CHAPTER XXXV
HANDS UP!
“Somebody with a lantern is coming this way!” exclaimed the boy.
Advancing through the darkness was a single bright disc of light. It was swinging violently, as if whoever was carrying it was walking fast.
“Quick, get in here behind this hut,” ordered the chief inspector.
“Why not arrest them now?” asked Ralph.
“’Twould never do. We want to get the diamonds and other stones. You can depend upon it, that if we were premature they would find some way to destroy that evidence.”
From their place of hiding the party watched the approach of the men with the lantern.
There were four of them. Two were recognized as Malvin and La Rue. Another, a big, beefy man with a flaring red face and a pair of huge black moustaches, was identified by the inspectors as Rawson; and the fourth was a slight, delicate-looking little fellow, undersized and narrow-chested.
“Slim Shiner,” whispered the chief inspector, “the cleverest gem smuggler at large! It was he who secured the gems in Europe and saw to it that they reached the gang over here safely. Then Malvin and the rest disposed of them across the line. Malvin was of invaluable use to the gang, for he worked from your father’s boat, which, of course, was not once suspected till we learned of the Artful Dodger being seen off Dexter Island.”
“Well, everything’s cleaned out,” La Rue was saying, “and now for a clear getaway. A lucky thing that the water was shallow when I jumped from that blamed River Swallow, or I wouldn’t have been along to-night.”
“No, nor the gems, neither,” growled Rawson. “We think a heap more of them than we do of your bones, La Rue.”
“That’s right,” chuckled Slim. “A good thing for you you managed to get them away from that kid while he was asleep, La Rue, or you wouldn’t have dared face the gang again.”
“Well, I guess not,” laughed Malvin. “But our troubles are over now, boys. We’ll move on to the Great Lakes and try our luck there. That gang of young whelps on the River Swallow broke up our game here, all right, bad luck to them.”
“We’ll take care of them later on, never fear,” snarled La Rue. “I’ve a score to settle myself with that Stetson brat. Ha! ha! that was a good joke, though, having his old man clapped in jail in Montreal. That was your trick, Slim.”
“Oh, these Canadian officials are such softies they’ll believe anything you tell ’em,” modestly declared Slim. “A telegram to the chief at Montreal was enough to turn the deal.”
“It was a good one, all right,” snorted Rawson.
“Well, let’s get aboard. We’ve got lots of gasoline. What’s our first stop, Rawson?” asked La Rue.
“Buffalo,” was the gruff rejoinder; “and you fellows want to lie low, too. I’ll bet there’s a hue and cry out after us right now.”
“You bet there is, and closer than you think,” exclaimed Ralph to himself.
The men climbed aboard. Rawson bent over the engine, and the next instant the craft began to move across the placid pool.
“Run hard now and cut ’em off,” cried the inspector. “Run as you never ran before for the small boat.”
At top speed they raced over the cliff path and launched the tender just as the Artful Dodger, a mystery no longer, emerged from the cliff face.
“Start the engine at top speed,” ordered Inspector Jennings. “No use for concealment now.”
Percy Simmons spun the wheel. The tender shot forward, headed so as to intercept the Artful Dodger as she came out of the cove.
At that instant those on board the smugglers’ craft saw the swift little tender cutting across to head her off. They dashed ahead at full speed.
“What’s their game now?” demanded Ralph excitedly.
“Heading for the Canadian line,” was the chief inspector’s brief response. “Give her more speed, boy, she mustn’t slip through our fingers now.”
“I’ll burn up the engines,” declared Percy.
“Never mind that,” shot out Ralph; “burn up the boat, but we’ve got to get them!”
The fever of the chase was in his veins. He felt as if his life depended on catching the other craft. The tender was now on a course which must bring her across the craft’s bows. As they drew near, the chief inspector stood up.
A revolver was in his hand. His two aides drew close to him with grim, determined looks.
“Stop that boat!” hailed the chief inspector, in round, ringing tones.
There was no reply.
“Heave to, or I’ll send a shot into you!” he cried threateningly.
