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Title: The G-man's son at Porpoise Island

Author: Warren F. Robinson

Release Date: August 21, 2023 [eBook #71459]

Language: English

Credits: Lisa Corcoran, Stephen Hutcheson, David E. Brown, and the
         Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE G-MAN'S SON AT PORPOISE
ISLAND ***





THE G-MAN’S SON AT PORPOISE ISLAND




  THE
  G-MAN’S SON
  AT PORPOISE ISLAND

  BY
  WARREN F. ROBINSON

  The Goldsmith
  Publishing Company
  CHICAGO

  [Illustration]




  COPYRIGHT, 1937, BY
  THE GOLDSMITH PUBLISHING COMPANY
  MADE IN U. S. A.




CONTENTS


  CHAPTER                                   PAGE

      I AT BLACK COVE                         11

     II THE NIGHT IN BLACK COVE               24

    III THE STRANGE MR. NEVENS                39

     IV THE MYSTERY OF BLACK COVE             55

      V FIGHTING FOR LIFE                     70

     VI CONFERENCE WITH A G-MAN               83

    VII THIRTY PER CENT OR FIGHT             100

   VIII HEGARTY’S PLANS                      118

     IX THE G-MAN GROCER MEETS THE BOYS      131

      X NEVADA’S BIGGEST PLOT                144

     XI CAPTURED                             154

    XII DELIVERING THE PRISONER              167

   XIII HEGARTY PLANS A SURPRISE             180

    XIV THE G-MEN CLOSE IN                   195

     XV THE BOYS BECOME PRISONERS            206

    XVI THE FIGHT BEGINS                     216

   XVII G-MEN TO THE ATTACK                  226

  XVIII THE SECRET OF BLACK COVE             239




CHAPTER I

At Black Cove


The cabin sloop _Water Witch_ had cleared Centerport harbor and was
well out in the bay heading towards the Catlow, or “Off Shore,” Islands
when the first strange incident happened which was to start the G-man’s
son, Stanley Sandborn, and his lanky, dark-haired chum, John Tallman,
off on an adventure which was both bizarre and dangerous. Stanley was
the first to notice the swiftly approaching gray runabout speedboat.

“Look at that fellow come!” said Stanley. “He’s doing closer to fifty
than forty knots and notice how low he is!”

“Sailing bluebirds, and slices of pickled onion!” cried John Tallman,
exploding into one of his characteristic odd remarks. “You can hardly
see him for spray!”

“And gray is an odd color for a yacht!” commented Stanley, pushing his
mop of sandy hair back from his eyes, the better to study the form and
speed of the racing boat which was now sweeping across the bows of the
smoothly sailing sloop.

The _Water Witch_ pitched and tossed in a moment or two as the wide “V”
of the speedboat’s wake crossed the course of the sailboat. The rigging
and sails of the black-hulled boat slatted and swayed drunkenly, then
she steadied in the strong southwest breeze sweeping up the bay and
continued her easy dip and roll through the waves of the open bay. The
speedboat sped off towards the islands, almost silently, save for a low
humming.

“More than one thing odd about that boat, John!” Stan remarked. “Extra
speed, gray paint, and an underwater exhaust! If this were prohibition
times I’d say--rum-runner!”

“Me too. Dunk me in the briny deep and hang me up to dry! Slide over
the hamburgers, mates, but I’ve a hunch we haven’t seen the last of
that craft!”

“Funny, John,” the G-man’s son said, half aloud, half to himself, “I’m
thinking the same thing.”

John Tallman shrugged his shoulders, then laughed as cheerfully as he
could.

“Trouble with us, Stan,” he said, “is that we’ve seen so much of
speeding boats and water fights that we just jump to conclusions!
Because we just spent the last week or so helping capture Dapper Dan
Hogan and his gang and those other mobsters, we’ve got detecting and
suspicion on the brain! Bluebottle flies and anthill creepers--let’s
drop the subject! Me for coffee and doughnuts!”

“Attaboy, John,” laughed Stan. “Stir up some eats. We ought to be close
to Porpoise Island by sunset!”

John watched the last white spray of the speedboat disappearing towards
that very spot of the barely visible humps of the Off Shore Islands, a
perplexed frown upon his lean features, then he ducked down into the
cozy cabin of the sloop to dig up a snack of food for the famished
boys, for they had been under way for hours now and were very hungry.

The trim and pretty _Water Witch_ rolled along, dipping her lee rail in
white water, for she was rather speedy and a good sailor, while Stan,
at the wheel, peered across the water towards Porpoise Island where
they planned to camp out for the next week or so, cruising betimes
among the wooded, lonely Catlow Islands nearby. Certain of the outlying
islands on the edge of the ocean were populous summer resorts and
winter colonies and had a regular steamer traffic, but Porpoise Island
and the close-by islets were rarely visited, if at all, being privately
owned and plastered with “Keep-off” signs. The two boys, however, being
bent merely on a little harmless pleasure, saw no harm in cruising
among them, and perhaps pitching a tent on one of the beaches provided
they did not trespass on the land itself.

They were particularly anxious to visit Black Cove, a little known and
very snug small harbor which Mr. Sandborn, Stan’s father, had noticed
on a chart while the boys and the G-man were poring over the marine
maps of the bay and waters around the islands a few nights ago.

“There,” Mr. Sandborn had remarked, “is something to look into. I bet
I’ve studied this chart dozens of times in the last ten years, boys,
and cruised some about the islands, and I never happened to notice what
a perfect little harbor Black Cove should be for a small boat like
yours.”

He had pointed to the spot on the chart and shown the boys that the
cove had a narrow but comparatively deep channel and that the center
of the land-locked little harbor was a good twenty feet deep and had
a dark loam bottom. Because of the dark mud and loam under the water
there the water itself would seem almost black even on clear days,
thus giving the cove its name, no doubt. This Mr. Sandborn surmised
from past experiences with small anchorages and different types of sea
bottom.

“Sounds mysterious, too,” John had interrupted, excitedly, that
evening. “Rally round the saucepan, boys; the cook’s serving soup!”

Mr. Sandborn had been taking a well-earned vacation of a few days
after the capture of the notorious gangsters, chiefly represented by
Mr. Dapper Dan Hogan, in which event the two boys had had no small
part. The _Water Witch_, you will remember, played a big part in the
adventures attendant upon the pursuit and capture of the criminals as
did also Stan’s and John’s bow and arrows. And during those few days
the boys had been planning the cruise to the Catlow Islands.

It was a cruise they had had in mind ever since acquiring the _Water
Witch_ and save for the interference and subsequent capture of Hogan
and the other gangsters, the boys would have made the big cruise
sooner. Now they were making up for lost time. Below decks were their
bows and arrows, cameras, including the special G-man camera Mr.
Sandborn had loaned them in case--just in case--they might have use
for it; their sleuthing paraphernalia of fingerprint powders, brushes,
and magnifying glasses; some adventure books and boys’ magazines; lots
and lots of food (for John was a prodigious eater!); charts of the
waters they were entering for the first time; and the hundreds of items
needed to make the trip an outstanding success. Bit by bit it had been
stowed away, a task in itself considering the rather short length and
small capacity of sloop. And in all her brave black top sides and green
underbody, with the bullet holes from the big battle at Cedar Island
all properly plugged and shipshape, the _Water Witch_ had sailed out of
Centerport Harbor, pleasure-bound.

The sun was dipping lower and lower as the boat covered the last long
mile across the bay in the dying breeze. The aroma of delicious hot
coffee came drifting back from the galley and John could be heard
mumbling and humming an off-key tune. But for snitches of doughnuts as
he was preparing the meal, the cook would have been able to sing right
out!

At last came the welcome news to the helmsman that dinner, or supper,
was ready.

“Call it anything you like, but serve it, Cookie!” Stan rejoined. “I’m
about ready to gnaw a chunk out of this wheel!”

“Here you are! Why not lash the wheel, Skipper, and come below for
eats?” queried John.

“O.k., be right down!”

With that Stan slipped a bit of roping over the spokes of the wheel
and, jockeying the craft a bit to get the right pressure of the rudder,
tightened a hitch about a cleat. He had already done the same with
the main sheet and the keen little vessel now sailed along by herself
on a fairly good course in what was left of the evening breeze while
the Captain joined his cook below decks at a meal that was filling and
appetizing. Rolls and butter, some canned beef with sauces, plenty of
jam, a slice or two of cake, a few doughnuts, coffee, and a liberal
glass of milk were enjoyed amidst much joking and fun. John was a
“scream,” always thinking of some funny remark and keeping the more
serious Stan in general good humor. They were just finishing supper
when the _Water Witch_ jolted hard to port, dumping the remains of the
meal into John’s lap, for he sat on that side of the small portable
table, and pitching Stan half onto his chum!

“Help!” cried John. “Bluebirds and fireflies--and bushels of
grape-juice-biscuits! We’re wrecked, Skipper!”

Quickly, even as the _Water Witch_ righted herself and the scraping
sounds which had penetrated the interior of the sloop disappeared, the
boys were in the cockpit staring wildly about!

Nothing greeted their startled eyes save the unruffled water of the
bay, for the last of the breeze had died with the fast setting sun and
only an occasional “cat’s-paw” disturbed the surface here and there.
The sloop heeled slowly, creaking just a little, to one of these soft
puffs of wind now.

“Well, tender chunks of jellybeans--what happened?” John wanted to
know, scratching his head and running lean fingers through the dark
hair, while his dark eyes pondered and stared.

“John, in the first place, we struck something that was submerged.
Might have been a water-soaked log, or almost anything. Let’s take a
bearing and see what the chart says. Should have five fathoms along
here if my memory serves me!”

The chart showed six fathoms of water and there were no indications of
rocks or obstructions of any other kind in the spot where the _Water
Witch_ had struck.

“I took a careful bearing from the trees on top of Porpoise Island,
Stan,” John pointed out, “and another on the Centerport Watch Hill
Tower that we can just see across the bay. The angle is a good one
and I’m sure I got it right. Then whatever we struck is a ‘foreign
body’----”

“Maybe the upper structure of some sunken ship, John!” Stan interrupted.

“Upper structure or keel, I don’t know, Stan, but--I do know that the
last of my coffee soaked my pants!”

John went below to change into something dry and while he was there he
quietly inspected the forepeak of the craft where the anchor cable was
stored, and the spare sails and lines, and then peered under the cabin
floor boards but found no signs of extra water. Evidently the ship had
not been damaged by contact with whatever the object had been. In dry
attire, John went back on deck and relieved his friend at the wheel.

Stan now went below and studied the charts for some minutes, coming
back on deck after a short time and indicating the eastern tip of
Porpoise Island. The long low island bore a faint resemblance, when
seen from a distance, to the back of a sporting porpoise, hence its
name, and the eastern tip was the “snout.”

“Keep clear of the snout there, John, by at least a hundred yards,
because of low water and rocks, now that we’re getting in close, and
put her on the other tack after we round the point.”

“Righto, Skipper. Blow me down, my hearties, and smack the main brace!”

Both boys peered curiously at the bushes and clusters of cedar trees
and the few oaks covering the slopes of the island as the boat sailed
slowly, half-drifting, past the snout and they were able to see the
seaward or southern side of the island. Black Cove should be about a
half mile down that side and the angle of entrance was so sharp that
the boys actually sailed past without spotting the opening! It was Stan
who first detected their mistake.

“John, we’ve gone past the entrance to Black Cove, I’m sure. It’s
getting so dark I can hardly see a thing, anyhow and we’ve sure missed
it!”

It was indeed getting dark in spite of the lingering twilight and the
_Water Witch_ swung about and back, feeling the strength of a brisk
night breeze now springing up. The breeze might last an hour or less
and they must make the cove before it died again. Intent, anxious, Stan
stood by the mast of the boat, peering sharply ahead as the heeling
sloop closed in with the island, risking danger among the scattered
rocks, to find the clear, deep entrance to the harbor.

Suddenly Stan cried out and pointed!

A bright light had flickered for an instant or two somewhere on the
island and the way in which it had disappeared caused Stan to say,
“That light was on the far side of the cove, John, I’m sure, and it was
the eastern edge or hill at the entrance that cut it off! Ease off the
sheet and head for there!”

John did as Stan said, for he had great confidence in his chum’s
ability and hunches, and the _Water Witch_ heeled lively and spryly
right between two high banks of woods, through a clear channel into the
darkness of the cove!

The light, which had been the cause of their success in finding the
entrance, had gone and there was neither sight nor sound in the
darkness. The hills seemed to surround the spot and the lighter blue
of the sky overhead, now starlit, seemed to rest upon the edges of the
hills.

“Pheww!” breathed John, deeply, from the wheel, as the sloop rounded
to and the anchor was dropped with a low splash into the deep waters.
“This place gives me the honorable creeps! Creeping skeletons, and
bleached bones--I’d rather go to live with Blackbeard the Pirate than
spend the night in Black Cove!”

“I’m afraid,” said Stan, and his voice was not too steady, “that we’re
here to stay for the night--for I can’t even guess where the entrance
is now!”




CHAPTER II

The Night in Black Cove


As John was afterwards to remark, that night in Black Cove turned out
to be “A night as was a night!” The anchor had barely hit bottom when
a flickering light, as from a half-covered flashlight appeared in the
bushes of the Island. Stan gripped John’s arm suddenly.

“There’s that light again! Maybe we ought to shout a greeting----”

“Nix, Stan,” John whispered tersely. “I’ve a hunch this is a poor spot
for innocent sailor men to be! Just keep mum.”

“Me too, now that I think about it! Look! The light is going up in the
darkness!”

“What’s _that_?” queried John. “Do you hear it?”

Both boys listened, but Stan heard nothing save the water lapping the
edges of the cove, which was about a quarter of a mile across, the
sound carrying clearly on the night breeze which curved down over the
bowl of hills and dipped cat’s-paws at the dark water. The same breeze
made the trees sigh a little, and outside of that there was no other
noise.

“I thought I heard a familiar sound, at least a sound I’ve heard
before, like--_look_!”

The boys saw a shimmer of broken water as they turned about, attracted
by a low humming!

“A boat, Stan, and crossing the cove at good speed, too! See, there he
goes!”

A single blink of light came from the flashlight on the hill and Stan
saw an answering blink from the boat. Then darkness enveloped all again
and the hum was heard no more!

“This calls for a council and some thinking, John,” Stan said. “Come on
below with me.”

He led the way down into the cabin while the _Water Witch_ swung at her
anchor, her sails flapping very softly in the night breeze. The little
sloop had thick curtains, which he now drew over the cabin ports. Then
he was heard to close the slide to the cabin entrance and come back
down the steps. The sputter of a match in the darkness, and Stan was
lighting one of the smaller cabin lights, which he set upon the cabin
table upon which had been spread the chart of Porpoise Island and
vicinity. There was a serious frown upon his features as the youthful
skipper faced his chum across that table.

“Here’s the situation as I see it,” Stan said, speaking in a low
voice. “This afternoon we saw a speedy motorboat of low, fast design,
painted an inconspicuous gray and fitted with an almost silent exhaust,
which disappeared round the snout of this island. Now we’ve come into
Black Cove, a rarely visited spot, and find ourselves in the midst of
symptoms of trouble--a fast, almost silent motorboat which comes in at
night, blinking signals in answer to shore lights. Is this or is it not
a dangerous spot? Are these innocent happenings, or should we get out
of here and pronto?”

John considered the problem for a minute, for he knew Stan was in dead
seriousness, and besides, he himself was creepy and scared.

“I’m inclined to think we can’t get out of here in the dark anyhow,
Stan, so we’ll have to stay here----”

“It’s a cinch we’d have trouble finding the channel, as I said a few
minutes ago on deck, John.”

“--And maybe daybreak will show us up as a couple of scatterbrained
kids. Sweet spirits of the briny deep--why should anyone hurt us? We’re
only bent on pleasure!”

Stan grinned wryly.

“Sure we’re only pleasure bent, but--what about our detective stuff,
and just supposing that whoever is here is up to something evil and
recognizes us as the two kids who got their pictures in the papers over
the Hogan case?”

“You’re right, Stan. What’ll we do?”

“My idea is this, John. Let’s up anchor and move over under sail to
the far side of this cove away from the lights we saw and stay there
to-night. We’ll keep quiet, keep turns watching, and, unless some one
starts something, we’ll let well enough alone till dawn.”

“I’d sure like to have my bow and arrows on watch, Stan! Remember how
they worked against Hogan that night he tried to snoop around at the
float-stage back in Centerport?”

They both grinned with delight at the remembrance of the snooper who
dashed off in his boat, stung in the pants’ seat by a well aimed arrow!
Stan nodded agreement to John’s suggestion of a defensive weapon, and
they prepared to up anchor and cross the cove.

On deck they took their positions, Stan at the wheel and the main
sheet, John at the jib and staysail sheets, and the anchor cables.
Quietly Stan gave the command, and John hove in on the anchor. Slowly
the dripping cable came inboard foot by foot, and was coiled on deck
as the youth hauled at it, then it tightened as the anchor took up the
slack. He heaved hard--but the anchor did not budge.

Again John tugged. The anchor refused to give way.

Nervous, John came aft and informed Stan of the situation.

“Try again, John,” Stan suggested. “Keep trying. We don’t want to lose
that anchor. It ought to break out o.k. from a loam floor.”

Determined to get that anchor in, John heaved away, grunting, and--with
a snap of release, the anchor broke ground! Up it came, and John
hauled it wet and muddy on deck. As he did so he gave a low cry of
surprise! But the sloop was heeling off now as the breeze filled the
mainsail and John promptly “backed” the jib to help push the sloop
onto a course and under way. In a minute or two the _Water Witch_ was
rippling to the opposite shore from the spot where the flashlight had
glittered a short while before.

Close to the bank the anchor was again dropped overboard and the cable
slacked off. With flapping sails, the sloop drifted off till the slack
was taken up, then swung to the wind, at anchor. John said nothing
about his discovery in the bows until the sails had been lowered and
furled for the night, the strops tightened about the canvas, and the
sheets belayed with plenty of slack in case of rain. The sky was clear
and the stars glittered overhead, but a good seaman always leaves his
running rigging slack at night, for rain would promptly tighten it and
stretch the rope dangerously. All being snug now, the boys brought
their bows and arrows up on deck, stowed them ready for instant use,
placed a focusing flashlight handy, and held council in the cabin
again. It was then that John Tallman went upon deck to return with
something which he now handed to his friend.

“A brass fitting!” cried Stan, staring. “Where did you get it?”

“The anchor snagged on something in the cove, Stan, probably a sunken
wreck, and I brought up this! Piece of brass trimming, isn’t it? Might
be from a yacht?”

“It’s expensive, whatever it belongs to, John. Fancy trimmings at sea
don’t appear on commercial ships. Yacht is the best guess! Wonder What
a yacht is doing sunk in Black Cove?”

“Maybe that other thing we struck in the bay was part of a ship, Stan,
too!”

“I doubt it, John. Probably just a half-submerged log. But this brass
is definitely from a wreck, I figure.”

“Listen--What’s that?”

Voices and subdued noises took the boys to the deck at once, where
they carefully shut the cabin slide to keep the light from showing
while they peered across the water of the cove. There in the darkness a
low boat of some kind appeared to have anchored, and men were moving
about on it, for their footsteps on deck could be heard, and there were
occasional flickerings of light as if a lantern were in use.

“Thank goodness for one thing, Stan, I don’t think we’ve been
discovered, yet; do you?”

“No. What’s going on over there?”

“Shades of the Caspian Sea and blessings on thee little man, I wish I
knew! Hear that low, throbbing sound, like a pump working?”

“Probably a salvaging job; but why at night, John?”

“Dear me, Oswald, old bean!” laughed John, “Why ask me? Your guess is
as good as mine.”

The noises of whatever operation was under way continued for hours, and
Stan went down to his bunk to sleep while John stood first watch. A low
whistle was to be the signal for the G-man’s son to hurry to the deck
should any attack or disturbance occur.

For a long while John sat huddled in the corner of the cockpit,
thankful for the sweater he had slipped on, for summer was well
advanced and the night cool. His bow and arrows were handy, and he
watched what little could be seen of the strange things taking place
across the water. He could be sure of nothing, and towards the latter
part of his watch gave up guessing. Probably the men were salvaging
the sunken ship if such the cove contained. Overhead the bright stars
twinkled, and alongshore in the darkness the leaves switched in the
breeze. John Tallman was not sorry when his radium-dialed watch showed
midnight.

Sleepy-eyed, dog-tired, in spite of the excitement of wondering what
the later hours might bring, the youth went below to wake Stan. He
found that worthy half-awake, for the sandy-haired skipper of the
_Water Witch_ had slept poorly.

“I say, a cup of coffee and a doughnut, Stan!” John said, rubbing his
eyes, and then his stomach. “Cockpits and maintops, but I’m hungry.”

They made coffee and munched doughnuts but said little about the
strange surroundings. Stan went on deck then and, in his turn, listened
to the sounds of work upon the surface of the cove. He came no nearer
to a solution of the problem than had John, and went back to bed at
four.

The dimly outlined boat moved off before dawn, and the slowly
brightening sky of morning disclosed only a cool, deserted cove. The
surrounding hills showed only trees, green and thick, right down to the
water’s edge and, in most places, overlapping the water with widespread
branches.

At breakfast, as the sun came over the eastern hill, the boys gave each
other questioning looks.

“If I was not so sleepy, I’d swear I’d been asleep and dreamed the
whole thing, Stan,” John said, yawning and looking longingly at his
bunk. “Whatever and whoever was at the center of this cove last night
is gone, now.”

“Get some sleep, John, and then we’ll put up our sails and find the
entrance. I’m quite sure it’s just round that hill over there.”

“Righto, Skipper!”

And the rangy lad hit the bunk with a sigh of relief.

Stan worked about on deck, washing the sloop down, and glancing around
from time to time with interest in the hopes of spotting life along the
opposite shore.

He was thus engaged when curiosity got the better of him. He could
never, he decided, sail out of Black Cove without an explanation of
what he and John had seen and heard. He woke his chum about eight
o’clock and suggested that they swim ashore and look Porpoise Island
over.

At first John was reluctant, but he too was curious, and besides, the
warm sunlight had robbed the pretty cove of its atmosphere of danger.
They might be a couple of young fools, for all they knew, but they
meant to find out. With the two boys, to come to a decision was to go
into action, and they stripped, slipped into bathing togs, and went
over-side at once. Quickly and with ease, for they were both fair
swimmers, they covered the few yards of water, swimming in under the
branches of the trees to the rich loamy shore, onto which they climbed.

Hearts thumping a little, they pushed through some bushes looking for
a path. John was the first to cry out, being in the lead. Sure enough,
there was a path! A little-used passage through the bushes and trees,
it led them winding uphill, and they followed it silently with their
bare feet making no sounds. At home in the woods as well as upon the
water, the two boys moved onward, alert for anything!

But nothing happened, at least for a period of twenty minutes, during
which time they passed several bypaths and went along seeing the
glitter of the cove as they circled it. All of a sudden they came out
of that path, through the bushes right smack into a clearing in which
stood a trim cottage built of rustic materials. A well built dwelling,
it gave hints of wealth, for it was furnished with modern windows and
the latest type of weather-resisting roofing. A bright, new pump stood
at a well near the door, and everything spoke of good upkeep. While the
boys stood pop-eyed with wonder they saw no sign of life.

Then a soft voice broke the silence of enchantment.

“Well?” came the query.

Startled, they turned about to find, standing right behind them, a
peculiar old man! The peculiar thing about him was the leathery skin of
his face and the paleness of his gray eyes. It was a kindly appearing
face but not one you would have liked. Something in the set of the
smile and the paleness of those eyes would have warned you to be on
the alert for--unsuspected danger!

“Well?” repeated the man, still smiling.

Stan and John knew that they were trespassing, and that made them feel
guilty. Added to that was the odd feeling of danger. They exchanged
glances of appraisal with the old fellow; then Stan spoke.

“That’s a peach of a cabin you have, Mister!”

The man’s face muscles, which had given an air of tenseness to his
smile, now relaxed, and he said, “I’m glad you like it. I like it
myself!”

“I don’t blame you!” Stan admitted. “By the way, we sailed into Black
Cove last night not knowing anyone was around here----”

A look of surprise crossed the man’s tanned features. His smile
disappeared for a moment.

“You sailed into Black Cove?”

“Yes; is that surprising?”

“Why, no, but----”

“Boss!” bellowed some one, and footsteps sounded in the path. “Boss!
They’s a yacht anchored on the far side of the cove----!”

The owner of the voice appeared from the pathway and stopped,
speechless before the boys and the old man. If the gray-eyed owner of
the cabin was peculiar, tall, slender, and well dressed, the newcomer
was just the opposite in appearance. Small-eyed, heavy-browed, and
fat-faced, he was a disagreeable sort of chap. Apparently of foreign
parentage, he was swarthy, and looked as though he had eaten a great
deal for many years but never bothered to take a bath. His clothes hung
baggy and unkempt, and he gave the air of being a blundering fool in
action.

The old man glared for a split second at the fat one.

“Dago,” he said, “Meet my guests,----”

“I’m Stanley Sandborn, and this is John Tallman,” Stan introduced
himself and his friend, and he had a feeling that he was known to the
old man.

“Yes, I know,” responded their host, smiling again. “You see, I read
the papers every day! You did a marvelous job in helping capture Mr.
Hogan and his accomplices!”

“Boss--them’s the kids that caught Hogan?” demanded Dago. His red face
spoke volumes.

“Dago is troubled with a bad heart, boys, and doubtless worries about
his past,” explained the host. “I am Mr. Raymond Nevens, and Dago is my
trusted man-of-all-work.”

“The kids what captured Hogan!” stuttered Dago; then he burst into a
volley of strange oaths ending with, “Of all the blessed luck!”

With a lightning fling of a quickly balled right fist, Mr. Nevens
struck out at Dago! The blow landed fairly, and the man-of-all-work
went sprawling into the bushes!




CHAPTER III

The Strange Mr. Nevens


Dago picked himself up, trembling a little, and the boys sensed a
tautness in the relations of Mr. Nevens and the man, which was relieved
as the old man turned to the boys, winking. He gave a sly indication
of finger to forehead and his face grew sadly serious. But if Dago was
to be supposed mentally unbalanced according to his employer, he was
certainly sane enough to keep his peace and Mr. Nevens excused himself
while he stepped to the side of the big man and gave him an order in a
low voice.

