A PIECE OF WHITE PAPER
A PIECE OF WHITE PAPER
A PIECE OF WHITE PAPER
"Anything on it?" questioned Nat, eagerly.
"Yes!"
Ted held it up in the full glare of a torch, while nine heads, as close together as nine heads could be, scanned a rude scrawl. Ted began to read.
"'Your boat has been stole by an honest man what works for a living and needs it worse than a lot of kids.'"
"I was right!" cried John Hackett, loudly; "I was right! We've been done, like the biggest lot of chumps you ever heard of."
"Steals the 'Nimrod,' and calls us a lot of kids," exclaimed Nat Wingate. "That's just a little more than the limit."
"Maybe the fellows at Kingswood won't laugh at us," said Ted Pollock.
"Why didn't some one sleep on board?" wailed little Tommy Clifton.
"Because we were a pack of idiots, that's why," snapped Hackett. "I don't think that 'honest man' made a mistake—not a bit of it."
"It means the finish of our grand trip, all right," declared Nat; "make up your minds to that, boys."
"Talk about being disgusted," fumed Hackett; "I never was so wild in all my life. We are a fine lot—the whole crowd of us. Your uncle is going to raise a beautiful row, Nat."
"You may be sure he will," sighed their leader. "No use standing here. Suppose we get back to camp."
Two almost spent pine-knots hissed and sputtered as the water closed about them. John Hackett had kicked one violently and thrown the other.
"And just think of all the fun we were going to have," he groaned.
The light of the camp-fire shone faintly between the trees, as the boys began to toil dejectedly up the hill. When the summit had been reached, Tom Clifton, who was in the lead, approached the fire and stooped over.
"Look, Nat!" he exclaimed, holding up a sadly charred object.
"The megaphone!" cried young Wingate. "How did that happen?"
"Kirk must have thrown it too near the fire, after he gave that awful howl," answered Ted Pollock; "anyway, it's done for."
The fire brightened up for a moment, as the last of the megaphone crumbled to pieces in the hot embers.
There was no sleep for the boys that night. The mosquitoes still hovered around, and a dreary time was spent while awaiting the approach of day.
When the light was sufficient, Bob Somers brought out his map.
"Boys, here's something I never thought of before," he said slowly.
"Any new trouble?" inquired Dick.
"I believe we are on an island."
"Mud-turtles and lobsters! What makes you think that?"
"Clair Bay is full of them. Look at this."
Bob ran his fingers over the sheet.
"I'll bet we are just here," he said, indicating a position on the map.
"What! Nearly in the middle of the bay?" asked Tom, incredulously.
"Yes! And we may not see a boat for a week."
"Crusoe life with a vengeance, eh?" laughed the poet laureate. "What next on the programme?"
"The whole kit of us had better get back to Kingswood," came from Nat; "your dad, Somers, and my uncle will see that we do."
A breakfast was hastily eaten just about the time that the rosy tint of early morning began to disappear. Then the boys, in three parties, started on a tour of inspection.
Bob, Dave and Sam, in the course of an hour, reached a point on a high hill from whence the water of Clair Bay could be seen sweeping around in a wide curve to the west. They compared the coast line with the map, and found that it agreed exactly.
"I told you—an island!" cried Bob. "There's something funny about this business."
"How do you mean?"
"I saw Nat change the course of the 'Nimrod' yesterday. He was steering by map and compass and must have known that we were not going all the way across the bay."
"Well?" asked Dave, in puzzled tones; "what of that?"
"I have an idea he dumped us on this island for some purpose."
"But what could it be?" Sam asked.
"I am sure I don't know. Another funny thing was the way our stuff was thrown on shore."
"It's mighty queer," admitted Dave; "I can't make head or tail out of it."
"Ever notice how Nat is always talking about going back to Kingswood?" asked Bob.
"Yes, and kicked, too, about keeping on Clair Bay," added Sam Randall, reflectively.
"But Nat is in it now as badly as we are," said Dave. "The 'Nimrod' is gone. His uncle will be wild."
"Hmph!" observed Bob, dryly; "I may be mistaken, but I think there's a pretty deep mystery about this. And—"
"And what?"
"Well, it is going to be solved—that's all."
"Five days marooned on an island? Five days fighting mosquitoes? Well, well, boys, you have had a time of it, sure enough. You're almost as brown as Indians—every one of you."
Mr. Wingate was pacing the floor of a room in the Badger State Hotel. He glanced with an amused look from one to another of the nine boys who sat or stood around the room.
The boys had met with some strange experiences.
"Crusoe Island," as Nat had named it, was quite a distance from the track of boats, the Clair Bay line of steamers passing so far away as to be scarcely visible. It was not inhabited, and even fishing boats rarely came to its shores.
The boys, thanks to the strange kindness of the "honest man" who stole, were well provided with food. They found game very scarce, and, indeed, there was little to be said in favor of the island. Swampy pools, wild, desolate expanses of meadows stretched along the shore, while back of these were areas of sand and rocks. The spot on which the boys had happened to land was about the best part of the entire place.
They made every effort to attract the attention of the few boats which were seen, and, after five weary days, most of which were spent in fighting mosquitoes, succeeded.
Bob Somers, waving a huge cloth attached to a pole, attracted the attention of a couple of fishermen.
Arrangements were made to take them to the mainland, where they camped out over night. Then the boys took a train at a small station some miles away and rode back to Clair Bay, reaching that town early in the morning.
They were heavily laden with their camping outfits, and it was a weary lot of boys that trudged up to the Badger State Hotel.
"My uncle told me he was going to stay here for a couple of weeks," said Nat; "I hope we shall find him in."
