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

The instant that Joe Dawson and Hank Butts let go of the hooks they sprang to board the schooner. A sailor brandishing a belaying pin ran to intercept Hank, but that freckle-faced youth bounded to the sailing vessel’s deck, bearing the hitching weight before him in both hands.

Just as the sailor was about to close in with him Hank, almost as if by accident, dropped the heavy iron weight. It fell, just where he had intended it should, on the sailor’s advanced left foot.

There was a roar of pain as the sailor doubled up and sat down on the deck. But Hank, who had sidestepped before the downward stroke with that belaying pin, now regained his weapon and straightened up, grinning.

“Sorry, matey,” observed Hank to the squatting sailor. “But didn’t your father ever tell you that you oughtn’t to run into anyone who’s carrying too much weight for his age.”

Joe, a heavy wrench in one hand, and fire in both eyes, had leaped forward to meet the other sailor half-way. But that fellow, though armed with a length of stout rope, knotted at the end, prudently retreated, snarling all the while.

Tom Halstead was followed by Eben Moddridge as the young skipper made his way aft to where the helmsman stood.

Hank, seeing that the sailor with the crushed foot was really out of the running, followed Halstead aft. Butts, holding his iron weight, perched himself on the cabin house, his feet dangling over the hatchway.

The helmsman had hastily made a few turns of rope fast around the wheel, to hold the vessel to its course. Now, his eyes glaring, he stepped in front of Halstead.

“What on airth d’ye mean by these pirate tactics?” he bellowed.

“Keep cool, and keep your distance,” ordered young Halstead, holding the wrench so that he could use it in a twinkling at need. “You have a friend of ours on board here. Where is he?”

“There ain’t no one on board ’cept you pirates and us three of the crew,” retorted the late helmsman. “And you fellers ain’t going to be aboard but a few seconds more.”

“If you won’t help me out, I’ll go below and search the cabin,” proposed Captain Tom.

Just as the helmsman sprang forward to intercept this move Joe darted between them, shoving the fellow back and threatening him with a wrench. The sailor who had first moved to engage Dawson was now stepping stealthily aft.

“Jorkins,” yelled the engaged helmsman, “don’t you let no one go down that companionway. Stop it!”

“Ya-ah!” sneered Jorkins, sulkily. “With that feller balancing his ton of iron for a crack at my head?”

For Hank Butts had suddenly risen to a standing position on the cabin house roof, and was holding the hitching weight in a way that did not look remarkably peaceful.

Halstead sprang down the companionway. Moddridge started to follow, then turned, feeling that he might be wanted on deck. In his present excitement he actually forgot to be nervous.

Below were two staterooms and a small saloon. Captain Tom quickly explored these rooms, searching also the lockers and cupboards. Just as he was finishing he heard sounds of a tussle above, then a heavy fall. Like a flash the boy was on deck, fearing mischief. The troublesome helmsman had made a spring at Dawson, only to be tripped by that agile youth. Now Mr. Moddridge was seated on the helmsman’s chest, while Hank Butts had taken up a new post from which he could drop the weight, at need, upon the helmsman’s legs. The latter fellow, therefore, was now keeping quiet. Turning, Joe, wrench in readiness, had driven the other uninjured seaman forward. The fellow whom Hank had first encountered was limping about, though he did not look likely to cause any trouble.

One swift glance Halstead shot out over the water, at that small boat, still more than half a mile distant. Then the “Rocket’s” young skipper ran forward, looking in at forecastle and galley. He even looked down into the water butts, but no Mr. Delavan was to be found.

“I am afraid we’ve boarded the wrong ship,” declared Mr. Moddridge, hesitatingly.

“Ye’ll find out ye have, afore ye’re through with the law,” growled the prostrate and now prudent helmsman, from his “bed” on the deck. “Boarding a craft forcibly, on the high seas, is a crime.”

“Aw, be a good well, and run dry,” advised Hank.

There remained, now, only the holds to be investigated. Oppressed by the shortness of the time that was left to him, and fearing, also, that his guess had not been a good one, Tom Halstead sprang down the ladder into the forward hold. Here there was nothing beyond a miscellaneous cargo of supplies. The after hold was empty. With a white face Halstead reached the deck.

Here the young skipper beheld Joe and the seaman whom his chum was holding at bay.

“See here, my man,” Tom uttered hastily, turning to the sailor, “tell me just where to find the man that’s a prisoner on board, and, on behalf of Mr. Moddridge, I’ll offer you five hundred dollars in cash and a safe passage ashore on our boat.”