“Yes, Mr.--Nevens,” the man responded with surly, glinting eyes and he
moved off towards the house, to go indoors quickly.

“Dago is more to be pitied than scolded, boys,” said the charming Mr.
Nevens, smiling, “but I keep him round here on odd jobs for he’s been
with me many years. And now, I want you to be my guests for an hour or
so. Will you come with me? I’ll show you interesting things.”

They nodded after a careful exchange of looks and followed their host
down the slight grade to his cottage. The boys observed that, as they
went down the path, the hills on the back of the spot rose well above
them so that no hint of that habitation was given passing steamers
outside in the bay or the ocean. It certainly was an excellent place
for anyone, recluse or criminal. What an ideal spot for loafing and
camping--a private cove, with a practically hidden channel, high
surrounding hills, on an island known to be kept for private use!

“You own this island, Mr. Nevens?” asked Stan, as the man took them
along a pretty flagstone path up to the front door of the rustic cabin.

“Yes, I do own it, boys. How do you like my little realm--what you have
seen of it?”

“Swell, Mr. Nevens. But you must be lonely here, cut off from the rest
of the world!”

The man continued to smile as he replied, “Not so very lonely, nor so
very cut off from the world! I have my few close friends, my hobbies,
and money enough to satisfy my modest whims.”

Was the wreck one of his “whims”? Stan wondered, and would have asked
a tactful question about the nocturnal activities of the cove, but
thought it better to hold his peace. If Mr. Nevens wished to talk about
it some hint would be dropped, no doubt. In the meantime, if nothing
was said by the wealthy host, the boys would wait patiently. If he were
a criminal and the salvage, if such it be, criminal, time would prove
it.

As the trio came up the path and approached the door Mr. Nevens’
spirits seemed to rise even higher than usual as do those of some one
about to show you exciting things. The door opened at a slight touch of
the fingers, a fact which startled both the lads. There was no knob or
visible lock! If it had swung open _without_ that deft touch it could
have surprised them no more!

“Just an invention of mine,” Mr. Nevens said, noting the look of wonder
upon their faces as they went into the cabin. “Touched in the right
spot, this door opens without effort on the part of the person. It
requires no lock of the usual kind, however, for I can, by throwing a
switch seal it so that nothing except an explosive can budge it. I may
some day give that secret door system to the world. By then, boys, I
may, in fact, have perfected an ‘electric eye’ type of a practical kind
which will open as you walk up to it.”

They found themselves in a large, open sort of room, luxuriously fitted
with everything conducive to manly comfort. Lounges and big roomy
armchairs were scattered about tastefully. There were ash trays in
handy spots, a beautiful radio of the latest design, stacks of richly
bound volumes--the whole giving one a startling realization of what
money, in the hands of an eccentric or comfort-loving man, can do.

“My living room, boys,” said Mr. Nevens, obviously proud of the spot.
“Now, here is the dining room--the kitchenette and Wan Ho Din, my cook!”

He had touched another door as he stepped forward and, as he spoke,
they were led into a cozy room where a long table and many chairs told
of company at the dinner table, and then into the white kitchenette
with its refrigerator, special cooking range, and--Wan Ho Din, the
cook! Wan Ho Din was yellow, slant-eyed, as was to be expected, and
gave one an impression of bland, innocent kindliness. But a keen
observer, as was Stan when suspicious, would have noted the same
peculiar hint of watchful questioning and evil about the eyes. Wan Ho
Din would bear watching, Stan decided.

“Boys like cookies?” asked Wan, offering them a dish of the tasty
morsels. “Help self. Takum hand full!”

Stan took some and took a bite, then held the remainder in his hands to
be eaten later. John, however, ate his at once, as was to be expected.
Stan smiled to himself in amusement.

“And now to my laboratories and hobby rooms, boys,” said Mr. Nevens.
“What are your hobbies, by the way?”

“We’re both keen on archery, Mr. Nevens,” Stan informed him. “We think
sailing and camping is swell, and detective work is fun too. But we’ve
had enough detectin’ for a while! This cruise we are on is one strictly
of pleasure, if we can keep it so!”

Mr. Nevens’ eyes seemed to harden a bit, then they warmed again
profusely. And all the while he maintained that contented, friendly
smile which Stan so distrusted.

If Mr. Nevens’ cabin with its spacious living quarters and well-stocked
larder was interesting, the laboratories were more so. To reach them
the boys were taken down into the ground through a cement-lined
walkway, brightly painted and lighted by indirect lighting,
electrically. They were told that the electricity was from a dynamo,
gasoline motor driven, that, from top to bottom, the place was
electrically fitted with every comfort and convenience. The entrance
into the laboratories was through a heavy, fire-proof, explosive-proof,
water-tight door.

“Dynamite would not distort or open this door, nor could water get
in, even under pressure, nor fire at 1,000 degrees burn through in
less than twenty-four hours,” Mr. Nevens explained. “I have taken
these precautions because I am working on many important discoveries
and cannot afford to lose the result of years of work. See, here
is a television set upon which I am working, built on a principle
entirely new in the field. With it I hope to be able to show people
in three dimensions upon a special ‘view-disk,’ or panel, instead of
the two-dimensional scene of conventional models. My subjects would be
rounded and natural instead of flat. And here is a device which, when
perfected, will throw a stream of bullets in a carefully controlled
sweep at previously unknown speeds and with terrible effectiveness. You
see, I am interested in armaments----”

The look upon Stan’s face must have spoken volumes for the eccentric
inventor hurried to say, “--Purely from a desire to invent so terrible
a weapon eventually that warfare would be impossible without race
suicide, boys. Unlike most Pacifists, I believe in fostering the arming
of nations so that they will be armed to the teeth, all of them, and
therefore afraid to start a war for fear of its consequences to all!”

They were then shown a number of other things in process of
development, and still others were left unexplained, after which the
party moved on to the exit and passage, up to the surface of the
ground. What intrigued Stan was the number of passages honeycombing
this underground retreat. No explanation for their presence was
forthcoming and he made a mental note to investigate should need arise.

The exit on the surface came up in a glass-domed summerhouse in which
were platforms of fine flowers, and a large and well-stocked aquarium.
Mr. Nevens knew all of his plants and fishes well and they found him
an interesting talker. From all indications he was well-traveled and
well-informed. And on every side were indications of plenty of wealth.

After visiting the summerhouse, Stanley and John were escorted into
the surrounding hills from whose summits they could see clearly in all
directions along the back of the “porpoise” out to sea, and across
the bay towards the distant spires and factory stacks and the Watch
Tower Hill of Centerport. Paths in a veritable labyrinth of foot-ways
radiated in and about the hills, but Mr. Nevens’ easy-going guidance
gave hints that he was avoiding several by-ways purposely. What might
some of these paths lead to? Stan meant to find out later!

The _Water Witch_ was almost hidden on the far side of the cove
against the background of trees and it certainly looked good. The
entrance channel to the cove was seen as a narrow slit, cutting at an
angle through the hills to the sea, and Stan made mental notes of its
position. While they stood on a rock atop the highest hump of land,
Mr. Nevens’ eyes rested rather long upon the moving form of a yacht
which was coming in from the sea. White and shiny with brass work, the
pleasure craft moved in the general direction of the island, though
still some miles away.

“You will come back to see me again, boys, won’t you?” asked Mr.
Nevens as they went down the hill. “I’ll show you my landing-stage and
boat-house so that you’ll know where to tie up next time. You must come
and spend a few days with me soon.”

This tactful remark could mean only one thing, since Mr. Nevens knew
that the boys had intended staying in the cove longer than that one
day. There was no alternative but to say what Stan now said.

“Certainly, Mr. Nevens. We’re pushing off now for a cruise further
along but we’ll stop back next week if we get a chance!” Was the
coming yacht bringing special visitors for the queer Mr. Nevens, and on
criminal errands, since he wished the boys to move on now?

They were now shown the boat-house, a carefully laid out spot with a
wide, high entrance into which a boat could come to land passengers and
a mooring-stage beyond for bigger craft. The sudden disappearance of
the speedboat of the previous night was now explained and Stan and John
looked at each other with knowing grins.

At the mooring-stage was a fast-appearing speedboat of gray color and
fast design, low in the water, with no visible exhaust, and fitted for
luxurious water travel at high speed. The long, hooded middle section
betrayed the huge, powerful engine hidden there. And in the “driver’s”
seat sat a clean-shaven, uniformed attendant at ease, smoking a pipe
quietly. Stan got an impression that the man was there in case of
urgent need. Perhaps such a man was kept handy day and night!

Bidding their host at last good-day, the boys now went past the cabin,
and up into the path round the cove. They wound along through the
bushes a few minutes later, quietly, some sixth sense warning them not
to comment on what they had seen and this caution was rewarded for,
silently as they went in their bare feet, they came face to face with
Dago! Startled, for he had apparently heard nothing of their approach,
the swarthy fellow purpled and went pop-eyed. There was no doubt in the
mind of the G-man’s son that Dago, insane or not, had a healthy fear of
him and his friend and desired no part of their company.

“Hello, Mr. Dago,” John greeted him. “Nice here on the island, isn’t
it?”

“Yes, it’s-a fine! I think I get along. Don’t see too much!”

And he was gone!

“‘Don’t see too much,’” echoed John.

“Evidently Dago speaks his thoughts out loud at times! John, he’s
scared of us, for certain! I wonder if he really is insane?”

“Plump, juicy pineapples, and packages of bird seed, how do I know,
Skipper?” John rejoined. “All I’m sure of is--I don’t trust him!”

“Quiet, John,” Stan cautioned, hoping their conversation had not been
heard.

They returned by the path to the spot opposite the sloop, pushed down
through the bushes to the water, plunged in and swam to the craft,
hauling themselves aboard.

“Boy, what a relief to be back on the old _Water Witch_! Sides of
bacon and rally round the gang-plank with a heigh-nonny nonny and a
heave-ho-ho!” cried John. “Me for the pantry! Those cookies only made
me more hungry.”

Stan went below behind John and both boys gave cries of astonished
anger! The cabin had been ransacked! Everything was upside down! The
G-man camera had been smashed! The fingerprint powders were scattered
about. Papers, notes, books, and letters were spread about on the bunks
and floor!

“Dago!” cried John at once. “I’ll tie that chap with telephone wire and
douse him in a cup of vinegar, so help me! Bring on the boiling oil!
Where is my wandering----”

The tall lad began at once to pick things up, but Stan stopped him.

“Remember what Dad always said, John--study the situation, look for
clues before disturbing things too much, in a case like this!”

This they now did, making notes of how things were, accurate sketches
showing the positions of each object; and then they looked for
fingerprints. They were rewarded only by the discovery of a pair of
rubber gloves at the foot of the steps. Large sized gloves, they
had been tossed aside by the intruder as he left, in a hurry. Stan
recovered enough of the fingerprint powders to bring out smudges on
various objects but could find no prints. The man who had been aboard
the yacht had been lucky, if not careful.

The things were then picked up and set to rights, and Stan was the
first to voice an opinion of what had been the purpose of the search.

“From what I see, John,” he said, “Dago may have been sent aboard
here to go through our letters and personal things and to destroy the
camera. There might be something among the things to show that we were
purposely looking up Mr. Nevens, you see. If Dago found nothing, our
claim of being merely pleasure-bound would appear more reasonable. The
breaking of the camera was probably Dago’s idea!”

“But if Dago came aboard, how did he get here?” John wanted to know.
“By the shores of the Red Sea--he didn’t swim it, for his clothes were
dry when we passed him.”

“Probably made it in a boat, of course.”

“Where’s the boat, then? And why would he be on the path instead of
back at the boat-house, then?”

For answer, Stan dug out a pair of binoculars from a closet and went
up on deck. Keeping the cabin between him and the direction of the
boat-house, he studied the shore line close by as if looking for
something. It took several minutes, but at last he sucked in his breath
hard and handed the glasses to John.

“See that spot over there, John?”

“Oh, yes, I see--there’s a punt hidden under the overhanging branches
of a tree! And that is how Dago came aboard!”

Stan smiled. “You didn’t figure that out all alone, did you, Sherlock
Holmes?”

“All kidding aside, Stan, why would he hide the punt instead of going
back and forth from the float-stage and boat-house?”

“Naturally, so that he would not be noticed. He probably followed the
shore of the cove from the stage to our boat, under the branches out of
sight, and then returned part way, to hide his punt.”

“Stan, by all the constellations in the deep blue sky--I’ve an idea
we’re on the trail of something big, so big it frightens me stiff!”

“Me too, John, but we believe in law and order and the power of the
right, and we’ll see it through somehow! Mr. Nevens may be merely an
eccentric millionaire with a flair for hobbies and an inventive trend,
but I’ve a hunch he’s a poseur up to something immense in crime!
Look--there comes that yacht we saw from the hilltop!”

The nose of the shiny white yacht had poked into the cove and the whole
boat now slid into view, riding easily towards the float-stage. Through
the glasses the boys saw men about her decks in uniform, probably
sailors of the ordinary sort. And the men on her glass-enclosed bridge
were ordinary-appearing men of wealth. “_Sea Hawk!_” said Stan,
reading her name plate. “So what, Skipper?” John queried.

“Used to be a notorious rum-runner, John, if I remember the newspapers
and magazines rightly! John, let’s get out of this cove and stay
out--while we’re alive and breathing. I’ve an idea trouble is brewing
for us, and we’d better be hitting the high spots of speed right off!”




CHAPTER IV

The Mystery of Black Cove


The G-man’s son hurried below decks with John, and they changed to
their white sailor pants and white jerseys. As they did so, Stan gave a
low exclamation of surprise.

“Look, John, I didn’t notice that--the man who came aboard our sloop
did not take along the brass fitting from Black Cove!”

“Probably didn’t recognize it as of value, Stan,” John suggested. “Dago
wouldn’t be likely to think of it, unless he’s brighter than I think
he is! ‘From sea to shining sea,’” laughed John, “I’ll never forget
how scared Dago was and still is of the boys who helped get Dapper Dan
Hogan! Such is the result of publicity and luck!”

“Stow the gab, sailor,” Stan said, grinning, “and put down that
doughnut you just reached for. We’ve got work to do.”

He hurried to the deck and began taking the strops off the furled
mainsail, and the lanky youth ran to the jibs to do the same. In a few
minutes the mainsail was being raised till the throat of it was taut.
Then the peak went up tightly, and the jibs were raised. The _Water
Witch_ was filled off in the fitful noonday breeze puffing into the
cove, as the anchor broke ground and was hauled aboard. Dipping with a
courtesy, and rippling along, the black sloop crossed the cove, and as
she did so John lay in the bow, peering over as casually as possible,
as if idling on the deck. To anyone watching from the hills he would
have appeared to be killing time, but in reality he was trying to see
below the surface of the cove!

Shaking his head negatively after a few minutes, John sat up while the
center of the cove was left behind and the _Water Witch_ came into
sight of the channel entrance. Outside a brisk sea was running, for the
breeze, which dropped only fitful cat’s-paws down into the cove, was
blowing steadily in the open. Whitecaps shattered and broke along the
tips of the rollers, and the _Water Witch_, with sheets eased, ran out
through the channel rapidly.

“A swell day for sailing, Stan!” John called back. “Let’s head for
Europe!”

“We’ve got plenty to do at home, John,” Stan replied. “Come on aft, and
let’s figure things out, if we can.”

Grinning happily as the sloop ran lee rail deep through the marching
waves, John came aft to the cockpit, reached into his pants’ pocket for
a doughnut, and sat back to talk and eat.

“I’ve got it--(crunch-crunch)--all figured out, Skipper!” John said.

“Let’s have it, old boy.”

“Well--(crunch-crunch)--let’s sail to another cove farther
down the island,” John said triumphantly, “getting in
there--(crunch-crunch)--after dark, and then come back to our cove
overland!”

“Go get yourself a brace more of doughnuts, John,” Stan said,
chuckling, “if you can get schemes like that out of a doughnut! Just
my idea too, exactly, and that’s what we’ll do. Let’s go over to Main
Haven for the fun of it, to kill time.”

“Swell!” was John’s single comment.

The _Water Witch_ was cruising quietly along save for the hum of taut
rigging and the splash and run of water along her sides, for she was
trim of line, fast, and able. Main Haven was a small port of call on
the nearest point of the mainland. It would take all the rest of the
day to reach it and return, and the skipper of the _Water Witch_ did
not want to get back till nearly dark. There would be watchful eyes
upon the hilltop backbone of Porpoise Island, if Stan’s suspicions were
correct, and he was already afraid Mr. Nevens suspected them too.

       *       *       *       *       *

And Stan was not far wrong.

Back at the cove Mr. Nevens, in the seclusion of his private office
in the back of that wonderful cabin, was confronting a nervous,
apprehensive Dago.

“Well, did you do as I told you to, Dago?” Mr. Nevens inquired mildly,
sitting back with his feet upon his desk and a cheap cigar in his mouth.

He’d never been able to take to expensive smoking, had the peculiar
Mr. Nevens. Cheap black cigars were still a pleasure to him. It was
a throw back to his earlier days when he had been somewhat less than
well-padded with money and power----On the walls of his den were odd
things: a cartridge belt and brace of six-guns slung in open scabbards.
The handles of each gun had crude notches, several notches. A big
sombrero also hung upon a big peg.

Dago, big and hulky, stirred nervously upon his great feet before the
stare of the tall, lean, much older man.

“I got out the punt, poled along under the trees round the cove,
without any noise. When I gotta to the boat, I climbs aboard like you
said----”

“Wearing rubber gloves!” interposed Mr. Nevens, sharply.

“You betta the life I wore rubber gloves!” Dago came back eagerly, and
beads of sweat began to appear upon his forehead.

“Go on,” said his employer, quietly, puffing softly on the cigar.

“Then I goes down into the cabin and looks around. I don’t find nothin’
at all like-a you wanted.”

“Not a thing?”

“No.”

“No letters of any kind at all?”

“Just one letter, like-a from another boy. They ain’t-a no talk bout
you and me in there.”

“You sure you read it carefully, you ignorant fool?” Mr. Nevens
demanded.

Dago trembled a little again.

“I read-a every word-a. Slow. And I _did_ find-a one those cameras
special for G-men!”

Mr. Nevens puffed slowly and hard, his eyes smouldering. He put his
feet down upon the floor, leaned forward now, elbows on desk, and
staring into Dago’s black eyes.

“And you probably figured you were doing me a big favor by smashing it!”

“How did you know?” asked Dago, startled. “I didn’t-a tell-a you!”

“You didn’t have to, Dago. You know that! I guess I know ten years
ahead just what you’ll do and say any given minute. Twenty years
worrying over you from the Tonto Trail to this place has taught me that
you’re almost more bother and worry than----”

“I’ll do what you say, Cowboy! Honest I will!” Dago cried as if his
employer had threatened him with death or torture.

“O.k., Dago. I was just giving you fair warning, that’s all. Now, did
you see anything else?”

Dago named almost everything he had handled in the cabin of the _Water
Witch_ and Mr. Nevens, known as “Cowboy” to his henchman, made no
remarks till Dago casually spoke of “A piece of brass like-a from a
yacht.”

“Brass fitting? Did it have--what was it like?” Mr. Nevens demanded,
sharply.

Dago described it as best he could. Mr. Nevens purpled till his
leathery face was a mask of rage.

“And you left that fitting behind?”

“Yes. I no see what-a good it was!”

Mr. Nevens rose to his feet, suddenly quiet in manner. He stepped
directly in front of Dago and was about to turn and walk away,
dismissing Dago, when he suddenly asked, “Where are the gloves, Dago?”

The man stuttered.

“I thought I heard some one coming and I getta nervous and take off the
gloves to put them in my pocket!”

“Let’s have them!”

Dago put his hand in his pocket and withdrew it at once, cursing, and
pop-eyed.

“Gone!” he said, simply, and in terror.

       *       *       *       *       *

At Main Haven the _Water Witch_ tied up to the steamboat wharf while
the two boys went ashore for peanuts, and a glass of soda. A little
later they climbed aboard again, cleared the harbor, and headed back
for Porpoise Island. The sun was getting low long before they drew down
on Porpoise Island. The chart showed two good coves and inlets along
both sides, and they chose one on the further end of the island. It was
sheltered, had good holding bottom, and the entrance was wide and free
of rocks. The breeze was dying with the setting sun as usual on good
summer days at the Catlow Islands and they slid into the cove, hours
later, on a light night wind, under the stars. A thin crescent moon
hung in the sky, but gave very little light. It was an ideal night for
the task in hand.

Getting into their bathing suits, the boys prepared to go ashore.
Stanley grinned as he took a length of cloth and tied the binoculars
on top of his head, so that he looked as though he had a toothache to
boot. Then, thus keeping the glasses dry, he let himself slowly and
carefully into the water and started for the beach. John followed as
silently as possible and they were shortly ashore.

“We’ll follow the paths along the hilltops, John,” Stan said, “till we
get to the places we saw to-day. Then we’ll go along the cove and to
the shore. If we get separated, we’ll meet at the place where the path
goes into the clearing, where Mr. Nevens confronted us this morning.”

“O.k., Skipper, let’s go.”

Untying the cloth, Stanley tucked the binoculars under one arm, wrapped
the cloth about his waist for safe-keeping, and they went along in the
starlit darkness adventure bent. It was a matter of a mile or so to
the cabin, and they made it without any difficulty, for they held to a
general direction by the stars and soon were down on the shore of the
cove.

Out in the center of the cove lights moved about on a low boat as men
worked. Voices drifted back but no words could be distinguished. The
night glasses showed the boat to be a low working barge, and there were
five or six men upon it. Among them the starlight glinted on metal,
rounded and shiny! The startled G-man’s son, grunting, handed the
binoculars to John.

“What do you make out, John?”

“Thunderous herds of beetle-bugs!” murmured John, “and droves of winter
cabbage! A diver!”

“John, I guess we’re on the trail of something illegal. Here is a
diving operation being carried on at night. Why avoid daylight, which
is dangerous enough, underwater? What is down there on the cove floor?
And, if a wreck, what does it contain?”

“Let’s swim out and get a closer look, Stan!”

“Two of us might attract attention. You keep watch, here, and I’ll go
out there, John.”

Protesting, John was left upon the bank, while Stan plunged in and swam
slowly and carefully out into the cove. John watched the faint ripples
of Stan’s progress for several minutes. Fifteen minutes went by, during
which time he lost track of his friend against the dark water of the
cove, then he heard a loud outcry from the men upon the barge, saw a
rowboat push away, and knew that Stan had been discovered!

With fast beating heart, John Tallman stared through the binoculars as
the boat rowed hard, then slowed. That would mean that Stan had gone
underwater trying to elude his pursuers! Suddenly the shout went up
again and the boat darted off in a new direction. This time there was a
struggling at the end of the row and John knew Stan had been captured!
What could he do to help his chum? He did not know, but an idea came
to him and he did not hesitate to act upon it. Undoubtedly they would
take Stan to the cabin. So John did not wait to see that done. Instead,
he darted up the trail, raced pell-mell along the ridge of the Island
for the sloop! It would not have mattered if it were ten miles to go
instead of two! He had to get there and come back!

In the meantime Stanley Sandborn sat huddled and cold in the bottom of
a boat while he was rowed to the barge. There he was hauled dripping to
the deck and stood up in the middle of a group of hard faced men. One
of them was Mr. Nevens!

“Well, my boy, and what are you doing, snooping round here?” inquired
Mr. Nevens.

Stan did not know what to say. If, by any chance, Mr. Nevens were a
law-abiding citizen and minding his own business, Stan was then a
stupid trespasser! And if he were really a criminal, Stan’s remarks
could not release the youth. The boy held his tongue and made no reply.

“Take him to the house, Dago,” ordered Mr. Nevens, “and stick him in
room 8.”

Dago grabbed the youth by the nape of the neck with evident delight at
his opportunity, and half flung, half pushed him into another boat.
Then he pushed off and began rowing ashore with his captive. But he had
not reckoned with Stan’s brains!

They had hardly got halfway to the boat-house when Stan pointed ahead.
“Look, Dago!” he said, as if surprised.

Obligingly, Dago turned to glance over his shoulder. There was nothing
unusual there. The big yacht had gone, and no lights showed. He turned
back, angrily--and his eyes popped! Stan had disappeared.

Sick at the thought of what Mr. Nevens would say, and _do_, Dago rowed
in frantic circles trying to find his escaped prisoner! When Stan broke
water, after a minute of stiff swimming, he came up yards from the
circling boat.

Afraid to yell for help, yet afraid to lose Stan, Dago grunted savagely
and rowed towards the youth.

“Dago, you fool!” cried Mr. Nevens from the barge. “Where you going to?”

“It’s o.k., Cowboy, o.k.!” Dago replied, cheerfully, then bent to his
oars, cursing under his breath.

It was twenty minutes before he closed again with the desperate youth
and hauled him, fighting, aboard. Then he gave the youth such a clip
under the short ribs that Stan lay doubled over, sick and gasping,
while the boat was rowed to the boat-house. He was still weak and sick
when Dago carted him ashore and began marching him up the path to the
cabin!

But, sick as he was, Stanley Sandborn was not licked yet, and, as his
breath came rapidly back, and they neared the door of that cabin, Stan
took one deep breath, and darted off across the clearing!

He made a path before Dago and led that worthy a merry chase. Had he
been fresh, Stan would have easily gotten away. As it was, Dago was
just a step or two behind all the time, and Stan eluded capture for a
while only by twisting about and turning from the outstretched hands of
the man.

Dago grabbed him again, however, and triumphantly dragged him towards
the cabin door, hugely satisfied with his luck in at last cornering
the youth. This time Stan would not escape him, he said aloud, and got
an even tighter grip upon the youth’s right arm. Stan knew that this
time he could not escape, being winded, sick, and gripped by a powerful
hand. Frightened, but game, he was dragged to the cabin door, and Dago
reached out his hand to press upon that door.

Even as he did so he gave a loud outcry of pain! His hand let go of
Stanley, and he began running in short circles, grabbing at his pants’
seat, and bellowing with alarm as if stung by a whole nest of hornets!

“Oh-h-h!” he bellowed, “I’m dead, dying! Ouch! Fire, bees! Wan Ho Din,
help!”