Mr. Wingate seemed to take the loss of the motor boat very calmly.
"It wasn't your fault, boys, I know," he went on; "still—and I speak to all of you—I think you had better return to Kingswood with me this afternoon. Let me see, there's a train at 4:15. Your parents must be very much worried about you."
"I'd like to stay here a while," ventured John Hackett.
The proposition did not seem to please Mr. Wingate at all. His affable expression for an instant vanished.
"I don't approve of that," he said, tersely. "You have earned a most unenviable notoriety. Listen to this!"
Walking over to a table, he picked up a newspaper and began to read an article.
It told about the affair with Douglass Brown, and pictured the actions of the Nimrods in a most unfavorable light. The destruction of the "Rambler" was also mentioned.
"This account closes with the following words," said Mr. Wingate, emphatically; "'We question the judgment of parents in allowing boys to indulge in such a dangerous pastime as motor-boating.' You can see, boys, that such publicity is decidedly unpleasant."
There was no reply, and Mr. Wingate continued, "I am sure that Mr. Somers would prefer to have you return."
"I knew we'd have to go back," whispered Nat in Bob Somers' ear.
"Did you?" responded Bob, dryly.
"Then we leave at 4:15, Uncle Parsons?"
"Exactly! Boys, you will kindly be ready in time."
"I'm not going back, Mr. Wingate," said Bob, quietly.
"What! Not going back?" echoed the gentleman, in considerable surprise. "I think it is only due to your parents, Robert, that you should return."
"My father will get a letter from me to-morrow morning," said Bob; "he expects us to visit his land in Michigan."
"Now, Robert, don't be stubborn. If your father consents, it would be a very easy matter for you to start out again."
Mr. Wingate's tone was mild and pleasant.
"That's so, Somers; you might as well go with us," chimed in Nat.
But Bob shook his head.
"I appreciate your kindness, Mr. Wingate," he said, "and I only hope you'll excuse me."
"It can't be that you are sensitive on the subject? I wouldn't have you think that I am reflecting on your ability to take care of yourself."
"No, sir!" replied Bob, with a smile. "But when I once start out on a thing I hate to give up."
"Very commendable indeed, in certain cases. But sometimes older heads are wiser."
"I don't doubt that, sir!"
"At any rate, your friends will see the wisdom of my course?" said Mr. Wingate, glancing at the Ramblers interrogatively.
"I think I'll go with Bob," replied Dave Brandon, slowly.
"So will I," added Sam.
And each in turn, apparently to Mr. Wingate's annoyance, announced a similar determination.
"Boys, boys!" said the gentleman, raising his hands, "I certainly am disappointed."
"Can't I go with them, uncle?" asked Nat, meekly.
"Most certainly not! All of the Nimrods must return with me."
John Hackett, wearing an extremely sour expression, ventured to protest, but Mr. Wingate shook his head.
"I shall insist that you act according to my desires," he said, firmly.
"Say, Somers," whispered Nat, "are you really going to keep on?"
"Of course I am," returned Bob.
"Let me go with them, Uncle Parsons?" pleaded Nat. "I don't see why I can't."
"No, Nat, I can't think of it. Be a good boy. Boating and fishing around Kingswood should satisfy you. Possibly Robert, too, may reconsider his determination on second thought."
"No, sir!" replied Bob, firmly, but respectfully.
"Of course, then, if anything further happens, you will tell your father that I did the best I could to get you to return home? Will you go by boat or train?"
"By the Clair Bay line of steamers, Mr. Wingate."
"My eye!" exclaimed John Hackett, in an angry voice; "we ought not to miss anything like that."
Nat's uncle cast a look at the long-legged youth which effectually enforced silence.
Feeling that there was no necessity of prolonging the interview, Bob politely bade good-bye to Mr. Wingate and the disconsolate Nimrods. His companions did likewise, and they soon found themselves on the street.
"We won't have to hurry," said Bob; "the boat does not leave until eleven, and that will give us time enough to go to the post-office and send off our letters."
"Hasn't this been a funny trip?" remarked Dick Travers; "always something queer happening."
"Didn't Mr. Wingate want us to go back, though?" said Tommy Clifton; "and John Hackett was almost ready to boil over."
"Nat has caused all of them to be punished," added Dick; "it is our innings now."
"The Trailers surely have come to grief at last," said Sam Randall; "guess they don't think it so amusing when they happen to be on the wrong side of the game."
"Guess my dad will be frightfully worried," observed Bob, as they turned into the post-office.
Each of the Ramblers found several letters awaiting him. As Bob had thought, his parents were much agitated, fearing that the boys had been in considerable danger. Mr. Somers was greatly mystified at the various attempts on the motor boat, which had culminated in its final destruction, and intimated that there must be something back of it.
"Your mother and I don't want you to take any risks," read the letter. "The loss of the motor boat does not worry us so much as the fact that some one seems to be taking an extraordinary interest in your movements. While I would prefer to have you return home, I leave it to your own judgment as to what course to pursue."
"All right, Bob?" questioned Sam.
"Yes! Dad isn't kicking as much as I thought he would. Hurry up, fellows, scribble your letters and come."
"Oh ho!" drawled Dave. "Now for the 'bounding deep.' I can hardly believe," he added with a smile, "that we have seen the last of the Trailers."
In a short time, the boys trooped out on the street, walked rapidly along the main thoroughfare, passed the Badger State Hotel, and kept on to the pier, where one of the great bay steamers was making ready for departure.
The usual scene of activity was going on. Great boxes and bales, and apparently many kinds of merchandise were being hustled on board. Shouts and cries, altercations and commands filled the air, while passengers crowded up the gangplank. A loud blast of the whistle floated off on the breeze.