“There ain’t no one on this boat a prisoner, unless it’s us fellers of the crew,” returned the sailor, sulkily.

Yet, as he spoke, there was a cunning gleam in his eyes that made Halstead believe him to be lying.

“By gracious, there’s one place I overlooked,” ejaculated Captain Halstead, turning from the seaman and heading again for the hold ladder. Down he went, as fast as he could travel. With the wrench he tapped along the floor.

“Oho! It’s hollow here,” muttered the young skipper, halting in the middle of the fore hold, right over the keel. His keen eyes moved fast as he looked for some indication of unfastened planking. Finding one crack that looked suspicious, he pried in an edge of the wrench. The plank yielded, came up in Tom’s nervous, ready, strong fingers, and —

There lay Francis Delavan!

“Good gracious! What have they done to him?” gasped the young motor boat skipper.

The Wall Street man lay on his back, his arms under him, as though tied behind him.

The plank he was holding fell to one side as Tom Halstead’s first glimpse of his employer revealed that much.

There was a gag in Mr. Delavan’s mouth, but the startling signs were the purplish blue in his face and the queer, lifeless look in his partly-open eyes.

“Have they killed him? Is it spite work, or all part of their fearful plot?” shuddered Tom Halstead.

Then, his heart pounding against his ribs at a fearful rate, the boy bent down to rest an inquiring hand on that unnatural-looking face.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE JEST THAT BECAME GRIM EARNEST

“WHATEVER you’re doing, old chap, hustle!” sounded Joe Dawson’s warning voice from the deck overhead “The boat’s getting uncomfortably near with its load of scoundrels!”

“I’ve found Mr. Delavan!” Halstead shouted up.

Upon receiving that startling information Dawson, for the moment, forgot all caution, darting forward. The sullen helmsman seized upon the opportunity to shake himself free of Mr. Moddridge, for Hank Butts, too, forgot himself long enough to turn and run a few steps.

“Look out, Butts!” called the alarmed Mr. Moddridge.

Hank wheeled about just in time to find the sullen helmsman coming face to face with him.

There was time to do but just one thing, and Hank did it. Leaning toward his would-be assailant, Butts dropped the weight squarely across the toes of the scoundrel’s advanced foot, then jumped aside.

“You young villain!” roared the sullen helmsman, sinking to the deck, and reaching both hands out toward his injured foot.

“Much obliged,” said Hank meekly. But he had picked up his iron weight again, and, with it, he advanced upon the one able-bodied seaman left.

“Won’t you oblige me by aiming a blow of your fist at me!” Hank begged. “Then you’ll have your own troubles, and we can attend to our own business.”

But this sailor, who was the least courageous of the three, retreated aft, using some explosive language as he went.

Joe, in the meantime, had gained the fore hatchway, and stood looking down with the keenest interest at his chum, one of whose hands rested on Francis Delavan’s face.

“I think he’s alive,” Halstead reported, feverishly, “for there’s still quite a bit of warmth to his skin. But,” sniffing, “I’m sure he was chloroformed when the scoundrels saw us coming, for I can smell it here. Joe, hustle down a rope.”

Dawson turned, snatching up the nearest bit of cordage that would serve. Tom, with nervous haste, but tying good, seamanlike knots, made one end of the rope secure under his employer’s shoulders.

“Now, I’m coming up. Be ready to give a strong hand on the haul,” called the young skipper.

Eben Moddridge also had both hands on the rope by the time that Halstead stepped up on deck. A hard, quick haul, and they had the financier on deck.

From out on the water, close at hand, came an ugly roar. In a hurried glance over the rail the young captain saw the boat’s crew not more than two hundred yards away.

“Pick Mr. Delavan up. Over the rail with him,” called the young skipper. “Seconds now are as good as hours later!”

Between them the three bore the heavy form of the Wall Street magnate. Moddridge, though not strong, could, under the stress of excitement, carry his few pounds.

As they reached the rail with their human burden, the sullen helmsman rose, hobbling, despite the pain in his foot. He snatched up a marlinespike to hurl at the rescuers, but a warning yell from Hank made him drop it harmlessly to the deck.

“Wait a second,” directed Tom, releasing his hold on the senseless body as they rested it against the schooner’s rail. Leaping over to the motor boat’s deck, he turned like a flash.

