THE MOTOR BOAT CLUB AT NANTUCKET

OR

The Mystery of the Dunstan Heir

By

H. IRVING HANCOCK

Author of The Motor Boat Club of the Kennebec, The Motor Boat Club Off Long Island, Etc.

Illustrated

Philadelphia Henry Altemus Company

Copyright, 1909, by Howard E. Altemus

CHAPTER I—THE PAIR IN THE SEAT AHEAD

“Is the ‘Meteor’ a fast boat?”

“Very fast, indeed.”

“But can she beat anything along this coast? That’s what I want to know.”

“Judge for yourself. On her trial trip she made within a small fraction of twenty-eight miles an hour.”

“Whew! That’s tremendous speed, even for a fast and costly boat such as the rich build to-day. But how long has she been in the water?”

“Since last March.”

“She may have fouled a good deal since then, or her machinery may be a good deal below the mark by this time.”

“Humph! For that matter, something could be made to happen to the boat, I suppose.”

Of the two men carrying on this conversation in a day-coach seat on a railway train, one was five-foot-seven, florid and somewhat stout, with a bull neck and keen, twinkling eyes. His whole appearance hinted that he had spent most of his forty years of life on the open sea. The other man, who was short, slim and swarthy, with narrow, piercing black eyes, might have been a few years older. His every motion betokened great activity. One might have guessed him to be a Spaniard. His general attire, though it was somewhat careless, would place him in the business-man class.

At the first mention of the name “Meteor” two American boys, seated immediately behind the men, started slightly and immediately were all attention. Each boy was about sixteen years of age. Tom Halstead was fair, brown-haired and blue-eyed with a naturally merry look. Joe Dawson was darker, somewhat more reserved in manner and was Tom’s fast chum and great admirer.

Yes; readers of the preceding volume in this series will recognize Tom and Joe at once as the young Americans who became the original members of the Motor Boat Club of the Kennebec. It was they who put Broker Prescott’s fast motor boat, the “Sunbeam,” once more in commission; they who went through some most lively adventures along the coast near the mouth of the Kennebec and who rendered tremendously important services to Revenue Officer Evans, a cousin of the broker, in penetrating the secret of Smugglers’ Island.

Now these same two members of the Motor Boat Club were traveling on business that they believed to be wholly commonplace. They were headed for the island of Nantucket, south of Cape Cod. The experiences ahead of them, they imagined, were to be of the most ordinary kind. They had no glimpse, as yet, of the new excitements that Fate had in store for them. They had no hint of the startling adventures into which they were soon to be plunged.

But that mention of the name “Meteor” had aroused their instant attention. That was the name of the motor boat that they were to join and take charge of at Wood’s Hole. The craft was the property of Mr. Horace Dunstan, one of the wealthy residents of the island of Nantucket.

An ordinary boy might not have heard the low-toned conversation of the pair in the seat ahead. But Tom and Joe, attuned to the life of the sea and with ears trained to note the slightest irregularity of the sound of machinery, possessed acute hearing indeed.

At the first words of that conversation between the unknown pair Tom gave Joe a slight nudge in the side. Dawson’s eyes promptly closed, his lips parting, his head sinking slightly forward. He appeared to be sound asleep. Halstead seemed to be wholly interested in the newspaper at which he was glancing. Not even when the possibility of foul play to the “Meteor” was mentioned did either youngster betray any further sign. Indeed, the men in the seat ahead were evidently confident that the boys could not hear their low-pitched talk. None of the other seats near by was occupied.

The accommodation train from Boston, rolling slowly along late in this July afternoon, had just left Falmouth for its run of a few miles to Wood’s Hole, the last stop, as this would be the end of the mainland route. Across the meadows the hot breath of July came through the open car windows. The brightness of the sunshine inclined one to close his eyes, so that Joe Dawson’s slumber seemed the most natural thing in the world. Indeed, Tom Halstead’s eyes were narrowing; he seemed the next candidate for a doze. Yet, depend upon it, neither boy had been more awake in his life. The slightest hint of possible mischief to the boat that was soon to be intrusted to their care was enough to set their nerves a-tingle.

