There was nothing forced or obtrusive in his actions. He simply sought Haddon’s companionship in the direct, matter-of-fact manner he went after anything he wanted, and yet he was not selfish in his seeking. That, perhaps, was the most marked feature of the moral change which was taking place within him. In the old days if he liked a fellow he was apt to monopolize him regardless of the other’s feelings in the matter. Now, though Steve would have been perfectly content to spend all his time within the camp limits with Cavvy, the latter refused to allow it.
“No reason why you should stay cooped up here just because I have to,” he said one afternoon in his quick, decisive manner. “You’ve spent three days hanging around doing nothing; it’s time you had a change. If you hustle you can get off with that bunch fishing.”
“But I don’t give a hang about fishing,” protested Haddon.
Cavvy grinned. “Well, get a canoe, then, and find someone to take a little exploring expedition with you,” he suggested. “I’m going to write letters and don’t want to be bothered.”
Steve laughed, shrugged his shoulders and walked away. He saw through his friend perfectly, for Cavanaugh never wrote letters if he could help it. But after all perhaps it would be better for them to separate for the afternoon. One can have too much of almost everything, and Haddon had no wish to endanger the association which meant so much to him.
He secured his canoe—it was the last one to be had; but when it came to finding a companion, all the fellows he particularly liked had departed on other expeditions, so he decided to go alone. He was an expert paddler and enjoyed it thoroughly. He also liked poking about in new places, and when he rounded the point and pushed out into the Sound, he turned unhesitatingly westward.
Long Point thrust out its blunt nose from a stretch of rather wild, deserted beach on the south shore of the Cape. Amongst the sand dunes to the eastward were a few fishermen’s huts. Several miles in the other direction lay the village of Shelbourne, and beyond it, along both sides of a wide estuary, sprawled the raw, staring buildings, the many dry docks and numberless other appurtenances of the big, new Government ship building plant. But between the village and the camp the shoreline cut abruptly inland for upwards of a mile, forming a wide, deep harbor which did much toward isolating the camp site from the rest of the world.
Across the mouth of this harbor and reaching well out into the Sound itself, there lay a multitude of small islands, some mere jutting rocks to which a few scraggly pines clung tenaciously, others larger and thickly wooded. All of them were steep and rocky, and between them the tide rushed ceaselessly in queer, erratic, frequently dangerous currents. It was a fine place for fish of many sorts, but little more could be said for it, though on one or two of the larger islands duck shooters had put up rough huts which they used in the late fall and early spring when the season was on.
Steve had never happened to visit these islands. He had, in fact, seen no more of them than was visible from Shelbourne the day they made an inspection of the shipyard over a week ago. And as he headed the canoe toward the nearest one, he looked forward with increasing eagerness to an afternoon of exploration. They looked interesting, and as he drew nearer he got attractive glimpses of little coves and miniature harbors, of wooded points, rocky slopes masked with green, of turbulent, rushing channels, and a dozen other features which thrilled him, and made him regret his wasted opportunities.
The reality quite equalled his expectations. He went from islet to islet, clambering about the rocks, pushing through trees and undergrowth, poking into everything to his heart’s content. There was a touch of the wilderness in it which appealed to his imagination. It seemed, indeed, a perfect paradise to the furred and feathered wild things many of whom were heedless or oblivious to his presence, and their presence added greatly to his enjoyment.
It was already fairly late when he first saw the great blue heron. It was later still when, having followed the bird across the small island to the edge of another—one of the largest of the group he crouched amongst some bushes amusedly watching the solemn, awkward, long-legged creature stalking sedately away from him along a narrow strip of beach.
Suddenly with a great whir and flapping of wings, the heron arose and sailed out of sight. At the same instant Steve was conscious of the popping of a motor’s exhaust coming rapidly nearer, and turned curiously to see what it might be.
Swiftly the boat came into sight, a dingy, unpainted dory propelled by an auxiliary of unusual power. In the stern sat a single figure, bare headed and clad in rough fishing clothes. Almost unconsciously, Steve had not emerged from the bushes, and as the dory passed his hiding place scarcely a dozen feet from him, he had for an instant a clear, unrestricted view of the man’s face.
He gave a start and frowned; raised himself partway and then dropped back on his haunches. The boat swept on and disappeared around a jutting point, the sound of the motor grew rapidly fainter—ceased. Still the boy crouched amongst the bushes, staring blankly at the spot where the craft had left his vision.
