The Motor Boat Club in Florida: or, Laying the Ghost of Alligator Swamp

CHAPTER IX
THE GHOST INVITED

“DE mail man done been yere,” was the greeting of Ham, as the elated party walked up to the porch of the bungalow. The darkey held out a dozen letters to Mr. Tremaine.

That gentleman ran hastily through the letters, dropping four into one of his own pockets and passing some to the others.

“And one for you, Captain, from Tres Arbores,” added Henry Tremaine, passing over the last to the young motor boat skipper.

“A bill for something I ordered for the boat, I guess,” nodded Halstead, slipping the envelope into his pocket.

It was now within an hour of sunset. The alligator had been hauled up onto the pier, where Jeff, with Ham’s aid, would remove the hide later in the evening.

“You don’t seem curious about your letter, Captain,” smiled Ida, when she had glanced through two of her own.

“Is one ever curious or eager about bills?” laughed Tom. “I’ve three or four accounts down in Tres Arbores for supplies furnished for the boat. But I can’t settle any of them until we go back to the bay.”

As the air was growing somewhat chilly, with the sinking of the sun, the others passed on into the living room, where Ham had a blazing wood fire ready for them. Tom, however, remained outside, preferring the fresh air.

After strolling about the grounds for some little time, he stepped into an arbor. It seemed curious to this Northern boy to think of a leaf-clad arbor in December, but here it was, with vines growing luxuriantly over the trellis work. There was a seat there, and Tom sank onto it. He was thinking hard about the robbery in the starboard stateroom on the morning of their arrival in Oyster Bay. No more had been said about it by any member of the party, yet with Tom Halstead the subject would not down.

“Of course, the Tremaines and Miss Silsbee must often remember that I was the only one outside their party who had access to the cabin during the night of the storm,” he mused. “They’re all mighty kind to me, yet what must they think when they sometimes get to wondering? Of course, Oliver Dixon was the scoundrel. I saw him fix the contents of the water bottle from that vial of his. He knew that only Mr. Tremaine drank water just before turning in. Dixon robbed his friend, after drugging him. Yet what a wild story it would be, backed by no word but my own. Joe is right; I’ve got to hold my tongue and be patient. Mr. Tremaine would think it all a cock-and-bull story if I told him what I saw Dixon doing. Gracious, but it’s hard to keep quiet and wait. The truth most likely will never come out – and there’ll always be that lurking suspicion of me!”

After some minutes Halstead remembered the letter from Tres Arbores. Some instinct prompted him to take it out and open it. Instead of being a bill, as he had suspected, it was a letter.

“Jumping bow-lines!”

Tom Halstead was fairly staggered as he glanced through that short epistle in the waning light of day. The letter was signed by Clayton Randolph, the policeman at Tres Arbores, and it ran:

I am taking this chanse of writing you, as I know the mail goes up to-day. I am on board your boat most the time, all is well there. Now I have something to tell you I know will intrest you. You remember the afternoon of the day you landed here, you and partner stayed here in the afternoon, but Tremane and his party drove over to Tunis that afternoon. Dixon must found a chanse to slip the rest of the party, for he went to the xpress office and sent a package to Ninth National Bank New York, said the value was 3200 dollars. Maybe real value was more but he thought that enough to make xpress people careful. Now it happens my oldest boy, Joe, is xpress agent at Tunis. He was down here to-day and when he heard about robbery he told me about Dixon sending package. Maybe you can put two things together. I tell you this because I like you and believe you’re straight.

Tom Halstead read this illuminating missive over slowly, aloud, with growing wonder in his voice.

“Wow! That’s clear enough. Then Oliver Dixon did steal the money, and he has sent it to a New York bank,” cried young Halstead, all a-quiver with the bigness of the news. “Oh, the scoundrel!”

Nor was “the scoundrel” himself shaking any the less, at that moment. For Oliver Dixon stood on the other side of that thick curtain of leaves. Walking about the grounds, with his cat-like tread, Dixon had heard Tom Halstead’s first excited exclamation. Drawing softly close, he had heard the young skipper’s artless reading of that exciting letter.

First of all Dixon’s face went deathly pale. His knees shook under him. He looked like a man going through the agonies of severe fright.

By the time Tom had finished the reading, however, Dixon had regained his self-control. There was a deep scowl on his face. His fists clenched tightly.

