Chapter VII: A Journey in the Night

While Drew Lane sat meditating on the various aspects of the kidnaping, Tom Howe groaned and sat up.

“Drew,” he drawled, rubbing his head, “I’ve been felled by a ghost, a galloping ghost.”

“You don’t mean to say you believe that stuff!” Drew held up the pink sheet.

“I believe,” said Howe with a wry grin, “that I have a large lump on the top of my head and that it’s sore. I believe it was put there by a thing that looked like a ghost. That’s all I have to say about that.”

“Well, then, what have you to say about this?” Drew held up the envelope containing the shavings and bullet.

“What is it?”

Drew showed him the contents and read the note.

“Curious sort of writing,” he ended. “And look how he signed it: ‘The G.G.’”

“That,” drawled Howe, “could stand for ‘The Galloping Ghost.’”

“It _must_!” Drew struck the table with his fist. “But why all the secrecy?”

“That,” Howe replied thoughtfully, “will probably come out later. The only question that matters seems to be: Is this ghost with us or against us?”

“With us. Can’t be any doubt about that.”

“Then we’d better follow his suggestions.”

“Collect pocket knives?”

“Why not? Interesting collection. What sort of knives do crooks carry? Bet you can’t tell. Well, now we’ll know.”

“Guess you’re right. But say!” Drew exclaimed. “What did you get from the car, the one the Red Rover was snatched from?”

“A bed sheet.” Howe held it up.

“Marked?”

“Not a mark.”

“Then what—?” Drew stared at his partner.

“Some one had stepped on the bed, probably with his shoe on. I thought I’d try the ultra-violet ray on it. Surprising what it brings out sometimes.”

“Probably worth a try.” Drew was not enthusiastic. Howe had gone in for scientific crime detection lately. Drew was still for going out and getting his man.

“Howe,” he demanded after a moment of silence, “who fired that shot back there in the train yards?”

“You answer that. A hand was all I saw, a hand thrust out from behind a car. Fired point-blank at me. And missed.”

“This may be the bullet,” Drew mused, weighing the battered bullet from the mystery envelope in his hand.

“It might be. Don’t seem likely, though. That bullet struck the side of a steel car.”

“Might have glanced. Mighty fine evidence. Find the gun that fired this bullet and you’ve got the man. Gun scratches the bullet as no other gun would. Microscope brings out that, doesn’t it?”

“Sure does. You find the man and his gun. I’ll do the rest.” Howe gave vent to a low chuckle. “Nothing would please me more! Not a nice thing, this being shot at.”

“Kidnapers are not nice people.” Drew’s tone changed. “Fact is, they’re about the worst people in all the world. Should be shot at sunrise, every man of ’em.

“It’s not so bad,” he philosophized, “stealing diamonds. They’re only a lot of stones after all. And money. ‘Who steals my purse steals trash. ’Twas mine. ’Tis his, and has been a curse to thousands.’

“But think!” He sprang to his feet. “Think of the cowards that steal a human life, a helpless woman, an innocent child, and then send back word, ‘Money, much money, or we will take the life of this one we have snatched.’

“That—why, that’s like going into battle holding a woman before you to stop the bullets! Howe, old boy, we’ve got a task laid out for us, a man-sized task, and we’re going to do it! You see if we don’t!”

Howe smiled in a quiet way. A quiet chap, was this slender detective; quiet, but feared in the underworld as many a big blustering cop was not.

“Drew,” he said after a long silence, “why did they snatch the Red Rover?”

“Revenge, perhaps. The university has been fighting kidnapers. Think what a bold stroke it would be to carry off their super-star just a few days before the final great game of the season!”

“Sounds pretty,” said Howe thoughtfully. “But it doesn’t click. Crooks waste little time on revenge. Dough is what they are after. Money. Money. Money. That is their long cry.”

“But where’s there money in snatching a football star?”

“Who knows? Perhaps they’re being paid.”

“Paid? By whom?”

“Northern wants to win. Isn’t Northern Old Midway’s ancient rival? Doesn’t the championship hang in the balance? What’s a few thousand dollars when such a prize is at stake?”

“But universities are not like that!”

“Not the schools. Of course not. But alumni. Who can say what some rich and over-enthusiastic alumnus would risk to see that game won?”

“Not much sense to that.”

“Perhaps not. But what then?”