“That was a queer rumpus on Boston Common the other day,” began the florid-faced man. The subject had been changed. No further mention was made of the “Meteor.” Tom Halstead felt tremendously disappointed. He had hoped to hear more that would be of interest to himself. But the pair in the seat ahead did not again refer to the “Meteor.” So Tom, after stealthily making a few pin pricks in his newspaper, settled far down in his seat, holding the paper before his face as though reading. In reality he was studying what he could see of the faces of the men who had so suddenly aroused his interest. With the paper close enough to his face the pin holes were almost as good as windows.

Over those last few miles droned the train. Tom felt cheated in not hearing more, but to all appearances the strangers had forgotten the existence of the “Meteor.” When the train was yet a mile out from Wood’s Hole the two men arose, going to the forward end of the car. The train slackened in speed, the two men dropping off on the further side of the car from where the boys sat. By the time that Halstead deemed it prudent to slip across to a window opposite, the two men were out of sight.

“Now what on earth can be the reason for those two fellows desiring any injury to a gentleman’s private yacht?” muttered Tom, rejoining his chum.

“At all events, it’s handy to be well warned in advance,” returned Joe with a quiet grin.

“Yes, if we run across that pair within twenty cable lengths of the boat we’ll know ’em and be on our watch,” answered Halstead with a meaning flash in his eyes.

They had little more time for puzzling their heads, for the train was now rolling in at the little station at Wood’s Hole. There were less than a dozen people to disembark. Out of such a small crowd anyone looking for two young motor boat experts would have little difficulty in selecting the two boys with weather-tinted faces, who wore suits of strong, serviceable navy blue, soft brown canvas shoes and straw hats. So a tall, slender man of forty-five, dressed in outing gray and wearing an expensive fine-straw hat, came at once toward them.

“Captain Tom Halstead?” he inquired, looking from one boy to the other.

“That’s my name, sir,” Tom answered. “You are Mr. Horace Dunstan?”

“Yes. And heartily glad that you did not disappoint me.”

“There was no good reason why we should, sir,” Halstead rejoined, then presented his chum. Mr. Dunstan shook hands with both very cordially, although he was not able to conceal entirely his astonishment at their youthfulness.

“I—er—really expected to find you a little older,” Mr. Dunstan admitted with an easy laugh. “However, it’s all right. My friend, Prescott, told me he had found, among the seacoast boys of Maine, some of the best material for motor boat handlers in the world. I asked him to send me the best pair he knew, so, of course, it’s all right, for Prescott never goes back on a friend.”

“We’ve handled Mr. Prescott’s boat in some rather tight places,” said Tom quietly.

“You have your suit cases, I see. There’s no need to carry them down to the water front. Come over here and hand them to the driver.”

Mr. Dunstan led the way to the solitary hack at the station, though neither sturdy boy would have thought anything of walking and carrying his baggage.

“Now we’ll drive down at once and you’ll see the ‘Meteor’” proposed their host. “Perhaps you will be able to tell, very soon, what ails the craft. I have had one or two local machinists look her over and the owner of one small motor boat who thought he knew all about such craft. Yet the engine doesn’t work well enough for me to be satisfied to try to use the boat.”

In a few minutes the three alighted near a pier that jutted some hundred feet out over the water. At the further end lay as jaunty a fifty-foot craft as either boy had ever laid eyes on.

“So that’s the ‘Meteor’? Oh, she’s a dandy!” cried Tom in a burst of enthusiasm.

“Say, look at the beauty of her lines! What speed she ought to be good for, with a strong, well-behaving engine!” came from quiet Joe.

Horace Dunstan smiled with pardonable pride as he led the way down the pier. As far as first impressions went the boat was worthy of extended praise. Though only five feet longer than the “Sunbeam,” she had the look of being a much larger craft. There was more forecastle. The space of the bridge deck seemed better arranged. There was an awning over the bridge deck and another over the cockpit aft. The cabin looked roomier. From davits at the starboard side swung a natty-looking small boat.

“Gr-r-r-r!” came a warning sound from the closed forecastle as the trio stepped aboard.

“In the absence of crew I’ve kept my bull pup down in the engine room,” explained Mr. Dunstan.

“A mighty good idea,” muttered Tom with a swift recollection of the fragments of conversation he and Joe had overheard on the train.

“Stand back a moment, until I let him out and present you to him,” requested the owner. “Don’t be afraid of him. Bouncer is a very intelligent dog. Hell understand an introduction as quickly as a human being would.”