“Now, that young cub will go and show the letter. It will be enough to start even easy-going Henry Tremaine on an investigation. Ruin!” Oliver Dixon confessed to himself. “Oh, what an idiot I was. And yet I needed that money! But now I may as well run away from here at once. I’m done for. Ida Silsbee wouldn’t consider me even fit to be her footmat. I’ll hustle away from here without an excuse.”

Collected, cool enough, but feeling that all was up, Oliver Dixon stole away from the arbor in which the dazed young motor boat skipper still sat, staring at the sheet he held in his hand.

“I guess there’s just one thing to do,” muttered Tom. “That will be to go and show this letter to Mr. Tremaine. He can do as he pleases about it. If that robbery had happened within the limits of Tres Arbores, Clayton Randolph wouldn’t have written the letter; he’d have come here with handcuffs.”

Dixon, having gained the porch, where he found himself alone, paused to light a cigarette and ponder fast.

“I wonder if all is lost, though?” he muttered. “If I could only get hold of that note, and silence Tom Halstead! Then I could try the value of braving it out for a while. It’s a fearful thought, that of losing Ida Silsbee and her fortune!”

Briefly Dixon thought of the possibility of being able to bribe Halstead with a substantial portion of the stolen money. But the rascal shook his head. Much as he disliked the young motor boat captain, the thief was bound to admit to himself that the boy would probably prove incorruptible.

“Especially, if he’s under the witchery of Ida’s eyes!” thought Dixon, with another burst of miserable jealousy.

“I wonder if it would be safe to steal upon him, down in the arbor, and – ”

Oliver Dixon shuddered at the thought that surged up in his mind. Bad though the fellow was, his rascality had its limits.

“I’ll wait and see what I can do,” thought the wretched one, finally. “At the worst, I imagine I could bluff it out, for a day or so, anyway, by claiming that Halstead had put up a job to have that letter mailed to him. By Jove, I’ll stay and fight it out, whatever happens, until I find I’m floored past help. With Ida Silsbee’s fortune in sight, and Tremaine appearing to like me, the stakes are high enough for a really brave, desperate fight. That’s it – fight! Against any odds!”

Tossing away his cigarette into the growing darkness outdoors, and forcing himself to appear wholly at ease, Dixon stepped inside, greeting the group in the living room with one of his pleasantest smiles.

Being rather crudely equipped, the bungalow possessed an old-fashioned wash-room.

Just as Halstead entered, the men-folks were starting for this wash-room, as Ham had announced that supper would be ready in a few minutes. Here Tremaine and Dixon removed their coats, the two Motor Boat Club boys and Jeff slipping off theirs at the same time. There being but two basins, some waiting had to be done. When Mr. Tremaine and Dixon started back to the living room, Tom nudged his chum, whispering:

“Wait a moment, Joe. I’ve something to show you.”

Presently Jeff Randolph, having finished washing and combing his hair, sauntered slowly out. Then the young skipper thrust a hand into his inner coat pocket.

“What! Where did I put that?” muttered Tom, uneasily.

“What was it?” asked Joe Dawson, curiously.

But his chum, instead of replying, rapidly explored all his pockets, then hunted busily about the room.

“It must be something mighty important, whatever it is,” smiled Joe.

“It is,” was all Tom vouchsafed. Then, unable to discover any trace of the letter, Halstead turned to his comrade with a blank face.

“What have you lost?” demanded Joe Dawson, struck by Tom’s serious look.

“I – I guess I won’t speak about it, until I find it,” responded Halstead, slowly, in a dazed, wondering voice. He felt as though passing through some dream. Had he really received such a letter? But of course he had.

“Oh, just as you like,” responded Joe, readily.

“Wait!” begged Tom. “I want to look – and think – before I say a word, even to you, old fellow.”

“All right, then,” nodded Joe, patiently.

Oliver Dixon, who had slipped back to where he could see and hear without being detected, smiled in a satisfied way. He knew where that missing letter was!

Five minutes later all hands were seated at the table, while Ham, with the important look he always wore when presiding over a dinner, bustled about.

When the hot, steaming food was laid before them, Tom was barely able to eat, noting which, Joe wondered, though he was content to wait for the answer.

Oliver Dixon, on the other hand, was in excellent spirits, eating with relish while he chatted brilliantly with his hosts and with Ida Silsbee. Indeed, his companions thought they had never seen the young man to better advantage. Ida was conscious of an increased interest in her suitor.

“Let’s see, Ham,” propounded Henry Tremaine, after a while, “we’re right in the region of your famous ghost, now, aren’t we?”