When he stood up a little later and moved slowly toward his canoe, there was a puzzled, troubled expression in his face. And in his narrowed eyes was the look of one groping blindly through his memory for something which he cannot find.
A shout of laughter went up from the group of fellows gathered in the cook shack. There was a regular cook attached to the camp, but every other evening supper was prepared by the boys themselves as a means of perfecting themselves in the culinary art. Usually these occasions were marked by an earnest seriousness, for there was great rivalry between the various tents; but to-night a spirit of levity undoubtedly prevailed.
“But why shouldn’t he have been in the dory, you old lobster?” asked Billy McBride, from where he bent over the frying pan.
Steve Haddon shrugged his bulky shoulders and ran his fingers through an already much towsled mop of brown hair. “Well,” he said hesitatingly, “because he wasn’t—he wasn’t—”
“Wasn’t what?” demanded three or four voices, as the big fellow paused.
“Well, he wasn’t the sort of person who’d be in—in that sort of a boat.”
Another shout of laughter rang out. Jim Cavanaugh, still chuckling, thumped Haddon on the back.
“You’re certainly lucid, Steve,” he exclaimed. “Just what do you mean by that? What sort of a person was he, anyhow? One of those swell city guys who came down to fish, all dolled up in dinky knickerbockers and that sort of thing?”
Steve was grinning good naturedly, but the color had deepened faintly under his tan; he shook his head slowly. “He wasn’t dolled up at all,” he told them. “He had on—well, just ordinary old things; I didn’t notice his clothes much. He might have had a rod, though he wasn’t fishing when I saw him.”
“What was he doing, then?” asked Ted Hinckley rather sharply. “He must have been doing something out of the way to set you against him like this.”
Again Haddon shook his head. The smile had faded and his lips straightened into a firm line. “He wasn’t doing anything except just running the dory past that big island—Loon Island, I think they call it,” he returned. “You wouldn’t understand, Ted. It—it was his face—”
Hinckley laughed again, but not so uproariously this time. During their ten days at camp together, he as well as most of the others, had discovered that while they could usually josh “good old Steve” to the limit, a curious, stubborn tightening of jaw and chin was a sign that this limit had been reached. And because, for all their banter, they liked him so well, they were generally quick to notice and respect that sign as Hinckley did now. His laughter trailed off into a comfortable chuckle and he turned to assist the cook. Cavanaugh flung one arm across Haddon’s shoulder.
“So you didn’t like his face, eh?” he smiled. “It must have beensomeface to work you up like this, old man. What the dickens takes you so long with those eggs, Micky? I’m starved.”
“They were mislaid, that’s the trouble,” returned McBride without batting an eyelash.
A groan went up and one or two made as if to lay violent hands upon the cook. But the responsibility of his position saved him, and ten minutes later the meal had been served up and was being consumed with an appetite and dispatch characteristic in a crowd of healthy, active boys whose afternoon has been spent more or less strenuously in the open. And as they ate they kept up a running fire of josh and fun and banter which flowed from most of them with the ease and fluency of second nature.
One of the exceptions was Steve Haddon. He did not often joke, and when he assayed a pun it had much the effect of an elephant trying to dance. It wasn’t that he lacked a sense of humor. He thoroughly enjoyed the badinage which went on about him, even when he himself, as was often the case, became the butt for another’s humor. But he had never acquired the trick of answering back in kind, and appeared always more or less deliberate in thought and speech.
To-night, both at supper and later when they had gathered around the camp fire, he was even quieter than usual, for he was thinking about the man he had seen that afternoon in the dory. He realized that, with characteristic clumsiness of expression, he had given the fellows an idea that something about the man’s face had prejudiced him. As a matter of fact it wasn’t so at all, though he made no effort to correct himself. He had had but a single good look at the stranger, but that look was enough to rouse in the boy a strong conviction that he had seen the man before—seen him, too, under conditions and surroundings so totally different that the stranger’s mere presence on this out of the way stretch of New England coast seemed at once incongruous and puzzling.
What those conditions had been he could not, unfortunately, remember. Though he had tried his best all the way back to camp to drag out of his brain some further details of that former meeting, Steve had failed utterly. That there had been one he was quite certain. But how or where or when it had taken place remained a mystery. He felt, however, that it must have been of the most casual sort, and also that it could scarcely have taken place very recently, else surely he would have remembered.