“Now, pass Mr. Delavan over carefully,” he ordered.

“And you get in and help,” commanded Hank, poising his weight so as to menace the seaman he was watching.

Butts looked so wholly ready and handy with that hitching weight that the seaman sprang to obey.

The instant that Francis Delavan rested flat on the deck of his own craft Captain Halstead leaped forward to one of the grappling hooks.

“Hank, throw off the hook astern – lively!” he shouted.

Joe Dawson had darted to the wheel, starting the speed and giving the steering wheel a half turn to port. Nor was the young engineer a second too soon, for the small boat, with its eight rough-looking fellows, almost grazed the port side of the “Rocket’s” hull. Hank, having brought the after grappling hook aboard, rushed to port, poising his hitching weight over his head.

“It’s a headache for one of you, if you get alongside,” declared Butts. Nevertheless, the boat-steerer attempted to reach the motor boat. Had Joe been ten seconds later in starting there must have been a hand-to-hand fight on the “Rocket’s” deck, with the odds all against the Delavan forces.

With that timely start, however, Joe Dawson left the boat’s crew nothing to do but to board their own vessel. The motor boat glided easily away.

“Keep the wheel, Joe,” called Captain Tom. “Now, Hank, lay by and lend a hand in trying to bring Mr. Delavan around. First, off with the cords that bind him, and out with the gag.”

“Er – er – hadn’t we better take Frank below to a berth?” inquired Mr. Moddridge.

“No,” replied young Captain Halstead, decisively. “Mr. Delavan has been chloroformed, and almost had his breath shut off by that trick. We must keep him in the open air. Mr. Moddridge, kneel behind your friend, and support him in a sitting position. Hank, get around on the other side and take hold of the left forearm and wrist. We’ll pump-handle Mr. Delavan, and see if we can’t start more air into his lungs.”

Then, looking up, Captain Tom inquired:

“Joe, what’s the matter with our speed?”

“I just can’t help it,” grinned Dawson. “I’m running slowly just to tantalize that rascally crew back there. It makes them want to dance and swear to see us going so slowly, and yet to know that, if we want to, we can run away from them like an express train.”

Captain Tom and Hank continued their pump-handling until Francis Delavan’s eyes fluttered more widely open, the bluish color began to leave his cheeks, and his chest started to rise and fall gently.

“He’s coming around all right,” cheered Halstead. “And he’s naturally as strong as a horse. His vitality will pull him out of this.”

“The schooner has put about and is following us,” called Joe.

“Let ’em,” muttered Halstead, glancing up and astern. “I wish they’d follow us until we meet the police boat at New York. But don’t let ’em get too infernally close, Joe. Something might happen to us. If our motor stopped, where would we be then?”

Joe Dawson laughed easily as the “Rocket” stole lazily over the waters, her speed just a trifle faster than the sailing vessel’s.

In a very few minutes more Francis Delavan’s eyes took on a look of returning intelligence. His lips parted as he murmured, weakly:

“Thank you – boys.”

“And now you’re all right, sir,” cried Tom Halstead, gleefully. “All you’ve got to do is to keep on breathing as deeply as you can. Mr. Moddridge, is your strength equal to bringing up an arm-chair from the after deck?”

Apparently Eben Moddridge didn’t even pause to wonder about his strength. He ran nimbly aft, then came struggling under his armful. He deposited the chair where the young skipper indicated. They raised Mr. Delavan to a seat, Hank stationing himself in front of the chair to keep the boat’s owner from pitching forward.

“Now, old fellow, you’d better kick up more speed,” advised Halstead, stepping over beside his chum. “You know, we’ve got to make the coast in record time, for several fortunes are hanging on our speed.”

Bending forward, Dawson swung the speed control wheel around generously. The “Rocket” forged ahead through the water.

“This will leave the schooner hull-down before we’ve burned much gasoline,” smiled Halstead. “Hullo, there they go about again. They realize the point, and have left off the chase.”

Joe still had the wheel, but he turned to look.

The “Rocket” was more than a mile away from the schooner when a jarring thump shook the motor boat.

In an instant Joe Dawson’s face went white. His chum looked scarcely less startled. The extra vibration ceased almost as soon as it was felt, for the engine had stopped running.

“Hank, take the wheel. The engine might start again,” called Tom Halstead, barely pausing in his chase after Joe, as the former jumped down into the engine room.

“What on earth has happened?” gasped Eben Moddridge, but there was on one to pay him heed.