Stanley Sandborn thought himself too tired to run, but he now seized
his chance and darted for the path to the cove! There he almost
collided with his chum. The two of them headed for the hilltop and
towards the _Water Witch_.

And it was not until they slowed down to catch their breaths some
distance from the cabin that Stanley turned looks and words of inquiry
upon his friend.

For answer, John handed Stan an object he had been carrying.

It was his bow. And he had three or four arrows tucked away in a light
quiver over his shoulder!




CHAPTER V

Fighting for Life


They paused but little in covering the distance to the cove where their
sloop lay at her anchor and less time was taken in swimming out to her.
Clambering aboard they hauled up the mainsail and foresails as rapidly
as possible, swung the anchor aboard and laid a course at all possible
speed for the comparative safety of the open bay. Far across the water
glittered a few lights--the outposts of Centerport’s homes, and towards
those lights the boys now headed with sheets eased before the steady
bay breeze. Dipping and swaying, the brave little vessel raced for home.

At the wheel John did an expert job of getting every bit of speed out
of the boat, as they left the western end of Porpoise Island. Stan
sat in the cockpit, watchful eyes studying the fading outlines of the
island against the stars, as if he expected something to be seen
there. His hunch proved right, for he gave a low whistle and pointed
aft.

“See, John! Lights! The pursuit is on! We’re in for something and it
isn’t play!”

“But, if Mr. Nevens really is after us, why didn’t he try to find and
catch me, Stan, to-night, instead of just sending you off with Dago?
Modest piles of doubloons, and knee-deep heaps of silver bullion!”

Stan had briefly told of his part of the adventure, confirming John’s
visual knowledge of what had happened out on the cove and John had told
of his race for the bow and arrows, and of arriving just in time to
wing the bulky Mr. Dago. John’s suspicion was sound--why had not Mr.
Nevens ordered an immediate search for John, since he knew both boys
very likely would be about the island together?

“I figure he did, as soon as he could without scaring us too seriously.
John, that man is up to some nefarious work and he wants to keep us
innocent of the facts. But he’ll catch us if he possibly can! And,
unless I’m far wrong, we’ll hear water spraying from the bow of racing
speedboats long before we hear their motors!”

“Let them come, Stan. We’ll fight.”

“Don’t forget this, John--we’ll be fighting for our lives! And it will
be bows and arrows against bullets!”

“Chills and fevers! Bones of long-lost galleons!” John cried. “Do you
really think they’d kill us?”

“I do! We’ve got a reputation, John, as Sleuths, and they know we’ve
got clues enough to start an investigation. Any attitude of innocence
we may have kept up was finished by my swim into the cove to-night!”

Lights were now winding down into the cove the boys had just left, but
Stan was wrong in one thing.

“Get those kids alive, do you understand?” Mr. Nevens, back at the
barge, had ordered as soon as Stan had been spotted in the water of the
cove. As soon as Dago had captured Stan and was taking him away in the
rowboat, another boat had pushed off to the other side of the cove,
bearing two men with lights. And still others had begun to scour the
island in other directions. Only the bare feet of the boys, treading in
silence and speed along the pathways, had saved them from being taken
before reaching the _Water Witch_--that and the fact that Mr. Nevens
and his men did not know where the sloop was anchored. He had ideas,
but it would take time to verify them.

One speedboat from the boat-house had gone humming out of the channel
and along the sea side of the island, searching for a little black
sloop. Another had followed the first outside, then turned eastward,
rounded the snout of the Porpoise and gone down the north side. But
Porpoise Island has dozens of fine little anchorages along its shores
and it took time to go in and out in the dark with all eyes watching
for a tell-tale mast against the stars and an almost invisible
hull! That alone had helped to delay the pursuit so that the _Water
Witch_ was well on her way before the men had covered the island and
surrounding waters.

“They ain’t-a here, men!” Dago remarked, in one of the gray boats, the
one in the bay. “Let’s swing out and zig-zag the bay. I’d like ta get
my paws on the kid that slung that arrow! I break-a the neck!”

“Talk’s cheap, Dago!” remarked one of the other men who, at the wheel
of the swift boat, guided it expertly across the dark waters while
spray cascaded on either side. “You hurt either of those kids and
Cowboy will chop your ears off!”

“I s’pose he wants-a to make soup of them himself, eh, Butch?” queried
Dago sarcastically.

They could cover the miles back and forth across the bay at an alarming
speed, zooming almost in silence save for the constant rasping of spray
flying like sheets of metal, so fast was the passage of the powerful
boat, bouncing and plunging in long swoops through the waves. They
passed within a hundred yards of the _Water Witch_ twice and did not
see her, then Dago began using a potent searchlight which he swung in
all directions. Mile after mile they raced, Dago urging more and more
speed, confident that the sloop could not be far towards Centerport yet.

Then the light fell upon white canvas for a split second!

“There she is! Circle back!” ordered Dago.

They swung and skidded on a sharp turn, came humming back, the
searchlight played on canvas again, and the boat closed in!

On the _Water Witch_ the white spray of the searching boat had been
long audible and visible even in the night as it raced back and forth
and, knowing that the shortest distance to home was in a straight line,
the sailboat had held its course. But the boys were ready, their bows
and arrows in the cockpit, and sharp boat hooks also handy.

“Let them have a brace of arrows in the most visible part, John, and
put sting in the flight of those arrows!” Stan remarked. “And don’t
quit fighting unless you’re completely overpowered or nearly dead!”

“Right, Skipper! See, the searchlight!”

Back and forth moved the light, seeking them out, and on they sailed;
then the light blinded them for a moment! They had been spotted. The
light went past, the spray whipped like a lash on the breeze, and
circled back. The light again blinded them and this time stayed upon
them.

Low in the cockpit, with sheet belayed and the wheel steadied by his
feet against the lower spokes, while the sloop held her course, John
put an arrow to his bow and drew back the cord slowly. Stan, in the
spot near the cabin slide, did likewise, estimating the distance and
trying to spot an opponent in the light. Nothing could be seen but that
light, but arrows aimed at it should find a mark!

Any second might bring the rat-rat of a machine gun and death but the
two chums had been through that sort of situation before and they stood
their ground, hoping, waiting!

The boat came on towards the _Water Witch_, slower now, and began to
run alongside.

“You keeds!” yelled Dago. “Come on now, lay down those bows before you
getta hurt! You come on peaceful and we no--break your necks!”

“Guess you’ll have to come and get us, Mr. Dago!” scoffed Stan, loudly.

A loud roar of laughter came from the boat; the other men were amused
at Dago’s sputtering and swearing reply. Dago was Nevens’ right hand
man, and it amused these lesser henchmen to see him baited by a couple
of boys! Dago practically frothed with anger.

“I’ll skin you keeds alive!” roared Dago, and ordered the speedboat
alongside the sloop.

Somewhat accustomed now to the glare of the light, Stan and John could
make out men back of the searchlight and most visible was big Dago. As
the boat swung over, two steel-pointed hunting arrows zipped through
the air, carefully regulated by two boys fighting for their lives, so
that, allowing for the rolling boats, and the wind, they would find
a mark! Dago gave one terrified squawk of amazed agony and leaped
backwards right onto the helmsman! With a sputter and then a cascading
leap of spray off the bows, the speedboat darted past the stern of the
_Water Witch_!

The boys lost no time getting in two more arrows and from the yells of
pain, those stinging barbs must have gone into flesh! A hunting arrow,
at that range, is a penetrating projectile and there would be no more
pursuit that night from the gray speedboat.

In the cold waters of the bay a fat, swarthy man swam slowly and
painfully, bellowing to the stars his opinion of bows and arrows, cold
water, fools of helmsmen, and the two boys in particular. The wounded
helmsman, for he had received the second brace of arrows as well as one
of Dago’s big feet in the face, lay helpless and moaning in the boat
while the others attempted to find Dago who had fallen overboard. They
circled slowly, using the light, for a full half hour, before locating
the center of the volley of exploding oaths and yells, then pulled the
wet and wounded Dago into the rear compartment of the boat.

“Head for Porpoise Island,” ordered Dago. “We need an army and navy to
getta those keeds!”

Humming, the boat made her way back to Porpoise Island and into
the channel and the cove to find the other gray boat also back at
the boat-house. A nervous group of men, to the number of twenty or
more, filed into Mr. Nevens’ den a little later. These men, with the
exception of Dago and a very few others, were usually hidden away
in the side-passages of the underground part of the cabin during
the daytime, to emerge at night to do the bidding of their chief.
Naturally, Mr. Nevens had avoided these alleys when showing his young
guests about during the daytime. Now he sat in his chair, feet on
desk, smoking a black cigar. He was not pleased.

“Here I send you fellows out to pick up a couple of young kids and you
muff the thing,” Mr. Nevens said, softly. “And yet you expect to be big
shots in the plans we’ve got mapped. What good are you, the lot of you?”

“Cowboy,” Dago admonished, “did you ever get an arrow stuck in you?”

Mr. Nevens smiled slowly and expansively.

“No,” said he, happily. “But, if you get any more, I’ll mistake you for
a pincushion!”

The _Water Witch_ had now taken an abrupt change in her course. Left
behind were the lights of Centerport. Instead, she was shaping her way
westward towards Point Zenith and the village there.

“There’s an ideal spot, just round the point, for what I’ve got
planned, John,” Stan explained, as he stood his own trick at the wheel
while John brought up a bag of doughnuts and sandwiches.

“What you planning, Skipper? You know, they’ll be after us at daybreak!
Honey-coated biscuits--how that Dago loves arrows!”

His last remark was an afterthought and both boys chuckled with
amusement.

“They’ll search for us till they find us, John. But I’ve got a plan.”

“What is it?”

“A plan that ought to work, unless I miss my guess, at least till we
get the dope on Mr. Nevens and his crowd.”

John was consumed with curiosity.

“Batten down the main hatches and show the cook the door--give us the
plan before I bust!” he cried.

“First, we’ll buy some white paint at Zenith Village, John, and at
daybreak paint the sloop white. We’ll keep the sails furled, except the
jib.”

“Except the jib?” asked John, mystified.

“Sure--we’ll take that off, and also the bowsprit!”

“I get it!” John said, admiringly. “You’re going to re-rig the _Water
Witch_!”

“Exactly. But first, I want to disguise her till we can get a Marconi
mast, new sails, and a chance to paint the underbody and the top
sides.”

“The name, Stan!” warned John.

“Of course, we’ll have to change the name. Too bad, too, because I like
the one she has!”

It was indeed too bad to have to so change the _Water Witch_ but there
seemed no other way out. As Stan knew, they must not be recognized at
Porpoise Island as the sloop which had been poking into the affairs of
Mr. Nevens. Besides, the Marconi rig should be faster and easier to
handle. It would prevent them from going under the bridge at Lape’s
Island and mooring at their float-stage but that problem would have
to be faced later. Stan and John were sensible enough to realize that
their lives hung in the balance and they must meet things as they came.

“Maybe Dad could suggest a new name, John,” Stan said quietly.

“Then we’re going to let him in on the case, Stan?”

Stan grinned in the darkness.

“Sure--of course. I wouldn’t dare to do this unaided! We can take care
of the changes in the boat and do a lot of detective work alone but, in
the showdown, if this Mr. Nevens is a big criminal the F. B. I. has
got to be in to take the men prisoners. Say, Dad will think us a couple
of fools for luck, won’t he! We go on a pleasure cruise, and right
smack into more trouble!”

They rounded Point Zenith under the red gleams of the blinking
lighthouse and came to an anchor in a secluded spot. As the sails came
down and were stropped for the night, Stan explained what else he had
in mind.

“We’ve got to get to Centerport after disguising the boat, John, and
get in touch with Dad. Then we’ll have to get our new mast and sails
out and rigged soon. We’ve got _work_ ahead of us!”

“And what gets me, Stan, is--why won’t Mr. Nevens and his playful boys
recognize you and me even if they don’t know the new sloop?”

“Simple. He’s only seen us a matter of an hour or so, except for the
pictures the newspapers printed, and all we have to do is change our
clothes to something quite different from our usual ones to disguise
ourselves. Hats will help a lot!”

“Do you suppose,” asked John, “that a lavender and pink sweater in
stripes would be inconspicuous?”




CHAPTER VI

Conference with a G-Man


It was well after midnight before the two boys turned in for the night,
setting their alarm clock to ring at daybreak. And at dawn they awoke
and held council.

“The village stores open about seven-thirty or so, John,” Stan said as
they ate a hearty breakfast. “You go for the paint while I get out that
small can of black paint we had left from the last job and mark out a
new name. What will we call her now?”

“Not going to ask your Dad?”

“I think not, because, I’ve a hunch the Porpoise Island crowd may poke
into here looking for us and if we have a new name on the boat it will
help disguise her. What do you suggest, John?”

“Let’s call her ‘_Staghound_’!”

“Sounds o.k. That was the name of a famous clipper, wasn’t it?”

“I think so.”

“_Staghound_ it is then!” Stan rejoined.

Breakfast finished, and time drawing on towards the opening of the
stores, they set the mainsail and took in the anchor. They sailed to
the landing of the town and moored to the pilings there. The tide was
going out and, by fastening her properly towards the shore end of the
pier they knew she would be almost high and dry at low tide, resting on
the sand. This would enable Stan to paint in the lettering and John to
help slap the white paint onto her hull. John hurried for the paint and
Stan went over-side and, standing up to his neck in the water, began
blocking out the new name over the old name. He was still so engaged
when John came back lugging the new paint and a small can of tan
top-side paint for the cabin.

With the black paint left from the time the _Water Witch_ had been
painted at Cedar Island, Stan began painting in the new name neatly
while the tide dropped and left him standing up to his knees in the
water now. In the meantime John had washed down the rest of the hull
and was repainting it white. It had to be a heavy, well spread coat to
cover the old black, but John was equal to the task, and by the time
the tide was coming back, towards noon, both boys had put finishing
touches on the white and were giving the top sides--cabin trunk and
top--a coat of tan. At dinner time they were amused by the townspeople
who came down to witness the changes in the _Water Witch_. After a good
meal, they went back to work, sawing off the bowsprit, after taking
down the outer stay to the mainmast head and unhooking the jib. A plane
from the tool box now came in handy to smooth down the stump of the
bowsprit, and putty and white paint with a tan topping soon disguised
the bow of the _Staghound_!

“Might as well work away and finish the job as fast as we can to-day,
eh, John?” Stan said, as they dumped the remains of the forward spar
into an old pile of lumber at the end of the wharf. “Let’s rig a tripod
and take out the mast!”

It was a good afternoon’s work to rig a tripod of oak “sills” from that
lumber pile and with a heavy tackle and the help of a couple of wharf
“idlers” to swing out the mast and lay it upon the wharf. By that time
an interesting thing had taken place. One of the onlookers offered to
buy the mast and sails when he found out they were no longer wanted.

“Don’t know why you want to ruin a good boat, young fella,” said the
man, “but I’ll take that mast fer a price and the sail, effen you say
the word!”

They dickered over the price a few minutes and when they were through
Stan had some twenty-five dollars toward the new mainsail and Marconi
mast!

“Just a drop in the bucket compared to what that new mast will cost,
John, but it’ll help!” laughed Stan. “And Nevens will never know the
mast on another boat!”

All day they had kept a weather eye open for gray speedboats running in
from Point Zenith, but none came till about supper time. By that time,
as they were about to go below for a meal, having got the _Staghound_
away from the wharf on a high tide, and anchored some distance out
in the harbor after the judicious use of a pair of oars for forced
sculling, they were not surprised to see what they had expected!

Round the point roared a speedboat, humming softly into the harbor.
The boys ducked below and peered out the cabin ports watching the boat
circle around. Would the men in that boat recognize the _Staghound_?
But they need not have had any fear for, without her short mast, and
her bowsprit and without her black sides and the name on her stern, the
old _Water Witch_ was a strange object, just another white yacht!

“Don’t see them!” came a familiar voice and the gray boat hummed right
past the _Staghound_!

It was Dago, sitting in the bow seat of that runabout, a worried frown
on his far from handsome face! Stan could not suppress a gleeful
chuckle.

“How I’d like another pot shot at you, Mr. Dago!” cried Stan, softly.

John was grinning like a cat.

“Me too. Tamp me down with a ten-pound weight!”

They watched the boat disappear around the point again, and then gave
sighs of delighted relief. They ate with gusto, cracking jokes, and
figuring the size of mast and area of sail needed for the revamped
sloop. The rough estimate of money involved was a bit staggering but
they had a large sum of reward money due from the Hogan case and knew
that Mr. Sandborn would insist on lending them enough to take care of
the present need. After supper, their figures in hand, as near as they
could tell, they went to bed to get a few hours’ sleep.

As they lay in their bunks Stan spoke of the _Sea Hawk_, the yacht they
had seen in the cove.

“The _Sea Hawk_ figured in several rum-running cases, John,” he
explained, “and got out of them through technicalities. Fitted out as a
yacht in every way, she can still carry a load of anything illegal that
the underworld might want to transport or sell! I wonder who owns her
now and why she was at Black Cove. Does Nevens own her?”

John grunted.

“Don’t ask me riddles, to-night, Skipper. Blast my tenpins and sing out
when the whales breach--but I’ll be glad when this case is solved!”

“And why the salvage job in Black Cove, divers, night work? What ship
was she? What is still aboard her?”

“All I know, Stan, is that Dago is a bad actor, and Mr. Nevens is
no better than he should be! Think of that secret laboratory, his
aquariums, his underground passages, all his electrical devices! And
none of his boats seem to show riding lights or running lights at
night!”

“Since the law requires running lights when under way----”

“We didn’t show running lights ourselves last night, Stan,” John
remarked, interrupting.

“That’s right, and well we didn’t, for they’d have found us sooner!”

“Anyhow, Nevens’ boats break the law all the time, it seems, and that
alone is an indication of criminal guilt!”

“You’re right, John. I know this much--we’re on the trail of something
big, and it ought to be out in the open before long when the G-men get
on the trail!”

They went to sleep after that, and the alarm woke them late that night.
They up-anchored, and sculled into the town pier; then they moored
the _Staghound_ securely, locked the cabin slide tightly, and hurried
through the dark streets bound for Centerport. The last street car for
the night was just leaving the tiny depot when they boarded it, and it
bore them swiftly towards their home city, about ten miles away.

They alighted from the car at the center, and hurried homeward through
the deserted streets.

“Nevens will stop at nothing to get us, John,” Stan said, as they got
near home. “So don’t be surprised if some one is hanging around outside
my house! He could locate our homes from the street directory and plant
watches ’round them. We’ll have to get in by a roundabout way!”

This they did, going to Stan’s home first, coming to the house through
a back street and over the back fence, quietly, and being admitted by
Mrs. Sandborn. She was, of course, delighted to see her son and his
chum; so was Mr. Sandborn, who was reading in comfort by a log fire at
the fireplace.

“I’ll call your mother, John,” Stan’s mother said, going to the phone,
“and let her know you are here while you and Stan raid the pantry.”

A few minutes later, munching a sandwich, John talked with his folks
over the phone, saying he’d drop in for the night in a short while.
Then the boys adjourned to Mr. Sandborn’s den where, amidst curious
objects of many sorts, ship models, deer horns, and guns, the boys
related their many adventures in detail. The good-looking, youngish
G-man listened intently, frowning from time to time as they talked and
asking many questions. Then they showed him the brass fitting which
they had brought with them, the pair of rubber gloves, and a few papers
with smudges on them.

“Guess you were right, Stan, no fingerprints on these papers,” said the
G-man after a careful study of the smudges. “And this brass fitting is
part of the rail of some yacht.”

“Who do you s’pose Mr. Nevens is, Dad?” Stan asked anxiously.

“I’m not sure, but he sounds very like an old time Western bandit known
as ‘Cowboy Nevada’! Your description fits him and he has not been seen
about his old haunts for several years. It may interest you to know
that the F. B. I. wants him for a Federal bank robbery! I guess Mr.
Nevens is due for a little investigation! And Dago sort of clinches
my opinion because he fits the description of Nevada’s side-kick and
companion in crime, ‘Bats Duplisse’--gunman and stick-up artist of the
West.”

“What are you going to do, Dad?” Stan asked; “and what do you want us
to do?”

“Keep right on with your plans. Finish your re-rigging job on the
_Water_--I mean _Staghound_--and then go back to the Island. Get some
pictures of everything of interest, good clear prints. Get fingerprints
of everyone round there, if you can. This cook ‘Wan Ho Din,’ now, might
mean something to the F. B. I. if we had a fingerprint to compare with
our files. Excuse me a few minutes while I talk with the Chief and see
what he says.”

He returned to the den fifteen minutes later after quite a talk on the
long distance wires with the Chief in Washington, and his face was
serious.

“I’ve been assigned to this case, boys. I’m going to look Porpoise
Island over for a while. How and when I may see you again in the next
week or so I cannot be sure, of course, but you may see me down there
and, unless I speak first, don’t act as though you knew me for, even if
we were alone, spies might be watching and listening. In a pinch, I’ll
find some way of getting in touch with you, and in the meantime, and at
any time, get a message to 27 Eagle Street, in Main Haven, asking for
‘John.’ John is a G-man who runs what appears to be an ordinary grocery
store. Actually, he is operating on a case down there and will know
what to do in a jam.”

After that, John Tallman went home by a back way to sleep for the
night, and Stan hit his own bed with grateful sighs. It had been agreed
that both boys would remain at their homes for twenty-four hours,
hidden in case Nevens had watchers on the lookout, then the next night
they would leave early in the morning so that they could pick up the
Marconi mast and new sails at the marine store. The order was to be
placed in the morning, and, by paying extra, delivery could be made
next day, especially as they could change their sail plan a bit to
favor any small Marconi mast which the store might have on hand.

Indeed, next morning Stan was lucky enough to contact the store on
a mast in stock and a sail and jib to fit! This was great luck. And
furthermore, the delivery was to be made at the wharf in Zenith
Village! It now would only be necessary for the boys to be in Zenith to
sign for the delivery!

But the day at home was a restless one for both boys. John tinkered
in his little workshop down cellar when not eating, and Stan haunted
the windows, and read from an adventure magazine between times. His
vigilance at the windows was rewarded late that afternoon when he
spotted a stranger hovering about the next corner. The man glanced once
in a while at the Sandborn home.

The G-man himself had left in the early morning to go on the case,
wearing ordinary clothes and carrying his service gun in an armpit
holster.

He went by street car to the depot and took a train for Main Haven,
arriving there around ten o’clock. Casually, as if merely shopping,
he drifted into John’s place. The place was empty of customers at
that moment, but he did not relax his attitude as John, smiling, came
forward.

“And what can I get you, sir?” asked John, his eyes meeting his
“customer’s” with an unspoken question there.

“Nice lettuce you have,” the G-man said, picking up a head, and then
continuing in an almost inaudible voice, while examining the vegetable,
“New case. Have you received your instructions?”

“Yes, indeed!” rejoined John, winking. “And very fine it is!”

“Good. I’ll have--say, have you any carrots?” Mr. Sandborn remarked,
and then added, “Seen anything of Nevens, Nevada, or whatever the name
is?”

“No, not yet,” said the grocer, quietly. “But his cook comes in to buy
the supplies.”

“Who is he?”

“Just what his name is. Nevens took him on four years ago. I never have
seen Nevens himself, but townspeople have, and it sounds a little like
Nevada.”

They talked in low tones till a customer came in, apparently interested
in the sale of vegetables, and Mr. Sandborn made a few purchases and
left. The Chief had already contacted the network of agents all over
the country, and concentration would soon begin on Porpoise Island if
Mr. Sandborn’s investigations confirmed the boys’ reports.

Having no use for the vegetables he had bought, he left them on one of
the back steps in the poorer section of the town, in as inconspicuous
a manner as possible, being quite sure no one had seen him do so,
and then went about his other business. He asked a hundred innocent
questions that forenoon, making notes of everything, mentally, and
trying to piece together parts of the facts. He visited the library,
the yacht club, and the Sailor’s Snug Harbor, and gathered more facts.

The _Sea Hawk_ was registered in the name of a “Mr. James Fitch,
lawyer,” and her port of registry as New York. Some of the facts he
learned made him smile, others caused him to whistle in a low tone. And
then he saw a gray speedboat pulling into the town wharf at noon.

In it was a trio of men, all three stern faced, all three of medium
build and in business suits. The leader appeared to be harder than the
other two and smoked cigarettes constantly. They left their boat moored
at the wharf and went briskly uptown. Mr. Sandborn hurried to John’s
store, slid into the back room, and there opened a small closet door.
He removed his jacket and armpit holster and hung them on a peg, taking
a stubby revolver from a small shelf and putting that into his pocket
instead. Then he put on his jacket again and came out through the store.

He went down to the wharf, and, watching his opportunity, slid open a
hatch over a motor in the gray boat, pulled a wire loose, and went back
onto the wharf to lounge about. He had not long to wait, for the trio
soon appeared, strode briskly down the wharf, and got into the boat.

But the motor would not start and the leader seemed impatient. Again
the helmsman tried to start the motor. It sputtered a little but would
not run. At once, of course, people began to come along the wharf,
attracted by the missing motor. The men seemed anxious to be off. One
of them cursed, and another lifted the hoods over the engines and began
an examination. His ignorance of marine engines was very apparent, and
he utterly overlooked the detached wire. Mr. Sandborn leaned over from
the crowd and asked,

“Won’t run?”

For answer the men glared up at the speaker.

“Mind if I try to start her?” queried Mr. Sandborn.

At that the leader frowned.

“If you can get her started right off--come on down and try it!”

Obligingly, Mr. Sandborn stepped down into the boat, and, because he
knew something about marine engines, he went about his work with an air
of knowledge that was convincing. None of the men and few of the other
spectators noticed when he again attached the wire. He made a fuss over
an adjustment on another part of the motor and then pronounced her
ready to go!

The helmsman stepped on the starter and the motor purred into action,
sweetly and powerfully.

“Thanks; what do we owe you?” asked the leader.

“Nothing, unless you know where I kin get a job, Mister,” said the
G-man, casually.

The men exchanged looks. The crowd seemed interested and formed a
rooting section. Half urged by the mob and mostly by some knowledge of
their own, the men told him to seat himself in the bow seat, and the
leader promised to see his “boss about a job.”

