“You know he’s a Cub, I suppose,” Dan remarked.
“A Cub!” Fred was astonished. “Why, no! He didn’t give us a hint of it. What makes you think so?”
Dan and Brad related how Jacques had grasped the former’s hand in the official Cub handclasp, mute evidence that he once had been a member of the international organization.
“He’s a queer duck,” Fred declared. “I’m sure he didn’t mention to Dad that he ever had been a Cub. Fact is, he’s kept mum about everything. Won’t peep a word as to his folks or where he came from.”
The Cubs discussed Jacques a little longer, and then Brad and Dan left, but not before promising Fred they would drop around at the Cave later to help with the cleaning.
Anxious to learn how much damage had been done the previous night to Mr. Holloway’s sailboat, the boys next stopped at the Webster City Yacht Club. From Midge, who loitered on the dock, they learned that the sailing craft already had been hauled to a nearby boat yard to be repaired.
“The job will cost at least forty dollars,” Midge reported. “What’s worse, the boat will be out of water for at least two or three days. It makes me sick!”
“Did your father learn if it was Manheim’s boat that struck us last night?” Dan questioned.
“Not yet. We inquired around the clubhouse, but no one has seen the Manheim speedboat the last couple of days.”
Brad had noticed a mahogany speedcraft which was plowing up the channel at half-speed. “Isn’t that Manheim’s boat coming now?” he demanded. “It looks like it to me.”
“Likewise the same one that struck us last night,” Midge muttered, shading his eyes as he gazed toward the sun.
As the three Cubs watched, the boat drew closer until they could read the license numbers—D 351, and see the bright gleam of her brasswork.
“The boat that hit us had no visible license,” Dan said, a little troubled. “If it weren’t for that, I’d say it was Manheim’s craft that smashed into us.”
“Who’s at the wheel?” Brad demanded. “Not Manheim.”
The operator of the boat wore a striped red and blue jersey and soiled brown trousers. His square jaw and grizzled sun-brown face of set expression marked him as a man of surly temper.
As the boat slid along toward the Manheim berth, he glanced briefly at the Cubs. Then deliberately he looked away.
“Wonder who he is?” Midge muttered. “He doesn’t resemble anyone in that boat last night.”
“Not the operator anyway,” Dan agreed. “Actually, we didn’t see the other two fellows well enough to recognize them again.”
The Cubs kept the boat in view as it maneuvered into a reserved space at the far end of the dock. Midge asked a club member, who loitered nearby, if the speedboat belonged to Mr. Manheim.
“Yes, that’s his boat,” the club member identified it.
“But that isn’t Mr. Manheim at the wheel?”
“No, the pilot is a fellow who works for him at Skeleton Island. A new man he hired a few months ago. I’ve heard him called Wilson Jabowski.”
After the club member had moved on, the three Cubs watched the Manheim boat fill its gas tank at a private pump.
“Notice her stern,” Dan whispered to his companions. “Can you see any scratches?”
“We’re too far away,” Midge returned. “But I’ll bet a frosted doughnut it was Manheim’s boat that rammed us last night! I’ll find out!”
Unable to restrain himself, the boy descended three steps to the lower level, there to inspect the craft’s hull.
“Hey!” the boat operator shouted as Midge bent to look closely at the mahogany. “What d’you think you’re doing?”
“Nothing,” Midge mumbled, startled. “Just looking.”
“Well, do your lookin’ somewhere else!” the man snapped. “Mr. Manheim doesn’t want kids hangin’ around his boat.”
“I’m not doing any harm,” Midge defended himself. “I was just noticing a few scratches on your boat. Have you been in an accident?”
“No,” the boat operator answered gruffly. “I may have scratched the mahogany a couple of days ago when I was backing out of the berth. Grazed a dock post.”
“Oh, I see,” Midge said, pretending to accept the explanation. “I thought maybe you might have been in a collision last night.”
“Collision! What you drivin’ at, you young whelp? Trying to make out it was Mr. Manheim’s boat that run into your Dad’s sailboat?”
“I didn’t say so, did I? Anyhow, how did you know of it?”