As was usually the case, the five boys, with their guns, attracted considerable attention, but to this they paid no heed.
"The 'Lake Michigan' is a mighty fine boat," observed the poet laureate, as they strode through the saloon.
"Must have cost a sight of money to build; it's a regular palace," commented Dick Travers.
Up on the main deck, the boys provided themselves with camp chairs, and, taking a position near the stern, watched the ever-changing scene below with interest.
Another blast of the whistle, and finally the "Lake Michigan" swung slowly out from the wharf.
"I'm glad we are going," said Bob, with satisfaction. "No more motor boats, no more Trailers—seems queer, doesn't it?"
"It certainly does," answered Sam Randall; "and it was queer, too, how Mr. Wingate tried to euchre us out of it. Seemed to consider himself the guardian of the whole crowd."
"Got any new ideas, Bob, about that mysterious finish of the 'Rambler' and all the other strange happenings?"
"No! But it will be our fault if we don't find out."
"Clair Bay is quite a town," broke in Tom Clifton; "look at all the mills and factories."
The shore line, rapidly receding, enabled them to get a good view of it. From many chimneys smoke was pouring forth, while jets of white steam here and there spurted upward amidst the darker masses.
"Hello, fellows!"
This exclamation, uttered by a familiar voice, caused them to turn quickly.
Nat Wingate stood close by, grinning down at them.
"Nat Wingate!" chorused the Ramblers, in astonishment.
"Surprised to see me, eh?" chuckled the former chief of the Nimrods.
He burst into a laugh.
"I just lit out," he said; "guess Uncle Parsons will be wild when he finds that I've given him the slip."
"I'll bet he will," said Dick.
"But it will be nothing to the way that poor old 'Hacky' is going to feel. My, but isn't he in a state of mind! Ha, ha, ha! Just think of the whole crowd being taken back to Kingswood like a parcel of little kids."
"Going to let your uncle know you are with us?"
"Guess so. Wait till I get a chair, and I'll join the company."
"Well, what do you think of this?" whispered Bob.
"That he certainly likes our company," said Dave, with a smile. "Still I—"
"Look out! Here he comes back," put in Tom.
Nat planted his chair in their midst.
"I wasn't going to be cheated out of a lot of fun," he proceeded; "and, if Hacky had had any real sand, the whole crowd might be together now. Say—did you notice how he glared when Uncle Parse was talking?"
At the recollection, Nat began to laugh again.
"We've had a queer trip," said Bob; "some mighty funny things happened."
"I should say so. Both boats gone—well, we can have a good time yet. Hacky's got my gun, though," he added, reflectively, as he glanced at those of the Ramblers'.
"You're welcome to ours," said the poet laureate.
"Thanks! What's on the programme, Somers?"
"We are going to Tocono, see a bit of the town, then keep right on."
"Will you stay long?"
"Oh, a day or two."
"Heard that it's a pretty lively place," commented Nat; "no end of things to see. Maybe we'll like it well enough to put in a week."
By this time the steamboat was far out in the bay, and the shore was barely discernible on the horizon. The boys, too active to sit still very long, left their seats for a tour of inspection. They visited the engine room, interviewed the engineer, then trooped into the restaurant, where a meal was thoroughly enjoyed. Nat, by his loud speech and droll remarks, managed to attract a great deal of attention.
About two o'clock, Tocono was sighted.
"Biggest town we've seen yet," said Bob, as they approached.
"Makes Clair Bay look like a village," declared Nat.
Factories of all sorts and warehouses fronted the bay, while church steeples and a number of towering structures rose above the great mass of buildings beyond.
"We ought to have a great time here!" exclaimed Nat, gleefully. "Won't I crow over Hacky when we get back to Kingswood?"
Nat pushed forward, and was the first to pass down the gangplank.
A wide thoroughfare led along by the bay. It had the usual characteristics of a waterfront street. Irregular rows of buildings crowded between high, gloomy warehouses, ship-chandlers' stores and sail lofts were prominently in view, while empty casks, sending forth odors of tar, sugar and other commodities, stood against cellar ways and on the curb. The street was crowded with drays and trucks, and altogether presented an interesting sight to the boys.
"Kingswood isn't like this, is it?" exclaimed Nat, his eyes flashing with pleasure. "Some life here. Christopher! I'd like to stay a couple of weeks."
"Going to a hotel now, Bob?" ventured Tom Clifton.
"Might as well," put in Dick; "then we can get washed up a bit, before sallying out to see the sights."
They crossed a wide street, dodging between the vehicles, then turned along it, passed under a railroad bridge, and, at length, reached a busy section of the city.
Electric cars whizzed along; on every side there was something of interest to see.
At the junction of Main and State Streets, the boys came to a stop.
"Which way?" queried Tom Clifton.
"Any way," laughed Bob; "feel kind of lost, Tommy?"
"Makes a fellow sick of a little place like Kingswood," said Nat.
In the course of a half hour, just off the main street, they stopped in front of the Wisconsin House.
"Think we are too good for this place?" asked Bob, with a smile.
"Maybe they won't take us in, you mean," grinned Nat. "Shoulder arms! Forward march! Charge past the big front door, and we'll soon find out."
The boy entered, and walked up to the desk.
"Is this a hold up?" asked the clerk, with an amused glance at the array of guns.
"Depends on you," Nat glibly answered; "some hotels try it."
The clerk laughed.
"Can't catch you, young fellow," he said. "What do you want—distinguished guest suite?"
"That's it," laughed Nat; "and all the good things that go with it."
