming out.

“We couldn’t wait for the rest of you,” confessed Mrs. Tremaine. “We’ve lunched. But – what on earth – ?”

“Oliver Dixon,” spoke Tom, in a cautious undertone, “has presented a note for fifty thousand dollars at the bank, with Mr. Tremaine’s endorsement forged on the note. It is feared he has gotten away with the money.”

Joe, not caring to lose any time, had darted on ahead.

“Why – I – I – never believed him such a scoundrel,” gasped Mrs. Tremaine, paling. She sank into a chair, trembling.

“The villain had the audacity, last night, to ask me to marry him,” murmured Ida, in a low tone, clenching her hands tightly.

“I know it,” confessed Tom, bluntly. “I was in that room, behind the draperies. I meant to reveal myself, but it was all out, and you two turned from the room before I could decide what to do. Oh, I felt miserably ashamed of myself for my eavesdropping.”

“You couldn’t help it, and you needn’t be ashamed,” retorted Ida Silsbee. “Tom, I’m heartily glad I had a witness to my good judgment.”

“I’ve got his trail,” called Joe, softly, running back to join them. “Dixon left twenty-five minutes ago, on a train going out from the spur at this hotel.”

“Then he must have gone to Port Tampa,” breathed Tom, tensely.

“Yes – to the port,” Joe Dawson nodded.

“Then we’ve got to find Mr. Tremaine like lightning. There’s a speed cruiser for charter down at the port. Dixon may even now be hustling away on her,” cried Captain Halstead, springing away. “If he has done that he can land on some wild part of the coast of Mexico, or transfer to some ship bound for South America. The earth may swallow him up – him and his booty!”

Leaving the ladies where they had first met them, the boys raced to the telephone exchange. Here they encountered Tremaine and the bank president.

“There’s just one thing to do, then,” responded Henry Tremaine. “I’ll arrange for a special engine on the jump. Haight, you get a couple of local officers here in a hurry. This is a felony charge, so they won’t have to wait for warrants.”

In a few moments the local railway and police officials were busy. A locomotive was quickly awaiting the party on the siding, where it was coupled to a day coach. Two policemen in plain clothes arrived in an automobile.

“Remember, I’m going with you,” cried Mrs. Tremaine, with more energy than she had shown in years. “So is Ida. The poor child can’t be left behind to wonder what luck we’re having.”

There wasn’t even time to object to taking the ladies along. They hurried into the car, and the locomotive started, with a clear track ahead.

“One little detail I haven’t found time to tell you, yet,” panted Mr. Haight, after the engine had started down the single track to Port Tampa. “Dixon also cashed with me a check for nine thousand dollars.”

“On the Ninth National, of New York?” Halstead asked.

“Yes.”

“Then I guess the check part is good, as far as you’re concerned,” nodded Tremaine. “The nine thousand is probably part of the ten thousand that the fellow stole from my stateroom on the ‘Restless’ and sent to New York. Halstead has just put me straight on that matter.”

“Then he stole that money from your trunk?” asked Mrs. Tremaine, opening her eyes very wide.

“Yes, my dear; we’ve every reason to think so. But tell me, Haight, how did you come to cash that note so promptly – so – er – easily?”

“Why, you told me, only yesterday, my dear Tremaine, that you’d cheerfully endorse any commercial paper that Dixon had or chose to present,” replied the bank president.

Henry Tremaine groaned.

“That’s what comes of my being so cursed good-natured and obliging,” he muttered, with a ghastly smile. “Now, see here, Haight, if it comes to the worst, and your bank is up against a big loss, I’ll stand by what I said yesterday. But I’m fairly itching to lay my fingers on Oliver Dixon. The – ”

He stopped immediately, aware of the presence of the ladies.

“I beg your pardon, my dear, and Ida,” said Tremaine. “I’m so angry that I almost let violent language escape me.”

As the train sped along, with a clear track ahead and no stops necessary, Mr. Haight went on to explain:

“Dixon told me he had closed negotiations for a fine place a little way outside of Tampa; that he needed some of the cash for paying for the place, and the rest to turn over to a contractor so that improvements on the place could start at once. It all sounded fearfully plausible; and, with your ready and extensive guarantee for young Dixon – ”

“Please don’t remind me of my idiocy again until I’ve had time to pull up a notch,” begged Tremaine.