“Heard about the accident here at the club,” the boat operator retorted. “Let me tell you something! This boat wasn’t away from Skeleton Island last night! And another thing, Mr. Manheim doesn’t go around smashing sailboats.”
“Who said he did?” Midge demanded, now on the defensive. “I never accused him.”
“No, but you’re thinking it was this boat that hit yours. Oh, I heard you boys whispering! Well, get this straight! You better not go to Mr. Manheim with your complaints.”
“I’m sorry if I said anything to offend,” Midge replied, his voice stony. “To tell you the truth, I did think maybe it was his boat that struck ours in the dark. If I’ve made a mistake I apologize.”
“You sure made a mistake, kid. Now get going all of you! I want to fill this gasoline tank and get back to Skeleton Island.”
Embarrassed by the reprimand, the three Cubs took themselves to the club where they sat on the veranda drinking cokes.
“I sure made the old boy sore,” Midge said between sips of the iced drink. “I never intended to accuse him or say anything about the accident. He snapped me up so fast.”
“Almost as if he had a guilty conscience,” Dan agreed. “Maybe he heard about the accident here at the club the way he said. Then again, maybe he didn’t.”
“Those scratches on the boat weren’t very deep,” Midge said thoughtfully. “All in all, I guess I’d better not exercise my gums too much over the thing. Dad wouldn’t like it.”
Brad, who had been scanning the morning paper while his companions talked, now uttered a startled snort.
“Say, will you look at this!” he exclaimed, tapping a front page news story. “Guess what happened last night?”
“Break it to us gently, Brad, my boy,” Midge laughed.
“It says here that a box of furs valued at $8,500 was stolen last night from Pier 23. So far the police haven’t traced the thieves.”
Dan relieved Brad of the newspaper and read the account for himself. The story related that during the early hours of the evening, a fast motorboat had pulled alongside of Pier 23 where a box of furs had been piled up with other merchandise for shipment. Before the warehouse watchman had suspected what was happening, the craft with its unknown occupants had sped away into the darkness.
“Say, do you suppose that could have been the same boat that struck us last night?” Dan demanded as he finished reading the story.
“What time did the robbery occur?” Midge asked thoughtfully.
“The story doesn’t say. But you remember, the boat was showing no lights, and coming from the general direction of the docks.”
“That’s true,” Midge admitted, impressed. “All the same, Manheim isn’t the type of man to get mixed up in a fur theft. In the first place, he has plenty of money.”
“We may have been mistaken about it being the Manheim boat,” Dan argued.
“In any case, this story about the fur theft is interesting,” Brad said, rereading it. “It looks to me as if the river pirates are getting pretty bold when they can pull off a robbery practically under the eyes of the watchman.”
“I wish we had more information,” Midge remarked. “Pier 23 isn’t far from here. Why not go there and see if we can pick up any more information.”
The proposal appealed to Brad and Dan. Finishing their drinks, they caught a bus which dropped them off a few minutes later at the commercial area of the river.
Midge, who was fairly familiar with this section of the waterfront, led his companions toward a small warehouse whose corrugated steel door stood slightly ajar.
Inside, an elderly man was taking an inventory of boxes and crates stacked against the wall. A spry, wiry little fellow with white hair and energy that belied his sixty-nine years, he whirled around as he heard the boys enter.
“You startled me,” he chuckled, obviously relieved. “After last night, I’m a mite jumpy.”
The Cubs noticed then that the warehouse man carried a revolver in a holster at his belt.
“I’m Hank Hawkins, at your service,” he announced cheerfully. “What can I do for you youngsters?”
“We’d like a little information about the robbery last night,” Dan spoke up. “We’re not just asking questions out of curiosity. We may have some information for you too.”
“You kids know something about it?”
“We may have seen the boat that pulled away from the pier. We’re not sure. What time did the robbery take place?”
“Say, who are you kids anyhow?” the watchman demanded, without answering the question.
Brad gave his name and introduced his companions, explaining that they were Cub Scouts. “I guess you think we have our nerve barging in like this,” he added. “We read about the fur robbery in the paper, and we want to learn the details.”