“Don’ talk erbout dat, sah – please don’t yo’,” begged the negro, glancing uneasily at his employer.

“Why not?” inquired Mr. Tremaine.

“’Cause, sah, talkin’ erbout de Ghost ob Alligator Swamp is jest erbout de same t’ing as ’viting it heah, sah. Ef yo’ speak erbout it, sah, it’s a’most shuah to come heah, sah.”

That Ham Mockus believed what he was saying was but too evident, so kindly Henry Tremaine dropped the subject with a short laugh.

“It was one of the tightest places I was ever in,” declared Oliver Dixon, who was relating an imaginary hunting adventure to Miss Silsbee and Mrs. Tremaine. “I felt buck ague when I saw that animal’s glaring, blazing eyes – ”

Just at that moment Ham was re-entering the room with a tray laden with good things.

From outside there came a sudden, sobbing sound. It was followed, instantly, by a long-drawn-out wail. Instantly this was taken up by a chorus of high-pitched, unearthly shrieks.

Crash! Ham dropped the tray and its contents, which went to smash in the middle of the room.

“Dere it am – oh, Lawdy, dere it am!” yelled Ham Mockus, sinking to his knees. “It’s It – de Ghost ob Alligator Swamp!”

CHAPTER X
THE VISITATION OF THE NIGHT

AS suddenly as it had started the weird noise died away.

“Get up, Ham, you idiot,” commanded Henry Tremaine, crisply.

“Ah – Ah’s shuah scahd to death!” stuttered the negro, looking up appealingly, but not rising from his knees.

“You look it,” laughed the owner of the house. “But it’s all foolishness. There’s no such thing as a ghost.”

“W – w – w – w’uts dat yo’ say?” sputtered Ham Mockus, turning the whites of two badly scared eyes in Mr. Tremaine’s direction.

“I say that there is no such thing as a ghost.”

“Yo? say so aftah hearing —dat?”

“Neighbors giving us a grisly serenade,” retorted Tremaine, grinning. “Whatever it is, that noise came from strictly human sources.”

“Yassuh! Yassuh!” quavered Ham, as though he wanted to be accommodating, yet pitied the white man’s ignorance.

“You really think it’s all nonsense of some kind, my dear?” asked Mrs. Tremaine, who, though not giving way to fright, looked unusually grave.

“I’m so certain it’s all nonsense – or malice,” replied her husband, “that I’m going on with my supper if I can prevail upon Ham to bring me something more to eat.”

The colored man had risen from his knees, but had moved over close to the table, where he stood as though incapable of motion.

“You heard Mr. Tremaine, Hamilton?” asked Mrs. Tremaine, rousingly.

“Yassum. Yassum.”

“Then why don’t you bring food to replace what you dropped?”

“Yassum.”

“Then why don’t you start?”

“W’ut? Me gwine ter dat kitchen – all alone?” almost shrieked Ham.

“Go with him, won’t you, Jeff?” asked the host, turning to their young guide.

Jeff Randolph pushed away his chair, rising and signing to the negro to follow. This Ham did, though moving with reluctant feet. At the door of the kitchen Jeff halted, to scowl at Ham and hurry him up. Then both stepped through into the next room. As they did so, both with a howl retreated back into the living room, while an outer door banged.

“Now – what?” demanded Henry Tremaine, rising from the table and rushing toward the pair.

“Well, sir, I don’t want to look like a fool,” retorted Jeff, just a bit unsteadily, “but I certainly saw something in white – and about ten feet high – cross the kitchen. That something ducked and stole out through the back door.”

There was no doubting Jeff’s truthfulness, nor his courage, either, in any ordinary sense. Yet, at this moment, the Florida boy certainly did look uneasy.

“Come along, you two, and I’m going out with you,” spoke Tremaine, decisively, stepping into the kitchen and drawing a revolver from a hip pocket. “If we run into any ghost – then so much the worse for the ghost!”

With Henry Tremaine on guard in the kitchen, Jeff and Ham went, too, getting what food was necessary, then returning to the dining room with it. Tremaine locked and bolted the outer kitchen door, dropping the key into his pocket. After that, the meal was finished in peace, though Ham took mighty great pains to remain close to the white folks.

Nor was there any further disturbance through the evening. All retired, to their rooms on the second floor, before ten o’clock.

“What do you make of all this?” asked Joe, as he and his chum were disrobing in their room.

