The Motor Boat Club at Nantucket: or, The Mystery of the Dunstan Heir. Hancock Harrie Irving
preceding volume in this seriesare aware of how the Motor Boat Club came tobe organized. It now numbered fourteen members, any one of whom was fully qualified tohandle a motor boat expertly under any ordinarycircumstances.
Every member was a boy born and broughtup along the seacoast. Such boys, both by inheritanceand experience, are usually well qualifiedfor salt-water work. They are aboard ofboats almost from the first days of life that theycan recollect. Seamanship and the work requiredabout marine machinery are in the airthat surrounds their daily lives. It is fromamong such boys that our merchant marine andour Navy find their best recruit material. Itwas among such boys that broker George Prescotthad conceived the idea of finding materialfor making young experts to serve the ownersof motor cruisers and racers along the NewEngland coast.
Tom and Joe were undoubtedly the pick ofthe club for skill and experience. More thanthat, they were such fast friends that theycould work together without the least danger offriction. Though Halstead was looked upon asthe captain, he never attempted to lord it overhis chum; they worked together as equals ineverything.
Mr. Dunstan had long known Mr. Prescott inBoston, where both had offices. So, whentrouble happened in the “Meteor’s” engineroom, Mr. Dunstan had sent the broker a longtelegram asking that gentleman to send by thenext train the two most capable experts of theClub. He had added that he wanted the boysprincipally for running the boat on fast time betweenNantucket and Wood’s Hole, for theowner had a handsome residence on the island, but came over to the mainland nearly every dayin order to run in by train to his offices in Boston.The “Meteor,” therefore, was generallyrequired to justify her name in the way ofspeed, for Mr. Dunstan’s landing place at Nantucketwas some thirty-five miles from Wood’sHole.
Further, Mr. Dunstan’s telegram had intimatedthat he was likely to want the young menfor the balance of the season, though his messagehad not committed him absolutely on thatpoint. The pay he had offered was more thansatisfactory.
Wood’s Hole is a quaint, sleepy little seaportvillage. The main life, in summer, comes fromthe passing through of steamboat passengersfor Martha’s Vineyard and Nantucket. Thenight air is so quiet and the sea scent so strongthat even the city visitors at the little hotel findit difficult to stay up as late as eleven o’clock.
On this night, or rather morning, at oneo’clock, there were but two honest people in thewhole place awake. Over at the Marine BiologicalLaboratory, Curator Gray and an assistantwere still up, bending drowsily overa microscope in one of the laboratory rooms.But that building was too far from the “Meteor’s”pier for the scientists to have anyhint of what might be happening near themotor boat.
It was the night before the new moon. Thestars twinkled, but it was rather dark when thefigures of two men appeared at the land end ofthe pier. On their feet these men wore rubber-soledcanvas shoes. Not a sound did they makeas they started to glide out on the pier.
But Bouncer woke up.
“Gr-r-r-r!” the bull pup observed, thrustinghis head up, his hair bristling. All this requiredbut a few seconds. In another instant Bouncerwas at the rail, his nostrils swelling as he tooka keen look down the length of the pier. Thenan angrier growl left his throat. It ended ina bound and Bouncer landed on the pier. Hisshort legs moving rapidly under him Bouncerrushed to meet the soft-shoed gentlemen.
That last, angrier note from the bull puproused Tom Halstead as a bugle call might havedone. He leaped to his feet, snatching at histrousers. Joe stirred, half alertly. When heheard his chum’s feet strike the engine-roomfloor Dawson, too, sprang up.
“Mischief, just as we thought!” breathedTom.
Down at the land end of the pier there was asudden mingling of startled human voices.
“Por la gracia de Dios!” sounded an excited, appealing wail.
“Get away, you beast, or I’ll kill you!”roared another voice in English.
Bang! That was the noise from the throatof a big-calibered pistol. It was followed, justas Tom bounded to the deck, pursued by Joe, bythe rapid pounding of a horse’s hoofs and therattle of wheels.
“There they go!” cried Tom, leaping to thepier in his bare feet and racing shoreward overthe boards. But it was too late for the boys toovertake the prowlers, who were now behind afast horse.
“Did they shoot that fine dog?” growled Joe, his voice rumbling with indignation. Bounceranswered the question for himself by running tomeet them, his tail a-wag, guttural grunts ofsatisfaction coming from his throat, while asignal flag of information fluttered from hismouth.
“He took hold of one of ’em,” chuckled Tom.“Good old fellow, you’ve brought us a sampleof their cloth. Good boy! May I have it?”
Tom bent down to stroke the dog, who submittedvery willingly. When Halstead tookhold of the large, irregular fragment of cloththe bull pup grunted once or twice, then let go.
Back all three went to the boat. Tom lighteda lantern, then held the cloth forward.
“Brown, striped trouser goods,” he chuckled.“Joe, whom have we seen with trousers of thispattern?”
“That Spanish-looking chap in the seat aheadon the train,” muttered Dawson grimly.
“Now if Mr. Dunstan doubts that some onewants to put his boat out of commission we’llhave something definite to call to his attention,”uttered Tom excitedly. “Bouncer, you stockylittle darling!”
Joe looked the dog over carefully to makesure that a bullet had not even grazed that reliable, business-like animal.
“If they had touched you, old splendid,”growled Joe, “we’d have had a good clew ortwo for avenging you. But those rascals didn’teven hurt your grit. You’re ready for ’emagain – if they come!”
For some time the boys were too excited tolie down again. When at last they did, theykept their trousers on, ready for any furthersurprise. Bouncer took up his old post on thedeck above, seemingly free from any trace ofexcitement.
It was nearly half-past six in the morningwhen Joe next opened his eyes. In a hurry heroused his chum. Donning bathing trunks andshirts both dropped over the side for a refreshingswim. Then after drying and dressing, Halsteadwent forward into the galley, while Joesnatched a few minutes at the work left overfrom the night.
Breakfast was a hurried affair, for there wasstill much to do about the motor. It was afternine o’clock when Tom stood back, looking oninquiringly while Joe put on the finishingtouches.
“Now I’ll turn on the gasoline and see ifwe can get any news,” proposed Joe. Afew moments later he started the ignitionapparatus and gave the drive wheel a fewturns.
Chug! chug! the engine began slowly. Joe, oil can in hand, looked on with the attention ofa scientist making an experiment. Bit by bit heincreased the speed of the engine, smoothing thework with oil.
“Give us a little time and the old motor’llmote,” observed Dawson quietly.
“Yes,” nodded Tom equally observant.
Had they been more of amateurs at the workthey would have felt elated, for the engine respondedto all increased speeds that were tried.But these two had worked enough about motorsto know that such an engine may come to acreaking stop when everything appears to berunning at the best.
Chug! chug! It was a cheery sound as theminutes went by and the motor did better andbetter.
“I’m almost hopeful that everything is inshape,” declared Dawson at last.
“Good morning, boys!” came a pleasant hailfrom the pier. “I see everything is in fine trim.”
“It looks that way, Mr. Dunstan,” answeredTom, stepping up above and, by way of salute, bringing his hand to the visor of the Club’s uniformcap that he had donned this morning.“But motors are sometimes cranky. We don’tdare begin to brag just yet.”
“This morning’s mail brought me a letterfrom Mr. Prescott,” went on the owner, holdingup an envelope. “He has written me sevenpages about you. It seems that you are greatpets of my friend’s. He tells me that I canplace every