Bob Somers and Sam Randall took one room, Brandon and Travers another, while Nat and Tom Clifton occupied a third.
After a general wash-up and glance at the newspapers in the reading-room, the boys started out to see the town.
Naturally, the business section, with its big stores and lively appearance, received their first attention.
"Fellows," observed Nat, as if with a sudden thought, "I guess I'll scribble a telegram to my uncle. Wait for me here. There's a telegraph office 'cross the street."
"Why not write?" asked Bob.
"Hate letters! Besides, now I come to think of it, old Uncle Parse may be kind of worried. You see," added Nat, "I left pretty suddenly."
"All right, we'll wait," said the poet laureate.
"Hurry it up," urged Dick Travers; "supper time will be here before we know it."
The former leader of the Nimrods acted with commendable promptness, and the party soon continued on their way. They all enjoyed themselves hugely, and, after supper, visited the principal theatre.
Before turning in that night, Bob Somers, sitting on the edge of the bed, made this observation:
"Take my word for it, Nat Wingate is up to some mischief. I can't help liking him, but he hasn't followed us just for the pleasure of our company."
Sam tilted his chair back and balanced himself, a feat he had learned after much practice.
"What do you think now?" he queried.
"That Wingate is bound to delay us as much as possible."
"But he ran away from his uncle."
"Perhaps he did, and perhaps he didn't," said Bob. "I've been thinking about it."
"Do you think"—Sam let his chair come down with a bang—"that it was—no, you can't mean it—that it was all a bluff?"
"It wouldn't surprise me a bit."
"Great Cæsar, Bob Somers!" exclaimed Sam, rising and walking briskly up and down; "you're making a great mystery out of this, aren't you? How do you explain about the 'honest man' act?"
"Part of the game. The provisions were all left. Nat made no efforts to signal. He didn't seem to care about it."
"And you think—?"
"That neither Nat nor his uncle is especially anxious for us to reach my father's property out there in the wilds."
Sam whistled and his eyes sparkled.
"Perhaps you've struck it, Bob, my lad. But, oh, wow, I'm too sleepy to think any more about it. You and I, Bob, will play detectives. Natty had better look out."
Bob laughed.
"Don't for the world let him suspect anything," he cautioned. "Whatever his game is, it will have to be a pretty smart one to get ahead of us, after this."
Next day the boys continued their explorations until noon. It was just after lunch, when Nat, with his usual smile, exclaimed: "I'm going to the post-office to write some letters. Guess you don't want to come along, eh?—No! Well," he added carelessly, "I'll see you later."
"Now's our time," said Bob, in a low tone, after Nat had disappeared; "come on, Sam. Our detective work continues from this moment."
"What are you going to do?" queried Dick Travers, with interest.
"Follow Nat, and—"
"Oh, that's absurd," put in Tom Clifton. "What is the use of wasting so much time?"
"We can't stop to talk, fellows," declared Bob, hastily; "Sam and I will meet you this evening. No use to make any kick," he added, as Dick began to object.
Then, before the other Ramblers could add a word, he was off, with Sam at his heels.
"As I live, I'm afraid he has slipped away from us," exclaimed Sam, who was full of enthusiasm at the new rôle he was playing.
"No! I see him, passing that white building over there," cried Bob. "Now, Sam, we must be very cautious. One little mistake might spoil the whole business."
The two separated, taking different sides of the street.
Bob found that shadowing was not as easy as he had supposed it to be. To keep Nat in view, and himself out of sight, proved a difficult task. Once, owing to groups of people and passing vehicles, the trail was lost entirely.
But Sam Randall's sharp eyes had been used to advantage, and with a wave of the hand, he put Bob on the right track again.
"My gracious!" muttered the lad; "he's just going to the post-office, after all. Perhaps we're having a wild goose chase. Yes," he added, a few moments later, "that's where he is bound."
Nat turned into the building, while Sam Randall rejoined his companion.
"Think we got left this time?" observed Sam.
"Seems like it," returned Bob; "but don't let us give up so easily. We'd better look sharp, or he will give us the slip yet."
The post-office was a rather imposing building, standing next to a department store. The entrances, running the entire length of the building, were fortunately all on one street. Therefore, when Nat reappeared, the two Ramblers were quickly on his track.
It is quite probable that had he been at all observant, the ex-Trailer would have seen either Bob or Sam, for, in their anxiety to always keep him in view, they often exposed themselves unnecessarily.
"He is not going back to the hotel, that is certain," said Bob to himself. "Ah! It begins to look interesting."
Nat stopped to speak to a policeman at a crossing.
"Must have asked for directions," muttered Bob.
The man in the blue uniform waved his arm, and Nat moved off at a brisk pace.
"It's getting warm now," chuckled Bob. "Wonder what he would think if he knew that we were at his heels? Whew! I'll have to be more careful. He almost caught me that time."
Along one street, down another, several times stopping to ask directions, Nat led them a merry chase.
In about half an hour, the outskirts of the city were reached. Rows of pretty residences, surrounded by gardens, extended a considerable distance, until, finally, fields, partly wooded, with a house here and there, came into view.
"Talk about a mystery—this beats everything," thought Bob, with a tinge of excitement.
He nimbly jumped over a fence, back of which were numerous shrubs and trees, and thus being better able to protect himself from observation, increased his speed until he had gained a considerable distance on the unsuspecting Nat.
On looking back, he saw that Sam had followed his example.
"Ah! That's where he is going, eh? Have to be a little careful now. It wouldn't do to be caught napping, Bobby."