“Very likely it was at home in Washington some time,” he thought, after they had settled down lazily around the fire. “Though it might have been when I visited Uncle Joe in New York last fall. Oh, hang it all. I’m not going to bother my head about it any more.”
But this was a resolution more easily made than kept. For a short space Steve did succeed in detaching his thoughts from the annoying puzzle. Lying there on the sand with Cavvy’s head pillowed on his stomach, he grinned in silent appreciation of Micky’s airy monologue, and presently began to hum under his breath the air Champ Ferris was laboriously coaxing from a much harassed guitar. Then, unconsciously, his glance swept past the lounging figures of his friends and out across the wide stretches of shadowy water vaguely luminous under the stars. Back of those shadows Loon Island lay, with all the other rocky little islets that crowded the entrance to Shelbourne harbor. And, perhaps, on Loon Island—
Suddenly Steve awoke to a realization of where his thoughts had carried him, and moved abruptly with an impatient squirm.
“Easy, boy, easy,” murmured Cavvy drowsily.
Grinning shame-facedly, Steve reached down and ruffled the other’s hair. A perfunctory scrimmage followed. But Cavanaugh was too drowsy to carry this far. And very shortly Mr. Wendell’s orders sent the crowd staggering sleepily tentwards.
A little later, crawling into his blankets, Steve reached a sudden, abrupt decision. Since he could not seem to rid his mind of the problem which had been raised there, why not make an effort to solve it? Very likely the answer would be a simple one not worth his trouble, but at least it would be an answer. Suppose he got another look at the perplexing stranger? If he saw him again that stubborn memory might awake.
“I’ll take a trip to Loon Island to-morrow,” he said to himself. Then he turned over and went to sleep.
Steve said nothing to anyone next day of his determination. He knew he would be laughed at, for he felt himself that it was a rather foolish proceeding, and it would be difficult or impossible for him to explain in words the curious intensity of his interest in the matter. So he did not even take Cavanaugh into his confidence, merely explaining that he was going for another little trip in the canoe. Cavvy’s approval was prompt, but there was just a touch of disappointment in his manner which made Steve a little troubled.
Was he making a fool of himself or not, he wondered, as he slid out into the Sound from behind the point. A portion of Loon Island was visible now and he glanced speculatively in that direction. For all he knew the stranger whose face had so puzzled him might not be in the neighborhood again for days or weeks. His presence yesterday could easily have been the result of a chance excursion never to be repeated. Nevertheless, once started, he had no thought of giving up the trip, for he was not the sort to turn aside readily from something he had once set his mind upon. So he dismissed his doubts and sent the canoe forward resolutely.
The surface of the Sound was smooth—almost too smooth, in fact. There was an oily look to the long, easy swells which rolled the canoe ever so slightly as it cut across them. Once or twice Steve glanced back and frowned a little at the smoky, golden haze hugging the eastern horizon. But he paddled steadily, keeping fairly close to shore; and when he came opposite the group of islands and headed his craft across the half-mile stretch which separated the nearest one from the mainland, the storm signals had not increased.
“I guess it’s going to hold off for a while,” he decided. “Anyhow, at the worst I’d be stuck on the island over night—which wouldn’t kill me.”
Presently he came abreast of the first little islet and passed it, passed the next one, and then turned into a narrow, rock-bordered channel along the north side of Loon Island. The tide ran swiftly here, but it carried him with it and without much effort he managed to circle the lower end of the island and reach the point where he had landed the day before. Here he stepped ashore, and pulling up the canoe, hid it in a thicket of juniper. It was still fairly early—an hour and a half earlier, in fact, than when Steve had glimpsed the man in the dory yesterday afternoon. But he had planned for this deliberately. He wanted to take a look over the island before returning to the point to watch for the stranger.
Back of the point the rocks rose steeply, with stunted pines, scrub oak and a tangle of scraggly bushes growing from every conceivable crevice and earth-pocket. It was far from easy going, but Steve pushed his way through the undergrowth with only an occasional pause, keeping as close to the shore as possible.
Presently he came upon a gully, slid into it, climbed the other side and finally, pushing through a grove of wind-tossed trees, stepped out into a narrow, open space. Then he paused abruptly.