The gray boat moved swiftly away from the wharf now, bearing a G-man
bent on investigating what was to prove one of the most cleverly
planned schemes the country has ever known! So stupendous a crime was
planned that, had Mr. Sandborn known the facts that morning, he would
have stayed ashore and sent in a hurry call for the entire G-man army.
Instead he went blithely to his duty, playing the lone hand among that
band of super-criminals!

They bore down on Porpoise Island, whizzed through the channel into
Black Cove, and purred up to the boat-house and float-stage. And Mr.
Nevens himself was coming down the wharf at that moment, smiling a
greeting.




CHAPTER VII

Thirty Per Cent or Fight


“We have a guest, I see,” remarked the smiling owner of Porpoise Island.

“This fella can fix engines, Boss,” said the leader of the boat’s crew.
“We got stuck at Main Haven and he fixed the trouble in a jiffy. He’s
outa work and I thought----”

Mr. Nevens, searching the G-man with an appraising stare, seemed
satisfied as he interrupted the speaker with, “--Yes, we can find work
for a man who knows how to tend marine engines!”

“Fine,” said Mr. Sandborn, “and what is the pay for the job?”

“Enough to satisfy you, Mister!” Nevens replied. “What else can you do?”

“Anything that’s wanted.”

“Anything, can mean a lot,” Nevens said, leading the way to the cabin.
“Let’s talk this thing over.”

In his private office he seated himself comfortably in his chair and,
poising his feet upon his desk, lit a black cigar, and surveyed Mr.
Sandborn more carefully than even before. He saw before him a medium
built man with regular features of a determined nature and a habit of
holding his hands as if ready to sling them up in attack or defence.
That he might prove a valuable addition to his staff, Mr. Nevens, alias
Cowboy Nevada, felt rather certain and he was toying with an idea. The
idea involved big things and moves must not be too fast. Disaster might
well result!

“Just who are you?” queried Nevada, quietly, his eyes watching the
G-man’s face intently through a whisp of smoke from the cigar.

“The name is ‘Happy’ Gallagher,” responded the G-man, promptly. “I was
born and reared in Kansas City, cut my teeth on a rod, and done some
time in a jail or two till I wised up to the racket.”

“Just what is your racket, Gallagher?” Nevada asked, softly.

“Gallagher” grinned and leaned his hands on the desk as he said, “Doing
jobs for big shots!”

“For instance----?”

“I was right-hand man to Steve Hackinaw out in Chi three years back.”

“Uh-huh.”

Hackinaw was dead so Mr. Sandborn was fairly safe in that statement.
Hackinaw had been “Big Time” in gambling rackets but was done in by
rival factions. His right-hand man had been a fellow closely resembling
Mr. Sandborn. Besides, the underworld had lost track of that “yes-man,”
though G-men knew that he was dead! They had felled him in battle in a
deserted suburban section and the facts had never got into the papers.

“I been taking it easy last few years, Nevada,” said Gallagher, “since
the heat went on and just thought I’d try to land a job somewhere. By
good luck I fell in with your men at Main Haven!”

“You seem to know me, Gallagher,” Nevada said, blowing smoke rings.

“Who doesn’t? You were big guns in the West and I’ve always figured
you’d be somebody to tie up with. It sure was lucky of me to run into
you.”

“Dago ain’t gonna like it, Gallagher, should I use you as my trigger
man.”

“Who’s scared of Dago, Nevada?”

“Well, I’ve got a little job for you. Dago’s kind of careless in some
ways. I want you to keep an eye peeled for two young kids that have
been snooping around here the last few days. You’ve heard of the kids
that helped get Hogan?”

“Sure, I’ve heard of them. Who hasn’t? I’ll land them if they come
round here again! I don’t like kids anyhow!”

“You do the job right, get these kids unharmed and turn them over to
me, and I’ll make things right by you, Gallagher!” Nevada promised.
“Dago’s about washed up, anyhow.”

“You’ve got big plans, Nevada, and you’re the one to see ’em through!”
Gallagher said, in praise.

Nevada patted the six-guns in the scabbards on the wall.

“Gallagher,” he said, seriously, “when I was riding the hot towns and
the road I didn’t know what I do to-night. I’ve got schemes up my
sleeve that will make this country sit up and take notice. Right now
I’ve got a network of men from Maine to California in every big city
and most towns--working for me and the day I’m ready to take things
over in full!”

He made no offer to say more and Gallagher knew the wisdom of silence,
so asked no more questions. But he knew that this ex-cowboy and bad-man
was now a powerful underworld figure, and he knew that the search for
Nevada was over the moment the word was sent to Headquarters. But the
Chief would want to get the entire ring, the entire organization of
Nevada’s crime network. And that would call for evidence, concrete
and definite, and lots of it! It was arrest and imprison Nevada the
bank-robber or wait and nab Nevada the leader of a stupendous crime
syndicate and gather in his henchmen too!

Now the G-man was able to make use of many facts not clearly seen
before. For a year or more the F. B. I. had seen the tentacles of a
vast crime syndicate and had been unable to locate the brains of the
system. In Omaha, a man had been kidnaped and a huge ransom collected.
He was released, but the thing was so cleverly planned that even the
F. B. I. could not yet put a finger on the man back of the “snatch.”
In New York City the vegetable markets had been paying tribute to a
“cabbage king” in the form of special orders for cabbage at fixed
prices “or else----!” Who was the “cabbage king”? Police would have
liked to know. The lottery racket was flourishing throughout the
nation. Dozens of rackets were springing up, never heard of before.
And, instead of being able to trace it to one or two big shots, the
F. B. I. had run up against stone walls and blind alleys because of
crooked lawyers, tight-mouthed suspects, and the resisting surface of
the underworld. Mr. Sandborn began to see that Cowboy Nevada was a big
cog, if not the main cog, in this racket business. He had graduated
from small time bank robbing to specialized crimes.

Now that took millions of dollars of money to keep “the machinery
greased when starting!” Cowboy had gotten about fifty thousand dollars
from that Federal bank and by the time he’d paid for “protection” and
a “fence” to handle the “hot money,” there was probably half that
sum left for his efforts. Therefore he’d gotten unlimited wealth
elsewhere. He might have made the money in the rackets themselves, but
the G-man thought not. No, Nevada must have struck it rich suddenly and
so got his grip on the underworld and the making of his syndicate.

Whatever happened, Mr. Sandborn must keep his identity secret, for
these men would delight in the discovery that he was a law-man,
particularly one of the dreaded G-men. They would find a way to get
rid of him in some unpleasant manner and take their chances with the
F. B. I. proving murder! He could not even be sure that Cowboy was not
suspicious of him now. Time alone could prove that. In the meanwhile he
must play his part as a gunman and aide to the syndicate head, learning
all he could, memorizing everything, and getting to John and the boys
all information possible to help convict these super-criminals.

Dago rapped for admission and upon entering scowled as he sighted
Gallagher. Cowboy, shifting the cigar from one corner of his mouth to
the other, watched the actions of both men with quiet amusement, then
introduced the G-man to Dago.

“Glad to know you, Dago,” Gallagher responded, offering his right hand.

Dago reddened.

“Well, can’t say I’m-a glad!” he retorted, ignoring the hand.

Cowboy’s features did not hint what he might be thinking as he puffed
on the cigar without comment.

“Sorry you feel like that, Dago, it might be better fer you to be
friends with me instead of giving me the cold shoulder. I ain’t never
liked them kind of actions.”

Dago snorted in reply.

“Send up Wan Ho Din, Dago,” Cowboy ordered.

As Dago closed the door Cowboy grinned at Gallagher.

“Dago don’t care much for you, Gallagher.”

Gallagher said nothing, but laughed.

The Oriental cook came toddling in softly in a moment or two.

“You send flo me, Mister Nevens?” asked the cook, meekly.

“Great act, eh, Gallagher?” queried Cowboy, laughing, then to the cook
he said, “It’s o.k., Wan, to be yourself. Gallagher here is one of us.”

“That’s swell!” said the Oriental in plain American slang. “You
sure hooked up with the right outfit when you signed on with--The
Amalgamated Service Corporation of America!”

“Some name!” Gallagher said. “Of course it ain’t a real one!”

“No?” remarked Cowboy. “Take a look at that!”

He handed Mr. Sandborn some stationery with raised, fancy printed
headings. The name was there, in full, with, “Raymond Nevens,
President” in modest letters!

“Official stationery and all, Gallagher! That’s the way we do things!
Like to see the thing worked?” he asked, his eyes glinting.

“Sure, go ahead, Cowboy.”

“Take a letter, Wan,” remarked Mr. Nevens.

Gallagher took a seat in a comfortable chair while the cook sat in
another seat and began taking down a letter in short-hand as the
astonishing Mr. Nevens dictated. It was a very cleverly worded letter
which sounded businesslike and innocent of wrong-doing but which
really was full of veiled threats and intimidation. Addressed to
a large contracting firm in New York it professed to offer “night
watchman service for which a small fee is charged, considering the
fine service given.” Actually, anyone on the inside track and knowing
what the wording really meant, as Mr. Sandborn well did, the letter
was an invitation to let the gangsters have ten per cent of the money
received from every contract, for which ten per cent they would consent
to keep the prospective buildings free from strikes and trouble while
being built. Actually the letters implied that if this offer were not
accepted serious consequences would result!

Mr. Sandborn knew the story of that system well. And he knew that the
contractor, if of the usual type, would accept the offer because, as
long as that gang existed, not only would his business be faced with
ruin but his life might be taken as well! New York police could not
cope with the gang for they could not locate its head, hidden as he was
on one of the hundreds of islands along the coast, and surrounded by an
excellent system of fake addresses, names, and a dozen forms of legal
detours. The F. B. I., once on the trail, would have men planted, as
was Mr. Sandborn, right in with the gang when possible, and so learn
its secrets and strike at the right time to clean up the mob.

“How’s that for a letter, Gallagher?” asked Nevens, as Wan Ho Din began
to type out the final copy.

“It ought to get results!” agreed Mr. Sandborn truthfully. “Do you ever
have trouble lining the boys up?”

“Tell him about Teverton Products, Wan!” suggested the happy Mr. Nevens
proudly.

“Teverton Products made woolen blankets, Gallagher,” Wan said, “and we
offered to increase their production for them by selling their blankets
at higher prices to a string of hotels Mr. Nevens controls. Teverton
Products refused to do business, partly because we wanted ten per cent
of their year’s business from then on, so some of the boys did a little
night work down there at the plant and a lot of machinery got bunged
up. The mill hasn’t been doing so well since!”

“People must be fools not to see what we have to offer,” Cowboy
pointed out. “Suppose you’re in business making, let’s say, broom
handles and handles for tools. Now, you ain’t doing extra well on
account of your competitors is cutting prices on you. Well, you give us
ten per cent of your profits and we’ll guarantee that your competitors
will boost prices and that you’ll get, say, one hundred thousand
dollars extra business that year!”

“That’s service!” Mr. Sandborn agreed.

“Well, we got about eighty per cent of the business in this country
lined up now, Gallagher, and half of it don’t know it yet! But when the
time comes, and it ain’t far distant, we’ll be cashing in on all of
them. I’ve put about eight million dollars into this business and I’m
getting five times that a year now, returns. I got a nice little nest
egg of reserves left and I’m not sure how much, either. Bet you don’t
know where the reserves is, either!”

Gallagher admitted that he had no idea where Cowboy kept his reserve
cash.

Wan and Nevens exchanged looks and just smiled.

“If you ain’t too busy to-night, Gallagher,” said the amiable Mr.
Nevens, “I’ll show you something that’ll pop your eyes out!”

Dago rapped at that moment to announce visitors.

“Who is it, Dago?” Cowboy asked, pulling out another cigar and lighting
a match.

“Machine-gun Hegarty hisself aboard the _Sea Hawk_!”

Mr. Nevens went taut about the jaws and bit hard on the unlit cigar.

“Stick around Gallagher, and listen to the fun,” said he, then to Dago
he said, “Send him up, Dago. And keep an eye on his right-hand man. I
don’t want no junk stolen.”

Now Mr. Nevens, for all his slang and roughness when in the privacy of
his office, could be the soul of polished gentility when he desired, a
veneer learned at the time he laid aside his old cowboy trappings and
decided to cut himself a piece of the world’s cake. He displayed this
refined side of himself now by putting the unlighted black cigar into
his desk-drawer and lighting, instead, one of more expensive make.

Machine-gun Hegarty came in with a flourish. He was some six feet five
inches tall, broad-shouldered, groomed to a nicety, and correctly
attired in every way for yachting.

He did not know Mr. Sandborn, whom he now met as Gallagher, but the
G-man knew him well. Hegarty was one of those smooth confidence men
with such a legal knowledge and society background that even his
coarser moments of bloodshed were not provable in court. He had not
acquired his nickname for nothing, for unlike most of the confidence
gentry, Hegarty did not hesitate to use a machine gun upon his
competitors when necessity required it. Loads of money spent on skilled
and crooked lawyers and great care not to leave fingerprints near his
crimes had kept the slippery Mr. Hegarty comparatively safe from the
hands of justice; but Mr. Sandborn had an idea that justice would win
the day before long. The F. B. I. would be interested in Mr. Hegarty’s
entrance into the field of intimidation and the “service racket.”

“Charmed to know you, Mr. Gallagher,” Hegarty said, gravely shaking
hands.

He had a slimy manner about him not to be removed by his warm brown
eyes and his well-shaven face. Dissipation had left lines about his
eyes and a certain paleness about his jaws and his thin lips curled
back from large teeth. Society folk spoke of him as “unique.” Mr.
Sandborn thought a snake might be “unique” also, on occasion.

“And now to business, Nevens, old boy,” said Hegarty, turning to Cowboy.

“You know what my proposition is, Hegarty,” Cowboy said. “You come in
with me on the society end of this game and I’ll protect you for thirty
per cent of the proceeds.”

Hegarty frowned.

“Be reasonable, my dear Nevens.”

“Thirty per cent, Hegarty. I’m taking the risks for you. Surely, my
good fellow, you wouldn’t leave me empty handed!”

“It’s too much, Nevens, old thing. I’ve a notion to disregard you
entirely.”

“You forget how unhealthy that might be!” Cowboy sighed, quietly.

The other shifted in his seat.

“You forget I’ve a reputation with a machine gun!”

“So has Gallagher, and so has Dago, Hegarty!”

The visitor arose abruptly.

“I can’t pay thirty per cent and I’m not going to. This is war, Nevens.
You may think you can get control of this entire country, and you’ve
murdered fifty men so far to do it, but I’m not done yet! Now I’ll make
a proposition of my own--you pay me ten per cent from now on of your
entire income, or I’ll rub you out!”

Gallagher knew that this was preposterous and so did Hegarty but it was
said and done and it meant war between the two factions. That there
might be instant gun-play in that small room, Mr. Sandborn had no fear.
Both men were crack shots and each respected the other’s speed in
drawing a weapon.

“Let’s make it a week from to-day, at midnight, Hegarty,” Nevens
suggested.

“Fine, and get your bullet-proof vest on, Cowboy--you’ll need it!”

The charming Mr. Hegarty left after that without the formality of
shaking hands and Nevens put away the expensive cigar, breaking it in
pieces in the ash tray, and getting out his old black one.

“Gallagher, I ain’t never seen none of your shootin’. What say you and
Dago show me some typewriting?”

“O.k., Cowboy, let’s go.”

As a member of the F. B. I., Mr. Sandborn was an expert shot with side
arms, machine guns, or rifles, far better, in fact, than any of the
gangster rats he had yet met up with. He now followed Mr. Nevens out of
the office and down through the building into the underground passages.
Wan Ho Din, who had been a silent listener to the incident, was now
sent to get Dago. He returned presently with the swarthy mobster and
the party adjourned to a special long gallery at the end of which
moving figures traveled on endless tracks just as in any shooting
gallery.

The contestants took turns with revolvers, automatics, and machine guns
and the gallery rang with the rain of gunfire. It became very apparent
that the new gunman of the Nevens’ gang was far superior to Dago who
had previously been the best shot in the outfit and the fat man became
angrier and angrier as the minutes passed.

“Well, Dago,” said Cowboy, “I guess that sort of washes you off the
list as my right-hand man.”

“There’s one thing he ain’t done yet, Cowboy, and you was always one
to say it had ta be done before you’d give me the gate!” sneered Dago,
with hard eyes.

“And what might that be, Dago?”

“Let’s see how good-a this typewriter artist is with his fist in a
free-for-all!” Dago cried, heatedly.

Mr. Sandborn knew what that meant--a fight free of rules. Anything
would go! But he had to play this game through to the bitter end for
the sake of law and order and the future of the F. B. I.

“Let’s get at it. O.k., Cowboy?”

Cowboy grinned with delight.

“Get going--you two!”




CHAPTER VIII

Hegarty’s Plans


After a restless day at home and an even more restless night of fitful
sleep, both Stanley Sandborn and John awoke and dressed in the still
dark early morning hours. After bidding his brave mother good-bye, for
she knew that the boys were mixed up in a dangerous adventure, Stan
left by the cellar door for a very good reason. His reason proved sound
for, as he vaulted the back fence he could make out, in the darkness,
the figure of a man prowling the front sidewalk. As luck would have it,
Stan fell heavily over something in the dark, and instantly he heard
the sounds of running feet!

The stranger, who could be none other than a member of the Nevens gang,
was in full pursuit!

Stanley got to his feet as the man came over the fence, and ran like
a frightened hare across the next yard and down the next street. For
several minutes he ran, crossing yards, vaulting well-known fences.
He’d done that in play many a time; now he was doing it in earnest and
for life, and he was grateful for a knowledge of the territory about
his home. So successful was he in shaking off his pursuer that he was
able to get into John’s back yard just as John came out the door, and
the two of them beat a hasty path down town. There they ate coffee
and ham sandwiches in a small restaurant, and then walked briskly out
of town towards Zenith. They were a mile or so from the city when the
first street car came along, and they boarded it, riding the rest of
the way to the village.

Stanley had told of the man who had chased him, and John, too, had a
story to tell, about another who had hung about in the vicinity of the
Tallman home all that day.

“We’ve got to be very, very cautious, John,” Stan commented, “if we
expect to live long enough to bring this case to a close! I hope no one
has monkeyed with the _Staghound_ while we’ve been gone!”

They found the sloop untouched, and unlocked the cabin slide. The
morning was a bit chilly as fall was approaching, and the little cook
range soon gave forth pleasant warmth while they discussed the day’s
plans.

“The truck with the new mast, sails, and rigging should be here before
noon, and I’ve got more than enough money to pay him. Mother drew it
out of the bank for me yesterday. This morning let’s get the sloop
closer inshore, and paint the underbody red. Then we’ll re-rig the
interior here, make a secret-paneled closet for our fingerprint stuff
and personal treasures, and Dago won’t know the place if he happens to
snoop in here again, by any chance.”

They got the sloop closer inshore against the pier, and the tide left
her quite high and dry so that they had no trouble putting a fresh coat
of copper paint, red this time, over her previous coating of green.
The truck brought the mast, sails, and rigging shortly afterwards, and
Stanley and John set up another tripod of timbers from which to sling
the new spar into place. With the aid of wharf idlers they soon had the
beautiful, tapering Marconi mast in place, carefully “stepped,” and
the sails on. The new wire rigging was somewhat intricate because of
the height of the mast, but it was in place by mid-afternoon and not
until then did they knock off for a meal.

“All I hope, Stan, is that we’ve figured our sail area and center of
that area correctly, or we’ll have a lemon of a boat on our hands!
Sheets of whistling zinc and tons of paper plates--I’m nervous about
that!”

“With the Marconi rig, John, there is one thing--we’ll have to try her
out and tinker with the set of the stays until the sails draw right.
And we’ve got to keep an eye on those stays if it begins to blow up
hard. But we’ll be thankful for the ease of reefing in a blow!”

They set sail from the town wharf before supper time, and trouble began
at once! The boat kept carrying a “wet nose” with every puff of wind.
And at the same time she was hard to handle with that wheel.

They shifted a little of the pigiron ballast she carried under her
cabin floor boards, moving it a few feet further aft, and after a few
adjustments to tip the mast back a few inches, giving it a hint of
rake, she began to act with the normal airs of a good yacht. An hour of
sailing and minor adjustments now brought things right, and Stan was
enthusiastic at the way the _Staghound_ tore along through the water of
Zenith Harbor.

They were returning to their anchorage for the night when John gave an
exclamation of warning.

“Duck, Stan! The _Sea Hawk_!”

Sure enough, standing round Zenith Light was the white-hulled _Sea
Hawk_ which they had seen in Black Cove. It was moving fast, as if its
owner had business to attend to, and Stan whistled nervously.

“Get into a blue sweater and a white cap, John,” Stan ordered, “and
bring up my old brown cap!”

By the time the _Sea Hawk_ was closing up, the two boys could not have
been recognized as the boys of Black Cove even if the men aboard the
yacht had suspected who they were. Seated as they were in the cockpit,
too, their physical differences, John being so tall and Stanley just
ordinary in height, were not to be compared, and that helped to hide
their identities.

“I’d give a good shirt to know what part the _Sea Hawk_ is playing
in Nevens’ life,” said Stan. “She’s a beauty, though, and reputed
extremely fast.”

“Maybe Nevens has nothing to do with her, you know,” John said. “She
may belong to a friend of his!”

“What’s she doing in Zenith, I wonder?”

“Murmuring fish-hooks--your guess is as good as mine!”

The yacht rounded to off the pier, let go an anchor, and appeared to
be set for the night. The sun was setting now, and the boys sought out
their own anchorage and lowered the new sails, keeping watchful eyes on
the big yacht. At supper, Stan peered through the portholes from time
to time, but nothing of particular interest was to be seen about the
_Sea Hawk_. Her riding lights were being set, and, as darkness came on,
bright lights gleamed through her rows of ports. Music from a radio
drifted across the water, and sailors walked about her decks at work.
Once a tender put-putted away to the wharf with two men in it. They
were apparently seamen and returned a little later in the dark with a
load of food, Stan having watched them through the binoculars as they
entered the grocery store near the wharf and came out with bags.

“Let’s swim over to-night and see if we can hear anything worth while,
John,” Stan suggested as they sat in the cockpit, listening to the
music and watching the big yacht.

John thought a second or two and then nodded his agreement.

They donned bathing togs and went over-side, swimming slowly towards
their destination. By the end of a few minutes Stan drew near to John
and said:

“John, you get off the bow and attract some attention while I slide to
the stern and listen. There’s a cockpit aft and maybe some one there
may have something to say of interest.”

The boys separated, and John did the crawl past the bow. A sailor
peered over and hailed him.

“Hey, side-wheeler,” yelled the seaman, “what’re you doing--swimming
the Channel?”

“Come on in, the water’s swell!” John shouted.

“Don’t like the water,” laughed the man; “too wet! Ain’t that right,
Slim?”

Another seaman, answering to the name of “Slim” solemnly informed John
that the first speaker was used to “dry water.”

“Tell me another, Mister,” John yelled, striving to keep attention
focused on himself.

For fifteen minutes the youth floated and swam about round the bows of
the anchored yacht, resting at times by holding to the thick anchor
chain.

Round by the stern Stan floated quietly, hidden by the curving contour
of the yacht from view on deck. As he had guessed, some of the people
on board were in the cockpit enjoying the first part of the evening.

“When’s the boss aimin’ to open up on Nevens?” asked a harsh voice.

“Next Thursday at midnight!” some one said.

There was a mingling of voices for a minute or two while the G-man’s
son chuckled with delight at his good fortune and the luck which had
brought the _Sea Hawk_ into Zenith Harbor. Then some one asked:

“Have a seat over here, Mr. Hegarty?”

“Surely, surely. Splendid here, isn’t it, boys!” a cultured voice
answered. “Delightful coast, this.”

“We got work ahead of us next week, I hear, Boss.”

“Yes. Cowboy Nevada wants thirty per cent or nothing doing. Robbery,
I call it. Guess we can take care of things without Cowboy. You boys
better oil up your guns. And keep sober. I don’t want any drunken
babbling.”

“Yes, sir! You bet!”

“We’re with you, Hegarty!”

There was more to it, and Stan gathered that something of prime
importance was to take place Thursday at midnight, evidently a raid
being planned on Porpoise Island and the entrenched Mr. Nevens!

“Cowboy’s got a new gunman,” said Hegarty’s voice. “The name is
Gallagher. Take particular pains to remove Mr. Gallagher, won’t you?”

“Gallagher!” thought Stan. Was it possible that his father had already
worked into that gang as a gunman, just as he had done once before with
another gang during the Hogan case? He was not sure, but he had a
hunch that that was right, and if so he must warn Mr. Sandborn at once!

Cold from his enforced loafing in the water, Stan swam softly away now
from the brightly lighted _Sea Hawk_ and, by a roundabout way, swam
back to the _Staghound_. He knew that John was still off the bows of
the big yacht, and he had to let his chum know that it was time to
return. He lit the cabin lights and left the porthole curtains drawn
back. Then he got into warm, dry clothes, slipped a sweater on, and
went on deck. In a short time he saw the dark blob of John’s head and
the glint of broken water as the rangy lad came back to the _Staghound_.

“Schools of flying porpoises, and pods of gooseberries!” cried John,
shivering like a shaken tube of jelly. “Why didn’t you go to bed and
forget me?”

“Don’t tell me it was cold out there, John, old bean!”

“Cold?” breathed John, hurrying below. “It was worse than that. I had
to battle sharks to keep warm.”

“There’s a fellow named ‘Gallagher’ now with Nevens’ gang, John,” said
Stan, “and I bet that’s my Dad. Seems to me he mentioned that name once
the other night, and it would be just like him to go to work for Mr.
Nevens.”

Then he told John about Hegarty’s plan to raid Nevens on Thursday at
midnight with special attention to the new gunman!

“That means we have to get all the evidence we can before that, John,”
Stan said, eagerly. “Fingerprints, photos, and all, because after
Thursday it will be too late. The F. B. I. will have to be sure of its
ground and in action in time! You and I had better get this cabin fixed
up to-morrow and get over to the Island pronto!”

They worked hard all the next morning hammering, sawing, refitting
moulding, putting in the secret cupboard under a bunk, changing the
galley, and then repainting the whole thing with quick-drying enamel.
The painting was not done till after dinner and they had to wait for it
to dry. The _Sea Hawk_ was still in the harbor, and Stan had an idea.
It was daring and it might bring big results. It was worth a try!