“They may be hoping that Old Midway will dig deep to get their star back.”

“If that’s the racket we’ll know soon enough. There’ll be letters, phone calls, demanding ransom. What say we turn in? To-morrow is just around the corner. And to-morrow we must be out and after ’em.”

“What’s the first move?”

“Trace that speed boat down the river, the one that carried him away. It went south, that’s clear enough. I saw where they tied up to an old scow. Scraped her side when they left; rubbed off a lot of mud. The shape of the spot showed plain enough which way they were going. Somehow we’ve got to find their hide-out and get the Red Rover back.”

Had the speaker been privileged to see the Red Rover at that moment ankle deep in icy water, making his way as best he could with pole and improvised paddle on a raft that, turning round and round, seemed to go nowhere, he would surely have understood that a long trail lay before him. Not being granted such a vision, he crawled into his bed and went sound asleep.

* * * * * * * *

There was no sleep for Red Rodgers and his mysterious little friend on the raft.

There had been clumsy, flat-bottomed boats in the rust-blackened slips where monster ore boats lay near Red’s boyhood home, but no rafts.

Just how does one propel a raft? By a long pole where water is shallow. But one does not endeavor to drive the raft in the direction he wishes to go. He is more likely to achieve his end if he shoves in the opposite direction. For a raft, like an ox, a mule or a reindeer, is likely to go its own cranky way.

This Red learned soon enough. Scarcely had he begun poling than the raft started spinning like a top. It was only under the girl’s expert direction that he at last started for the shore that loomed dark and ragged in the distance.

They had not gone a dozen yards when the bottom sank beneath the end of the pole.

“Now we must paddle.” Heedless of the icy water, the girl dropped upon one knee, seized a narrow slab of wood and began a vigorous dip-dip that in time, it seemed, must take them somewhere.

Following her example, Red, on the opposite side, did his bit.

Under this treatment the raft behaved admirably. Keeping in view only the shore they had left, they paddled for a good half hour when, with a shock that all but sent them splashing into the water, they struck a hard object that gave out a hollow sound.

“Shore?” There was relief in Red’s tone.

“No shore.” The girl stood up. Her head struck something and she bounced down again.

“Thunder and guns! What now?” Red turned about to stare with all his eyes. The thing they had bumped into was a hydroplane, the very one that had carried them to this deserted spot.

“Oh!” The girl seized his arm. “Can—can you fly it?” Hope and fear were mingled in her tone.

“I—I’m sorry,” Red stammered. “To-night I took my first airplane journey.

“And I can’t say I wanted to come,” he added as a witty afterthought.

“But say!” he exclaimed suddenly. “You just hang on here a bit. I—I’ll be right back.”

They were beneath one of the machine’s great wings. Reaching up, he swung himself to the upper surface, and disappeared into the dark.

“Dangerous business,” he muttered to himself. “May have heard that bump, those fellows. May see my light. Might come upon us here any minute, but it’s a chance you can’t pass up.”

By dropping here, climbing there, then moving over to the right, he reached one of the twin motors. There, after flashing his light for a moment, he put out a hand, fumbled about, then pocketed a small object. These actions were repeated when he reached the second motor.

After that, with a sigh of relief, he dropped back upon the raft.

“Fix ’em!” he muttered. “Fix ’em plenty, the dirty dogs!

“Now come on. Let’s get out of here quick! Wish we could take one of those pontoons for a boat; but that’s impossible.”

A cloud had gone over the moon. He felt the girl’s cold hand as she steadied him down to a safe place of balance on the raft, and he chided himself for being so long.

“Cabins,” he whispered. “Cabins with fireplaces, easy chairs, blankets, and things to eat.”

All this seemed very, very far away. And yet with youth “hope springs eternal.”

Once again they worked their imperfect oars. In a surprisingly short time they once more bumped. With a low cry of hope, the girl sprang ashore.

“There should be a trail,” she called back.

“Moose trail?”

“Moose and men. Here! Here it is! We go this way.”

She led on over a trail so carpeted with moss that their footsteps made no sound.

“This girl knows a lot about this island,” Red said to himself. “How come?”

Once again he was tempted to believe that she was in league with the kidnapers. “That doesn’t make sense either. Mixed up mess. Just have to tramp on and see how it all comes out.”

He tramped on.