One of the forecastle windows was open, to give air to the dog, though it was not large enough to let him out.

“It’s all right, Bouncer,” called Mr. Dunstan reassuringly, as he fitted a key at the forecastle door. “Now come out like a four-footed gentleman and meet some friends of ours.”

Bouncer came nimbly out, a low-built, thickset bulldog of the finest fighting type. He had a square-set pair of jaws that looked capable of taking a tremendous grip. His look, however, under the prompt petting of his owner, was kindly and curious.

“These young gentlemen are all right, Bouncer,” spoke Mr. Dunstan. “Go over and get acquainted with them. Let them pet you.”

Bouncer contented himself with a brief sniffing at each boy in turn. Then he submitted to caresses, wagging his short stump of a tail.

“He understands. You’ll never need to be afraid of this dog, unless you do some such extreme thing as to attack me or a member of my family,” Mr. Dunstan assured them. “Now come down into the engine room.”

“Say, this is something like!” uttered Joe enthusiastically, as he stepped below and stood looking about him. Here there was an abundance of room, for much of the engine was housed back under the bridge deck. The engineer had plenty of space in which to move about. Forward of the engine room, shut off by a curtain, was the galley. Here were stove, sink, ice box, dishrack and room for a goodly supply of foods.

Through a passageway Mr. Dunstan led them under the bridge deck. Curtained off from the passage was a wide berth.

“We generally call this the captain’s berth,” explained the owner.

“I guess my berth will be on one of the engine room lockers with Joe,” smiled Halstead.

The cabin proved to be spacious and handsome. The four locker seats could be fitted into berths when cruising. The cockpit aft was large and contained, besides side seats, half a dozen comfortable armchairs.

“Now suppose we go back to the engine,” desired Mr. Dunstan, turning about. “I’m anxious, indeed, to know whether you can locate the trouble that has tied this craft up here.”

Returning to the engine room, the boys opened their suit cases, taking out overalls and jumpers. Clad in these they were soon armed with wrenches and other tools, exploring the mysteries of that engine.

“This machine hasn’t had very good care,” spoke Joe after a while. “She’s fouled with dirt and thick oil at a good many points.”

“Has the motor been overheated?” asked the owner.

“I don’t believe so, sir; at least, not to any serious extent,” Joe stated as his opinion.

“Any repairs to parts going to be necessary?”

“A few, but simple ones, I guess. We ought to be able to make ’em from the materials at hand.”

“You—er—couldn’t run out to-night, I suppose?”

“We shall be very fortunate, sir,” Joe answered, “if we can take this boat out to-morrow forenoon.”

“We’ll stay aboard to-night and work as late as we can,” Tom explained. “Joe can’t really tell, until we get started, just how much will have to be done. But the motor is not hurt past ordinary repair.”

“I was going to ask you over to the hotel for dinner to-night,” hinted the owner.

“There seems to be plenty of everything to eat in the galley,” Tom answered seriously. “So, if you don’t mind, sir, we’ll stay right by our work and help ourselves to food as we can.”

“Make yourselves at home, then. Do you mean to sleep aboard to-night?” inquired Mr. Dunstan, as he started up the steps to the bridge deck.

“I think we’d better, for more reasons than one, perhaps,” Halstead made answer as he, too, stepped to the bridge deck. “Mr. Dunstan,” he went on in a lower voice, “do you know of anyone who could have a good reason for wanting to injure your boat?”

“Why, no,” replied the owner, though nevertheless he gave a slight start. “Why?”

Tom described the men and the conversation aboard the train. Mr. Dunstan listened with interest, though he shook his head when the two men were described.

“There might be a shadow of reason for their talk in one direction,” he admitted, slowly and reluctantly. “But, pshaw, no; I’m dreaming. No, there can’t be any reason for wanting to ruin my boat. Very likely you didn’t hear quite right.”

“At any rate,” Halstead went on, “Joe and I will be aboard to-night, and probably every night as long as we’re in your employ.”

“You seem to take this thing seriously, Halstead.”

“I don’t believe, sir, in throwing away what seems like a very valuable hint. It won’t do any harm for us to be watchful, anyway. By the way, sir, do you mind letting the dog stay aboard, too?”