“The tender went ashore a few minutes ago, John,” observed Stan. “What
say if we hurry over to the wharf, tie up there, and then follow
Hegarty and his men and try to get fingerprints!”

It was no trouble to hoist the sails and close in with the pier, where
they tied up and lowered sail. Then they tucked fingerprint powders in
small envelopes into their pockets and took along a magnifying glass
each. They were afraid to take along the new G-man camera which Mr.
Sandborn had given them to replace the broken one, for fear Hegarty
might recognize it as such.

They soon located the _Sea Hawk’s_ head man in a lunch room, and both
boys sauntered in and took a table near by. The conversation of Hegarty
and the two men with him was just about casual things; and they drank
beer and did not pay any attention to the two boys.

After a few minutes Hegarty and his men arose, paid the bill, and left,
heading for the post office. Stan and John got up too, paid their own
bill for a bottle of soda apiece and some doughnuts, and then stepped
over to the table just vacated by the others. There was one beer
bottle which had passed from hand to hand and this Stanley longed to
possess.

“Say,” said he to the owner of the restaurant and beer parlor, “I’ll
give you ten cents for that bottle.”

Puzzled at such a proposition, for ten cents was quite a price for an
almost worthless bottle, the man frowned. Before he could say anything,
however, John had tucked the bottle lightly under one arm and Stan had
laid ten cents upon the table.

“Thanks!” said Stan.

“Sure, O.k.,” said the man, scratching his head and wondering.

Outside, the boys ducked into an alley, where powders were brought
into play under expert, youthful fingers. Then magnifying glasses were
brought to bear upon certain tell-tale smudges upon the dark brown
bottle.

“Beauties, John, honeys!” cried Stan with delight.

They had fingerprints of every man of the three, including Hegarty!




CHAPTER IX

The G-Man Grocer Meets the Boys


The _Staghound_ sailed away from the wharf at Zenith Village a very
few minutes after the boy detectives had secured the fingerprints and
the beer bottle, wrapped lightly in cloth, had been stored away in the
secret compartment of the sloop. They headed for the Lighthouse at once
while Stan looked up, on the chart, the compass course for Porpoise
Island.

Off the Lighthouse, as they trimmed the new sails and bowled merrily
along, they talked of many things, chiefly of what lay ahead.

“I’m satisfied that Hegarty and his men did not recognize us, Stan,”
John said. “They could only have had a look at us through binoculars in
the cove and hardly a good look at that! And they paid no attention to
us in the restaurant.”

“I think you’re right, John. At any rate we’re on our way for Porpoise
Island again and here’s hoping we can get plenty of dope to salt away
for the F. B. I. The more I think about it the more I am sure that
‘Gallagher’ is Dad and, if he is, we ought to be able to help him some.”

“Perhaps he’ll give us clues to carry back to Main Haven to that fellow
‘John’ that he spoke of. Sweeping fields of delicious corn--I hope luck
is with us!”

Down along the southwestern horizon fog was looming, distant but
distinct, and the wind was strong, raising good-sized rollers up the
stretch of the bay. The _Staghound_ dipped her lee rail in white water
as she eased along with queenly grace, and the boys were jubilant.
Disguised in far different clothes from their customary apparel, and
aboard a boat so disguised that it appeared like an entirely new craft,
they felt certain they could get into the cove on the southwest part of
the island without trouble and do some scouting ashore.

“Let’s hit for Main Haven first, Stan,” John suggested, “and look up
John. After all, we ought to know him at least by sight.”

“That’s all right with me, John, but I think we ought to sail along the
sea side of the island as we go and perhaps we’ll pick up a clue or two
while passing.”

“O.k., Skipper!”

At the wheel John held the sloop closer to the wind, laying a course to
take them off the western end of the island and round into the ocean
side. It was nearing dinner time and John was hollow inside.

He was glad when Stan’s trick at the wheel came round. Grinning, John
went below to stir up a meal. Shortly, the smell of hot coffee came up
from the cabin and snatches of song, mingled with suspicious munching
sounds. Stan chuckled. John would have eaten in any kind of weather, at
sea or ashore, and alive or dying. Outside of sleuthing the lanky one
enjoyed eating best!

He brought coffee up to his friend and big club-sandwiches, for Stan
did not like to leave the wheel with the new sail as yet not fully
tested and especially in the rather heavy waves making up the bay.

They were thus engaged in sailing and eating when the _Sea Hawk_ hove
into view astern, overhauling them rapidly. John was sitting, facing
aft, and saw her first.

“Great heaps of dangle-berries!” said he. “The _Sea Hawk_ is after us!
Let’s run off before the wind!”

“Where you going to run to, John, under sail, and against the power of
that yacht?” queried Stan, quietly. “And have you forgotten that we are
just a couple of boys out for pleasure?”

“You’re right! If we turn tail and run the _Sea Hawk_ would suppose
us suspicious characters providing anybody aboard suspected our
identities.”

The white and fast yacht overtook the sloop rapidly and both boys had
sinking feelings in their stomachs. John insisted on going below and
digging out their bows and arrows from a narrow slit under the bunks
and bringing them into the cockpit. If the men on the _Sea Hawk_ closed
in it would be a warm reception at any rate!

Closer and closer came the big craft but, as she neared the sloop the
_Sea Hawk_ veered away a little and then held her course again taking
her across the bows of the sailing boat a hundred yards distant.
Hegarty, easily distinguished by his height and build was standing on
the bridge.

Stan took one hand from the wheel and waved a greeting. Hegarty and
another man nearby returned the wave and shouted something which could
not be made out because of the distance.

“And that’s that, John!” grunted Stan, breathing freely as the yacht
drew off round the island.

It was Stan, facing forward, who first saw the gray motorboat which
came humming round the island and began circling the _Sea Hawk_. The
binoculars showed a fat and dumpy fellow standing in the rear cockpit
of the speedboat.

Dago appeared to be shouting back and forth at Hegarty and the _Sea
Hawk_ was moving slower now while the gray boat circled about her. The
speedboat was making heavy weather of it, splashing about in white
water among the waves and Dago appeared very angry. As the _Staghound_
began to overtake the white yacht, the gray boat drew off and started
down toward the sloop.

“Now,” said Stan, “will Dago know us in our disguise?”

It seemed more than likely that the strapping henchman of Nevens would
know them as the two boys who had wounded him a few nights before and
whom he had encountered on the island and they were not sure whether
or not to let fly with the arrows again before he could do anything,
or chance an interview. They had not long to decide for the speedboat
hummed and splashed down towards them at a fast clip, and it was clear
that Dago was looking the sloop over with a jaundiced eye.

Stan’s cap covered his yellow hair very well and he had on a dark
sweater and John was likewise attired. Would Dago penetrate that mask?
He drove down towards them, looking hard at them and they remained low
in the cockpit, apparently at ease--two boys having the time of their
lives sailing in the bay!

“Nice-a day, boys,” yelled Dago showing his teeth.

“Yeh, swell, mister!” John rejoined, half covering his face with a
sandwich as he spoke. John winked at Stan.

Stan, his mouth full of food which served to make his cheeks rounder
than they really were, waved to Dago. And the gray boat swept past, ran
once round the sloop, and went zipping back to Porpoise Island around
whose western end the _Sea Hawk_ had now disappeared. The fog was
closing up some, and the wind was rising.

They had gone through several tests successfully and they were elated.
The _Staghound_ curved round the end of the island, and the sheets were
eased for the run to Main Haven. Late in the afternoon the white sloop
rippled into the quieter waters of Main Haven harbor and up to the town
pier where it tied up to the wharf.

“Now, Mate,” said Stan, “we’ve got to find your ‘namesake’!”

“I guess they picked a swell name for a G-man when they chose mine,”
said John, grinning.

They located the grocery store without undue trouble and strolled in
as casually as possible. As they actually needed a few staples such as
sugar, butter, and bread, their manner was convincing. A few customers
were there but were shortly waited on by the good-looking youngish man
who seemed to run the place and the boys were alone with him.

He came towards them and offered to wait on them.

Stan was thrilled. This was almost like some of the detective stories
he had read! And _this_ was real! Here was an actual Federal special
agent of the F. B. I. posing as a grocery man!

“Any idea who I am?” queried Stan, quietly.

The grocer began looking over his lettuce as if picking one out for
them.

“Who are you, then?” he asked.

“The name’s ‘Sandborn’ and my friend is ‘Tallman.’”

The grocer handed Stan a lettuce head.

Outside, anyone would have supposed the conversation to have been about
that lettuce head.

“Any news, Sandborn?” asked John, softly.

“Nothing yet, John,” Stan said. “But we’re going to the island to-night
and hope to get something in the way of clues. I suppose you’d call
fingerprints of Hegarty news, though----?”

“You’ve got Hegarty’s fingerprints, Sandborn?” asked John, eagerly.

“On a beer bottle. Shall I bring them in to you?”

“You bet. Bring it back in one of these bags as if it was some
vegetables being returned. I’ll see that it’s well taken care of.”

“Oh, and Hegarty is planning a raid on Porpoise Island for Thursday at
midnight, I believe.”

“And you said there was no news!” groaned John. “Come on, now, before
some one comes in, let me have the whole story.”

They told the G-man everything they had learned in the last twenty-four
hours or so and he seemed pleased.

“Now go back and keep up the good work and we’ll have something to show
for our round-up of these criminals, boys,” said the man. “You’re doing
fine!”

They went back to the yacht and brought the beer bottle, in a bag, to
the store. Customers were there as they entered.

“Say,” said Stan, abruptly, “that bunch of carrots you just sold me
wasn’t so hot, Mister.”

He handed John the bag. The G-man smiled.

“All right. I’ll take it back gladly. Anything you want in its place?”

Back again at the yacht, the boys hugged each other with delight. Then
they hauled up the sails and started for Porpoise Island. They had
to tack back and forth a mile or so at a stretch to reach the cove,
and the last part of the way fog threatened to close in any moment.
Both boys were glad when the anchor was dropped in South Cove, on the
western tip of the island. There had been no sign of life on the island
as they beat down its shores and the fog was now rolling in heavily.

They had supper, listening to the lonely drone of fog signals from
steamers out on the nearby sea and the faint, faint echo of Zenith
signal.

“A fine night for murder!” John commented, glad of the lighted lamp
and the table of good things to eat. “If it weren’t necessary, I’d say
don’t go out--lie in our bunks and read! Pass the cake, old boy, I’ve a
little more room left yet!”

The dishes washed and put away, they got out the bows and arrows which
had been returned to the hiding place, adjusted flashlights, and dark
clothes, and made ready to go ashore.

“At a time like this, I wish we had a rowboat to take us back and
forth,” sighed John. “How’re we going to get ashore in these togs
without getting soaked?”

It was Stan who had insisted on regular clothing and now he explained
that there was a natural landing rock on the inner curve of the cove
where the _Staghound_ could be moored. Stumpy cedar trees would serve
as mooring bitts and the boys could step ashore dryly and quickly.

In the fog they had some difficulty finding the spot, but they did in
spite of fog and night and moored the sloop securely. Then they stepped
ashore by way of the rocks and searched for the end of the path which
would lead inland to the lair of the super-criminal, Nevens.

After overrunning the spot twice they found the narrow cleft through
thick bushes and were soon padding softly uphill and along the ridge
towards their destination. They had to move slowly, feeling their way
along, for they dared not use the lights without dire need.

An hour must have passed before Stan, in the lead, pressed back a
warning hand.

“Listen!” he cautioned.

Sounds of men’s voices drifted through the black fog.

“The boss must be nuts, stringing us out on a night like this, Butch!”
said one voice. “Whose gonna raid us in this kind of weather?”

“Ain’t nobody going to raid us, says I. Cowboy’s scared Hegarty so much
I guess we ain’t likely to have no trouble.”

“And with Gallagher along, I guess we can hold our own!” the first
speaker said. “That guy’s a honey with a tommy-gun!”

“His fists ain’t too bad, either, Butch,” some third voice said.

“Say, Dago makes me laugh,” Butch commented. “He’s scared stiff of them
kids! You know the ones I mean!”

“Sure the two what got their maps in the paper!”

The voices were drawing near now and both boys slipped back from the
trail. Even as they did so the men almost stumbled upon them and John
lay prone at once, scared. Some one stepped on his right hand, his
flashlight blinked as his squeezed fingers pressed the trigger and the
light flared its betrayal.

His yell of pain and the bright light came at once!

“Run, John! Run!” yelled Stan and his feet could be heard scurrying
away.

Obeying, instinctively, John rolled to his feet, thrashed off through
the bushes and began to run. Behind him came thundering feet, and
shouting voices. If the men had been surprised and startled by the
flare of light and John’s yell they had soon gotten over that and had
spread out to capture the boys. John stumbled through bushes, crashed
headlong into a tree trunk, saw stars and zooming comets flare through
his mind, and went sprawling backwards! Even as he fell and heard the
overtaking pursuers, he had a feeling all was over!




CHAPTER X

Nevada’s Biggest Plot


The fight between Dago and Gallagher was one of the shortest fights
Cowboy Nevada had ever witnessed, for the G-man was strong, capable,
possessed of dynamite in either fist, and showed a willingness to mix
in. Neither the super-criminal himself nor the swarthy henchman knew,
of course, that they had a man there trained for just such emergencies.
Cowboy only knew that here was a man who could fight and was therefore
something to be desired as a personal bodyguard. And Dago knew very
little until he was brought to by a pan of water expertly thrown upon
him by bland Wan Ho Din.

From the moment Cowboy had given the order to “Get going!” Mr. Sandborn
had waded in, fencing through flailing arms as Dago strove to knock him
out, then, with the first hint of a good opening, letting the surprised
opponent have a sound crack on the jaw which took lots of fight out
of him. Staggered, Dago blundered by trying a hay-maker, and Gallagher
let him have another full on the jaw. Two of those punches were quite
enough and Dago collapsed.

“That was well done, Gallagher,” said Cowboy. “A very neat job. Guess
you better take Dago’s place from now on. Unless--you ain’t interested!”

“Take Dago’s place? Be the big shot next to you, Nevada? Lead me to
it!” Gallagher cried. “Have you gotta comb? I mussed my hair. Don’t
generally have so much trouble with these tough guys.”

Dago, silent and glaring, shook the water from his head as a trace of a
smile came over Wan Ho Din’s face, and went off. That he would spare no
chance to even the score with Gallagher, none there doubted.

Dinner was shortly to be served and, in the dining room of the cabin,
Gallagher was formally introduced to some dozen men, mostly young men
hard of face and steely eyed and all inclined to excessive cigarette
smoking as if their nerves were constantly on edge. There were chairs
set for a dozen more at the long table though food was not placed there.

“Some of the boys is away on business, Gallagher,” explained Cowboy,
indicating the empty seats. “And some ain’t never going to be here
anymore. Them’s the ones that’s had--accidents----”

A particularly young man near the end of the table rose to his feet
with a grating laugh which rose in crescendo and pitch as he stood now
trembling and white.

“Sit down!” said Cowboy; “you got nothing to worry about, Gagnon.”

Gagnon turned staring eyes towards Cowboy.

“Nothing to worry about?” demanded Gagnon. “With the Feds on our trails
and the heat ready to turn on? What about Hegarty? You----”

“Steady, Gagnon,” whispered the man next to him.

“Steady? What for? I’m liable to get plugged to-night for all I know.
I’m----”

Then, something in Cowboy’s eyes conveying a terrible warning, Gagnon
seated himself, his cigarette dropping from his fingers while he
buried his face in his hands. Mr. Sandborn had a pretty good idea what
the trouble was, in fact, he was certain that he could piece together
the story back of Gagnon.

Gagnon was probably like thousands of others buried in crime. Lured in
his recent youth by rich rewards that crime could offer, easy money,
and good times, he had first stolen odds and ends to sell to some
“fence” of the underworld, gone on from that to spare-hand with a petty
gang in an easy robbery or two, proved himself nervy and willing and
been put “on the payroll” of the vast syndicate headed by Cowboy. Being
bright, good-looking, and skillful with a gun, Gagnon had undoubtedly
worked his way from the bottom of the syndicate ladder to his present
spot at the long table of a cabin on Porpoise Island.

He’d enjoyed good food, merry company, and a carefree existence between
the days of “work” for this syndicate but he had not been happy. Always
he had to be battling the law and even when the law had been tied by
Cowboy’s money and influence, there was always the chance of G-man
“heat.” He could not go out on a street in any town or city without the
chance of being mowed down by rival gang-fire or being picked up by
some unbribed law agency. Not all the easy money he had earned could
give him peace of mind, for his conscience troubled him, and a thousand
forms of death awaited their chance to strike. Cowboy had lived to
mature age, in spite of a life of crime, but Cowboy had been extremely
lucky. Gagnon knew that nine out of ten of the Gagnons in the crime
world would be laid out on cold marble slabs in morgues before they had
reached twenty-four! Gagnon was nearing that age now though his years
of crime had robbed his eyes of their youth and left care and worry
imprinted there.

Now his nerve was snapping. He knew if it gave way too much Cowboy
would have him taken for a little ride because the unfortunate
Gagnons of this world always “know too much!” And now his nerve _had_
snapped!--far enough to leave him shaken to the core, nauseated----

Mr. Sandborn was thinking fast, preparing for a certain eventuality.
Once before he had taken care of a gunman named Racira in a similar
case----

The talk at the table now began, a good deal of serious discussion of
ways and means to enlarge the syndicate, and some nervous jokes. On the
whole these young men were far from carefree. They lived, breathed and
ate crime as it were, and nothing is so luscious to look upon and so
indigestible as crime! If, like Gagnon, these others realized how close
their end was, they hid it well from themselves and, especially, from
Cowboy.

Mr. Sandborn learned a great deal of very great value at that meal,
things which would spell the doom of the thing as soon as the G-man
could get his information out to the waiting Chief. The little tricks,
the petty schemes, and the underlying rot of the system which Cowboy
controlled showed clearer and clearer. Here was a system so thorough
and so remorseless in its revenge upon squealers that hardly a store
or place of business in the entire country was without a gambling
device (just within the law, yet drawing money from fools who played
the games), inferior manufactured products selling under well-known
names, lotteries, “number games” and grosser things. Then there was
bank robbery to be run, investment stunts, fake gold mines and other
mines--so many forms of illegal gathering of money that the hardened
G-man, veteran of war against crime for many years, was appalled at the
power and ability of Cowboy Nevada. And what stunned him most was the
realization that the man had his competitors, except for a few like
Hegarty, helpless or dead, and his ambition was now driving him towards
an inevitable goal, a goal so immense that law and order hardly gave
such a scheme credence--a plan to overthrow the government of these
United States and place Cowboy Nevada, ex-cowpuncher and bad-man, as
dictator of the lives and property of the people!

After the meal Cowboy took his new right-hand man all about the place,
disclosing the fact that the cove was surrounded by cleverly hidden
machine gun emplacements and the cabin was a veritable arsenal and fort
with metal-lined walls and secret sally ports.

“About those kids you spoke of, Cowboy,” Gallagher said, “you ain’t
really bothered about them, are you? From what I hear that Hogan case
was a fluke. The kids happened to stumble into it and the newspapers
made more of it than really was there. The Feds got the mobs, and the
boys was underfoot most of the time!”

Cowboy regarded Gallagher with a cold eye, slyly.

“Kids can get underfoot till you break your neck, Gallagher! They know
too much already! I’ve got men watching the houses now where they live
and every harbor for their boat. We’ll have ’em shortly and I aims fer
you to take care of them!”

“What you want done?”

“Wait till we get ’em and I’ll tell you!”

So things went till evening, Mr. Sandborn learning all the
ramifications of the stupendous system by which Cowboy Nevada was
taking toll from the work of honest millions of people in the country
and yet, till darkness that day, the man named “Gallagher” did not
learn a word from Cowboy about the real source of the vast hoard
of money by which the ex-western bad-man had got his start in the
big-time rackets. It had taken a big sum to go so fast through the
underworld, resources to be spent lavishly.

After supper that night Mr. Nevens took his new man on a strange
boat ride, from the boat-house into the middle of Black Cove. A
flat-bottomed scow, which had lain inshore, half-hidden by trees, now
proved its usefulness. Anchored at the cove’s center this scow served
as the landing platform from which interesting things took place, as
Stan and John had seen it used at night. Mr. Sandborn acted very much
surprised, however, at what took place. A diver was soon outfitted and
sent down into the water, taking with him an enormous and powerful
underwater light, special invention of the ingenious Mr. Nevens. While
he was down, for a period of a half hour, the crime head told his
story, a story almost incredible.

And at the end of a half hour during which the air pump had wheezed
and men worked about the decks, keeping all lines open and free, the
diver began his ascent. A little later, by the glare of a light, Mr.
Sandborn gazed down at the deck upon a stout, heavy case. It bore, on
the outside, the name of a famous brand of liquor!

Could it be that a boat-load of liquor had been the source of an income
sufficient to set up Cowboy Nevada in racketeering? Mr. Sandborn looked
at Nevada now and the glint in the man’s eyes was cold, calculating,
triumphant.




CHAPTER XI

Captured


When John came to, he fully expected to find himself held prisoner by
none other than Mr. Nevens himself. His surprise was the more intense,
as he shook his aching head and sat up, to find that he was still in a
fog; and it was not a mental one either. All about him was dark damp
fog. He had escaped from their pursuers? Yes, for there were no sounds
save the rustling of trees in the blackness. He started, all of a
sudden, shocked by the discovery that he had lost his bow and quiver of
arrows!

Knowing that they were his only weapon except his wits in the present
dilemma, he tried hard to think of what had happened to them. He
knew that he’d left the yacht with them, stepping ashore from the
_Staghound_ with them under one arm. He’d have to find them, and soon!
Then he had a flash of remembrance that, as Stan shouted for them to
run, he’d felt his bow and arrows yanked from his grip as he dashed
through the bushes. If some one of the pursuing men had grabbed them,
that party might be waiting now for him to go back to search for them.
He had to chance that likelihood.

So he went back as near as he could guess to the spot from which the
chase had begun, wondering as he did so about a lot of things. Where
was Stan? What was Mr. Sandborn doing? He had retraced his steps as
best he could and was searching about among the bushes, as quietly as
possible, when he ran into something which struck him in the chest! It
felt like the end of a gun barrel, and John Tallman thought that the
worst had happened!

But no challenge came with that touch, and gently he slid one hand to
the object. A little cry of joy escaped his lips as he recognized his
bow’s end! It was caught in a bush, and the catching of the string had
simulated a yank at the time he’d run. He released it, and found on
the ground the quiver with the arrows. Grateful for his good luck, he
listened, hearing footsteps approaching.

Then came voices, men’s voices.

“Where do you s’pose that other kid got to, Dago?” some one was asking.

Dago’s reply was mingled with profanity as the men came down a path and
passed by the spot where John was crouching, ears straining for every
word. As the men went on, the lad arose and followed them, stepping
softly and listening to a great many interesting things.

“Well, we got the other kid, anyhow, Dago.”

“Yeh, and we’ll get-a the dark-haired one, too, before the night’s
over. Nevada’s sure glad!”

“Gallagher didn’t seem so happy, somehow, Dago,” said a voice.

Dago swore.

“Gallagher ain’t----”

“Ain’t what, Dago?”

“Youse guys ull tell Nevada if I tells ya what I thinks, so I’m keeping
mum.”

“Trouble with you, Dago, is, you ain’t a good loser!” chuckled the
first man. “He licked you with the rods, licked you with his fists, and
his brain’s just ’bout eight times your size brain, stupid!”

“What’s the use of hanging round here all night, Dago,” some one else
wanted to know. “We can’t see the other kid in the dark. We ain’t cats,
ya know!”

“Well, if them kids is here, they got-a boat, ain’t they? And if they
got-a boat, we’ll find it to-morrow, by thunder. I knows her when I
sees her. Black she is, with one of them ‘gaff’ rigs.”

“I hear you left your gloves on her last time, Dago!” chaffed the first
speaker.

“I hears you ain’t gonna be healthy long, if you keep-a yapping at me,
Butch!” growled Dago.

John Tallman was so interested in what was being said that he came
within an inch of colliding with the last man of the bunch as they
slowed up and stopped. Some sixth sense warned him, and he stopped and
listened. He heard bushes rustling, something metallic clanking softly,
and then came a noise of men on wooden steps! In a moment the party had
disappeared, leaving John Tallman, puzzled and annoyed, standing in the
fog alone.

His back running gooseflesh, he pressed slowly and carefully forward,
and touched--a door! Investigation with careful finger tips proved it
to be a small oblong door of metal without any handle or latch. That
it went into an underground tunnel he knew, for the steps had sounded
“down,” not up, and besides, as John guessed, the island was a maze
of secret passages. How near to the cabin they were, in fact in which
direction they had been moving, he had no idea. But he had to find out,
because until something turned up, he’d have to follow every clue to
find Stanley and try to rescue him.

What lay beyond that door? And how could he get it open? He had no
answer to either question, but he had to find some way to get in and
discover for himself the answer to the first. Again he ran his fingers
over the door, particularly on the side away from the hinges; then he
tried pressing in that area and was abruptly rewarded by feeling a tiny
square of metal go in under his fingers, and at once the door swung
inward!

Darkness as dark as the outside still was there before his eyes, and he
stepped forward gingerly. Down several wooden steps he felt his way,
stumbled into the wall, and found that the passage now went sharply
away to the right. He went along, guiding himself by one hand against a
wall, feeling for each of the upright timbers supporting the walls and
roof of the tunnel. The air was close and damp, and smelled strongly of
sour earth.

How far he went in this manner he was not sure, possibly about one
hundred yards without an apparent turn in the tunnel, and then it swung
left sharply and went downhill to a slight rate of drop. Faint light
showed far ahead, though the distance could not have been above fifty
yards further, ending in another curve. There were side aisles now to
be dimly seen due to the vague reflection of the lights, and this was
extremely fortunate for John Tallman, for he heard footsteps and had
barely time to retreat to a side aisle and set an arrow to the notch,
when the men approached.

“The kid will be all right with Gagnon,” said Dago, passing down the
main tunnel.

“Yeh, he’s that nervous he’d choke the kid if the guy lets a peep out
of him!”