“Who in blazes are you?” came back a shout from the other craft.
“Inspectors of the United States Customs Service!” came the sharp response. “Heave to!”
“Go to the dickens! You can’t bluff us! We’re for the Canadian line!” came back a taunting shout.
Bang! A shot whizzed across the bows of the fleeing motor boat.
“The next will come closer,” warned the inspector.
There was a hurried consultation on board the other craft. Angry voices arose. It was plain that some were counseling surrender, others flight. In the midst of it all came Malvin’s voice.
“All right. We give up and be hanged to you.”
The tender ranged alongside the other craft. The engines of the latter had been stopped; she lay motionless on the water. But the inspectors were alert for a trap. Perhaps the men on the Artful Dodger had one ready, but the sight of the armed officials caused them to undergo a change of mind.
Just as they ranged alongside, there came a snarl of rage from Malvin as his eyes lighted on Ralph. Beside himself with fury, he sprang at the lad with the ferocity of a tiger.
“Confound you!” he roared. “You are to blame for all this!”
Ralph caught the fellow by the wrist as Malvin aimed a vicious blow at him with an oar. The next instant there was a splash and Malvin was overboard. There was not much fight left in him when they fished him out.
In the meantime La Rue had been detected in the act of attempting to conceal a leather wallet. The chief inspector wrenched it from him, and it was found to contain the gems all intact.
Rawson submitted to arrest more quietly than had been expected, as did the redoubtable Slim. On the way to the River Swallow, with the Artful Dodger in tow, Malvin admitted having stolen the old man’s boat while he and Ralph were at breakfast, and said that it could be found on Windmill Island.
“Now, if I only had my boy back, I should be happy,” sighed the old man, as he heard of the safety of his beloved skiff.
“You’d better tell him, La Rue,” said Malvin, to his sullen comrade.
“Well, if you want to know,” said La Rue, after a pause, “your precious grandson is in the Mercy Hospital in Cardinal.”
“In the hospital?” gasped the old man. “Jimmie?”
“Yes. Those brats on their River Swallow can tell you how he came there. As for me, all I know about the little whelp is that he was blown ashore on the island one night in a storm. He sought shelter in the windmill tower and overheard us while we were discussing our plans. It did not suit our policy to let him go and blab all he knew to the outside world, so we kept him there until that explosion resulted in Stetson and the other pups taking him away.”
“Oh, thank heaven, Jimmie is found!” exclaimed the old man.
“I guess you won’t enjoy each other’s company long,” sneered Rawson. “The kid’s going to die.”
But Jimmie didn’t die. In fact he soon recovered, and is now in the employ of Mr. Stetson. The railroad king arrived home from Montreal in time to see the rascals who had placed him in such an embarrassing dilemma in Montreal, arraigned in the police court at Piquetville and held for the United States authorities. All received terms in the Federal prison and took their sentences according to their dispositions. Hansen was never heard of again, and as he was only a pawn in the great gem smuggling game, he was not sought after.
Mr. Stetson received a handsome apology from the Canadian government for its embarrassing mistake. He has had it framed, and it hangs in his library, where he shows it to visitors as a great joke. Naturally, this leads to a recital of the part that Ralph and his chums played in breaking up the gem smuggling gang on the Canadian line.
Old man Whey is happy on his island, and Mr. Stetson has seen to it that he has everything he desires. Windmill Island was purchased by a wealthy New Yorker not long after the events we have described, and turned into a handsome summer home. The old tower, the scene of so many lawless scenes, is now a lighthouse, and thus good has come out of evil.
The Border Boys have once more proved their right to the title by the stirring times in which they participated along the Canadian frontier. It is not likely that they will ever forget a single detail of their experiences on the mighty St. Lawrence. Harry no longer believes in the supernatural. That night when the gang met its fate laid the “ghost” of superstition for once and all in his mind.
And now, having brought our tale to a conclusion, we will bid God-speed to the Border Boys. Wishing them well in all they may undertake in the future, and a happy issue to all the adventures which such enterprising young spirits are likely to encounter, we will bring this latest volume of their experiences to a close.