For a few moments the two white-faced chums looked over the “Rocket’s” powerful engine together. Then their eyes met as Halstead’s lips framed the startled words:

“Joe, my boy, it’s one thing to play at broken-down engine, but the reality, at a time like this, is simply awful! This time the engine is truly out of business!”

CHAPTER XIX

THE MOTOR THAT WOULDN’T “MOTE”

IT was Eben Moddridge who, marine glass in hand, now devoted the most attention to the schooner, which was once more in full chase.

Francis Delavan was now doing so well that there was no doubt in anyone’s mind of his full recovery.

“How – how’s the stock market?” he ventured at last to ask.

“Don’t know, sir,” retorted Butts. “Neither does anyone else. We’ve got you and the engine to fix. When you’re both going fine, then we’ll try to find more time to talk.”

Mr. Delavan smiled, good-humoredly, but next inquired:

“How do you happen – to be aboard the ‘Rocket!’”

“Walked aboard,” admitted Hank. “Had to sir. Nobody ever took the trouble to shanghai me.”

Joe, in the meantime, made two or three frantic efforts to make the motor “mote,” though without success.

“It’s all on account of this valve,” Dawson explained to his chum, pointing. “I knew it wouldn’t last forever, but the last time I inspected it, it looked all right.”

“You’ve another valve in the repair chest that will fit,” replied Tom. “And, in goodness’ name, hurry up. I’ll help you.”

“One more try at this old valve, for a few miles anyway,” cried Dawson, desperately. “Tom, the new valve is just a shade too large at the screw-thread end. It’ll take a few desperate minutes to make it fit.”

By the time he had finished speaking the young engineer was industriously engaged in forcing in packing around the worn old valve.

“Hank,” Captain Tom roared from the companionway, “shake out that solitary sail and hoist it. Get all the speed you can out of it.”

No one had thought of the sail up to this moment. It wasn’t much of a sail. Rigged to the single signal mast of the “Rocket,” the sail was intended only to enable the boat to reach port if ever the engine should give out.

Butts, with an exclamation of disgust at not having thought of the canvas before, ran forward. Almost before he stopped running, his fingers were at work on the knots that held the canvas furled. In surprisingly quick time this Long Island boy had the sail hoisted, set, and was back at the wheel.

Eben Moddridge, without waiting to be called, had taken his place as attendant by the side of his friend’s chair.

What Hank Butts didn’t know about motors he made up by his knowledge of sailing craft He handled the “Rocket” now as though she were a catboat, watching the fill of her canvas and making the most out of the steady light breeze that was blowing.

As he steered, Hank looked back often at the schooner. That craft, with all canvas hung out, was coming along at something like seven knots. The “Rocket” was making barely four under her small spread.

The answer? Hank Butts knew it well enough, and groaned as he watched his own tiny sail.

Down below Joe Dawson, the perspiration standing out in great, cold drops, was working against time. After another trial he had abandoned the idea of making the old valve work even for a few miles. He had opened the repair chest and had taken out the substitute valve that had to be fitted over. The young engineer was now bending over the repair bench, rapidly turning the shank of a thread-cutter. Captain Tom stood by, anxious, useless for the present, yet ready to lend an instant pair of hands as soon as he could help.

“Thread still a bit too large,” reported Dawson, after the second attempt to make it fit.

Back to the work-bench he sprang, while Halstead bounded up into the open so that he could take a brief look astern.

Behind them trailed the schooner, now a bare third of a mile astern, and gaining visibly.

“I’m not going to say a word to hurry you, Joe,” he remarked, dropping below again. “I know you’re working to save even seconds.”

“Ain’t I just, though!” gritted Dawson, as he turned.

“Eb,” demanded Delavan, of his friend, “you’ve simply got to tell me how the stock market is going.”

“I – I – er – haven’t had the least idea for more than forty hours,” replied Mr. Moddridge, embarrassed.

“Hey, there,” called Hank, officiously, from the wheel, “just at the present moment I’m skipper here, and boss. My orders are that no Wall Street slang be talked on board until after the steward has found a chance to serve something to eat. Mr. Delavan, be glad, sir, that you are able to get some of your breath.”

“Are the rascals gaining on us?” was the owner’s next question, as he endeavored to turn himself around in the chair for a look astern.

“Not much,” replied Mr. Moddridge. “Besides, in a moment or two more the boat’s engine will be doing its duty again. The engineer has his repair work almost finished.”

