Harrie Hancock - The Motor Boat Club at Nantucket - or, The Mystery of the Dunstan Heir

“Is the ‘Meteor’ a fast boat?”

“Very fast, indeed.”

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

“Judge for yourself. On her trial trip shemade within a small fraction of twenty-eightmiles an hour.”

“Whew! That’s tremendous speed, even fora 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 themark by this time.”

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

Of the two men carrying on this conversationin a day-coach seat on a railway train, one wasfive-foot-seven, florid and somewhat stout, witha bull neck and keen, twinkling eyes. His wholeappearance hinted that he had spent most of hisforty years of life on the open sea. The otherman, who was short, slim and swarthy, with narrow, piercing black eyes, might have been a fewyears older. His every motion betokened greatactivity. One might have guessed him to be aSpaniard. His general attire, though it wassomewhat careless, would place him in the business-manclass.

At the first mention of the name “Meteor”two American boys, seated immediately behindthe men, started slightly and immediately wereall attention. Each boy was about sixteen yearsof age. Tom Halstead was fair, brown-hairedand blue-eyed with a naturally merry look. JoeDawson was darker, somewhat more reserved inmanner and was Tom’s fast chum and greatadmirer.

Yes; readers of the preceding volume in thisseries will recognize Tom and Joe at once asthe young Americans who became the originalmembers of the Motor Boat Club of the Kennebec.It was they who put Broker Prescott’sfast motor boat, the “Sunbeam,” once more incommission; they who went through some mostlively adventures along the coast near the mouthof the Kennebec and who rendered tremendouslyimportant services to Revenue Officer Evans, acousin of the broker, in penetrating the secretof Smugglers’ Island.

Now these same two members of the MotorBoat Club were traveling on business that theybelieved to be wholly commonplace. They wereheaded for the island of Nantucket, south ofCape Cod. The experiences ahead of them, theyimagined, were to be of the most ordinary kind.They had no glimpse, as yet, of the new excitementsthat Fate had in store for them. Theyhad no hint of the startling adventures intowhich they were soon to be plunged.

But that mention of the name “Meteor” hadaroused their instant attention. That was thename of the motor boat that they were to joinand take charge of at Wood’s Hole. The craftwas the property of Mr. Horace Dunstan, oneof the wealthy residents of the island of Nantucket.

An ordinary boy might not have heard thelow-toned conversation of the pair in the seatahead. But Tom and Joe, attuned to the life ofthe sea and with ears trained to note the slightestirregularity of the sound of machinery, possessedacute hearing indeed.

At the first words of that conversation betweenthe unknown pair Tom gave Joe a slightnudge in the side. Dawson’s eyes promptlyclosed, his lips parting, his head sinking slightlyforward. He appeared to be sound asleep. Halsteadseemed to be wholly interested in the newspaperat which he was glancing. Not even whenthe possibility of foul play to the “Meteor”was mentioned did either youngster betray anyfurther sign. Indeed, the men in the seat aheadwere evidently confident that the boys could nothear their low-pitched talk. None of the otherseats near by was occupied.

The accommodation train from Boston, rollingslowly along late in this July afternoon, had just left Falmouth for its run of a fewmiles to Wood’s Hole, the last stop, as thiswould be the end of the mainland route. Acrossthe meadows the hot breath of July camethrough the open car windows. The brightnessof the sunshine inclined one to close hiseyes, so that Joe Dawson’s slumber seemed themost natural thing in the world. Indeed, TomHalstead’s eyes were narrowing; he seemed thenext candidate for a doze. Yet, depend upon it, neither boy had been more awake in his life.The slightest hint of possible mischief to theboat that was soon to be intrusted to their carewas enough to set their nerves a-tingle.

“That was a queer rumpus on Boston Commonthe other day,” began the florid-faced man.The subject had been changed. No furthermention was made of the “Meteor.” Tom Halsteadfelt tremendously disappointed. He hadhoped to hear more that would be of interest tohimself. But the pair in the seat ahead did notagain refer to the “Meteor.” So Tom, afterstealthily making a few pin pricks in his newspaper, settled far down in his seat, holding thepaper before his face as though reading. Inreality he was studying what he could see ofthe faces of the men who had so suddenlyaroused his interest. With the paper closeenough to his face the pin holes were almost asgood as windows.

Over those last few miles droned the train.Tom felt cheated in not hearing more, but toall appearances the strangers had forgotten theexistence of the “Meteor.” When the train wasyet a mile out from Wood’s Hole the twomen arose, going to the forward end of the car.The train slackened in speed, the two mendropping off on the further side of the carfrom where the boys sat. By the time thatHalstead deemed it prudent to slip across toa window opposite, the two men were out ofsight.

“Now what on earth can be the reason forthose two fellows desiring any injury to a gentleman’sprivate yacht?” muttered Tom, rejoininghis chum.

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

“Yes, if we run across that pair within twentycable lengths of the boat we’ll know ’em and beon our watch,” answered Halstead with a meaningflash in his eyes.

They had little more time for puzzling theirheads, for the train was now rolling in at thelittle station at Wood’s Hole. There were lessthan a dozen people to disembark. Out of sucha small crowd anyone looking for two youngmotor boat experts would have little difficulty inselecting the two boys with weather-tinted faces, who wore suits of strong, serviceable navy blue, soft brown canvas shoes and straw hats. So atall, slender man of forty-five, dressed in outinggray and wearing an expensive fine-straw hat, came at once toward them.

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

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

“Yes. And heartily glad that you did notdisappoint me.”

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

“I – er – really expected to find you a littleolder,” Mr. Dunstan admitted with an easylaugh. “However, it’s all right. My friend,Prescott, told me he had found, among the seacoastboys of Maine, some of the best materialfor motor boat handlers in the world. I askedhim to send me the best pair he knew, so, ofcourse, it’s all right, for Prescott never goesback on a friend.”

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

“You have your suit cases, I see. There’s noneed to carry them down to the waterfront. Come over here and hand them to thedriver.”

Mr. Dunstan led the way to the solitary hackat the station, though neither sturdy boy wouldhave thought anything of walking and carryinghis baggage.