“And ain’t that just about what Nevada wants?”

“Just about. Only he aims to have this Gallagher guy take care of the
rub-out!”

“I still don’t-a like the looks of Gallagher,” Dago said. “Nevada’s
a fool-a to be taken in by the guy. How do we know he ain’t a Fed in
disguise?”

A burst of raucous laughter resounded down the tunnel at that, and
Butch roared, “You been readin’ these G-man mags, Dago, old rat!”

“I been readin’ about-a that Hogan case, you mean. They say they was a
G-man what was a spy fer one of the gangs!”

“Worked right in with them, Dago?”

“Right-hand man!”

There was silence as they hurried away; then some one grunted,
“Something to think about, anyhow; eh?”

But John Tallman had heard enough to make his hopes rise as well as
fall. He knew that Gallagher was probably Mr. Sandborn and that he was
in grave danger because these men would stop at little to discover his
real identity, and he felt elated, because what had been said must
mean that Stanley Sandborn was not far distant!

Excited, he shoved off towards the lights again, hurrying along now
that he could see, ready to dart into a side aisle at the first need.

He rounded a bend in the tunnel faster than he planned and was through
a door and into a small room before he realized what had happened!
There _he_ was and there was--Stanley, with a youngish mobster! Stan
was tied with his hands behind him, and the gangster had a drawn
automatic on a convenient table. The man, probably the Gagnon Dago had
mentioned, went for the gun, but John had an arrow drawn back to the
tip!

“Leave it alone!” ordered John, aiming for the man’s right arm.

But the hand was streaking for that gun and did not stop. His fingers
closed over the weapon and he was drawing it back when the arrow
twanged home! With a startled outcry of pain the man dropped the
weapon, and grabbed for his arm with his left hand.

The arrow had punctured one of the muscles, and John covered the man
with another arrow as Gagnon pulled the first one free of the wound.
Being a muscle wound and the arrow having missed any arteries or veins,
it hardly bled any, but was painful. The man turned a white face,
almost chalklike, towards the youth.

“Give me your knife, and fast!” ordered John.

The man reached awkwardly for his pocket and drew out a knife. He
opened it on order, wincing from the pain of his wounded arm, and cut
Stanley’s ropes.

Stan’s bows and arrows were standing in the corner of that room and the
G-man’s son, rubbing his arms quickly to restore the circulation, was
shortly standing with drawn bow beside John.

“Tie him up, John, while I cover his face with this hunting arrow!”

Now, like most other young men, especially of his type, Gagnon was
particularly anxious to keep his good looks, and the sight of that
steel point robbed him of any desire to resist the ropes with which
John now tied his wrists. And Gagnon was thinking fast. He voiced his
thought in a moment.

“Listen, fellows,” said he, trembling, “I can’t let Dago and the others
find me like this!”

“Why not?” asked John, scornfully.

The man shivered, and his face seemed even whiter.

“They would think I released you and then let you tie me because I
wanted you to get away!”

“You’d be on a spot, then; eh, Mr.--Gagnon!”

“How’d you know my name?”

“Had an idea,” admitted John, withholding the source of that
information.

“They’d kill me, boys!” cried the excited and scared gangster.

About that time Dago and his men had emerged from the tunnel and
followed a path in the fog to the boat-shed. There they were received
in the lighted interior by Nevada and Gallagher.

“We got the yellow-haired kid safely enough. We took him to the
‘waiting room’ and left him with Gagnon. And----”

“Is he there now?” demanded Nevada, sharply.

“Sure. We looked for the other kid and couldn’t find him, and then went
back to see that Gagnon and the kid was o.k.”

“Gallagher, I guess you can take over the job now. The other kid must
be on the Island somewheres. They probably landed from that black sloop
of theirs. We’ll have the Island circled from daybreak by our runabouts
and nab that boat wherever it is. In the meantime we’ll get the
dark-haired Tallman kid. You do what you think best with the Sandborn
kid. You kin get rid of him now or----”

“I’ll rub ’em both out to onc’t, Cowboy!” said Gallagher, wiping his
lips with his dry tongue. “It’s like drowning kittens, ya know. I’ll
take ’em both to onc’t, like I said!”

“Get going, then.”

Sullenly Dago led the new trigger-man up the path to the tunnel
entrance. Mr. Sandborn knew that this tunnel ended in the “waiting
room,” where a party of heavily armed mobsters could wait in safety
till such time as their presence was needed to counter attack any gang
circling the main system of tunnels about the cabin. In time, Nevada
planned to have tunnel connections from the cabin to the waiting
room, but in the meantime it was isolated. The G-man was not unduly
nervous at what lay ahead, for he had no intention of course of letting
harm come to either John or his own son, Stanley. He only hoped now
that Stan would not give away the G-man’s identity by any unexpected
outburst of emotion.

“The kid’s pretty scared, Gallagher,” Dago said. “I don’t-a envy you
none!”

“Probably ain’t half as scared as you are of him, Dago!” chuckled
Gallagher.

Butch roared at that.

“The kid’s o.k., Gallagher. It’s Dago what’s scared like a hen on a
railway crossing! Arrows ain’t so hot, be they, Dago?”

“Here we are,” said Dago, displaying a flashlight now which illuminated
the door while he opened it to the passage. They went down and along
the way to the room. The lights at the other end glimmered round the
corner. There was a rustle in a side aisle!

“What was that?” demanded Dago.

Butch roared again.

“Them kids with their little bows and arrows, probably!” cried Butch,
hugging himself with amusement, “Run, Dago, run!”

Beefy faced and purple with anger, Dago put back his weapon, and they
went on to the room, rounding the corner and going through the door.

“Suffering tripe!” cried Dago.

“Wow!” bellowed Butch.

Mr. Sandborn smiled.

“Gone!” said he, quietly.

“Gone?” demanded Dago as if he doubted his own eyes. “Gone? How? Where?
What about Gagnon?”




CHAPTER XII

Delivering the Prisoner


If ever two boys undertook a desperate errand the sandy-haired G-man’s
son and his pal had bitten off a big chunk to chew when Stan proposed
that they take Gagnon to Main Haven and turn him over to John. What
John might do, Stan did not know but he realized that G-men are
extremely resourceful and he had no doubt that the grocer of Main Haven
would find a way to take care of Gagnon till this case was over. The
most important immediate act was to get Gagnon out of that little room,
and to the sloop.

“You mean you’re going to turn me over to the feds?” demanded the
mobster.

“Why not?”

“They’ll kill me!”

“Battling flea-hounds!” roared John, interrupting, “which do you want:
to be murdered by your dear old pals or to end up in a nice warm jail,
alive and with something to eat for the next dozen years or more?”

The man swallowed hard.

“I’ll come with you, boys, only don’t point that arrow at my face all
the time!” he said.

“You’ve got sense!” responded Stan, quietly. “Get a move on, and no
funny business!”

And as the man started off up the corridor, his hands bound behind his
back, he admitted that he had a flashlight in his pocket. John dug it
out and they hurried for the entrance. But on the way they encountered
the sounds of footsteps and the voices of intruders and they retired up
a side aisle.

Dago’s exclamation of alarm was caused by Gagnon’s stumbling effort to
move further from the main aisle as he recognized the swarthy fellow’s
growling voice. Had Dago elected to investigate that noise he would
have received an arrow for his pains--lucky Dago!

The party went on to the room and, the moment they had gone there, the
boys rushed Gagnon for the entrance! It was now or never. The outcry
of voices in the room back there drowned out the hurrying footsteps of
the lads and their prisoner. Gagnon was no trouble. He was as anxious
to get away now as were the boys to have him and he voluntarily took
them away from the entrance and on the trail towards the cove where
the boat was moored as he had been told they would go over the hilltop
trail to the western end of the island. They doused the flashlight,
of course, and apprehensively followed the hurrying prisoner through
the black fog. It was an eerie journey and towards the end Stan took
the lead as he knew just where the boat was. The trail seemed somewhat
unfamiliar as he neared the end but he laid that feeling to the
darkness and hurried on.

They came out upon the beach and he went to the right, leading Gagnon
by the arm so that he would not lose contact with him.

“Don’t worry, boy,” said Gagnon; “I ain’t gonna skip. I’d rather live
in a fed jail than get burnt with slugs!”

An astonished outcry from Stan was the first warning that all was not
well.

“The sloop--gone!” cried Stan.

John groaned.

“By all the bluefish ankles in this--where?” John begged.

The sloop was gone and that was that!

They had to put the flashlight on and then Stan gave a hopeful
exclamation.

“Say, this isn’t the rock where the _Staghound_ was moored! Maybe----”

“Maybe this isn’t the right cove!” cried John.

Investigation by the light of the flashlight and lots of walking along
the fog-bound shore gave forth the astonishing fact that it was not the
cove where the sloop had lain!

“There were several coves around here, John,” admitted Stan, “but how
we got off the main trail, I don’t know.”

“Sweet potatoes!” moaned John. “We get us a prisoner, and then lose our
ship! A fine pair of dicks we are! Are we south or north of our cove?”

“North, no doubt. We’ll go along shore.”

“Hurry!” begged Gagnon.

John was heard to chuckle aloud.

“_Hurry!_” he echoed. “Great spirits of bulrushes--how you going to
hurry through this fog?”

But they did hurry as best they could and after almost a half hour of
scrambling along the beach half in the water and half out, daring not
to use the light more than necessary, and falling over rocks, they all
three fell sprawling over something taut! It was the spare line which
Stan had rigged from the bitt of the sloop over the rock to another
pointed boulder.

Gratefully, tingling with joy, the boys shoved Gagnon aboard and went
below to light their lights. The cabin showed no signs of having been
entered and they were glad of that. In the light of the cabin they made
Gagnon lie on a bunk while they got their brains working.

“We’ve got to get out of this cove right off, John!” Stan explained.
“No time to lose and--”

“--The tide, Stan!”

“The tide is o.k., dropping towards low, but still high enough to float
us out into the cove where we can lower our centerboard! Main thing
is--where’s the cove entrance?”

“Here’s your chart!” said John, putting it on the table and handing
the skipper a pencil. “I’ll get the sails up and ready and the lines
aboard.”

“O.k.,” said Stan, even as he started studying the chart and laying a
compass course that would clear the rocks at the cove’s entrance. “Let
her drift away from the rock so we can get the centerboard down to stop
sideways.”

The tall youth was on deck by now and raising the sails. He was
grateful for the Marconi rig now, for the mainsail was up by pulling
one line instead of the two required for the old rig. There was one
jib to raise instead of two. The sails were up in a minute or two and
he was ashore releasing the lines holding her to the big rock. Luckily
the cove had been very quiet and the single old tire used as a buffer
between the _Staghound_ and the rock had kept the sloop from damage by
chafing.

The boat drifted away from the rock with the tide and a vagrant puff
or two of wind, while John slacked the sheets so that the sails were
not curved yet to the breeze. He lit the little electric light in the
binnacle and studied the compass as it swung slowly while the boat
drifted.

“Steer W.S.W. a bit to the south, John,” came Stan’s voice.

“Hey, you kids!” came a raucous and cursing voice out of the dark.
“Stop, do you hear, or we’ll slug you plenty!”

In the cabin of the _Staghound_ a trembling gangster opened his mouth
in terror. Stan knew that Gagnon was about to scream for help on the
theory that, when captured, his friends would think he’d been carried
away forcibly! But the skipper of the _Staghound_ gagged the prisoner
instantly with a length of towel!

“Can’t hear you!” yelled John, and he trimmed the sheets of the sloop!

Then a voice which was none other than Mr. Sandborn’s bellowed, “You
kids better come back here. You’ll get slugged if you don’t! We ain’t
fooling!”

Did Mr. Sandborn mean for them to really surrender? Or was he
_bluffing_ to convince the other men. John knew no answer, and Stan,
who came on deck just then, was hesitant.

A blast of tommy-gun fire, familiar thunder to the boys who had heard
those guns used at Cedar Island in the Hogan case, reverberated among
the hills! Water spattered about the sloop and slugs sang whining into
the wake! Then the blast moved away to the left! It have been lucky
shooting for the men could not have seen the sloop in the fog!

That decided the boys and with all sail crowded on, praying that the
compass course was right, they headed on a course W.S.W. a little
south! The wind had shifted to the east during the night and was almost
dead aft, flowing over the hills of Porpoise Island, as they coursed
with wings spread for the open sea!

“I told-a you they was-a at one of these coves!” yelled Dago back on
the beach. “Gallagher, you gotta get those kids or we’ll all be in
trouble!”

“Let’s get back and use the speedboats, men!” ordered Gallagher,
rejoicing inwardly that his boy and the brave Tallman lad had escaped
this present danger and taken Gagnon with them! He suspected they would
head for Main Haven and he was proud of them for their grit and brains.
Such conduct was worthy of G-men themselves!

The gangsters raced overland to the cabin and the boat-shed where,
roundly cursed by a wild and purplish Nevada, the men put off in two
gray speedboats on a weird chase! Mr. Sandborn longed for a chance to
get at the wiring on those two boats and so stop the chase but realized
it might look suspicious and end his activities. So he calmly took his
seat with Butch and Dago in a boat and they hummed with bright lights
for the entrance to Black Cove. They came out of that in the wet fog
at forty miles an hour, thankful for sound knowledge of the lay-out of
rocks and headlands.

One boat turned east, round the snout of Porpoise Island and down the
north coast. The other flung itself into the rollers of the sea down
the southern side. Both boats traveled at top speed but the fog ruined
any chance of overtaking the fleet sloop which was somewhere out there,
silently winging its way with a mobster prisoner! Naturally the boys
were not showing any side-lights and thus, even without the fog, as
Dago well knew from past experience, it would have been hard to locate
and get them. Then, too, as Dago admitted privately to himself--the
boys were pretty nifty with them arrow things!

They did have a chance, just one slim possibility of finding that
sloop, but only the G-man saw it and he said nothing. For one instant,
they were running by the close stern of a white sloop, for he saw both
a faint shape of the sloop and the glitter of white water from her
wake as she capped a big roller, but the light from the searchlight
was being flung straight ahead and no one else knew that two boys had
definitely escaped their pursuers!

About ten minutes later the light glittered softly through the fog upon
a sail and, with a coarse exclamation of delight, Dago had Butch swing
to the boat. The cursing, shouting speedboat’s crew slid alongside, and
aboard, guns out and hands ready!

“What is this?” demanded a big sailor in blue at the wheel of the great
forty-meter yacht. “What do you want?”

One look was sufficient to establish the fact that a mistake had been
made! Mr. Sandborn wanted to laugh out loud, but couldn’t. He kept a
firm mouth while a flustered Dago did some quick explaining to the
bulging sailor at the wheel. From below came a stern-faced man in a
robe. He had a shiny object in his right hand.

“What’s up?” demanded he, sharply.

“Looks like pirates, sir!” shot back the helmsman who had not been
fooled by Dago’s stuttered apologies.

“Pirates?” demanded the owner. “Let me at them!”

       *       *       *       *       *

At that moment, not a mile away in the wind-blown waters of the ocean,
a Marconi-rigged sloop was racing through the fog on a compass course
of S.E. at her best gait, taking the rollers in her stride, while her
mast strained and her rigging hummed! The fog seemed clear as they
neared Main Haven and soon they could make out the cottages along the
shore, and then the town itself. It was starlit in that harbor as they
drove in, lighting side-lights as they came.

“There’s an abandoned wharf on the shore over there,” Stan said,
pointing to one side of the entrance. “We’ll tie up there and walk
Gagnon round to the town. That way, we may keep our identity hid,
John!”

“You’re right! Somebody’ll have to buy me more arrows when this case is
over--if Gagnon tries any stunts!”

But Gagnon, who had heard that remark, did not mean to try any stunts
now that his deliverance was near, and he meekly climbed ashore from
the wharf and marched ahead of the boys towards town. They both had
their bows along but, to a casual observer, they having untied his
hands, Mr. Gagnon appeared like an older brother, hiking into town with
his two kid-brothers after a bow-and-arrow hike.

Gagnon was as good as his word and they made town in good shape and
walked right into John’s store! The grocer was just going to close up,
for it was very late.

“Sorry, boys, too late for groceries,” grinned John.

“Too late for a prisoner, too?” demanded John Tallman.

Now the Federal agent, John, had never realized how really effective
these two boys were before. He’d laid their supposed prowess to
newspaper accounts and Mr. Sandborn’s praise to fatherly affection
for Stan and friendly regard for the Tallman boy. But he had to think
fast in the next ten minutes or the whole town would know something was
wrong down at the grocery store!

He whisked Gagnon into the cellar, bound and gagged him and then went
to the phone. He called a number and said, “Hello, Jim, old boy?”

“Why, hello, John!” came the rejoinder. “How’s the grocery business?”

“Pretty swell. How about coming down--over the week-end with your bags?”

A whistle of surprise came over the wire.

“Like that, eh? I’ll drop in, old boy!”

And that meant that Mr. Gagnon would shortly be in the hands of a squad
of G-men and that that same squad would make a net about Porpoise
Island, by land and sea, ready for the big showdown on Thursday next!

“I’m hungry, Stan,” confessed John, as they started back for the yacht.
“What I mean is--I’m actually HUNGRY!”

Stan didn’t seem surprised.




CHAPTER XIII

Hegarty Plans a Surprise


It was a tired and hungry duet of detectives who walked down the
rickety old wharf about midnight and climbed aboard the good sloop
_Water Witch_ now masquerading as a Marconi sloop called _Staghound_!
Not too tired, however, for John to go right to the stove and light
the burners. He had hot coffee ready while he discussed the evening’s
events with Stan.

“Stuffed alligator skins,” said John. “Gagnon was one scared man.”

“Tried to yell for help when Dago and Dad came down to the cove,
though,” said Stan. “Figured he might be better off with his old pals!”

“Where will they take him now, Stan, I wonder?”

“For one thing, the newspapers won’t hear about the capture of Gagnon,
I bet. Dad and the F. B. I. had a tough time keeping it secret that
my father was a G-man in the Hogan case. If they hadn’t succeeded,
everyone would know that Dad was a Special Agent and it would have
spoiled his future work. The day gangland gets his photo to compare
with the G-man who broke the Hogan case they’ll get Dad on a spot, I’m
afraid.”

“Guess you’re right. I remember, speaking of Gagnon again, that they
spirited Racira away in the Hogan affair, and I guess the mobsters will
be astonished when he appears in court as a witness against them!”

“No more surprised than Nevada will be when the F. B. I. gets Gagnon
into the courtroom. While Nevada will have an idea Gagnon is definitely
in Federal hands, he won’t expect his former friend to testify against
him.”

“What makes you think Gagnon will?”

“Simple. Gagnon’s lost his nerve. Gone yellow. And there isn’t anything
easier to get information from than a gangster who turns yellow. Dad
says the mobsters have a saying that ‘A canary sure can sing!’ That
simply means a scared prisoner will tell all if he once gets started.”

“About our plans, Stan, what’ll we do now?”

“Guess we’ll follow John’s advice, and stay away from Porpoise Island
till Monday. The big blow-off is to be Thursday at midnight. That would
give us from Monday till Thursday to complete our work.”

John Tallman bit into a big slice of bread and poured the coffee.

“Think Zenith Point Village would be safe for us? I guess our disguise
of the boat is all right, don’t you think?”

“Sure and besides, I figure, we ought to buy a very small rowboat,
round-bottomed, to carry on the _Staghound_--I’m tired of mooring to
piers and rocks!”

“Swell. Oh, a home on the ocean blue--say, bread tastes good, doesn’t
it, when you’re hungry?”

“It sure does!” admitted Stan, helping himself to another piece. “Now,
after we’ve been at Zenith, a day or so taking us to Monday, we’ll get
back to Porpoise under cover of darkness and hide ashore till daybreak.
Then we’ll go after the fingerprints and photos Dad suggested we get!
Maybe we can get a chance to talk to him, too!”

They were glad enough to get to sleep till early morning. Before
daybreak, however, they were up and under way for Zenith Village. They
kept rather clear of Porpoise Island en route, for the fog had lifted
way past there and Zenith Light was visible down the coast. They did
not want to run into any cruising gray speedboats just yet!

Daybreak had come and the sun was rising higher and warmer when they
laid the final tack for Zenith Point Light. They rounded the light and
went on to the Village pier at once.

At the village they located just the type of tender they desired in
a local boat yard, bought it for a price, and towed her out to the
anchorage. That morning, at their anchorage, they caught up on much
needed sleep and were not up and about again till late afternoon.

There were several yachts in the harbor as usual but none that they
recognized. It proved difficult to kill time during the next couple of
days but they had to do so if they were to follow their plans. Between
reading below decks or lolling in the sunshine, well down in the
cockpit, and burning the night oil over charts and plans, they managed
to watch the hours pass by. Once or twice John hinted at fishing but
they dared not risk it on the chance that one of Nevada’s boats might
come up to inspect them. Ashore or in the sloop they could duck from
sight in such an event, but the little rowboat would hardly serve as a
hiding place!

Monday morning was to be the beginning of big things again and it
started with a bang!

“Whoops!” cried John as he emerged from the cabin into a cool morning.
“Look who’s here--our old playmate!”

The _Sea Hawk_ had come in during the night and was anchored across the
harbor. And Stan blinked his eyes--for the familiar outlines of the
yacht enclosed a black hull this time!

“Somebody else playing at disguise, John!”

“Yeh, the copy-cats! As if you wouldn’t know that craft anywhere by the
shape of her hull and upper structure!”

“But you can’t see black as far at night as you can white,” Stan
pointed out.

John gave an exclamation of surprise.

“That’s right--Thursday--at _midnight_!”

“You’d think, Stan, that if any law officer wanted to nip Hegarty, say
on his yacht, it would be easy. All they’d have to do would be look up
the registry of the boat and see for themselves the owner’s name!”

“Chances are ten to one, Hegarty’s name on the register is spelled
quite different----”

“Ears of bantam corn--look!”

Another craft, newly painted in shiny black, had just rounded the point
and was moving over towards the _Sea Hawk_! Low, fast-appearing, the
strange yacht was of cabin type, like many other craft of her kind,
but to the boys, her appearance at that spot and at that time, spelled
more trouble! They could not be far wrong for, before she had come
completely at rest with her anchor down, a boat was seen to row off
from her to the bigger craft.

“Me for my binoculars!” cried Stan, and pounced below.

Afterwards, from low in the cockpit, he reported that he could see
activity on the deck of the _Sea Hawk_--men moving about and all
seeming to talk with their hands! An argument seemed in progress but
it apparently ended amicably, for everyone shook hands and the rowboat
went back to the newer boat.

“What’s the name of that boat, Stan?” John asked.

The G-man’s son hesitated a moment then said, “Looks like--‘_Malcon_’
to me, John.”

They made notes of these things with the time and place, and Stan
expressed a desire to get photos of both boats. They took along
their camera, climbed into the tender and pushed off as if for a row
about the harbor. They took several pictures of yachts as if on a
picture-taking trip and then drew into position for photos of the _Sea
Hawk_. Casually and without hurry, Stan stood up and took two excellent
photos.

“Two shots left, John,” he said, jubilantly, “Now for the _Malcon_!”

Both boys were so eager to get the pictures that they did not observe
the fact that a tender pushed off from the _Sea Hawk_ and rowed over
towards them. In fact, they were startled to look up and see the boat
so close. Two seamen were in it.

“Hello, boys,” said one, a stocky, yellow-haired fellow with a grinning
ape face.

“Hello!”

“Taking pictures, eh?”

“Sure, we want them for a collection of swell yachts in our albums,”
Stan explained, and he contrived to maneuver the camera to the floor
between his feet. He was bent over now.

“What kind of camera you got?” queried the sailor. “I’m sorta nuts on
cameras.”

“He sure is,” agreed the second sailor, a thin, emaciated type. “Nuts
is right.”

They both laughed as if at a secret joke then.

“Regular folding type,” Stan said. “Rectilinear lens, speeds up to
one-hundredth of a second. Like to see it?”

That seemed to startle them and they nodded. Stan handed the big fellow
the camera as the two boats closed together. As he did so the camera
slipped from his hands and went overboard! Naturally Stan and the
sailor reached for it too late.

“Too bad!” said the seaman.

“Ya gotta get it, thick-head!” yelled the thin one.

“How kin I, I asks ya?” demanded the yellow-haired fellow, exasperated.
“Be careful!”

John was, naturally, down in the mouth, and Stan appeared also to be
downcast.

“Too bad, kid!” said the big chap, and the boat drew off for the _Sea
Hawk_.

Stan and John began to row to their own craft as rapidly as possible
without appearing in too great a hurry.

“Did you really drop it, Stan?” demanded John.

Stan grinned as if well pleased with himself.

“I’ll tell you later!”

“Once upon a time there was a very dumb, dumb boy,” began John, as they
climbed aboard their boat and went to the cabin. “So dumb that cameras
meant nothing in his young life! Phff--what was an expensive camera to
him?”

“Listen and listen hard, John,” Stan said; “we’re playing a dangerous
game for big stakes! A fifteen dollar camera is not to be considered as
valuable compared to the films I have!”

“Films? Why they went to the bottom of the deep blue sea----”

“Not a bit of it! Here is the film!”

He showed the roll to his wondering chum and explained that when the
men rowed over he had an idea that Hegarty suspected him and John and
had sent for the film. Probably the men had been instructed to get the
film. By being willing to let them take the camera for inspection Stan
had thrown off suspicion. He was able to remove the film before giving
the camera to the sailor, and knew that the empty camera would be prima
facie evidence of guilt, so made sure the instrument went overboard!

Back on the _Sea Hawk_ the two seamen stood “on the carpet” in fact and
in figure. Hegarty was in a nasty mood.

“You going to stand there and tell me that kid handed you the camera
and you dropped it?”

“Well it was this way, Boss----”

Hegarty fixed them with a stare.

“The chances are that those kids are all right. Just the same, we’re
playing for big stakes. Nevada’s got a fortune on that island and a
racket system that’s worth billions! We can’t take chances and we
can’t afford to arouse suspicion. It’s a toss up whether them kids
was----”

“You’re nervous, boss,” said the yellow-haired man eagerly. “Just
jumpy. I wouldn’t worry about it, if I was you!”

“Oh, yeh? You’re right--_you_ wouldn’t worry! That takes brains! Get
out, both of you, scram!”