On the opposite side of the street, which bore the name of Chelten Road, and just beyond the end of the field, stood a plain, unattractive building, two stories high, with green shutters. In front was a garden enclosed by wooden palings, while at the edge of the pavement stood a huge sycamore, the branches overtopping the house.
Nat pushed open the swinging gate, mounted the steps, and Bob could hear the knocker loudly sounded.
He threw himself down in the midst of some tall grass, and peered cautiously over the lower rail of the fence.
"Perhaps we may learn—"
An involuntary exclamation suddenly escaped his lips. He had made a startling discovery.
The man who opened the door and shook hands with Nat was none other than Mr. Parsons Wingate himself.
"It beats anything I ever heard of—I can hardly believe it. Sure you're not joking?"
"Amazing—that's the word! I wonder what their game is now. H'm, I'm utterly befogged, or whatever you choose to call it."
"Haven't we been easy marks, though?"
"Now we are certain that Mr. Wingate and Nat have been working some kind of a game on us."
The five Ramblers had gathered in Bob Somers' room, and were discussing the astonishing turn in affairs with much animation.
"The whole thing must have been started on the very day that Mr. Wingate came down to look at the 'Rambler.' Probably he only gave Nat a boat so that he could follow us."
"There's a lot of things we have to find out," observed Dick; "who damaged the engine, for one."
"Yes—and who blew up the 'Rambler.'"
"And who took the 'Nimrod.'"
"And—and—Say, fellows, this everlasting mystery is positively getting on my nerves," said Dick. "Can't we do something to clear it up?"
"We must."
"One sure thing," replied Bob, "they don't want us to continue our trip."
The five boys were so interested in their discussion that the afternoon slipped away almost before they knew it.
A light, quick step outside suddenly brought all conversation on the subject to an end. Another instant, and Nat entered the room.
"Hello, where have you been for such a long time?" asked Bob, carelessly.
"For one thing, took in a lot of moving picture shows," replied Nat, without hesitation. "Didn't expect to find you fellows here until about grub time, anyway."
"Come on, fellows," put in Dave; "that reminds me. A nice piece of roast and some mashed potatoes would go pretty well just now."
They all trooped down-stairs into the dining-room.
"What are we going to do after supper?" inquired Tom Clifton.
"Oh, walk around and see what's going on."
"Wish a fire or something else would happen," observed Nat, charitably. "Say, Somers, how long are you going to stay in this place?"
"About two or three days."
"H'm—hang it all, we ought to put in at least a week, eh, Chubby?"
Bob smiled, as he led the way out into the street.
"Well, Nat," he asked, "haven't you any news for us?"
Wingate began to laugh.
"Yes!" he answered, pulling a letter out of his pocket. "Listen to this, and you'll hear the funniest roast you ever came across."
He went off into another burst of merriment.
"Hit your funny-bone, Wingate?" asked Dick Travers.
"It's a letter from Uncle Parsons. Christopher! But he has handed out a few choice remarks about poor old Hacky. Listen."
Nat began to read.
"'When John Hackett learned of your disobedient and disgraceful conduct, and my firm resolve to take them all back to Kingswood, he acted in a fashion which I can hardly describe. His loud and impudent remarks encouraged the others. They actually defied me, made a rumpus in the hotel, then stamped out into the street, as if they were a lot of rowdies. Not one of them has since put in an appearance. I consider John Hackett the most impudent boy I ever came across, and I hope it is not your custom to be guided by anything he may say.'
"A fine, hot roast for poor old 'Hatchet,'" gurgled Nat. "Uncle Parsons is certainly sore. Ha, ha! The whole crowd left him in the lurch."
Next morning, just after breakfast, Bob declared his intention of going to the post-office.
The members of the Rambler Club, accompanied by Nat Wingate, left the hotel in a body and were soon in the busiest section of the city.
"Where is Nat?" cried Dick Travers, a few moments later.
"That's so—what has become of him?" added Dave.
Nat was nowhere to be seen.
"He has given us the slip."
"Is he up to some new trick?"
"Boys!" exclaimed Bob Somers, suddenly, "I'm going to leave you."
"Hold on I Where are you bound?"
"To the house behind the picket fence. It may be a waste of time—but—"
"Let us go along, too?" urged Sam.
Bob shook his head.
"Too risky, Sam."
"But I went the other day."
"That was different. Can't wait to talk, fellows—see you later."
"Perhaps Nat has gone to meet his uncle and their mysterious friend," thought the boy. "I wish I could get a good look at that fellow's face."
At the next corner, he jumped on board a car, rode for some distance, then transferred to another line. When he got off, although still at some distance from his destination, he began to keep a sharp lookout for Nat.
"The Trailer trailed," he chuckled; "Nat isn't quite so smart as he thinks he is."
Bob scarcely breathed easily until he was back of the bushes which had helped to conceal him on the day before. A number of people were near, and he found it difficult to avoid observation.
The minutes seemed to slip by very slowly. The sun grew hotter and hotter, and Bob, wiping his perspiring face, began to think that his vigil would result in nothing.
"Whew, but it is warm!" he murmured. "I can't stand this much longer. Don't see a sign of life now. By Jingo! that isn't a bad idea."
A sudden thought had entered his head.
"It's pretty risky," he muttered; "but I'll do it. I haven't come all this way for nothing."
Bob took a careful view of the deserted street, then arose and walked boldly toward the house.
"Perhaps it won't do any harm, even if they do see me," he thought; "anyway—here goes."
Pulling his hat well over his eyes, he made a bee-line for the big sycamore which stood just inside the curb. It was the work of only a few moments to reach it, when, with considerable agility, Bob drew himself up into a crotch, and screened by the thick foliage began to climb slowly upward.