On either hand steep, smooth masses of rock jutted up, shutting in the place completely. Less than a score of yards apart, they shelved down into the water, forming a tiny, sheltered cove toward which the ground sloped gently. It was a snug spot, shielded from storms, and also from observation, and a rough shack of weathered boards seemed a natural part of the gray, rock-strewn landscape. But Steve had not been expecting to find a hut here, and his first thought as he stared at it, motionless and a little tense, was to connect it, somehow with the man he was seeking.
For several minutes he stood there alert, his glance fixed curiously and intently on the cabin. It was one of the duck shooters’ huts, no doubt, of which the boys had told him. It must have stood there for some time, too, judging from the dingy, weathered look of the planking. But it seemed odd, with the duck season so far away, that the shutter of the single small window at the rear should be swinging open. Surely any one leaving it for a year or more would have made things more secure against intrusion.
Steve waited a little longer, turning over various possibilities in his mind, and then moved slowly forward. The stillness of the place, coupled with a certain instinct hard to define, made him feel that the shack was at the moment unoccupied. When he reached the window and looked in, he found that instinct had served him well. The place was empty, and after a brief survey, he moved around to the front and opened the door, which was merely on the latch. Instantly his eyes fell upon a raw, splintered spot where a lock had been and he bent to examine it closely.
“Huh!” he grunted. “I thought so. Somebody’s broken in.”
Thoughtfully he straightened up and looked around. There was little doubt in his mind as to who had made the forcible entry, but the object of it was as great a puzzle as the identity of the mysterious stranger. And presently he discovered that there was more than one in the marauding party.
In each of the four rough bunks at one end of the cabin were blankets. Also, scattered over the rude plank table in the middle of the room, were four tin plates and as many cups, all of which had been lately used.
“This is no place for me,” decided Steve as he took in these details. “If they should come back and find me here, I—”
The words clipped off and he whirled about with widening eyes as the muffled beat of an engine’s exhaust smote suddenly on his ears.
“Jimminy!” he gasped, and leaped for the door.
He was half way through it when he saw the bow of a dory sliding into view past the rocks at the end of the cove. Jumping back like a flash, he jerked the door shut and latched it noiselessly. For an instant he hesitated, heart pounding in his throat. Then he moved swiftly to the window, pulled himself up, squeezed through and plunged into the fringe of undergrowth about a dozen feet away.
But as he gained the shelter he realized that the popping of the engine had ceased and he heard the sound of voices. He dared not pause here, but sped on over the rough ground. It was not the same way he had come, but he cared nothing for that. The closeness of his escape had shaken him considerably, and he was trembling. It was not until he had pushed through the woods for a hundred feet or more that he began to slow down and recover himself.
“What a nut I am!” he muttered, wiping his forehead with the back of one hand. “They’ll never come here.”
And then, being what he was, he grew angry at himself for that panicky flight. If he had stayed at the edge of the woods he might have had a good look at the stranger without any special risk. He might even have gained some hint as to what the party was doing here. He had just about decided to turn and retrace his steps, when he stumbled and almost fell, saving himself only by a quick snatch at an overhanging branch. Then, looking down to discover what had tripped him, he saw the tins!
At first glance, indeed, they did not look like tins, but more like square, rectangular boxes covered with canvas. It was only by pressing one with his fingers that he felt the distinctive give of thin metal. There were a dozen or more in all, piled neatly in a cavity among the rocks and covered over with leaves and dead branches.
Filled with curiosity, Steve punched and prodded the top one inquiringly and ran his fingers exploringly over its surface. He was on the point of lifting it to test the weight, when the sound of voices behind him brought him upright with a gasp.
For the barest second Haddon stood listening. Then he bent down again and made a frantic, scrambling effort to cover the tins. But as the voices came steadily nearer and the scuffling of feet began to sound in the dead leaves, he abandoned the attempt and darting a few steps to one side flung himself down behind a thick, low-growing mass of laurel. In a space so brief that he felt they must have heard him, the bushes were thrust aside and the footsteps ceased.
“—a rabbit, I guess, or maybe a bird,” said a voice. “It don’t matter, anyway. Here’s the stuff, half uncovered, too. Hang that Peters! I told him to— Here, catch hold, will you? We haven’t much time.”
“Want it in the boat?”
“Sure! The chief is going to leave in about an hour. We’ll land at Cobb’s Point and wait there till dark. Here’s a couple for you, Jansen. We’ll take the rest in another trip.”