He reached for the drawer in his cabin desk and both men tried to get
out the small door abreast. The result was ludicrous in the extreme and
Hegarty relieved himself by a thoroughly good laugh!

Convinced because he had no real grounds for suspicion of the two boys
in the trim white yacht, he forgot about the incident and did not refer
to it again though he was to regret that result some time later!

“Is there any sight of the _Canton_ yet?” he asked the man on lookout
in the bridge enclosure of the big craft as he went out of his cabin
and up the steps.

The man shook his head negatively.

“Well, keep your eyes peeled. He’s due any hour now.”

“You bet. Say, we’ll have some navy here fer the big raid, won’t we?”

“We’ll need it! Nevada will be expecting us and we gotta be prepared!”

The boys kept down in the cabin the rest of the day until evening when
still another yacht came in, this also painted the same shiny black. It
anchored close to the first two, an extremely able-looking “commuter”
type cabin cruiser bearing the name _Canton_ on her name boards. The
sun was setting by the time supper was over and the boys watched an
outboard-motored tender going to the town dock, roaring along.

“Town is the place for us, to-night, John!” Stan said.

“You’re not going to Porpoise Island to-night?”

“No-sirree! Hegarty is likely going ashore with his lieutenants and
we’ve got work to do. Get your portable fingerprint outfit and lens
ready, and let’s go!”

“Bows and arrows, Skipper?”

“Not this time. We want to appear innocent and we don’t want bows
between our legs if we have to skip up an alley or two. How’s for some
soda, John?”

John grinned knowingly and they were shortly headed for shore. Quietly,
they pulled in, keeping in the darkness, away from the side of the
wharf at which they could see the dim, shiny outlines of the tender
from the _Sea Hawk_. They pulled the skiff ashore at the land end of
the pier and strolled up to the dock.

A peek round the edge of the piling on the wharf on the other side
showed a man sitting in the tender there, waiting.

“No chance to get aboard her yet, John,” Stan said, “so let’s head for
the restaurant.”

They entered the restaurant by a side door, unobserved, and were able
to slip into their seats quietly. Hegarty had his back to them and none
of the men really were faced their way, so the boys hoped to escape
suspicion. It was a ticklish moment! They ordered coffee and rolls with
bacon, in spite of Stan’s reference to soda.

Hegarty and his men seemed nervous but carefree. They kept hard eyes on
the door to the street but cracked jokes with apparent ease and talked
in low tones between times while they sipped beer.

“Oh, you’re the boys as bought the beer bottle, aren’t you?” queried
the proprietor as he came with the order.

Gulping hard in spite of himself, Stan “shushed” him away as soon as
possible. None of the men at the other table appeared to have heard
the remark for they were all engrossed in examining a photograph which
Hegarty was now passing around to the men.

“That the bird?” queried one.

“Yeh! Take a good look at him. I had plenty trouble digging that up.
But I found a way!”

“So he’s a Fed, eh? Say, I always wanted to get a good look at one of
those guys!”

“You’ll get a chance to make a sieve of him when we get to Porpoise
Island, boys,” said Hegarty. “And I figures we’ll go over there
Wednesday night ’stead of Thursday!”

“It’ll be a surprise, eh, Hegarty?”

“It’s gotta be or we’ll have the whole F. B. I. in on us!” said the
head gangster, chuckling.

And Stanley Sandborn held his breath for he had not only heard
distinctly all that was said, so acute was his hearing made by the
mention of “Feds,” but he had a good look at the photograph one of the
men was handing back to Hegarty! It was a good clear photograph of
Gallagher!




CHAPTER XIV

The G-Men Close In


Stanley Sandborn realized that there was little time to lose. Hegarty’s
plans had been changed, and the identity of Mr. Sandborn was no longer
a secret! Hegarty was evidently not intending to drop out of the
picture with a G-man in it. He had too big stakes in the game, was
gambling for too much power, to let even the fear of “Federal heat”
deter him from his course. Without a doubt his chief aim was to capture
the lavish stores of wealth he believed Nevada to possess. If things
worked out right then, he would also have control of the syndicate
which the ex-cowboy had built up. If a Fed was killed in the squabble
it was just too bad for the Fed!

The sandy-haired youth arose, winked at John, paid their bill, and they
left by the same side door through which they had entered.

Out in the street, away from the restaurant he acted even more quickly,
racing for the nearest store. It was a magazine and novelty place, and
what he wanted was visible through the window--a phone booth! Into this
he went as casually as possible while John made a purchase or two to
keep the proprietor busy.

When Stan came out of that booth he was grinning a little. They went
outside.

“O.k.?” queried John.

“I got Main Haven’s G-man on the phone and he’s letting the big Chief
know. That’ll help keep Dad safer unless Nevada gets wise to his real
identity! We’ve got less time and just as much work to do now. It’s
Porpoise Island for us to-night, after all!”

“We’re as good as there!” John commented eagerly.

“But I’ve a chore to do first, John. Skip to our boat and wait for me!”

“Oars out?”

“You bet, I may come on a run!”

He was gone a few minutes after John got into their rowboat, and he did
come back running.

“I got it!” he cried triumphantly as he jumped in and helped shove off.

Mystified, John rowed away.

“Got what, Skipper? Not a hundred dollar bank note, I trust!”

“No, but something that will help stick those babies behind the bars
when exhibited in court!” observed Stan gleefully.

He would say no more, and John rowed swiftly to the _Staghound_.

“Get the sails up, Mate,” ordered the G-man’s son as he hurried below.
“We’ve got to get into motion!”

They were off Zenith Light and laying a compass course for Porpoise
Island when Stan took the wheel and told John to go below, if he liked,
and see what they had to add to their evidence. The lanky youth did so,
and whistled. It was a rubber handle neatly removed by a jackknife,
slit from the motor of the _Sea Hawk’s_ tender, and on it silver powder
had been scattered lightly by the joyful Stanley to bring out several
very fine fingerprints.

“How many men left their prints, I wonder, Stan?” asked John,
returning to the cockpit and closing the cabin slide to hide the extra
light.

Stan rejoined, “Looks like three to me. We’ll know who did it later
when Dad gets a chance to have the F. B. I. look them up in the
fingerprint files!”

Back at the boat wharf a group of men argued over the discovery that
the handle to the tender’s motor was no longer rubber covered!

“Where were you while it happened?” Hegarty demanded of an abashed thin
chap who had been left at the tender.

“Just went in town on an errand, boss, and come right back!” he
confessed.

“Well, whoever did that must have had a good reason and----”

One of the men in business suits with Hegarty gave a low curse of anger.

“Fingerprints is what they wanted whoever done it!” he said aloud.

“That’s it!” cried Hegarty. “And I bet it was them kids! Come on; what
are we waiting for. Let’s get going after them!”

But the boys had been gone some time now, and the racing rowboat,
overloaded and hard to manage, circled the harbor without any luck
while the valuable minutes passed. Then Hegarty was put aboard the _Sea
Hawk_.

“Get under way, boss?” asked a sailor at the controls on the bridge.

“No!” snapped Hegarty, and he went below to his cabin where he was
shortly closeted with his lieutenants.

“Why not chase the kids further, Hegarty?” asked one.

“What’s the use? You can’t expect to find a small sloop in the bay
on a night like this, or any night for that matter! We’ll find ’em
to-morrow!”

“Who handled the motor grip, boss?”

Hegarty winced.

“You and me and him all gripped it in succession as we steadied
ourselves to step to the wharf!” he groaned.

On the waters of the bay the sloop forged ahead for the Island at her
fastest gait, and soon was cruising in the darkness along the north
shore, hunting for a certain new cove into which to slip. She was
running in at slackened speed under the starlight when something fast
and dark hummed in behind her! It was a speedboat coming at moderate
velocity, and both boys were startled.

“The bows, John!” yelled Stan, and the Mate went below, returning at
once with their weapons.

“Do you think it’s Dago and the mob?” John asked, putting an arrow to
the string. “Indigo nanny goats, what breaks we get!”

Stan had no chance to reply, for a searchlight was flung for an instant
full upon the boat, then as quickly shut off. In another split second,
blinded as he was by the flare of light, John would have let fly with
an arrow anyhow, but a voice commanding, yet friendly, came distinctly
to the boys.

“This is the law, boys! Heave to, while we come aboard!”

“What law?” demanded Stan doubtfully, trembling a little in spite of
his courage.

“Men of the F. B. I., boys! John sent us!” came the answer.

Tingling with excitement, the boys hove to and the boat drew down upon
them and swung alongside. It was clear, for the starlight reflected
from its surface, that the boat was not one of the familiar gray
speedboats. The men stepped easily aboard the sloop, and one remained
with the motorboat while she drifted away at the end of a line.

“Go ahead and anchor when you are ready, boys,” said the leader,
speaking quietly.

The anchor was dropped overboard and the sails were smartly lowered.
Then the boys led the men below, the leader, clean-shaven, smart
appearing, with clear blue eyes and a firm mouth, the others, three
in number, being all ordinary-appearing young men, yet each looking
quite capable of taking care of himself in an argument. They seated
themselves in the now crowded cabin upon bunks and the table, and got
down to the point of the visit.

“John got us at once, after you phoned, Sandborn,” said the leader.
“I’m the agent in charge of this district--Holmes is the name--and
these are my men.”

“Dad works under you part of the time, doesn’t he?” queried Stan.

“That’s right. This time he’s on his own by order of the big Chief.
We’re here to snap up these gangster rats when their big battle starts.”

“IT’S starting Wednesday night instead of Thursday!” Stan said,
excitedly.

“So John informs us, Sandborn,” Holmes said. “Now, we just found you by
accident. We’d been planning to drop in along here later but made it
to-night due to the emergency, and you chose the same cove!”

“Want us to get out?”

“No. You stay right here. We’ll shove off towards dawn and hide further
down, to the west. What were your plans in anchoring here?”

Stanley explained that they were intending to go ashore, hiding the
tender, find out what they could in the darkness, and, at daybreak,
take pictures from cover and try for fingerprints.

“The idea is fine, boys, so go ahead. We’ll be round here till dawn;
that is, the man on watch will be. The rest of us are going to do some
sleuthing on our own to-night! If anything happens, remember to head
for this cove! By the way, you heard about the boner Dago pulled the
other night, didn’t you?”

“No; what was it?” Stan asked, mystified.

“He and some other men were out apparently hunting for some one in one
of the gray boats and they overtook and boarded a New York yacht off
Porpoise Island! The owner thought them modern pirates and blasted away
with an automatic!”

Laughter rang in the cabin as the other men joined in with Holmes’
amused roar.

“He was luckily a bum shot and hurt no one, but Dago pushed off in a
big hurry, leaving a gun behind on the yacht’s deck! The thing got in
the papers of course, though the yacht owner naturally didn’t realize
who had boarded him, and I got to him and to the police and got
possession of the gun, upon which I found some very excellent imprints
of the honorable Mr. Dago’s fingers!”

“Didn’t the police search for the gray boat?”

“Sure; but you know how Black Cove is, hidden away! They either forgot
it or passed it up as a hiding place somehow, for they did not sight
any suspicious boats! I guess that police boat crew is still wondering
where the ‘pirates’ came from!”

After some more conversation the boys went ashore in their little
tender which they had carried on the port side of the deck, upside
down, during the run from Zenith, and carried it up the beach and into
some bushes to hide it before hunting for a trail inland. Soon they
were moving along a trail, bows and arrows in hand, flashlights in
pockets, and fingerprint outfits and the spare camera along, too. Thus
laden, they got over the Island under the starlit sky and were soon
close to the cove.

Moving cautiously and slowly, they came along the path upon which their
adventures had begun, and down through bushes to the shore. There they
had a grand stand seat from which to study the activity on the scow.
The scow was anchored in its regular spot for night work, and lights
glimmered and men moved about!

They stayed there for some time consumed by unsatisfied curiosity.

From that spot, unchallenged, they passed through a maze of paths to
the south ridge back of the cabin and were going along in the dark,
when Stan grasped John by the arm.

“A tunnel, for sure, John!” he said.

It was indeed a half concealed entrance to a tunnel, and the two boys
stood before it, nervous and eager.

“Shall we go in?” John asked, in a whisper.

“Why not?”

“Go ahead!” said a voice from the darkness, close by. “But I’m going
with you!”

It was Holmes, who now stepped from the bushes.

“Where you been all this time, Mr. Holmes?” asked Stan, puzzled at the
coincidence of that meeting.

Holmes chuckled.

“I’ve been following you, and I’ll admit you are cagy sleuths. I nearly
lost you a dozen times. Hold it--here comes the enemy!”




CHAPTER XV

The Boys Become Prisoners


The hoarse voice of Dago was rather near on the path as the G-man and
the two boys ducked into the tunnel and groped hurriedly along, seeking
for a hiding place off the main tunnel. They had gone but a short
distance when they heard Dago and his men coming down behind them, and
backward glimpses showed the lights of flashlights! The tunnel seemed
endless, and was quite straight! The boys and their protector began to
run, softly, but swiftly! Would they never find a side aisle?

Then Stanley grabbed John and ducked to the right into a dark side
tunnel, and Holmes followed at once. There the three crouched,
wondering what was to happen next!

Dago came along talking with Butch, and passed the end of the tunnel.
As he did so he was heard to say,

“How you gonna prove it, Wan Ho? You have to-a have proof. Cowboy
ain’t-a going to just take-a da hunch!”

“I don’t know how I’m going to prove it to Cowboy, Dago, but I’ll try
to get something definite,” said Wan Ho Din as they moved off. “For all
we know this Gallagher is a G-man!”

As the darkness became intense again in the main tunnel, the boys and
their friend came out of the side aisle and pushed on, following Dago.
But progress was slow in the blackness, and Holmes began flashing his
light on and off at intervals. By this means they shortly found a side
aisle wider than the others and so went on into a fair sized room in
which great stacks of supplies were piled up. One pile was a group of
small, but strong looking, cases upon whose exteriors were stamped
the name of a famous brand of liquor. The cases showed all the signs
of having been submerged in sea water a long time, for they were wet
looking and mildewed and spotted with barnacles and bits of algae.

“There’s part of the cargo the unknown yacht holds, boys,” Holmes said.
“You keep watch while I try to get a peek into one of the cases! I’m
willing to bet it doesn’t contain liquor!”

But he had no chance to solve the mystery of the cases, for, even as
he began to search for a way to break into one, lights and footfalls
interrupted. The trio ducked behind and among some barrels and waited a
while; then they came out of their hiding places.

“We better get back to the surface, boys,” said Holmes. “I’ve a
hunch we’ll be trapped before long if we don’t! And, once we are
captured--the jig is up!”

Knowing that he was right, the boys consented to go back by the tunnel
to the entrance. This they now did, at a better pace than on the
inbound trip, for the way was somewhat more familiar now. They emerged
cautiously into the night and it seemed quite light compared to the
blackness of that underground passage. The stars twinkled overhead, and
it was hard to believe that, beneath those high-riding points of light,
men on this earth were scheming to destroy the traditions of a people,
their law and order, for money, power, and a dictatorship!

“I’m going to see how my men are making out, boys. Keep out of any
tunnels from now on, to-night, at least, and don’t get picked up by
Nevada’s men, whatever you do.”

As he went off silently into the night, the boys retired also, to the
safety of some thick bushes and a grove of low trees, where they talked
in low voices.

“Looks as if Wan Ho Din and Dago suspect Dad’s real identity,”
commented Stan. “And between Hegarty knowing for sure who Gallagher
is, and the others suspecting him, it looks to me as though things may
happen quicker than we reckon!”

The two boys now went round, with great care, to their old spot at the
cove’s edge where, from under the overhanging branches of trees, they
could watch the nightly salvage job again. And while they took turns
with the binoculars while the men on the scow worked, Gallagher and Mr.
Nevens were smoking in the latter’s office, discussing the best way to
line up the bakeries into the syndicate’s organization. They were thus
engaged when Wan Ho Din and Dago dropped in.

“Did you check the ammunition, boys?” asked Cowboy, looking up from his
desk.

“Yeh, we got-a plenty lead for the typewriters, Boss!” Dago informed
him.

“Sure?”

“You bet! Say, you don’t s’pose this Hegarty guy might try to-a
spring-a the surprise----?”

Cowboy regarded Dago with a grin.

“Getting nervous, Dago?”

Dago scowled.

“Me? Naw!”

Cowboy reached for another black cigar, lit it leisurely, puffed once
or twice, and then leaned back in his chair, shifting his feet to the
desk top.

“Hegarty may try anything,” said he, quietly, “so just be on the
lookout. You better post plenty of guards, Dago. Wan, you stay here
and take some notes. Gallagher and I gotta ring the bakeries in on our
service!”

Dago took Butch along to make the rounds of the Island, and they placed
men at strategic points so that anyone attempting to surprise them
from the sea would receive a warm and metallic reception! They thought
themselves pretty smart in their plans, but two boys and a number
of ordinary-appearing young men hovered in the darkness close by,
gathering all information that could be figured out from the low toned
conversation of Dago and the men.

Towards morning Stanley and John took cover in a grove of trees and lay
down to sleep; that is, to take turns sleeping, for the other in each
case must keep alert for searchers! Nothing happened to disturb their
snatches of slumber that night, and at dawn they were stretching weary
limbs. John had produced doughnuts, which they ate with satisfaction,
and they quenched their thirst at a half concealed spring some distance
from the cabin.

Their problem was now to get photographs worthy of submission as court
evidence, and they had to get those pictures without being seen! It
was no easy task, and was further complicated by a desire to pick up
fingerprints, too.

But the two boy detectives were not to be stumped by the appearance of
a hard task, and they set to work at once. They closed in on the cabin
by following the paths, crouched low.

It took a great deal of time that Tuesday morning to work up to the
cabin, for every now and then they had to duck from sight and hug cover
while Dago, Wan Ho Din, or others traveled the paths on errands of
preparation for the expected raid from the _Sea Hawk_. Stan was anxious
to see Mr. Sandborn and warn him of the latest dangers, but he saw not
a glimpse of the G-man. They worked close enough to the cabin to get
two excellent shots and then got up to the aquarium for more snaps. It
was in the midst of this operation that they were discovered!

Stan was putting a new film in his camera, when he looked up from his
place of concealment to stare right into the swarthy face of none other
than Dago!

“Well, well,” said Dago. “You boys pickin’ the blueberries, eh?”

John was right behind Stan, bow in hand, but there was no time to set
an arrow in the notch, and besides, the extremely thick nature of the
shrubbery behind them barred either a fight or a retreat and escape!

“Hello, Dago!” said Stan.

For answer Dago reached through the leaves and grabbed Stan securely
by the nape of the neck, dragged him into the open, and shook him. As
he performed that pleasurable feat, he grinned while Wan Ho Din nabbed
John the same way, and the two boys were shortly headed for the cabin,
prisoners!

Stan and John both realized that to twist free of those strong hands
and run would invite a speedy death from bullets or result in a prompt
recapture anyhow by other members of Nevada’s gang scattered all about
round the cove. It was better, for the moment, to go peacefully. But it
made the hearts and hopes of the boys drop.

They were hustled into the cabin and up to Nevada’s den. Roughly, Dago
and Wan shoved them into the room. Cowboy Nevada bit so hard on his
cigar as the door opened and in came the captors and captives, that he
bit the end right off that cigar!

“Well look who drops in on us, Gallagher!” said Nevada. “The two kids I
been wanting so long!”

Fighting to hide the conflicting emotions almost overpowering him at
sight of his fine Dad sitting there in that dangerous atmosphere of
crime, Stanley tried hard to avoid the G-man’s eyes. John got red and
swallowed very hard. Gallagher grinned with amusement.

“So these is the kids what helped get Hogan?” he asked Nevada, softly.

“Yeh, imagine that!” said Cowboy dryly.

“Kin I take-a them out and-a drown ’em, Boss?” begged Dago.

“Dago,” said Cowboy, surprised. “I can hardly believe my ears!--Nor my
eyes!”

Dago shifted uneasily on his feet, embarrassed. Hadn’t the boss
expressed a wish to see the kids wiped out many a time in the last
week? And now he, Dago, proposed getting rid of them pronto, the Boss
was “Surprised!”

“Whatcha mean, boss?” demanded Dago.

Cowboy grinned.

“Dago,” said he, “knowing you as I do, I am astonished that you hadn’t
tried drowning them already!”

“Swell, thanks!” cried Dago, starting for the door with a boy held by
each of his red paws.

“Thanks----”

“Drop them!” came Nevada’s rasping order.

“But you said, boss----”

“Drop them, I said. Gallagher here is gonna do the drowning or whatever
he wants to use rubbin’ them out!”

He pulled out another black cigar and, lighting it, said, curtly,
“Scram, Dago!”

Dago did!




CHAPTER XVI

The Fight Begins


At Zenith Point Hegarty, starting Tuesday morning, had paced the deck
all day, stopping hardly for meals, cursing fluently at the slightest
interruption of his thoughts, and finally retiring to his cabin in the
late afternoon to which he shortly summoned his lieutenants.

They were a cold and hard-appearing group of men quite in contrast to
the emotional Hegarty who now laid before them a proposition.

“You, Marzonij,” said he to the smallest of the men.

“Yeh, Boss?” the fellow replied, expectantly.

Thin, pale-faced, he did not look as one would expect him to look, for
Marzonij was Hegarty’s best gunman, a merciless killer when doped with
a certain drug to which he was addicted. But, because he was small, he
could slip up alleys faster in the dark.

“How’s your rod, Marzonij?” asked Hegarty as evenly as he could.

“O.k., Boss. My finger’s itchin’ fer the trigger!”

“Well, here’s the lay-out, Marzonij,” said Hegarty, talking fast but
distinctly now as if he had thought the whole thing out. “We know
this Gallagher is a Fed. If Cowboy knew it, he’d bump him off, and it
just might be a help to us. Not only would we be clear of a bit of
typewriting by that guy who is a perfect shot, but the blame for the
killing could be laid to Cowboy!”

“How you want me to do it, Boss?”

“Well, the boys at the island expect us Thursday at midnight, don’t
they?”

Several men nodded, curtly.

“We been planning to make it Wednesday and surprise them. Well, we’re
going to do it _to-night_ instead!”

A chorus of approval greeted this piece of news.

“And more than that: Marzonij is going to go to the island now, make
a deal to sign up with Cowboy, if he can, and tip Cowboy off to
Gallagher’s real name and job! Marzonij is going to be on the spot
when we get there and maybe--” he paused for effect, “Maybe----”

“--Maybe I’ll get a shot at Cowboy, eh?” queried Marzonij eagerly.

Hegarty grinned.

“Marzonij,” said he, “you should oughta go to the head of the class!”

The little man was shortly headed for Porpoise Island, guiding a
varnished tender while a powerful outboard motor roared as he crossed
the bay. He patted the area under his left armpit reassuringly now and
then grinned. He was not only heading for a job he would enjoy, but
he’d soon be assistant to Hegarty as head of Cowboy’s swell syndicate.

He circled the sea side of Porpoise Island, located the cove and went
in fast, roaring up to the landing-stage as if some one were apt to
appear in pursuit at any moment.

“Where’s Nevada?” he demanded as one of Mr. Nevens’ henchmen came
forward on the wharf to investigate.

“In conference, fellow!” said the mobster testily. “What-a you want?”

“I gotta see him right off. I got news!”

“Wait here and I’ll see if he’ll talk to ya!” the man said.

As he turned to go, he met Dago who had just come from the cabin. Dago
frowned as he surveyed Marzonij.

“_I’ll_ see Cowboy for you,” Dago said. “I’ll be back soon.”

“But what the devil would Marzonij want to tell me?” Cowboy said aloud.
“Well, show him up. And you, Gallagher, keep the guy covered. This may
be a trap!”

Marzonij came in with Dago and confronted the man he hoped soon to kill.

“How-ya, Cowboy?” said he by way of greeting.

“Nice day,” Cowboy said, crisply.

“I got news fer you, Cowboy, private news.”

“You kin talk in front of Gallagher.”

Marzonij frowned.

“This news has gotta be said _alone_.”

“Not till you’re frisked, first, Marzonij,” said Cowboy, quietly.

“Go ahead, frisk me, but all I’m carrying is my regular cannon. No
trick rods or nothing. Nevada, I’m hoping to sign on with you!”

Cowboy Nevada lit himself a black cigar and motioned Dago to frisk the
informer. Dago produced the automatic from the armpit holster, nothing
else. Cowboy nodded to Gallagher and the G-man got up and went out with
Dago and Wan Ho Din.

Back in the room Cowboy said curtly, “Get talking!”

Marzonij did, saying in brief, that he and Hegarty had had a falling
out and besides he, Marzonij, figgered Cowboy was likely to win the
coming scrap.

“To show you I’m all right,” Marzonij said, “let me tell ya that the
raid is coming Wednesday night, to-morrow night, instead of Thursday!”

Cowboy puffed on his cigar quietly.

“I guessed as much anyhow.”

“And another thing, Hegarty found out the dope on this Gallagher guy
and I swiped something to show you!”

He produced a photograph from his inside pocket and handed it to
Cowboy. He also produced a newspaper clipping and showed it to the
crime head. The clipping was headed by a photo just like the original
print.

“SANDBORN LANDS GOVERNMENT JOB!”

The clipping, clipped from an old newspaper, explained that Mr.
Sandborn had been successful in going to work for the government in one
of the law-enforcement agencies. It did not give details (for it had
so happened that Mr. Sandborn had kept the details very secret) but it
gave his home address.

“Where’d you get this?” demanded Cowboy, staring hard.

“Well, Hegarty, as ya know, has a keen memory fer faces, and he had
a hunch, after he met Gallagher that he’d seen tha face somewhere’s
before so he goes to work and has a bunch of us hunting through the
local papers fer a picture of Gallagher, ’cause Hegarty has the hunch
the guy’s a local man! And, after a lotta looking he finds this
clipping in the old file of the newspaper and being as the guy’s
address and that of the kids what helped get Hogan is alike we figures
we kin get a clear picture at the guy’s home. So we breaks in quiet
one night and gets us a picture from the guy’s private den and this is
it! Hegarty remembers reading the clipping in the paper some time back
and he says, ‘This Gallagher guy is a G-man by the name o’ Sandborn!
That’s the only answer to him working for Cowboy!’”