“Some kind of buncombe, of course,” replied Tom, thoughtfully. “Yet I can’t see any object or sense in it.”

“One thing we know, anyway,” decided Joe. “Whatever is behind the rumpus, there’s something in all this talk about the Ghost of Alligator Swamp.”

“There’s usually a little fire underneath a lot of smoke,” was Captain Halstead’s answer.

Joe Dawson went to sleep very soon. Not so with Tom Halstead, who lay tossing a long time, thinking over that letter and its sudden disappearance.

“However, there’s no doubt about Dixon, now, anyway,” Halstead reflected. “I’ll watch him from now on. Somehow, he’ll take enough rope, sooner or later, to hang himself.”

He was thinking of that when he dropped asleep. How long he slept he did not know. It was some time well along in the night when every human being in the bungalow was awakened by the sharp crashing of breaking glass. After the happenings of the early evening all the party were sleeping lightly.

Tom and Joe hit the floor with their feet almost in the same second. While Dawson raced to a window, throwing it up, young Halstead began hastily to throw on his clothing.

From the two adjoining rooms, occupied by the Tremaines and Miss Silsbee, came the sound of women’s voices, talking excitedly.

“I didn’t see anything,” reported Joe, bustling back, “though the racket was on this side of the house.”

As Tom Halstead darted into the hallway he encountered Henry Tremaine. They raced down stairs together, Joe coming next, with Dixon promptly after him. Then Jeff arrived at the foot of the stairs. Ham Mockus, as might have been expected, did not put in an appearance.

Tremaine carried with him a lighted lantern. Tom quickly lighted two lamps.

All the lights of glass in three windows of the living room had been smashed, the fragments of glass strewing the floor.

“This is an unghostly trick,” declared Tremaine, wrathily. “This is plain, malicious mischief. Fortunately, I have glass and putty with which we can repair this damage. But I want to tell you all, right now, if you see a ghost, pot it with a bullet if you can. We’ll keep the rifles at hand during the rest of our stay here.”

They went to the rifles, loaded them and waited, after extinguishing the lights. No more sounds or “signs” bothered the watchers. After an hour of watching, Tremaine, who was a good sleeper, began to yawn.

“I’ll tell you what, sir,” proposed Halstead, finally. “Joe and I will remain on guard, on opposite sides of the house. You and Mr. Dixon may as well turn in and get some sleep.”

“All right, then,” agreed the owner. “But see here, you call me in two hours, and Dixon and I will come down for a turn at this business. We’ve got to catch this ’ghost,’ if there’s any chance at all; yet we must all of us have some sleep.”

So the two Motor Boat Club boys, each provided with rifle and box of cartridges, stepped outside to keep the first watch. At some distance apart both patrolled slowly around the house, keeping sharp watch of the shadows under the nearest of the trees that covered most of the landscape. Once in a while the two boys met for consultation in low tones.

“Nothing doing in the ghostly line,” yawned Tom, at last.

“There won’t be,” nodded Joe, “as long as the ghost knows there’s an armed, unafraid guard patrolling.”

“Then what can it all mean?” wondered Halstead. “What object can any human beings have in annoying other human beings in this fashion?”

Joe shook his head. It was all equally past his powers of comprehension.

Nothing happened up to the end of the two hours. Then, while Joe remained outside alone, for a few moments, Halstead went to call Mr. Tremaine. That gentleman and Dixon soon appeared to take up the guard work, which would last until within two hours of daylight.

“Tremaine, can you keep the watch here by yourself, for a while?” inquired Oliver Dixon, in an undertone.

“Yes, of course. Why?”

“Then I want to slip away presently. I won’t do so at once because I don’t want to attract attention of anyone who may be watching us in the woods. Yet I want to get into the woods, to hide and watch there.”

“You evidently are not afraid to go into the creepy places,” smiled the host.

“Of course I’m not,” rejoined Dixon. “What I want to do is to see if I can’t trap some of the human beings who are at the bottom of this nonsense.”

“Try it, and good luck to you, my boy,” agreed Tremaine, cordially.

Some time later, Oliver Dixon succeeded in slipping quietly away under the trees. Not even Henry Tremaine knew quite when it was done. After that, an hour passed, during which the owner of the bungalow patrolled alone about his grounds. Then with startling rapidity there came from the woods the sound of four rifle shots.

“Dixon must have stumbled into something!” muttered Henry Tremaine, wheeling and running towards the spot from which the shots seemed to come.