Flat on the ground behind the laurel clump, Steve listened intently to their departing footsteps. Not daring to stir, he had failed to get even a glimpse of the three men, but he missed no word of their brief conversation which left him in a state of bewildered doubt and speculation. He could make nothing out of it at all. What was in those tins? and why were they being taken secretly to Cobb’s Point, that lonely strip of sand dunes the other side of Shelbourne?
As he lay there waiting, a good many possibilities flashed through the boy’s mind. He could not rid himself of the feeling that the men were up to nothing good. Yet on the other hand he realized that even the broken door and the hidden tins might have some harmless explanation. There was a fish hatchery, for instance, at Shelbourne, and it came upon him with a sudden sense of chagrin, that he had seen the young fish shipped from there in just such tins as these.
Nevertheless, the feeling of suspicion remained uppermost, even though the men, on their second trip, let fall no enlightening words. When they finally departed, he emerged from hiding, a look of determination on his square jawed face, and headed for the spot where he had left the canoe.
At least it was in his power to follow up the matter if he chose; and he did choose. He knew where they were going, and he knew Cobb’s Point. He could reach it before they did, and by concealing himself among the dunes, he might get a chance not only to glimpse again the face of the man he so wished to see, but also to learn something further of the party’s purpose.
As he hurried along, Steve realized that through the woods shadows were deepening on every hand, while in the glades and open spots the light had a curious greenish-saffron tint that urged him to his utmost speed. Emerging finally on the shore he saw that there was no time to lose. The sun had disappeared. Above him the sky glowed with an unnatural light, while piled up in the east were great banks of black, ragged looking clouds.
For a moment Steve hesitated, measuring with his eye the distance of those clouds. Then he dragged out the canoe, dropped it hastily into the water, climbed in and thrust away from shore. Among the islands the current was swift, but even there he did not spare his paddle. And every little while he glanced backwards apprehensively.
As he left the shelter of the islands and faced a mile-wide stretch of open water, the cloud-bank was half way up from the horizon with long, ragged streamers stretching out before it. He thrust his paddle deep and sent the canoe leaping across the oily swells; but like the tentacles of an octopus, those cloud streamers seemed to reach after him, dragging the black, ominous bulk behind. Half a mile he made, the sweat standing out on his face, his breath coming in gasps. Another quarter mile. He was paddling with every scrap of strength and skill he had, yet the clouds were overhead now, reaching out and onward inexorably.
A hundred yards from shore he hazarded a backward glanceand saw the wind sweeping across the bay, a line of turbulent, tossing spray. It caught him with incredible swiftness, hurled the canoe forward, whirled it about, and before Steve could realize what was happening, he found himself struggling in the water.
He lost his paddle, but managed to retain a grip on the canoe, and swimming in a sort of daze, he finally dragged himself and it ashore. There, utterly done up, he flung himself face downward on the sand and lay for he knew not how long, drawing in the air in long, gasping gulps.
At length, still panting, he raised his head and slowly gained his feet. The surface of the bay was torn into a sea of angry, tossing whitecaps. The wind shrieked past him, driving gusts of fine spray into his face. Darkness was falling fast, relieved now and again by a vivid flash of lightning.
Uncertain whether the men would venture across in the teeth of the storm, Steve felt that if they did make the attempt they might appear at any moment. So he made haste to drag the canoe back of a mass of beach grass.
It was as well he did. Scarcely had he flung himself down beside the upturned keel and hunched his shoulders against the driving rain which had begun to pelt him, when out of the curtain of mist and shadow the dory flashed suddenly into his startled consciousness. He heard nothing of the engine; the shrieking of the wind and the first rattle of thunder drowned every sound. He simply saw, by the aid of the lightning and his straining vision, the bow of the dory, billows of foam spreading out on either side, cleaving the waves not fifty feet from shore. In another moment he heard the crunch and grating of the boat beaching, followed by a confused mingling of voices.
It was not yet absolutely dark and by this time his eyes were accustomed to the scene. Presently he could make out a number of shadowy figures bunched together and bending over. They were dragging the dory up the beach; he could tell that by their strained attitudes and their slow approach. Nearer they came to the screen of grass and nearer still, for not so much by chance as from the extreme narrowness of the point, they had landed at almost the same spot as Steve. Now he could make out the party quite clearly, black silhouettes against the grayish black of the sea behind them.