“Certainly you may have him,” nodded the owner. “He won’t interfere with you and he’ll sleep with one eye and both ears open. Well, make yourselves at home here, boys. Do whatever you please in the galley and feed and water Bouncer. I’ll be at the hotel this evening in case you should want me for anything.”

After impressing upon Bouncer that he was still to remain aboard, Mr. Dunstan strolled leisurely down the pier. Both boys went hard at work.

“What do you make of our new employer?” asked Joe after a while.

“He seems like an ordinary, easy-going man,” Tom replied. “I don’t believe he ever startled anyone by doing anything very original, but he’s a gentleman, and we’re going to find him considerate and just. That’s all we can ask in any man.”

After that there wasn’t much talk, except the few words now and then that related to taking the motor to pieces, and repairing and replacing its parts. At the close of day they helped themselves to a bountiful meal and made a fast friend of Bouncer by catering to his healthy appetite. Then, by the light of lanterns, they went to work again. It was after eleven o’clock when they found themselves too drowsy to do further justice to their work.

“Let’s go up on deck and get some air. After that we’ll turn in,” proposed Halstead.

“I wonder if we’re going to have visitors or any trouble?” mused Joe. “Somehow I can’t empty my head of that talk in the car this afternoon.”

“If we do have any trouble,” laughed Tom nodding down at the dog dozing on the deck at their feet, “I’ve a private notion that we’re going to be able to pass some back—to someone.”

Twenty minutes later the motor boat chums had made up berths on the engine-room lockers and had undressed and gone to bed. Both were soon sound asleep. They relied on Bouncer, who lay on the deck just outside the open hatchway, to let them know if anything threatening happened.

CHAPTER II—BOUNCER WAKES UP

While our two young motor boat enthusiasts lie wrapped in the first sound slumber of the summer night, lulled into unconsciousness by the soft lapping of the salt water against the sides of the “Meteor,” let us take a brief glimpse at the events which had brought them here.

Readers of the preceding volume in this series are aware of how the Motor Boat Club came to be organized. It now numbered fourteen members, any one of whom was fully qualified to handle a motor boat expertly under any ordinary circumstances.

Every member was a boy born and brought up along the seacoast. Such boys, both by inheritance and experience, are usually well qualified for salt-water work. They are aboard of boats almost from the first days of life that they can recollect. Seamanship and the work required about marine machinery are in the air that surrounds their daily lives. It is from among such boys that our merchant marine and our Navy find their best recruit material. It was among such boys that broker George Prescott had conceived the idea of finding material for making young experts to serve the owners of motor cruisers and racers along the New England coast.

Tom and Joe were undoubtedly the pick of the club for skill and experience. More than that, they were such fast friends that they could work together without the least danger of friction. Though Halstead was looked upon as the captain, he never attempted to lord it over his chum; they worked together as equals in everything.

Mr. Dunstan had long known Mr. Prescott in Boston, where both had offices. So, when trouble happened in the “Meteor’s” engine room, Mr. Dunstan had sent the broker a long telegram asking that gentleman to send by the next train the two most capable experts of the Club. He had added that he wanted the boys principally for running the boat on fast time between Nantucket and Wood’s Hole, for the owner had a handsome residence on the island, but came over to the mainland nearly every day in order to run in by train to his offices in Boston. The “Meteor,” therefore, was generally required to justify her name in the way of speed, for Mr. Dunstan’s landing place at Nantucket was some thirty-five miles from Wood’s Hole.

Further, Mr. Dunstan’s telegram had intimated that he was likely to want the young men for the balance of the season, though his message had not committed him absolutely on that point. The pay he had offered was more than satisfactory.

Wood’s Hole is a quaint, sleepy little seaport village. The main life, in summer, comes from the passing through of steamboat passengers for Martha’s Vineyard and Nantucket. The night air is so quiet and the sea scent so strong that even the city visitors at the little hotel find it difficult to stay up as late as eleven o’clock.

On this night, or rather morning, at one o’clock, there were but two honest people in the whole place awake. Over at the Marine Biological Laboratory, Curator Gray and an assistant were still up, bending drowsily over a microscope in one of the laboratory rooms. But that building was too far from the “Meteor’s” pier for the scientists to have any hint of what might be happening near the motor boat.