THE BIG SYCAMORE
THE BIG SYCAMORE
THE BIG SYCAMORE
The shade of the tree was grateful to Bob, but, as the moments flew by, he began to feel that detective work was not the most pleasant in the world.
"I don't suppose—"
The half uttered words came to an abrupt stop.
A faint sound of voices from below reached his ears. Then the front door was opened and two figures appeared on the steps. They were Mr. Wingate and Nat.
Bob scarcely dared to breathe, as they walked slowly toward the gate.
"Don't bother me about it any more," Mr. Wingate was saying; "this is only a matter of business, and we prefer to discuss it in private."
"I don't believe you've told me the real thing," growled Nat. "Why do you want to keep anything back?"
"You should not have been so silly as to leave the boys and come here. You ran away at Clair Bay, and now when I ask you to stay with your friends you come here to bother me with annoying questions."
"But why are you so afraid to answer them?" demanded Nat.
"I declare! You would try the patience of a saint," cried Mr. Wingate, angrily. Then he added, in a milder tone: "Now, Nat, if everything goes well, my promise is to be fulfilled. Run along—I am keeping those gentlemen waiting."
Nat was clearly in a disgusted frame of mind as he slowly walked away.
Bob Somers straightened up to ease his aching back. The expression on his face indicated the greatest astonishment.
"Crickets, I'm glad to know this," he muttered. "Nat Wingate isn't half as bad as we thought. He did run away from his uncle, after all. What a piece of luck! Guess even Chubby will open his eyes when he hears the news."
In his cramped quarters, he had shifted from one position to another until it seemed as if every muscle was aching, but he kept to his post.
At length, after what seemed to be a very long wait, voices at the door again made him keenly alert.
Four figures appeared.
Gently pushing aside a branch, he was able to get a good view of the group. One was tall and slim, dressed in a gray suit and wore a straw hat.
But Bob's glance quickly left this man to centre on two figures who had a strangely familiar look.
"Where can I have seen them before?" he mused.
His eyes eagerly roved from one to the other, as the group approached the gate.
One of them presently turned. His profile was sharply outlined against the sunlit ground.
Like a flash, Bob recalled where he had seen the two before. It was on the little steamboat which they had encountered when passing through the lock.
This, indeed, was another startling discovery, and one which brought a flood of thoughts to Bob Somers' brain.
He waited until satisfied that there was no danger of discovery, then slipped down from his perch and started rapidly away.
"A lucky thing I climbed that tree," he soliloquized. "A mighty good morning's work. Now I think I'd better give father's letter to Mr. Jenkins at once."
Passing a restaurant, he was reminded of the fact that lunch time had arrived, and accordingly entered.
During the course of the meal, Bob took from his inside pocket a wallet. It contained a letter which Mr. Somers had sent to his agent. The inscription on the envelope read:
John C. Jenkins,243 State Street,Tocono, Wisconsin.
He remembered the locality, and on leaving the restaurant started off without hesitation.
Number 243 State Street was an old-fashioned building. The march of progress had left it dingy and dreary-looking between two of its more pretentious modern neighbors. In the hallway was a directory of tenants.
"Fifth floor, rooms 501 and 502," read Bob. "It's a rather poor-looking office building,—and these stairs certainly do creak."
When Bob reached his destination, he found a notice tacked on the door which informed him that Mr. Jenkins would return at half-past two.
"I'll walk around a bit," he mused, slowly retracing his steps.
Promptly at the time stated, Bob was again standing before the office door.
Mr. Jenkins, however, was still absent.
Ten minutes passed, then fifteen, and Bob, impatient at the delay, once more reluctantly descended to the street. Finally a neighboring clock struck the hour of three.
The notes had scarcely ceased reverberating, when a tall, thin man rapidly crossed the street, headed directly for the doorway. He brushed past Bob Somers and mounted the stairs.
Bob gave a gasp of surprise and quickly followed.
As the man turned on the fifth landing, Bob had reached the fourth. He waited long enough to hear a door opened and shut, then mounted the remaining steps two at a time.
The notice at the entrance to Mr. Jenkins' office had been removed.
"Another important discovery," mused Bob. "So Mr. John C. Jenkins happens to be one of the very men I saw with Mr. Wingate a few minutes ago. This is interesting—sure enough. Guess I don't care to see him just yet."
Whistling softly, Bob turned away, and headed directly for the post-office.
In a long letter he told his father of the various discoveries he had made, advised him not to sell his land, and concluded by urging him to come to Tocono at once.
At half-past four he reached the Wisconsin House.
The boys had not yet put in an appearance, and another trying wait followed.
At ten minutes past six, a welcome sound reached his ears. The Ramblers were ascending the stairs.
"Hello, fellows!" he cried, stepping out upon the landing.
"Hello, Bob, you runaway; any news?" asked Sam.
Even Dave listened eagerly, as Bob related his experience. Wonder and surprise were depicted on the faces of all when he told about the men on the steamboat, and the discovery of the agent in Mr. Wingate's company.
"You have done yourself proud, Bob Somers," declared Dick Travers; "you'd make a great detective."
"Just to think, those chaps on that little steamboat did all the mischief," observed Sam; "who could have believed it?"
"One thing we know, now," said Bob; "Nat Wingate isn't quite as mean as we thought."
"But somebody ought to be in jail."
"Well, just wait until dad gets here. The whole scheme is plain—they wanted to buy that land before we could get there."
"Maybe there's a gold mine on it," suggested Tom, jestingly.
Bob Somers' thoughts were, naturally, very much occupied with his discoveries.