“I see.” Hank sat down on a packing case to light his pipe. “Well, there ain’t much to tell. The Hodur and Fameister firm sent through a box of expensive furs. They were to have been picked up at 10 o’clock last night by the freighterAlbone. At eight thirty I set out the box along with some others that were to go. Then I stepped back into the warehouse for a minute, and it happened.”
“You say the theft occurred about eight thirty?” Dan asked thoughtfully.
“It was about that time. Ordinarily, it wouldn’t have been dark, but a heavy fog had rolled in.”
“Did you see the motorboat and the men in it?” Midge asked.
“Caught a glimpse of ’em as they pulled away—that was all. It all happened so fast. They had that box off the pier and were gone before I knew what was up.”
“What sort of boat was it?” Brad inquired.
“A 20-ft. high-powered speedboat. Mostly she was a blur in the dark. Not a light showing.”
“How many in the boat?”
“Three, I’d say.”
The information tended to convince the Cubs that the craft was the same one that had smashed into Mr. Holloway’s sailboat.
As they were telling Hank about the incident, a tapping sound was heard on the planking outside the door. A moment later, a blindman led by a seeing-eye dog, groped his way into the warehouse.
“Good morning, Joe,” the watchman greeted him. “How’s business today?”
“Lousy,” the blindman complained. “I’ve sold only four packages of pencils all morning. The sun’s so hot it’s wilting me. Mind if I chin for a few minutes while I cool off?”
“Glad to have you,” Hank said, guiding the man to a seat on a box. “Boys, meet Joe Matt, a friend of mine.”
The Cubs gave their own names. Feeling sorry for the man, Brad then bought a package of pencils for a quarter. However, the blindman pocketed the coin rather indifferently.
“What do you hear from the cops?” he asked Hank. “Any clue as to the fur thieves?”
“Apparently it was a clean get-away. The box was insured for only half its value and that makes it tough for Hodur and Fameister. I’m lucky I didn’t lose my job?”
“Why should anyone blame you?” the blindman demanded. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“No, but maybe my employer will figure I should have had my eyes open a little wider. It’s the first time I’ve lost anything in the eighteen years I’ve been workin’ on the waterfront.”
Hank discussed the theft at length and then began to tell other tales of the waterfront which kept the Cubs enthralled. Brad, Dan, and Midge presently found themselves drawn into the conversation. They told of their Cave on the hillside and the exciting treasure hunt which had led to the discovery of Jacques lying on the beach.
“Jacques?” the blindman interposed. “Is that his name? Must be one of those foreigners.”
“French, we think,” Midge revealed, failing to notice the look of intent interest in the blindman’s otherwise mask-like face. “He’s not much to talk.”
“Hasn’t told you anything about himself?”
“Not yet.”
“Where is the youngster now?”
“He may be at the Cave.”
The blindman talked a few minutes more and then arose to leave. Dan also slid down from the packing box on which he had perched himself.
Slight as was the movement, it disturbed the seeing-eye dog. With a snarl, he sprang at the boy.
Startled, Dan leaped backward. The blindman uttered a sharp command.
“Here, Rudy! Come here! Behave yourself!”
Still growling and eyeing Dan with deep hate, the dog allowed his master to grasp him by the leash.
“Quite a vicious dog you have there,” Brad said, edging away. “He might have taken a chunk out of Dan.”
“Rudy isn’t vicious,” the blindman denied. “Now and then he takes a dislike to someone. Usually he won’t attack unless he’s annoyed.”
“That’s encouraging,” Dan said with a wry grin. “Believe me, in the future I’ll take pains not to annoy him.”
Without apologizing for the incident, the blindman took the dog and went off down the wharf. For a long while, the Cubs could hear his cane tapping on the planks.
“Joe Matt isn’t a bad sort after you know him,” the watchman remarked, aware that the Cubs had not been favorably impressed by the man’s manners. “Being blind would make anyone out-of-sorts, I guess.”
“Sure,” Brad agreed. “I suppose he’s attached to that dog—though he’s an ugly animal. Wouldn’t want to meet him on a dark night.”