Cowboy Nevada’s cigar had gone out as he listened and he discarded it
while he stared into space.

“Gallagher’s a G-man!” he muttered. “Yeh, that’s right! That would
explain everything! No wonder the guy’s such a crack shot with a
tommy-gun!”

Suddenly Cowboy Nevada felt chilly though the room was quite warm.
Cold chills ran down his back! Why, he’d _explained_ everything to
Gallagher! _Told_ him everything! _Showed_ him everything! _And the guy
was a G-man!_ Cowboy began to sweat a little till his palms were moist!
He hadn’t figured on tackling the F. B. I. yet awhile! He had wanted
time to take over the control of politics first, then he’d have found a
way to break up that band of law-men! Now he’d have to battle the F.
B. I. and Hegarty, too! Cowboy turned savagely on Marzonij.

“Listen, you rat!” said he, “you get back to Hegarty and stay there! I
been pretty good on hunches all my life. I had a hunch Gallagher was
o.k. Well, I got stung! I can’t trust my hunches anymore! How do I know
you ain’t aiming to bump me off for Hegarty, you little----!”

Cowboy Nevada paused for breath.

“Scram, Marzonij,” said he, “before I lose me code of ethics and rub
you out! Get going and keep going!”

He crumpled the clipping and the photograph and stuck them into his
desk-drawer, and Marzonij left, unarmed.

“Take Marzonij to his boat!” said Cowboy to Wan Ho Din, “and see that
he gets outa Black Cove and stays out!”

After that he sent Gallagher on an errand to one of the supply rooms
while he closeted himself with Dago.

“Dago,” said he, “I ain’t too sure of Gallagher!”

Dago brightened perceptibly.

“I ain’t never been, boss. I gotta sneakin’ notion that Gallagher ain’t
what he says he is. I gotta idea he-a----”

“Well----?”

“He might even be a Fed, Boss!” said Dago, taking a deep breath as if
he expected Cowboy to shoot him on the spot for that idea.

Amazement overran Dago’s face as Cowboy grinned.

“He _is_--Dago!”

Dago ran a thick forefinger slowly round his neckband while
perspiration stood out in big beads on his red forehead! Slowly and
deliberately he swallowed.

“Yer kiddin’, Boss!”

“This ain’t no time fer kiddin’, Dago! We gotta get rid of the kids and
Sandborn.”

“‘Sandborn?’” Dago asked slowly and distinctly.

“Yeh, you see, the yellow-haired kid is really--a G-man’s son!”

“No wonder the kid helped get Hogan!” said Dago. “With his old man a
dick!”

Cowboy put his feet down on the floor.

“We got work to do, Dago. First we gotta get rid of our guests, then
we gotta get ready for Hegarty. He’s due Wednesday night ’stead of
Thursday!”

A loud rumbling sound penetrated the cabin, followed by several
staccato sounds. Dago regarded Cowboy with thoughtful and worried gaze.

“Due Wednesday, Boss?”

Cowboy grabbed his six-shooters from their holsters and started for the
door as the cabin reverberated with gunfire!

“They’re here _now_, Dago!” he yelled. “Come on!”




CHAPTER XVII

G-Men to the Attack


After the interview in Mr. Nevens’ den at which their fate had been
sealed so far as Nevada was concerned, the two boys were hustled to the
waiting room in which Stanley had been confined not so long ago. It was
Gallagher who took them there and strange thoughts were running through
his mind as he firmly held the two lads. He was pondering the irony of
a fate that demands that a man be ordained the executioner of his own
boy. And he was solemnly assuring himself that before that deed was to
be done he would wipe out Nevada, Dago, and the entire rotten gang if
he had to do it one by one and on his own authority!

Stanley walked bravely along, confident that his resourceful father
would prevent harm from striking him. John Tallman, too, felt better
even though Cowboy wanted their lives, for he was sure that Mr.
Sandborn would find some way to save them. Indeed, both boys were less
concerned with their own physical safety than they were with how this
case would turn out. The future looked pretty dark at that moment!

Once in the small waiting room, which was now fitted with stacks of
ammunition and several machine guns, showing the provision Cowboy
Nevada was making for the expected attack by Hegarty, Mr. Sandborn
whispered encouragement to the boys.

“We’ll lick this whole rotten crime syndicate, boys,” said he. “Don’t
worry. You keep your chins up and you’ll be o.k. I’ll stall till dark
for time and at dark I’ll arrange to take you boys out with Butch in
one of the speedboats as if to drown you. I haven’t figured out the
rest yet but I’ve a hunch Butch is going to end up at Main Haven, our
prisoner, and that the F. B. I. will have this situation well under
control shortly afterwards!”

“What about the plans of the Chief to nab Hegarty and Cowboy both the
night of the attack, Dad? That’s to-morrow, you know!”

Mr. Sandborn smiled.

“Part of the success of the F. B. I. is due to its ability to meet a
situation as it arises. The boys are ready to close in any time I tip
them off!”

Mr. Sandborn then gave a cue for silence as Butch was heard coming down
the tunnel to relieve Gallagher.

“Take care of these kids, Butch,” Gallagher said; “and watch out fer
them. They’re pretty tough kids!”

“I’m scairt to death already, Gallagher!” roared Butch. “Dago’s the
man for this job. Why he’d be sick at the thought of it. When he has
nightmares it’s on account o’ dreamin’ of these kids here!”

Alone with the boys Butch ordered them to sit on a bench along the
opposite wall while he regaled himself with cigarettes and the only
easy chair in the underground room. Bluff, sloppy, big-mouthed, Butch
would hardly have been recognized as the mean and wanton killer that he
really was. His carefree attitude was really a mask to hide the fact
that he was a haunted man, expecting any time the bullets that would
put a period to his underworld existence.

“So you’re the kids as scare Dago!” he muttered, grinning. “Where’s yer
bows and arrows?”

That was just what Stanley and John were wondering. Probably back in
the bushes from which the boys had been yanked awhile ago! If only
they had those bows and arrows now and a second of time to draw back
on the bow strings! Escape they knew they must for, although they felt
sure Mr. Sandborn would be able to prevent them from getting hurt,
yet they knew that that might also prevent the working out of the F.
B. I.’s plans to get both Hegarty and Nevada! They could not sit idly
back because they seemed checkmated, and just wait for some one to come
along and free them!

“I guess our bows are gone for good,” said Stanley to Butch. “And
things don’t look so good for us, either!”

Butch continued to grin.

“Dyin’ ain’t any fun, eh?”

“Mr. Nevens wouldn’t really hurt us, would he, Butch?” asked Stanley
innocently.

“Naw,” said Butch. “He don’t like to kill kids, not with guns. He’s
partial ta fryin’ them in oil!”

This outburst of humor called for a big laugh; so Butch enjoyed his own
joke to its fullest.

“Well, blow me down!” observed John. “And cook me for a sweet potato!
By all the chinks in far Hong Kong! ‘Sweep the floor, oh, Sally dear,
for father’s comin’ home!’”

He would have gone on in that characteristic manner, half singing, half
talking, but Stan stopped him, amused at John’s excited remarks, in
spite of the tense situation.

“You don’t think up them sayings all yourself?” queried Butch. “Now,
_do_ you?”

“Serve the coffee piping hot and sally down the forepeak, Tim!” began
John again, in deep disgust while he glared at Butch with eyes that
spoke volumes.

“How does that go?” Butch asked. “Say, say that again, kid, that was a
good one!”

But John had lapsed into a forlorn silence which was broken now and
then by a slight muttering. Stan leaned back, trying to think of a way
out of their predicament and Butch, after staring at John as if he were
something on exhibition in a zoo, began to nod and blink sleepily.
He yawned and gaped profusely, slid down further in his chair, and
half-closed his eyes. Dago might be frightened by two kids, but Butch
had no misgivings! Unfortunate Butch----!

After Marzonij had left the harbor at Zenith, Hegarty waited
impatiently for sunset before ordering the anchors up. He knew that
it would have taken an hour or so for his henchman to contact Nevada
and he did not want to get to Porpoise himself till nearly dark. As
a matter of fact, it was nearly dark before the _Sea Hawk_ moved in
towards Black Cove.

And by that time the entire situation on the island had changed.
Marzonij had contacted Cowboy, informed on Mr. Sandborn, it being dusk
then, and had climbed into his boat to leave the cove, while Wan Ho
Din looked on, when some one up on the west ridge began firing with a
tommy-gun! Thinking the shots were intended for himself, Marzonij lost
no time in getting under way and roaring through the channel into the
semi-darkness outside.

But what had really happened was that some one in a machine gun nest
on the ridge had spotted one of Hegarty’s men from the _Malcon_. The
swift _Malcon_ had anchored in the cove on the west end of the island,
where the _Staghound_ had moored before, and had sent men ashore as
the land move of the Hegarty attack. These men had received orders to
locate the gun nests but not to be seen; but one of them had made a
mistake----!

Creeping through the underbrush towards the spot where they had been
forced to abandon their weapons, the G-man’s son and John Tallman lay
frozen as they listened to the rat-tat-tat of machine gun fire.

“Braid my dog’s great whiskers!” whispered John, “the fight’s on!”

“We’ve got to find our bows, John. Sooner or later in this scrap we’re
going to need them! It’ll soon be too dark to find them!”

They moved on, hoping they were not moving into any zone of fire!

“I have to laugh every time I think of Butch’s face when he opened his
eyes!” chuckled Stan. “He sure was a surprised man!”

“You’d be, too,” said John, “if you’d gone to sleep with a couple of
kid prisoners and then woke up to find yourself bound and gagged! We
had to work fast, though, didn’t we?”

Stan nodded.

They had indeed worked fast when Stan gave the signal as Butch slept
late that afternoon, tying his arms swiftly with rope and gagging him
with a knotted handkerchief. Butch’s circulation might be sluggish
in the wrists for a while, so tight were the cords, but at least he
wouldn’t be getting free of his bonds!

“Whoops!” came Stan’s joyous half-yell. “Here’s my bow and yours! And
our arrows!”

They recovered their weapons, drew deeper into the shrubbery and
considered their next move. By now the air was tingling with gunfire
and the shouts of men.

“Apparently so far Hegarty’s men are attacking from the west end of the
island, John,” Stan said; “but it’s pretty certain he’ll get his boats
into the cove shortly and so strike at the heart of Nevada’s fortress!”

“Blazing torches of light!” cried John. “Let’s not stay here gabbing.
What can we do to help?”

Stan grinned at the impetuous John.

It was fairly dark now and Stan was glad of the small pocket flashlight
he had. The boys could best help by finding Holmes and his men and
asking for orders.

“We’ll find Holmes and get our orders!” he said. “Let’s go!”

Since Holmes’ boat and one or more men were likely to be in the cove
where the _Staghound_ now lay at anchor, the boys slid along through
the bushes, cutting swiftly across paths, avoiding known machine gun
nests and tunnel entrances, and so maneuvering for the dash down the
path to that cove. It took some time and the darkness was alive with
the noise of the fight! But they made it safely and soon reached the
shores of the cove. There they found their rowboat where it had been
hidden, and hurried out to the sloop. Some one challenged them as they
drew up to the sloop.

It proved to be a G-Man left aboard the sloop to help protect it from
intrusion by snoopers from the island.

“What’s the row up there?” inquired the Federal agent tensely as the
boys climbed aboard.

“Hegarty’s men are attacking to-night!” cried Stan. “Where’s Mr.
Holmes?”

“I wish I knew!” said the man emphatically. “It’s no joke--hello! Who’s
there?”

The last part of his remark was addressed to the darkness from which
came the sounds of a boat’s engine powerful and low!

“Agent Holmes!” came the reply in a clear quiet voice. “Hegarty has
pulled a fast one and we’ve got to get reinforcements!”

“What about Dad?” demanded Stanley suddenly. “You’re not leaving him
alone in this fight, are you?”

Mr. Holmes grinned in the light of the cabin lamps as he came down from
the cockpit.

“Certainly not! Your father will be quite able to take care of himself,
unless I miscalculate his ability, but I’m leaving two men up on the
ridge to watch for him and aid him if they can. In the meantime--to
Main Haven we go for more men!”

“Think we’ll be safe here in the cove till you get back, Mr. Holmes?”
queried Stanley.

The agent nodded, “I believe so.”

He climbed back into the G-boat and it shortly hummed out of the cove
into the starlit night, headed for Main Haven, and for the numerical
strength of the law to defeat the plans of the underworld! Both Stanley
and John thrilled as they lost track of the white water about the
racing boat.

“They’ll be in Main Haven in no time!” Stan said. “And I hope they get
back twice as fast! I’m nervous about Dad! Hegarty’s anxious to get
him!”

“Thumping blazes!” snapped John, snatching up his bow and arrows.
“What’s keeping us here?”

Stan grinned and blew out the cabin light.

“Took the words right out of my mouth, John,” said he. “Let’s go!”

Fifteen minutes later, as they were coming up over the highest rise and
in sight of the battle, the boys gave cries of astonishment! The entire
ridge of the cove was lined with darting flames of light, and the apex
of those flashes was a spot in the cove in which the _Sea Hawk_, dimly
outlined by her own gunfire, was giving battle to Nevada! Two other
moving black shadows were sliding into the cove now, spitting steel and
fire! The _Malcon_ and the _Canton_, having discharged part of their
crews to surround the spot from the land, were now coming to the aid of
the embattled _Sea Hawk_.

In the meantime, at Main Haven, the racing G-boat had summoned aid.
Wires were humming with the news. The Chief himself had dictated crisp
orders! Men were appearing instantly as if from the ground itself.
From barber shops, boat yards, and the grocery store, came men who had
worked for a day or so now as common working men but who were highly
trained law officers awaiting this very summons!

They came on the run, adjusting automatics in holsters, unleashing
hand machine guns, checking the fuses on tear-gas bombs! Waiting boats
appeared as if from the water itself, trim, speedy craft, with trained
men ready to handle the helms! From points along the coast other swift
boats put out, too, and, within a half hour, Porpoise Island would
not only be surrounded with wary and swift boats waiting for escaping
underworld craft, but the beaches on the island would receive corps
of G-men, each a crack shot, each capable of effective single-handed
combat, each determined to capture the criminals alive or die wiping
them out!

They had taken Alvin Karpis, Baby-Face Nelson, Dillinger in their
stride, and a host of other public enemies! They had trimmed the sails
of Hogan and Brennan! They loved the law and the right and hated the
rats who tried to undermine and destroy the sacred common rights of
mankind! And they went up the hills of Porpoise Island that night eager
for combat, brave, strong, resourceful!




CHAPTER XVIII

The Secret of Black Cove


After leaving the boys that afternoon in the capable hands of Butch,
Gallagher had gone back to Nevada to talk over certain plans in
connection with Hegarty’s expected attack. And he had been so engaged
when Marzonij had been shown up. He had left the room wondering just
what it was Marzonij had brought in the way of news and he had more
than a hunch that it concerned himself. He waited patiently with Dago
while the interview took place, and was doing some fast thinking by the
time Cowboy sent him to the supply room. Cowboy had told him to check
the small arms supplies. They’d already been checked twice by Dago, so
Cowboy could only be stalling him for time!

He went to the supply room and walked about it trying to remember
every detail of Marzonij’s remarks while he was getting Cowboy to
agree to a private interview, trying to guess Cowboy’s thoughts after
that interview by the look of Nevada’s face, estimating his chances
of having been exposed as a law-man! But he could not arrive at any
certainty in his conclusions. He must go on bluffing till he learned
his bluff had been called! It was his duty! And if Cowboy suspected
that the truth trapped him and elected to shoot him down in cold blood,
he’d take it like a man, remembering that the F. B. I. expects the
courage of a soldier in its men!

It was getting dark outside by now, Mr. Sandborn knew, and he knew that
by this time two nights hence Hegarty would try conclusions with the
notorious Nevada!

The first intimation that things had reached a climax already was the
flinging open of the store-room door as some one entered from the cabin
tunnel. At the same time a man came into the supply room from a side
aisle. Both men were tense and spoke in sharp, nervous voices.

“Hegarty’s here, Gallagher!” cried one.

“We’re in for some hot typewriting to-night, Gallagher,” said the
other.

And at that moment, Dago himself appeared in the doorway from the
cabin. He was purple of face as seen in the electric lights of the
store-room. He was gripping a submachine gun in his paws.

“Grab him, men!” cried Dago. “He’s a Fed!”

But the two men, who now stood, quite by accident between Dago and Mr.
Sandborn, were too startled by what Dago yelled to do anything for a
full second. For all they knew it might be a big joke on Dago’s part,
though why Dago should be kidding when Hegarty’s men were in full
attack, was beyond them!

By that time Mr. Sandborn, his own thinking conditioned by training and
habit, had darted like a shadow down a side aisle and was streaking it
for the tunnel entrance near the aquarium before Dago could get into
real pursuit! Then came the whine of steel as Mr. Sandborn covered
the last forty yards to the entrance! The slugs bit and rang on the
woodwork and metal of the entrance, but the G-man was through and in
the open in a flash now!

His first concern was for the boys, and he raced over a path, noting
as he ran that the firing of the battle was coming from the land
ridge on the west of the cove! That would mean that Hegarty had sent
an overland party to draw attention from a main attack elsewhere! The
fleet-footed G-man did not know that as he dashed down one path towards
the waiting room he passed within ten feet of the hidden boys, who had
been crawling forward to find their arrows.

He reached the entrance to the waiting room tunnel, fumbled for a
second for the release catch, then raced down the steps and the
tunnel towards the spot where the boys should still be in the company
of Butch! He entered the waiting room to stumble headlong over the
prostrate figure of Butch! One glance at the man’s bonds told the
story, and the elated G-man raced back again through the tunnel,
disregarding the muffled groans from the unfortunate Butch.

Now where would the boys be? Mr. Sandborn did not know, but he’d have
to look about for them. He became now a silent shadow slinking swiftly
about from one spot of the field of action to another, examining tunnel
entrances, bushes, the boat-house, and the launches for the boys.

Marzonij meanwhile had raced out of the channel to meet the oncoming
_Sea Hawk_. He had been taken aboard, reported his trip to Hegarty, and
confirmed the fact of the beginning of the Big Fight, then taken his
place at a gun as the big yacht moved into the channel to the cove. The
_Malcon_ had come up the sea side, having dropped her landing crew, and
the _Canton_ had come round from the bay side around the snout.

The big yacht tore into the cove first, opening fire as she came, and
the others followed at short distances behind.

Mr. Sandborn, trapped between the fires of both the yachts and the
machine gun crews on the ridges, made haste to get out of his present
position as quickly as possible. As he did so he came face to face with
Dago. Dago had just come round a flower bush in the dark, gun in hand,
and the men recognized each other at once. Dago’s gun muzzle bore down
as Mr. Sandborn’s right hand brought up the automatic he carried. As
the G-man’s trigger finger squeezed, he contrived to slip to his knees!

The blast of Dago’s submachine gun seemed almost to lift the G-man’s
hat from his head, but it was high and clear! Mr. Sandborn’s shot hit
the gangster in the fingers, and, yelling with pain, Dago turned and
bolted.

Mr. Sandborn gave chase, and Dago darted along the cove trail towards a
certain gun nest! As the swarthy fellow tore along he suddenly leaped
off the ground with a scream of pain, and fell in a sprawling, clawing
heap! Mr. Sandborn was upon him in an instant, clipping him sharply
on the head with the muzzle of his automatic. The big mobster now
senseless, the G-man tied him securely with torn strips of clothing,
and left him gagged and helpless in the bushes. He’d be found when
needed, Mr. Sandborn suspected!

“Dad!” came a loud outcry of a youthful voice.

The G-man darted in the direction of the voice and was standing in deep
bushes grasping his son with strong, glad hands a moment later.

“I’m sure glad you’re safe, son,” said he.

“How’d you like that shot, Mr. Sandborn?” queried John. “Did you see
Stan’s arrow sticking in Dago’s pants?”

The truth was that the arrow had been dislodged by Dago’s sprawling
fall, but the G-man had no doubt that a steel-tipped hunting arrow had
caused Dago’s yowl of pain!

“It was a swell shot, boys,” agreed Mr. Sandborn. “But you boys had
better get back to the beaches away from this dangerous scrap! Are
there any G-men ashore, do you know?”

Stan explained that Holmes had left lookouts behind and gone for aid,
and Mr. Sandborn then said it was wise to get through the lines, if
possible, and be clear of the actual fight for a while at least.

But as the boys and the G-man emerged from the bushes, they came face
to face with Cowboy Nevada himself! He was hurrying up the trail,
evidently bound on a visit to one of his machine gun emplacements, and
he was surprised to meet Gallagher. Before he could say or do a thing,
the G-man had flung himself upon Nevada.

Nevada, an old hand at scrapping, shook off the G-man, trying to
maneuver for a shot or two with his six-guns, but Mr. Sandborn whipped
out with alert hands and grabbed the wrists of the desperado!

He twisted hard as he did so, and the guns clattered to the ground out
of reach, where Stanley and John picked them up and hoved them away
from the fight. Grunting with the effort of his blows, the trained
G-man flung himself again upon Nevada, intent on knocking out the
Westerner and taking him alive! Nevada swapped punches for a moment or
two, then turned and ran for the cabin!

The suddenness of this retreat took the G-man by surprise, and Nevada
had a dozen paces head start. But Mr. Sandborn was not to be left
behind, and he closed up, reached out his right hand, and grabbed the
fleeing gunman and crime head by the shoulders, spilling him to the
ground! Then, as Nevada got up, Mr. Sandborn with perfect timing ducked
a punch and slapped home a stiff uppercut that floored the head of the
country’s biggest crime corps for the count!

Expertly, Mr. Sandborn gagged and bound the man as he had done with
Dago, then he dragged the unconscious man into deep shrubbery and left
him there.

At this time the situation at the cove took a turn towards a climax as
Hegarty put the _Sea Hawk_ close to the boat-house and his men leaped
ashore! Nevada’s men came pouring down into the hollow to intercept and
fight the invaders, and Mr. Sandborn and the boys had to duck into the
bushes as this took place.

“Our best bet, boys,” shouted Mr. Sandborn, for the noise of gunfire
drowned out ordinary talk, “is to get up the ridge in case our men are
coming over. Holmes should be back by now with aid.”

The three of them dashed up the path to the ridge, and, as they did so,
they met the G-men coming up the hill by every path, alert, able men
well armed, well trained, anxious to get in at close quarters with the
gangs!

“The Chief sent word for you to report to me, Sandborn,” said Holmes,
“and I’m to give you orders!”

“All right, Holmes, let’s have your orders. I am ready.”

Holmes grinned.

“You’ve done a swell job, Sandborn, and so have the boys, unless my
guess proves pretty wrong when you spill the evidence in court, and my
orders are for you to go with the two boys to the _Staghound_, raise
her sails, and head for Centerport for another brief vacation!”

Protesting, Mr. Sandborn finally agreed to those orders, but before he
started down the slope with the boys he left clear instructions as to
where Dago and Nevada could be found, and pointed the directions of
tunnel entrances. The agent in charge shook hands with Mr. Sandborn and
the boys, and led his eager men in a long, circling line down into the
cove! It would not take those fine young fighters long to tame the wild
disordered ranks of cheap gunmen and wipe out the last of the biggest
crime army yet to levy tribute on the country’s business and people!
And with the capture or death of those men would go the crumpling of
the entire vast syndicate with its network of pillage and spoilage! The
F. B. I. would add another splendid page to its excellent record of
arrests and convictions!

Down at the _Staghound_ the boys and the tired Mr. Sandborn enjoyed a
cup of coffee and doughnuts before raising the sails.

“Wow, what an adventure that was!” breathed Stan. “And I’m glad it’s
over, Dad!”

“No gladder than I am, and your mother will be!” said the clear eyed
man, smiling. “Let’s stay home a few days and keep Mother company.
We’ve been nothing but worry to her for some time now!”

“The water’s no place for pleasure lovers, I can see,” laughed John.
“Great gobs of whipped cream--we’ll have to hike on the road next time,
or go camping, or build us a trailer and become tin-can tourists! Maybe
then we’ll just have a good time and keep clear of gangsters and crime
syndicates!”

“Dad,” said Stan, breaking into John’s facetious remarks, “both John
and I are dying to know what the wreck was at the bottom of Black Cove
and what it contained!”

Mr. Sandborn helped himself to another doughnut while John poured more
coffee.

“The whole story is this, in a few words, boys,” said he: “some years
ago a rum-running yacht called the _Shanghai_, owned and operated by
underworld interests, became a floating bank for the deposit of the
vast sums of money stolen by that particular gang from dozens and
scores of big bank robberies, and kidnapings! Besides that, those
mobsters added actual gold and silver bullion stolen en route from
mines to mints, and chests of precious stones gathered by confidence
men and thieves from the necks and safes of rich victims. Besides a
normal cargo of liquor which enabled the _Shanghai_ to pose as an
ordinary rum-runner, she carried the immense loot I have spoken of.

“For some months while the wealth was being accumulated in that single
hull, and while she rode her place along notorious ‘Rum-Row,’ the
secret was safe; then some one talked, and in time Cowboy Nevada, a
small time racketeer, heard of it.

“He conceived and executed a clever plot by means of which he took
possession of the yacht on the seas, took her into Black Cove, which he
had figured as a perfect spot for his plan, and sank her at once during
the same night, so that at daybreak there was no trace of the vanished
rum-runner!”

John choked on a doughnut, he was so surprised.

“That certainly was an ingenious way to set himself up in big-time
racketeering!” said Stan. “No wonder he had wealth to start him off on
his way to a syndicate!”

“You’re right,” agreed Mr. Sandborn, soberly. “And Nevada made sure
to rescue, by a diver, only what he really needed in ready riches
to handle his vast enterprises. He kept a pile of cases loaded with
currency in his store-room, but the _Shanghai_ must still contain a
vast store of jewels, money, and bullion. Most of it will find its way
shortly to its rightful owners!”

They finished the brief meal, and, warm and somewhat rested, the boys
hoisted sail, stowed the tender on deck, and slacked off the sheets
while the fleet _Staghound_, which had been not so long ago the
black-hulled _Water Witch_, bore the G-man, the G-man’s son, and the
faithful and amusing John Tallman towards the far lights of Centerport,
and home!


THE END




TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:


  Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

  Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

  Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

  Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.

  Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
    copyright on this publication was renewed.


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