"Dad will find out all about it in short order," he said to himself, "or else I'm much mistaken."
Sightseeing, a trolley ride to an amusement park and an evening spent at the public library were all enjoyed.
Early on the following morning, Bob received the hoped-for letter.
"Father is coming on this afternoon," he announced joyfully to Sam Randall; "he expects to get here at 2:37."
"Splendid!" cried Sam. "I only hope he clears up everything."
"Don't for the world let Nat know that dad will be here," cautioned Bob.
"Trust me for that. I'm too anxious to have things settled."
The two boys kept together until nearly train time. Then Sam Randall took his departure, while Bob entered the railroad station.
He walked up and down the long platform, viewing the sights with interest. Trucks, loaded with trunks and valises, were being rattled forth and back, while passengers in groups or walking to and fro awaited their trains.
At length a whistle sounded in the distance, a puff of smoke rose above the buildings, then the train rounded a curve and within a few minutes a roar and the hiss of escaping steam filled the air.
Suddenly Bob darted forward. He had caught sight of a stout, prosperous-looking gentleman, who, bag in hand, had alighted.
"Hello, dad!" he cried, seizing his hand.
"Hello, Bob! Glad to see you safe and sound."
"How is mother?"
"Very well, but, naturally, anxious about you. You seem to have had a most extraordinary trip."
"Yes, indeed—I should say so."
"You must tell me all about it—from the very beginning," said Mr. Somers.
He waved his arm toward a rickety-looking conveyance.
"Now, Bob," said his father, settling himself back in his seat, "let us go over the various points together. Mr. Jenkins may have been playing a pretty deep game."
"I'm almost sure he has."
"So you told me. You have done remarkably well in finding out so much."
As the cab rolled along, the two discussed the whole affair at length.
"Mr. Jenkins saw me at Kingswood, and I was on the point of accepting his terms, when your letter arrived," declared Mr. Somers; "everything seemed square and aboveboard."
"And you weren't going to wait until we got there?" asked Bob, reproachfully.
Mr. Somers smiled.
"Your trip had been so much delayed that I began to feel it wasn't worth while. Then, your mother urged me to accept, and I could see no reason for holding out any longer, as the terms were satisfactory."
"What is your plan, father?" asked Bob.
"I shall see Mr. Jenkins to-day—beard the lion in his den, as it were," replied Mr. Somers. "Ah! here we are."
The cab stopped in front of the Tocono House.
Mr. Somers, in due time, reached the State Street building, and the occupant of rooms numbers 501 and 502 answered the sharp knock in person.
As the light from the rear window illuminated his visitor's face, he started back in astonishment.
"Mr. Somers!" he exclaimed. Then, collecting himself, he added, "Very glad to see you, sir. Come right in. No doubt you wish to conclude our land deal."
Leaning over, he drew forth from their respective pigeon-holes several papers tied with pink strings.
"My client is getting impatient, Mr. Somers," he said; "I shall be glad to have the matter settled."
"I will not keep you in suspense, Mr. Jenkins. I have reconsidered the matter, and decided not to sell."
The agent stared at the speaker in surprise.
"You have decided not to sell?" he echoed, slowly. "What do you mean—wasn't the deal practically closed in Kingswood?"
"Things have developed since then which caused me to change my mind," said Mr. Somers, his keen gray eyes fixed full on the other's face.
"I must confess that I do not understand you, Mr. Somers," said Jenkins, with a very weak smile.
"Could you spare the time to visit the land with me?"
Mr. Jenkins moved uneasily in his chair.
"Just at present I am too busy," he stammered; "but, Mr. Somers, you were out there last year, and know all about it. The offer is a good one—I advise you to accept it."
"I commissioned my son and several friends of his to go out and see this land," said Mr. Somers, slowly, "and no sooner did his destination become known than a plot was formed to prevent him from reaching it."
Mr. Jenkins straightened up. His thin hands trembled.
"What do you mean?" he asked, in a hesitating voice.
"That two men on a small steamboat kept track of them," replied Mr. Somers, calmly; "and when an opportunity presented itself, destroyed a valuable motor boat."
"Is it possible!" gasped the agent, whose face plainly revealed the state of his feelings.
"And not only that," went on Mr. Somers, "but when it was found that they had the courage to continue, they were marooned on an island. Afterward, at Clair Bay, an effort was made to induce them to return home. Can you blame me for changing my mind?"
"Most astonishing. But what has it got to do with me?" asked the agent, with a desperate effort to retain his composure.
"Do you know Mr. Parsons Wingate?" demanded Mr. Somers, abruptly.
"Mr. Parsons Wingate?—er—slightly," admitted the agent, in a low voice; "but why—I ask you again—"
"Because there are several matters which must be cleared up. On Chelten Road there is a house with green shutters. You, Mr. Wingate, and the two men who destroyed my son's motor boat have been meeting there."
Pale and agitated, Mr. Jenkins sprang to his feet. His lips quivered. He stood with trembling hand resting upon the arm of the chair.
"What is all this rubbish?" he gasped. "I—I won't be insulted! Who dares to accuse me?"
"Facts, sir! The facts accuse you," said Mr. Somers, who now felt assured of the other's guilt. "The police are ready to make arrests."
"The police—you say?" gasped the agent.
"I will tell you that only this morning, on my way to Tocono, I stopped at Clair Bay and saw the authorities. They only await my word!"
Utterly overwhelmed, Mr. Jenkins sank back in his chair.
After being assured that he would not be prosecuted, he gave Mr. Somers the following facts:
Copper ore had been discovered by Mr. Jenkins on a strip of land adjoining that of Mr. Somers. As this was not generally known, Mr. Wingate and he were able to purchase it for a comparatively small sum. Aided by the men who destroyed the motor boat, several frame buildings were erected, borings made and everything put into shape to begin active work.