“You can bet I’ll give him a wide berth,” Dan added with a laugh. “Rudy didn’t go for me. And the feeling’s mutual! By the way, Hank, how long have you known Joe Matt?”
“Oh, I don’t remember,” the watchman replied indifferently, knocking the ashes from his pipe. “Six months maybe. Well, I’ve been spinning yarns long enough. Got to do a little work now.”
Accepting the remark as a dismissal, Dan, Brad and Midge said goodbye, and left the warehouse. At the bus line, they debated, and finally decided to make an appearance at the Cave.
“Mr. Holloway and Fred will need some help cleaning up the place,” Dan declared. “Also, if Jacques is there, I’d like to talk to him again.”
“He seemed to go for you more than anyone else,” Brad said, signaling to a bus driver. “Maybe you can get him to loosen up a bit.”
The sun was high overhead as the three Cubs alighted from the bus ten minutes later. Crossing the beach, they climbed to the Cave.
Entering, they saw at once that something was amiss. Mr. Holloway and Fred were there alone, their brooms discarded. Rather dejectedly they sat at a table, studying an object which was hidden from view.
“Hi!” Dan greeted the pair. “Where’s Jacques? We thought you were bringing him here.”
“We did,” replied Fred significantly.
The other Cubs looked quickly about the disordered room. Plainly Jacques was nowhere in the Cave.
“Where is he?” Brad demanded. “Don’t keep us in suspense. He didn’t take a turn for the worse?”
Mr. Hatfield shook his head.
“No, Jacques appeared fine when last we saw him. This will explain.” He thrust a note into Brad’s hand. “The lad left it here a few minutes ago.”
In a large, hard-to-read scrawl, the boy had written:
“Thanks for everything. Goodbye.”
Beneath the message appeared a crudely drawn Wolf cub, its sharp ears pointing to the final word: “Jacques.”
Jacques’ unexpected leave-taking came as a bitter disappointment to Brad and Dan who had hoped to learn more about the boy.
“We don’t know where he went or why,” Fred explained to the Cubs as they reread the farewell message. “Dad and I carried a basket of trash down to the beach, leaving Jacques here. When we came back, he was gone.”
“That was only a few minutes ago,” Mr. Hatfield added. “Dan, you and Brad didn’t see the boy anywhere on the beach?”
Dan replied that they had observed no one.
“Dad and I weren’t away from the Cave ten minutes,” Fred further explained. “I can’t understand what got into Jacques. He seemed cheerful earlier this morning.”
“Maybe he was afraid we’d ask too many questions,” Brad commented, his gaze roving slowly about the room. “Say, isn’t there something different about this place?”
“Different?” Mr. Hatfield echoed. “A chair has been upset and another one shoved against the wall. Come to think of it, both those chairs were in place when Fred and I carried out the trash!”
“Maybe someone came here while you were away and forced Jacques to leave!” Dan exclaimed.
“The boy seemed well enough satisfied this morning,” Mr. Hatfield said, folding and buttoning the note into his jacket pocket. “That’s what makes it seem strange that he’d leave without explaining. Suppose we look around down on the beach.”
Eager to search for clues, the boys clattered down the stairway ahead of the Cub leader.
At the foot of the steps they noticed several freshly made footsteps in the sand. Scattered among the imprints left by a small shoe were those of a man’s heavy-soled footgear.
“Dan, your theory about someone forcing Jacques to leave may be correct!” Mr. Hatfield exclaimed. “The boy may have gone willingly enough. But that upset chair makes me wonder.”
Now rather excited by their discoveries, the Cubs followed the footprint trail for twenty yards along the beach.
Now and then, a small circular mark appeared near the shoe prints. To the observing Cubs this indicated that a stick or similar round object had been carried by Jacques’ companion.
“And see here!” Midge exclaimed, staring at a confusion of prints in the sand. “Doesn’t this look as if a scuffle took place, Mr. Hatfield?”
“It does,” agreed the Cub leader, praising Midge for his observation. “Either Jacques stumbled or was given a hard shove. One can see plainly where he fell down.”