Just before he reached the edge of the woods Mr. Tremaine halted, for Dixon rushed out from under the trees at him. The young man was panting.

“You act as though you’d really seen the ghost,” laughed Henry Tremaine, dryly.

“I – I – guess I did!” gasped Dixon. “It was something white, anyway, and about ten feet high – an indescribable, almost shapeless mass of white.”

“You fired four shots at it?”

“Yes; almost at arm’s length.”

“Did it drop?”

“No; nor run away. It came straight at me – my legs saved me.”

“Let’s go back into the woods after it,” proposed Tremaine, intrepidly.

But Oliver Dixon caught at his host’s arm, muttering hoarsely:

“N-n-not until I get my nerve back, anyway!”

CHAPTER XI
TOM HAS A SPOOK HUNT OF HIS OWN

“WHY, my boy,” murmured Mr. Tremaine, in a kindly tone, “you appear to be altogether demoralized.”

“I am a bit upset, just for the moment,” Dixon admitted. “Yet I am not a coward.”

“You don’t believe, actually, there are any such things as ghosts?” queried his host.

“Certainly not!”

“Then – ”

“But I can’t begin to account for what I saw, nor for what happened. Tremaine, what would you say if you saw a white apparition – a big one – and if you fired four shots through it, almost at arm’s length, without injuring that apparition? What then?”

“I’d be puzzled, I admit,” assented the older man. “I can’t understand your experience.”

“I guess I’m a bit steadier, now,” laughed Oliver Dixon, presently. “Now, what do you want to do, Tremaine? I’m with you for whatever you say.”

“Why, we can’t both leave the house. Will you watch here while I go into the woods where you met with your adventure?”

“Are you going alone?” demanded the younger man, as though a good deal astonished.

“Why, yes; certainly.”

“Don’t you think it foolhardy?”

“Well, you got out alive, didn’t you?” questioned Henry Tremaine, with a quizzical smile. “I’ll hope for at least just as good luck.”

“Shan’t I call the boys, and have at least one of them go with you? Or else, leave them on guard here, while I go with you?”

“It isn’t necessary,” decided the owner of the bungalow, promptly. “The boys need some sleep to-night. Let them sleep. You stay here and I’ll try to pick up your route through the woods. Now, describe to me, as well as you can, where you went.”

This Dixon either did, or pretended to do.

“Keep your eyes all around the outside of the house here,” was Tremaine’s last word, after which, holding his rifle at ready, he trudged off over the grounds and into the woods.

More than an hour passed before the owner of the bungalow came back.

“I saw nothing – absolutely nothing, nor heard anything,” reported Mr. Tremaine. “Dixon, I can’t fathom your experience in the woods.”

“I can’t either,” admitted the younger man.

It did not occur to the older man to doubt Dixon. Though their acquaintance was recent, Dixon had impressed Henry Tremaine as being a gentleman, and dependable.

For some little time the two discussed Dixon’s alleged experience with the ghost, as they strolled around the house through the dark. At last it came time to call Tom Halstead and Joe Dawson for their next tour of watch duty, and Tremaine went inside to arouse them.

Though gaping a bit drowsily, both boys responded promptly, taking over the rifles and a supply of ammunition from the men whom they were to relieve.

“When you two get through it will be daylight,” announced Mr. Tremaine. “Slip into the house, then, and get at least a bit of a nap. I’ll see to it that you’re called in plenty of time for the day’s sport. Get all the sleep you possibly can.”

Following this, Mr. Tremaine gave a brief account of Dixon’s “adventure.” Then Dixon himself gave a more detailed description of his alleged meeting with the “ghost.” To him, however, Tom and Joe listened with but scant attention. Their dislike of Dixon had grown to a point where it was difficult even to pretend politeness to him.

“Humph!” uttered Joe, when the two men had gone inside the bungalow.

“That’s your opinion of Dixon’s yarn, is it?” demanded Halstead.

“He’s either lying, or dreaming,” proclaimed young Dawson, bluntly.

“I’d like to find out which,” muttered Captain Tom, “though I can guess, already. Joe, old fellow, you don’t say much, but I’m fast learning to pin to your judgments of people. You didn’t like Dixon from the first moment he showed himself on board the ‘Restless,’ did you?”

“I don’t believe I enthused over him,” grimaced Dawson.

“Dixon couldn’t really be responsible for the Ghost of Alligator Swamp, could he?” demanded Tom Halstead, suddenly.