All this was due to Mr. Jenkins' knowledge of copper mining. He had succeeded, by a practical demonstration of its value, in interesting Mr. Wingate, with whom he was acquainted.
Unfortunately for their plans, it developed that the vein extended directly into Mr. Somers' property, and that unless this was also purchased they would be able to make little or nothing by the find.
Negotiations were at once started, and, about this time, in spite of much precaution, it became noised about that an important discovery had been made. Then, right on top of this, they were dismayed to hear of the Rambler Club's prospective visit.
Mr. Jenkins therefore knew that unless the deal was carried through at once Mr. Somers would learn the real facts of the case and put his price up to a prohibitive figure. It was therefore decided to prevent Bob and his companions from reaching the land, at all hazards.
Mr. Wingate hired the "Nimrod" and told Nat that he would make him a present of the motor boat if he should succeed in delaying the Ramblers for a certain length of time.
At first it was thought there would be no difficulty, but Mr. Somers' failure to decide promptly upset all their calculations, and caused them to realize that bolder steps would be necessary.
An old steamboat was hired, and the two men detailed to retard the movements of Bob and his companions.
The agent admitted that Mr. Wingate had been entirely opposed to desperate measures, and that he and Nat were not acquainted with all that was done.
The destruction of the "Rambler" was largely due to the advice of one of the two men, who argued that Mr. Somers would never allow the boys to keep on after such a disaster. Mr. Jenkins said it was his intention to pay for the boat later.
When the boys kept on Mr. Wingate devised the "Crusoe" island scheme. Nat, who was always ready for mischief, viewed this mainly in the light of a practical joke. He carried through his part of it successfully, the two men following at a safe distance.
The "Nimrod" was secured and returned to its owners.
While the boys were marooned on the island, Mr. Jenkins went to Kingswood, and returned to Tocono confident that success would crown his efforts.
When the boys turned up at Clair Bay, Mr. Wingate played his last card, and upon receipt of Nat's telegram, hurried on to Tocono. He was greatly incensed at his nephew's insubordination, but foresaw that advantage might be taken of it. Nat was summoned to Mr. Jenkins' residence on Chelten Road, and instructed to keep track of the boys.
Letters and telegrams were dispatched to Mr. Somers, and the conspirators seemed to be on the point of winning at the very last moment.
But Bob Somers' strategy had upset all their plans.
The "chief pirate of the bounding deep" was a most disgusted and mortified boy when he learned of the unfortunate result of his uncle's scheming.
All the facts became known at a stormy meeting between Mr. Wingate and Jenkins, which took place in the house on Chelten Road. Nat's uncle was very angry when he learned of Mr. Somers' visit. As is usual in such cases, each blamed the other, and in the war of words that followed Nat's presence was disregarded.
"Somers," said Nat, sheepishly, when he saw him later on, "this is the truth—Uncle Parson never told me the real reason why he wanted you kept back. 'It's a business matter,' he would say; 'there are other people trying to buy this land, and if Bob Somers gets out there he couldn't help discovering it.' I couldn't see any particular harm in what he wanted done. That's the reason I helped. It was only just a lot of sport to me."
"What made your uncle say anything about it in the first place?" asked Bob.
"I heard him talking over the 'phone one day, and found that he was trying to buy the land. He had to tell me, for fear I might say something to you."
"But when the 'Rambler' was stolen, then damaged, and at last blown up, didn't you know anything about it?"
"Honestly, Somers, I went to my uncle and asked him a few questions, and he flew into a terrible rage. 'Do you think I'm in the business of blowing up boats?' he said. 'Of course not! I had nothing to do with it.'"
"I suppose it was the same men who stole the boat?"
"You're right! Say, Somers, I'm awfully sorry, and hope you don't bear any ill will toward me."
Bob held out his hand.
"Of course I don't," he said, heartily.
And the rival leaders shook hands.
In Tocono lived Mr. Horatio Strang, a well-known copper mining expert.
Mr. Somers visited him and finally induced him to accompany the party to their destination. Thus it happened that two gentlemen and five boys started off, early one morning, on a Clair Bay steamer.
The boys carried pickaxes and all other implements necessary for their work.
Mr. Somers' tract of land proved to be densely wooded in places, with other portions barren and rocky.
Guided by information which Mr. Jenkins had furnished, the party went from place to place, exposing here and there the underlying strata of rock.
Investigations were not completed until the sun had sunk beneath the western horizon and the gray of evening began to steal over the landscape.
"Well, Mr. Strang," said Mr. Somers, turning toward the mineralogist, "what is your opinion?"
The expert removed his glasses, carefully replacing them in their case.
"For your sake, Mr. Somers," he replied, "I am glad to say that, to my mind, your land represents a fortune."
"In which case," said Mr. Somers, turning to the boys, "I have to thank the Ramblers. But for you, the land would not now be in my possession."
On a pleasant evening, a few days after the party had returned to Kingswood, the Rambler Club, the guests of Mr. and Mrs. Somers, sat in the big dining-room of Pembroke Hall.
"Boys," said Mr. Somers, at the conclusion of the repast, rising to his feet, "I feel that I owe you a great deal, and in recognition of your services, have decided to make you an offer. I want you to decide among yourselves what you would like me to give you to replace the 'Rambler.' Think it over."
The boys clapped their hands, thanked him heartily, and Dave Brandon voiced the sentiment of all when he declared that the prospects of the Rambler Club were bright indeed.