The trail of footprints led the Cubs on to a paved road paralleling the river front. There it abruptly ended.
“Well, we’ve lost them,” Mr. Hatfield said, gazing up and down the deserted highway.
“And now we’ll never know who Jacques was or where he came from,” Dan said. “About all he told us was that he’s a Cub.”
“Even that seems odd,” Mr. Hatfield commented. “I’ve checked, and Jacques never was a member of any Webster City Den. I only hope that whoever took the boy away treats him right. Those bruises the doctor mentioned, rather trouble me.”
Failure to learn what had become of Jacques disturbed not only Mr. Hatfield but all of the Cubs. During the next three days, the topic was a major one discussed at the Cave.
The Cub leader reported Jacques’ disappearance to police, but was informed that no boy of his description had been reported missing.
At first, the Cubs spent many hours trying to decipher the coded message which Dan and Brad had removed from Jacques’ clothing.
Failing to figure it out or to hear more of the boy, the matter began to fade into the background. Only Dan remained determined to work out the code.
Meanwhile, the Cubs turned their attention to an important swimming meet which had been scheduled with the boys of Den 1.
In a meet held the month before, the rival Den had captured top honors by a score of 20 to 16. Defeat rankled in the hearts of the Den 2 Cubs who were determined to make a better showing in the second contest.
A total of three meets had been scheduled for the season. An engraved silver loving cup would be awarded to the Den which won two of the contests.
“I’m afraid Ross Langdon will win the Saturday meet too,” Dan remarked glumly one afternoon as he practiced with the other Cubs at the “Y” pool. “That guy swims as if he’s jet propelled!”
Although Den 1 boasted several fine swimmers, 11-year-old Ross was by far the greatest threat to the rival Cubs. Muscularly built, the boy had the energy of a youngster of fifteen. His crawl stroke lacked form, but by sheer strength he managed to win every race he entered.
“You swim as well as Ross does,” Brad told Dan loyally. “Your form is better.”
“Maybe,” Dan admitted, “but I lack his endurance. I hold out fairly well in the 25-yard free style, but in the 50, I began to lose my wind. And you know we’ve got to capture both events to nose out Den 1 in the final tally.”
“Sure, I know,” Brad acknowledged, easing his body snake-fashion down the pool wall into the chlorinated water. “Just get in and pitch, old boy. Remember, the Den is counting on you!”
“That’s what makes me worried, Brad. I want to do my best. I practice and practice, but where does it get me?”
Sam Hatfield emerged from the dressing room in time to hear Dan’s final remark.
“You just keep plugging and top speed will come, Dan,” he said cheerfully. “Stop worrying about Ross Langdon. One of these days his lack of form will catch up with him. Now dive into that pool and swim eight lengths.”
“Eight?” Dan groaned.
“Eight,” the Cub leader repeated firmly. “It’s the only way you’ll ever build up your endurance. When the going gets hard—just keep going.”
Inspired by this advice, Dan dived into the water, and with smooth strokes slashed his way the first length of the pool.
After a turn at the wall, his breath became a little short and he slowed down a little. By the end of the third length, his stroke lost some of its hard drive. At five lengths, his steady six-beat leg thrash became a tired wiggle. Finally at the end of the eighth length, Dan was holding out by sheer will power.
“Keep it up!” Mr. Hatfield called encouragingly. “You’re doing fine.”
At that moment Ross Langdon sauntered into the pool. Large for his age and a natural athlete, the boy’s appearances at the “Y” were few and far between, for he disliked to practice. On this afternoon, however, he had donned satin trunks, showered, and evidently intended to swim.
Observing Dan’s now jerky stroke, he uttered a loud horse-laugh. Then to show off, he plunged into the pool, and swam the length with a speed which tossed foam ahead of his thrashing arms.
Thoroughly discouraged by the display, Dan wheeled over to the side to watch.
“What’s the use?” he muttered to Brad who slithered alongside in the water. “I couldn’t quite finish eight lengths and here Ross blazes in and tears up the pool!”