They had halted now, not half a dozen feet from his hiding place, and were bending over the dory taking out the tins. Their backs were toward him, but as Steve lay there blinded by the flashes of lightning and deafened by the rolls of thunder, he felt, somehow, that on the contents of those tins hung the solution of his mystery. If he could only find out that, and the identity of the man who had drawn him hither, he would know something of where he stood.
Though he could distinguish nothing save their outlines, his eyes had not left the four men for an instant. He even raised himself a little and parted the screen of beach grass in an effort to keep track of their movements. Presently he saw that they had straightened up. Apparently they had removed all the tins, and he wondered eagerly what would be the next step. Then, of a sudden, as they stood there, another jagged fork of light flashed through the dark storm clouds, and Steve caught his breath and narrowly escaped crying out in sheer amazement.
The blinding glare showed him two of the men erect and partly facing him; but it did more than that. It awakened memory at last. And as the blackness settled down again, thick and stifling, the rain, the wind, the whole wild, storm-swept strip of coast vanished. The darkness remained, but it was the tempered darkness of a street in Washington the night of that thrilling day over a year ago—the day after the declaration of war. Back of some iron palings loomed the outlines of the German embassy. Beside the curb stood a limousine from which two men had just alighted. As Steve, hurrying home from a belated engagement, came opposite them, their faces were illumined brilliantly for a moment by the glare of a passing headlight. One of those men was the German Ambassador himself. The other—
No wonder Steve Haddon had almost betrayed himself at what that lightning flash revealed. No wonder he asked himself breathlessly, excitedly, what sinister business could have brought that other—here.
Mechanically Steve put up one hand and brushed away the water that trickled down from his soaked hair. He was wet to the skin, but he fairly tingled all over with the thrill of his discovery. He was not mistaken; he could not be. That mental picture was much too clear to admit any doubt.
He was still ignorant of the man’s actual identity. But his presence with the ambassador that night, the friendly touch of the latter’s hand upon his shoulder, the earnest undertone of their conversation carried on in German, all pointed to an unusual degree of intimacy. And many months ago the ambassador, his staff and all his other associates, official and otherwise, were supposed to have left the country or to be safely interned.
This one had evidently escaped the net. Steve wasted no time speculating how he had done it, or where he had spent the intervening time. He was a spy, doing a spy’s work; everything pointed to that. His objective must be the shipyard, too, for there was nothing else worth destroying within a score of miles. Inwardly Haddon bitterly blamed his own stupidity in not having thoughts of that before. The tins contained powerful explosive, no doubt; enough, perhaps, to blow up both buildings and dry docks. They had planned the thing with their usual infernal care, waiting, perhaps for this very night of storm and blackness to make the attempt doubly sure. And they would succeed, the boy told himself with a dry sob of mingled rage and nervousness, unless he could outwit them.
He ground his teeth in helpless fury. He ought to be up and away immediately to carry the warning. But the plotters were so close that he could scarcely stir without detection. There was a chance that by edging back cautiously he might safely reach a point where he could take to his heels, but so much depended on him that he dared not risk it. He must wait until they moved away a little and then, by speeding down the opposite side of the point, he might gain the mainland and the shipyard ahead of them and give the alarm.
Presently another lightning flash showed up the group again, and Steve’s eyes widened in astonishment. Instead of four men there were six. Where the other two had come from he did not know, but it seemed as if they must have made their way out along the beach. So he was faced by a new difficulty. There might be others still, stationed along the way, and if he tried to reach the shipyard ahead of the gang, he was as likely as not to run straight into hostile arms.
Nevertheless, he meant to try it, for by this time he was desperate with anxiety and impatience. He was about to creep back without further waiting, when suddenly there came one of those curious lulls which occur sometimes at the very height of a storm. Abruptly the shriek of the wind died down and he could hear the voices clearly.
“—all in the guard house. As long as the storm holds there won’t be a soul around.”
“But the rain!” put in another voice with a harsh, guttural accent. “Will not that eggtinguish the fire?”