Francis Delavan smiled good-humoredly, though he did not by any means believe this reassuring information.

The schooner was less than an eighth of a mile away when Joe Dawson made one more effort to adjust the substitute valve.

“I think it’s going to fit,” he murmured, a world of hope in his voice, though he squinted vigilantly, watchfully, as he continued the twisting. “By Jove, Tom, I believe it’s O. K. It seems fast and tight. I’ll let a little oil in; give the wheel a few turns.”

A few breathless seconds passed. Then the pistons began to move up and down, slowly, all but noiselessly. Seized with a kind of fearful fascination, both motor boat boys watched the engine, almost afraid to breathe lest the driving cease.

Then Captain Halstead, still looking backward, while Joe’s chest heaved at last, yanked himself up into the hatchway, glancing out over the water.

The schooner was now almost upon the “Rocket,” though hauling off a bit to windward as though intending to make a sudden swoop and bear down crushingly against the motor boat.

“Safe?” Halstead almost whispered down into the engine room.

“Try it, awfully easy,” replied Joe.

“Hank, give the speed-ahead control just a bare turn,” called Halstead. “Easy, now!”

The propeller shaft began to revolve. At that same instant the schooner came around on a starboard tack, so steered as to intercept the shorter craft.

Captain Tom himself sprang to the speed control, letting out just a notch more, praying under his breath that the motor might stand by them in this moment of greatest crisis.

At them, heeling well over, her crew at the rail ready to board the “Rocket,” came the schooner. Her first manœuvre had been to board by the bows. Now it looked as though the sailing vessel must strike amidships. Halstead gave a quick turn to the speed-ahead control. Answering, the motor boat took a jump ahead, then settled down to steady going. The schooner, left astern, jibed with a noisy flapping of sails.

“I think we can make it,” called up Dawson.

“We have made it,” called back Captain Halstead, joy ringing in his voice. “The only question is whether we can keep it up.”

“Let her out a bit more,” called Joe.

One hand on the wheel, the other on the speed control, the young skipper increased the speed by slow degrees until the “Rocket” had settled down to a steady twelve-mile speed.

Hank, relieved of the helm, ran aft. Standing on the stern rail, one arm wrapped around the flag-pole, young Butts made a lot of gestures at the crew of the schooner. Those gestures were eloquent of derision and contempt.

Five minutes later the schooner had given up the chase, heading off to the southward.

“Ev – everything is all safe now, isn’t it?” asked Eben Moddridge, shakily.

“Trouble seems to be all behind us,” replied Halstead.

“Then – er – I’m – I’m going below and lie down,” quaked Mr. Moddridge. “I never felt more nervous in my life!”

“Go below and enjoy yourself, sir,” laughed Tom, without malice, but without thinking. “You’ve done yourself proud, Mr. Moddridge, and you’re entitled to the best attack of nerves you can find.”

Hank sprang quickly to aid Mr. Moddridge, for the latter was really shaking and tottering as he started aft.

“Still no one seems able to tell me about the thing I want most of all to know about – the condition of the market, and of securities in particular,” complained Francis Delavan, in a much stronger voice.

“No one knows well enough how to tell you,” laughed Skipper Tom, “except Mr. Moddridge. If you only knew, sir, what a trump he’s been lately, you wouldn’t begrudge him one first-class nervous fit now.”

Mr. Delavan laughed, though he added, with a comical sigh:

“I don’t see but I shall have to wait.”

“Something to eat, did you say, sir?” asked Hank, suddenly appearing at the owner’s elbow. “Yes, sir; as fast as possible for all hands. Why, we’ve been so rattled this morning we didn’t even think about food. And now my stomach is reading the riot act to my teeth. O-o-oh!”

Hands clutched over his abdomen, Hank made a swift disappearance into the galley. There was an abundance of food in the “Rocket’s” larder that could be prepared hastily. But as Mr. Moddridge was “enjoying” himself in his own especial way, and Mr. Delavan was still feeling the effects of the chloroform too much to have any appetite, the crew fell in for the first chance at table.

When that food had been disposed of, Joe cautiously worked the engine on until the boat was making twenty miles an hour. The new valve proved fully equal to the strain put upon it.

Mr. Moddridge remained below more than two hours. When he came on deck again he appeared to be in shape to tell Mr. Delavan the latest news he had of the state of their affairs.

The owner listened with a face that became graver every moment.