“That’s all right, Dan,” Brad encouraged him. “You won’t see him doing more than a few lengths before he caves in. You just keep plugging the way Mr. Hatfield said.”
“But the meet is Saturday. And look at that guy travel! His form may not be so hot, but how he can chop the water!”
Well aware that the Cubs of Den 2 were watching, Ross swam another length, finishing off with a snappy turn at the wall.
Then he pulled himself from the pool, stretching out on the tile floor to relax.
“See, I told you!” Brad muttered. “As soon as the going gets hard, he quits.”
“To win the 25-yard and the 50-yard dash, he won’t need too much reserve,” Dan sighed. “Well, I’ll sure do my best to win, but I’ve got a dark brown feeling.”
On Saturday, the day set for the swimming meet, enthusiasm had mounted to high pitch. By two o’clock, all the Cubs, their parents and many other spectators had gathered at the “Y” to witness the contest.
Five events had been scheduled, fancy diving, the 25-yard free style race, the 50-yard swim, a 100-yard relay, and a back stroke event.
Points were to be awarded on the basis of five for first place, three for second, and one for third place. According to the rules, each team was allowed to enter two contestants in an event.
Den 2 swung off to a good start with Brad taking top honors and Midge Holloway coming in third. This lead of six to three brought enthusiastic cheers from the gallery.
The second event, the racing back crawl, proved discouraging to Den 2. Though Chips Davis swam an excellent race, he lost to one of the Den 1 boys. Den 2, however, managed to snare both second and third places, giving them a total score of 10 to 8.
“From now on it will be nip and tuck,” Brad said grimly as the 25-yard free style was called. “So far Ross Langdon hasn’t had a chance to swim.”
At the crack of the gun, Dan and Ross hit the water together. From that first moment of the race it was evident to the spectators that the remainder of the meet would resolve itself into a battle between the two swimmers.
Though Dan exerted his best efforts, Ross won the event by an easy six-foot margin. Dan was awarded second place, while another swimmer from Den 1 captured third position. The scoreboard proclaimed the discouraging totals: Den 1—14. Den 2—13.
Only two events remained, the 50-yard free style and the 100-yard relay. However, Ross was entered in both events and the Cubs knew his flashy speed could be counted upon to win for his den.
“That boy is in top form today—if you can say he has any form,” Midge muttered, slapping Dan encouragingly on the back. “Well, get in there and show him!”
“Sure, sure,” Dan laughed, but his words had a hollow ring.
As the Cubs of Den 2 expected, their rivals walked away with the relay by a score of 20 to 16.
“Fat chance we have of winning now,” Dan said as the final event of the meet was called. “We’d have to make a complete sweep, and we’ll be lucky to capture one place.”
“It sure looks bad for Den 2,” Brad agreed. “But get in there and fight, boy! Ross acts a bit winded. He may not hold out.”
In the 50-yard free style, the Cubs were required to swim two lengths of the pool. Before the start of the race, an official reminded the boys that they must remain in their lanes and touch the wall at the turn or be disqualified.
At the crack of the gun Ross and Dan were off to a fast start, followed by the field of slower swimmers.
As Brad had observed, Ross seemed somewhat tired from his earlier performances. His stroke looked ragged and jerky. Dan by contrast forged smoothly ahead, pressing him hard every inch of the way.
At the turn, the two rivals were racing almost even. Determined to gain the lead, Ross lunged for the wall, his finger tips missing it by a scant margin. So rapidly did he turn, that few noticed.
Dan, tucking into a tight ball, also made a fast turn, but touched the wall. His shove-off however, was weak. When his head came out of water for a gulp of air, he was disconcerted to see that Ross was a full body length ahead.
“Come on, Dan!” his teammates yelled encouragingly. “You can do it!”
Dan dug in, but his breath was coming hard. Despite his best efforts he could not recapture the lead. In a moment, it seemed, the race was over. Ross had touched the finish wall a scant arm’s length ahead, and was congratulated as the winner.
For the members of Den 2 it was slight consolation that Mack had won third place, nosing out a Den 1 swimmer. The scoreboard proclaimed Den 1 the victor by a total of 25 to 20.