“Not this fire,” returned another confidently, and Steve recognized one of the voices he had overheard that afternoon. “There ain’t enough water up above to drown this stuff once she gets started. Besides, it’s letting up. By the time we get things going it won’t be more than a drizzle; and if the wind holds the whole shebang will go up in smoke. What we want is to get busy right—”
The rest was inaudible, scattered by the storm, which broke out again with a fresh strength. But Steve had heard enough. Fire, then, was to be their weapon, and not explosives. The tins must contain gasoline, or some even more powerful inflammable. But it made little difference in the result, for the destruction would be as great or greater. With sudden decision the boy made up his mind to delay no longer.
His every muscle tense, he waited impatiently for the next flash. The instant it had come and gone, he began to edge backward, slowly, silently, with infinite care, over the wet, yielding sand. It took a long time to worm past the length of the canoe, but after that he made better progress. At length, a hundred feet or more from the end of the point and on the opposite side, he rose to his feet and hurried along the beach toward the mainland.
Anyone who has tried walking in the dark will realize something of his difficulties. Actually Steve could not see his hand before his face, and he had not gone twenty feet before he found himself splashing in the water. He edged away from that and presently tripped and almost fell over a hummock of beach grass. Then, very swiftly, all sense of direction left him. His only guidance was the splash of waves about his ankles and the tingle of salt spray against his face.
It was a nightmare, that blind struggle through the storm; a nightmare of pelting, lashing rain, of stumbling, falling, wading through surf, of pounding over hard sand. And like a nightmare little things grew big and big things little; time seemed to stand still or stretch out into infinity. Worst of all was the blackness, thick and suffocating, that pressed upon his eyeballs and tangled about his feet. And behind that blackness there was fear. Not fear for self so much; he was past that now. The thing that dominated and urged him on, that kept him going in spite of weariness and doubt and panting breath, was fear lest he should be too late to reach his goal before the others. And in the end he was too late!
His first inkling of it was the sight of those three spots of light twinkling low over to the left. At first they meant nothing to his weary brain. Then, watching them dazedly, he realized all at once that they were electric flashlights, and with a sudden, bitter pang he understood.
The men were almost opposite him, moving rapidly along the other side of Cobb’s Point, which here was some two hundred yards across. Unhampered by the darkness, they had caught up to him, were really ahead of him, in fact, for Steve had to cross the base of the point to reach the shipyard a mile or more to the westward.
With a discouraged droop to his shoulders, the boy plodded on mechanically for a little way and then halted. The spots of light had suddenly shifted. He could still make out a faint, luminous glow, but it was obscured by moving shadows. And then it came to him that for some minutes past he had felt no water sloshing around his feet.
“It’s the mainland,” he muttered. “They’ve left the point and turned up the other shore.”
It was no time for caution and delay, and Steve went after them at once. Though his attempt to reach the shipyard first had failed, there was still a chance, though not nearly so sure, of gaining his end by following close behind the plotters and giving the alarm before they had time to carry out the details of their plan.
In the brief interval of waiting a number of other possibilities had flashed through his mind, only to be discarded. He might make his way back to Shelbourne and get help. There was a good road leading through the woods from the village which was used by workmen going to and from their quarters; a motor car could make the distance in five minutes. But Shelbourne was quite as far from Cobb’s Point as the shipyard, and there were sure to be delays in rousing people and getting out a car. He thought, too, of pushing straight through the woods from where he was and trying to hit that road, but the chances of getting lost in even that short stretch of scrub and tangled undergrowth were too great to be risked. The open beach was really the only sure way, and Steve took it without hesitation.
With stumbling, uncertain steps he felt his way across the point and gained the other shore. Far, far ahead of him, it seemed, wavered the faint glow of the flashlights, and their apparent distance startled him. He had planned to follow as close behind the plotters as he dared; it had not occurred to him that they might outdistance him altogether. With a sharp catching of his breath, he plunged forward and began to run. A moment later the lights blinked out abruptly.
Steve fell twice and a thorny branch lashed him across the face with painful force before he got the better of that panicky dash. One of two things must have happened. Either the flashlights had been extinguished, or else the men had passed around a bend which hid the sight of them from view. The latter was perhaps the more likely; but it was the possibility that they had heard him and were lurking ahead in the darkness, awaiting his approach, that turned him cold.
It was the first time his nerve had been really shaken, but it was shaken now. The darkness or the plotters, taken separately, he could face without tremors. It was the combination of the two, the combination of the unknown, the unseen, the suspense of uncertainty, which made him shiver and brought out a clammy perspiration on his forehead.