After that abrupt query both boys were silent for a while as they trudged about the grounds together.

“No,” decided Joe, at last. “It isn’t at all likely, for, according to Ham Mockus, and also according to some of the white people we talked with in Tres Arbores, the Ghost of Alligator Swamp has been doing business for the last three years, at least.”

Twice more around the house they went. Tom, thinking deeply, at last burst forth:

“Joe, I’m going to do just what Dixon did. I’m going into the woods yonder, and see whether I can have the luck to encounter that big white spook.”

Joe Dawson halted, peering queerly into his chum’s face.

“Tom, you don’t mean that!”

“Yes, I do.”

“But the risk? I don’t mean the spook. You’d like only too well to meet that, I know. I mean the snakes. In a country as full of rattlers as this section is, it’s mighty dangerous to go stepping about through the woods on a dark night.”

“Dixon braved ’em, didn’t he?” challenged Tom Halstead, defiantly.

“He only says he did, remember. My idea is that he didn’t go very far into the woods.”

“Well – I’m going,” said Tom, deliberately, after a thoughtful pause.

“Be careful, then, old fellow!”

Joe, who seldom said much, and who rarely did anything demonstrative, reached out his hand, gripping Halstead’s.

“I’m wishing myself good luck,” laughed Halstead, over his shoulder, as he started away. “If I’m gone a goodish while, don’t worry. And remember that your post is guarding the house!”

Joe Dawson felt a sense of almost unaccountable uneasiness steal over him as his straining eyes watched his chum slowly vanish into the gloom, and then finally disappear under the shadows of the trees at the edge of the forest.

“I wonder if I ought to have kept him back?” chafed Joe Dawson, again and again, as he trudged vigilantly around the bungalow, pausing to peer off into the darkness whenever he came around to the side from which Skipper Tom Halstead had departed.

Joe became more worried every moment. Yet the time slipped by. From the forest came not a sound or a sign of any kind. At last the first pale streaks of dawn appeared.

“Say!” muttered Joe, almost angrily, halting to glare off at the forest. “What on earth is Tom doing – taking a nap under the trees?”

Daylight became more pronounced. Surely, there could be no harm in leaving the yard for a moment or two – now. Joe darted into the bungalow, up the stairs, and into the room where Jeff Randolph slept.

“Come, get up!” commanded Dawson, energetically. “Get a gun and come down by the door. Tom Halstead is missing, and I’ve got to go after him.”

Though Jeff was, at first, inclined to resent the arousing, as soon as he understood what was in the wind the Florida boy tumbled off his cot in lively fashion and began to pull on his clothes.

“Anything up, Dawson?” softly called Henry Tremaine, poking his head through the doorway of his bedroom.

“Tom Halstead went into the woods, and hasn’t come back,” quivered Joe. “I’m going to look for him.”

“Don’t stir until I get down below,” called Henry Tremaine, sharply. “I’ll be there in a minute and a fraction.”

Nor did Joe Dawson have to wait long ere Henry Tremaine, with hunting rifle in hand, bounded out from the house, followed by Oliver Dixon.

“Dixon will stand on guard here, while the rest of us go into the woods,” declared Tremaine. “Now, lead on quickly, the way you saw Halstead go.”

Off at a quick run started Joe Dawson. They entered the woods, spreading out in a line as they went.

“Here – everybody!” yelled Henry Tremaine, within two minutes. His hail brought Joe and Jeff to him on the jump.

“Look at the ground here,” cried the owner of the bungalow, hoarsely. “There’s been a struggle here.”

“And good old Tom was in it!” panted Joe, making a dive for the ground, then holding up one of the brass uniform buttons bearing the monogram of the Motor Boat Club.

The three discoverers stood staring blankly at one another for the next few seconds.

“See if there’s a trail – look about for it,” commanded Tremaine, himself beginning to search about over the ground.

“Here’s the start of one,” called Jeff, presently. “And now it dies out. Hunters of the Everglades, I reckon, were the men who did this trick. They know how to cover trails. Yet perhaps they’ve given us a clue, for the trail, as it starts, heads toward the water.”

Feverishly these startled ones pressed on to the lake’s edge. As they came down to the water they saw no craft out yonder – nothing but the morning mist over the surface of the lake and the many small islands visible from where they stood.

“Great Scott!” roared Joe. “Look at the pier! The launch is gone – taken from under our very noses!”

It did not require a second look to make sure that the motor boat was, indeed, gone!