“Congratulations, Ross,” Dan said, offering his hand. “You swam a fine race!”
“Thanks,” the other boy grinned. “You weren’t so bad yourself. Pressed me plenty at first.”
Other members of Den 1 had gathered in a little group. After talking rather excitedly, they called Ross over. The other Cubs could not hear what was said, but they gathered that Ross himself was the topic of conversation. Apparently, he disagreed with his teammates about some matter, for his voice rose in sharp protest.
Then the Cubs heard him say sullenly: “Okay, if you want to be saps, go ahead! It makes me sick, after the way I worked to win for the team!”
Ross’ teammates talked to their coach briefly. Then before the audience or Den 2 swimmers could leave the pool, a whistle blasted for attention.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we regret that an error has been made in scoring,” an official announced. “It has been brought to notice that one of the contestants, Ross Langdon, failed to touch the wall at the end of the first length.”
A buzz of conversation greeted this announcement. Brad and Dan glanced quickly at each other, and then at Ross. The face of the latter was as black as a summer rainstorm.
“Due to this infraction of the rules, Ross has been disqualified,” the official continued. “Dan Carter wins first place.”
A mighty cheer rocked the pool gallery. Even heavier applause broke out as new figures went up on the scoreboard:
Den 2—24Den 1—21.
Den 2—24Den 1—21.
Brad and the other Den 2 teammates swarmed about Dan, clapping him on his dripping shoulders.
“Dan, you did it!” Red Suell congratulated him. “Now the matches are even! If we win the third meet, that silver cup is in the bag.”
“IF is right,” Dan laughed. “Don’t forget, this victory was a fluke.”
From Mr. Hatfield, the Cubs learned that only the good sportsmanship of the Den 1 teammates had been responsible for their success. Ross himself had made no mention of his failure to touch the wall, and his error had gone unnoticed by officials.
“Two of Den 1 swimmers saw Ross miss the turn,” the Cub leader revealed. “They reasoned that honor means more than victory.”
“A Cub Always is Square,” Dan quoted thoughtfully.
“That’s right,” Mr. Hatfield agreed. “I’m proud of our boys for winning, but equally proud of the other team for reporting the incident.”
The swimmers of Den 1 gathered around to congratulate Dan and his teammates. Ross, however, had slipped away to the dressing room without a word.
“He’s a little sore,” one of his teammates remarked. “But he’ll get over it. The coach warned Ross plenty of times to be careful about that turn. He never paid much attention.”
Feeling on top of the world, Dan showered and dressed. As he was getting his things from the locker, he bumped squarely into Ross.
Dan waited a moment, expecting the other boy to offer some word of congratulation. When Ross said nothing, he remarked:
“You had a tough break, fellow.”
Ross gave a snort of disgust. “I’ll say it was a tough break,” he agreed. “In a straight race, you couldn’t win and we both know it!”
The remark annoyed Dan.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he drawled. “My stroke is improving every day. I noticed you were pretty well winded at the finish.”
“Bunk. I didn’t even exert myself!”
“Anyway, now that the two teams are tied, it will make a good meet when the final contest is scheduled,” Dan said, trying to ease out of a disagreeable conversation.
“Sure,” Ross said, his eyes flashing. “Maybe you can dig up another technical point and win the cup! You’ll never earn it on merit!”
And with that challenge, he brushed past Dan and slouched out of the dressing room.
Stung by Ross’ jibe, Dan spent much of his time the next few days at the “Y” pool. To build endurance and smooth out his stroke, he also swam in the river. Always on these occasions he was accompanied by Brad or Midge’s father in a boat.
Now that the swimming meet was over, the other Cubs temporarily turned their attention to various Den activities. Brad tried to assist Dan in deciphering the code message which had been found in Jacques’ pocket.
However, after three days of work, he gave up in disgust.
“Maybe it isn’t a code after all,” he said, returning the paper to Dan. “I figure those numerals must stand for letters that spell out a message. But I can’t get the hang of it.”
“I think I’ll keep on trying,” Dan said. “Not that it will mean much if we do puzzle out the thing. Jacques is gone, and probably we’ll never see him again.”