It set him to thinking, also, of the camp and wishing with a desperate sort of longing for the presence of some of the fellows to back him up. If only Cavvy were here, with his cool head and ready wit; his sturdy fearlessness would be a tower of strength. Why, even little Shrimp Willett would be a comfort.
But they were all back there in camp with lights and warmth and cheerfulness about them, while he was here—alone. And he must go forward alone, too, no matter what that beastly blackness held in store for him. He dug his teeth into his under lip. Then his chin went up abruptly.
What had got into him? What was he thinking of? Why, at this very instant men were facing with a smile things a thousand times worse than this. Black wastes of shell-torn barrenness, tangled with barbed wire, littered with unknown pitfalls, loomed into his imagination. There were shadows brightened ominously by the flare of signal rockets or the flash of hand grenades; silences shattered by the thunder of big guns or the whining ping of sharpshooters’ bullets. And in imagination that worst horror of all—the deadly poison gas—caught him for an instant by the throat and choked him. Yet over there men looked hourly into the face of such a death and laughed, while he was afraid to take a little risk—for them!
A burning flush flamed into the boy’s face and he clenched his hands spasmodically. From his lips came a sound of mingled shame and fury and determination.
“What a cur I am!” he grated scornfully. “What a beastly coward to be downed by a little dark and wet! And I won’t be!”
Doubt and hesitation thrown aside, he sped on along the beach. Once or twice the thought of what might be waiting for him slipped past that mental barrier of resolution, but he flung it fiercely back. And when he had gone two hundred yards or so he began to breathe more easily. They could scarcely have been much further off than this when the lights vanished. Another hundred yards and he was quite certain. It was impossible in the darkness to tell where the shoreline curved, but he had a feeling that it must be about this point. A few minutes later the faint, distant gleam of light ahead confirmed his guess.
“All that stupid fuss about nothing,” he growled. “Now it’s up to me to catch up with them.”
But though he did his best, he was still a hundred yards behind when, as nearly as he could guess, they reached the wide estuary of the shipyard. There was a dock here where supplies and materials were landed, and from it a well-used road led through the regular lines of store houses, machine shops and countless other buildings.
Almost at the edge of this road the lights winked out again, but this time Haddon felt no uneasiness. Though it was still blowing hard, the rain had lessened noticeably. Some of the guards, more zealous than the rest, might venture forth, and the twinkle of strange lights would inevitably raise an alarm.
Steve paused for an instant and stared ahead, trying to penetrate the darkness. To his right, among the buildings, a few scattered electric lights shone obscurely, but they did little toward relieving the general gloom. Slipping along from shadow to shadow, the plotters would have no difficulty in gaining any part of the yard they chose for their incendiary purpose. But this same condition was a corresponding aid to him.
Having visited the yard, he knew the general direction of the guard house. Now, when the men ahead vanished into the gloom, Steve turned abruptly to his right across an open space of recently cleared land. He found it far from easy going. There were stumps and roots to trip him up; hollows and other pitfalls to avoid. With the spies so near, a fall or even a noisy stumble might ruin everything. But the boy crept on, feeling his way forward, chafing at the sense of precious minutes flying, until the dark bulk of the first building loomed before him.
Speeding a little, he passed along the rear of it, crossed a slightly brighter space, and gained the shadow of the next one. But as he reached the further corner a sound, slight yet unmistakeable, brought him to a sudden halt, breathless and tingling. The sound was the faint splintering of wood, and close upon its heels came the noise of a window being slowly lifted. With nerves like taut-strung wires, Steve crept forward and peered around the corner.
In front of the third building in the row hung one of the temporary electric globes that were dotted sparsely over the shipyard. At this distance it served merely to lighten the gloom a trifle. But Haddon, staring intently into the shadows, presently made out one which seemed darker than the rest—a shadow that moved slightly, to merge a moment later into the blacker darkness of an open window.
Just a second the boy stood petrified. From the first it had been his plan not alone to prevent the catastrophe, but to try and bring about a capture of the plotters. But the sight of one of them actually entering the building shocked him to a realizing sense of how much more vital it was to prevent the fire from getting headway. In a flash he had left his hiding and headed for the guard house on the run.
Racing across the open space between the two buildings he sped through the shadows back of the third one, circled it, and gained the open road. Instinctively he kept to the darker side of this. The padding of his sodden shoes made scarcely any sound on the hard dirt, and there was a chance that he might escape detection.