“Wonder what became of that kid anyhow?” Brad mused. “It sure was funny, finding him on the beach the way we did.”
“And he never told us his name or explained anything. I’d say there was every indication someone came and took him away.”
“Mr. Hatfield made inquiries,” Brad added. “No one saw the boy leave the Cave. He’s unknown in Webster City.”
Although Dan and the other Cubs had kept a close watch of the waterfront, they had sighted no boat which resembled the one that had damaged Mr. Holloway’s craft. Therefore, the conviction steadily grew that Mr. Manheim’s speedboat might be the one involved.
“Mr. Manheim is well spoken of at the club,” Midge’s father told the boys. “It would be a serious mistake if we made any accusation against him or any of his employees. The boat has been repaired, and as far as I’m concerned, the matter will be dropped.”
Dan and Midge said no more about the affair, but in private they often remarked that they thought Wilson Jabowski, the caretaker on Skeleton Island, would bear investigation.
“I hear he hasn’t worked very long for Mr. Manheim,” Dan remarked. “And folks say that when his employer is out of town, he rides around in that speedboat like a king.”
“Maybe if we keep our eyes open we’ll catch up with him yet,” Midge said. “He may crack into another boat.”
On the regular Friday night meeting of the Den, the Cubs enjoyed the beach treasure hunt which had been interrupted at the previous gathering. Mack and Fred came off victorious, their clues leading them to the buried chest which contained carpenter’s tools.
“The Den needs a bookcase,” Mr. Hatfield reminded the pair as they admired their ‘find’. “We’ll expect you boys to produce something handsome now that you have the tools.”
“We’ll do it too,” Mack promised.
With the treasure hunt over, all the Cubs gathered on the beach for a council fire and “feed.” Mrs. Holloway passed out hot dog sandwiches, chocolate and thick wedges of pie.
When the boys could eat no more, they stretched out on the sand, and begged Mr. Hatfield to tell them a ghost story.
“I might tell you about the ghost of Skeleton Island,” he chuckled.
“A true story?” Dan demanded.
“It may have elements of truth,” the Cub leader replied. “Basically though, the tale is a product of the imagination.”
“You mean you’re making up the story?” Midge asked in disappointment.
“No,” the Cub leader corrected. “I first heard about Skeleton Island as a boy. According to the tale, it once was an old pirate stronghold. River pirates would come upstream and hide their loot on the island.”
“Was any of it ever dug up?” Midge demanded.
“Not that I ever heard. But thirty years ago, a man’s skeleton was found on the island. That’s how the place received its name.”
“What about the ghost?” Dan inquired.
“I’m coming to that part. The old freebooters supposedly built a tunnel which connected some point of the beach with an old inn that was on the island.”
“Not the hotel that’s there now?” Brad interposed. “I mean the abandoned one that Mr. Manheim converted into the caretaker’s premises.”
“I doubt it is the same place, Brad. However, I believe that after the old inn burned down, the present building was erected in its place. That was at least fifty years ago.”
“And the ghost?” Red Suell reminded him.
“The ghost? Oh, yes, to be sure. The fellow, I’m told, never was very active. On windy nights, shore residents reported seeing a white, misty figure moving along the beach.”
“Mist—that’s probably what it was,” Brad said with a snort. “Anyone knows there are no ghosts. I’m more interested in that tunnel. Do you think one actually was built, Mr. Hatfield?”
“I’m inclined to think that part of the story is true, Brad.”
“Then what became of the tunnel? No one has heard of it in recent years.”
“I was asking an old timer about that only yesterday.”
“And what did he tell you?” Dan demanded, eager for additional details.
“This old salt claimed that heavy wind storms blocked off the beach entrance to the tunnel.”
“Couldn’t it be relocated and dug out?”
“Probably, if anyone wanted to go to that much work. It would be a big job shifting so much sand even if the entranceway could be found. I don’t suppose Mr. Manheim ever was interested.”
“He owns the entire island, doesn’t he?” Brad asked thoughtfully. Picking up a piece of driftwood, he fed it to the dying embers of the fire.