Chapter XX: Patsy’s Triumph

While these events were transpiring in Philadelphia Patsy was endeavoring to set out as a yachtsman.

Chick said that Patsy was like a cat, since he always fell on his feet, no matter how you threw him.

Leaving Nick and Chick starting for their Philadelphia trip, he wandered over to Broadway and from caprice turned into the hotel café where he had left the man who had brought to Masson the news of the change in the arrangements for the funeral of Ethel Romney.

Rather to his surprise than otherwise, he found this man drinking with acquaintances.

Among them was one with whom Patsy was slightly acquainted.

This man knew Patsy had some connection with Nick Carter, but how much he knew Patsy could not tell.

As Patsy was standing near the bar, this man looked up and recognized the lad.

He arose from his seat and crossed to where Patsy was standing, addressing the young detective rather familiarly.

His purpose of rising appeared to be to light his cigar; but he said:

“I want to shake that crowd. They drink too fast for me, and I don’t like the gang.”

The man who was in relations to Masson called out:

“Are you going, Jensen? Well, don’t forget to send me a handy boy for the cabin, as you promised.”

“Who is that?” asked Patsy.

“His name is Moore. He is a sort of a hanger-on of Masson, the broker. Don’t know what, exactly. But does things for him.”

“What does he want of a handy boy?”

“Some one to go as a steward on Masson’s yacht.”

“I wish you would get me the job.”

“You?”

The man called Jensen looked curiously at Patsy for a moment, and then asked:

“Do you mean it?”

“Sure.”

“You would take the place?”

“Try me.”

“By George! What a go. I’ll try it. Ever had any experience that way?”

“I was on the _Gay Flirt_ one season.”

“Good.”

He called Moore aside and whispered to him a while. Moore came to Patsy, saying in an off-hand way:

“My friend backs you for the place. Wages twenty dollars a month and board. Report on board the _Derelict_ off Twenty-third Street, at nine to-morrow morning.”

He handed Patsy a slip of paper, on which he had written some words, and went back to his companions.

Looking at it, Patsy saw it was an order to the chief steward to put him to work.

Hailing the man Jansen, Patsy prepared to leave, but Jansen followed him out to say:

“I’d give an old button to know your game. But I’ll wait to hear the story until I meet you again.”

Patsy went off with a laugh, and to bed.

The next morning, promptly at nine, he reported on the _Derelict_, and was promptly set at work.

He was heartily sick of his job before the day was over, for it was hard work he was at, with nothing occurring to relieve the monotony.

About six o’clock in the evening the man he had seen the night before waiting for Masson in front of the club house came aboard.

Patsy soon learned that he was the sailing-master and he had not been on board long before there were orders to pull up and steam down the river.

The yacht was taken around Governor’s Island, into Gowanus Bay, and brought to anchor not far from, but out of the track of boats of, the Thirty-ninth Street Ferry.

All things were settled for the night.

The next morning there was much work done in preparation of sailing that afternoon with the owner on board.

Patsy kept a keen eye open for signs of the things Nick expected to occur, for he felt that whatever did occur must happen before the yacht set sail on its cruise.

At twelve o’clock the man who had engaged him as steward the night previous, Moore, appeared on board and entered at once into an earnest talk with the sailing-master.

What the subject of their talk was Patsy was unable to discover, although he made all sorts of efforts to get within earshot.

Whatever it was, was not to the liking of the sailing-master, for he shook his head doubtfully over what Moore was saying. The other was persistent.

Finally, the sailing-master arose, saying in a tone easily heard by Patsy:

“Well, all right, I’ll do it. But I tell you, Moore, I don’t like it. There will be trouble for some of us, if it keeps up.”

“There’ll be no more,” said Moore. “The Mogul has his mind set on this and——Well, if we don’t help in it, some one will be out of a job.”

“And some of us take a chance of being in—somewhere else,” replied the other, with a bitter laugh.

As he turned away Moore detained him, and there was a further whispered conversation, during which Patsy could see that they frequently looked at him.

Finally the sailing-master called him over and asked:

“Do you know how to obey orders and keep your mouth shut and your eyes closed for an extra wad?”

“For that I do,” replied Patsy.

“I size him up as right, Moore,” said the sailing-master. “Give him your orders.”

He walked away.

“There’s something on this afternoon that’ll make dollars for you,” said Moore.

“All right,” said Patsy.

“Well, then,” said Moore, “in twenty minutes you’ll go ashore and be posted in a certain place, where you can see all around you. And there you’ll stand. See?”

Patsy nodded.

“By and by, up on a hill that will be shown you, a man will wave a red cloth. If there are no policemen in sight you will wave a white handkerchief. If there are you’ll wave a green one. See?”

“I see, all right.”

“Then you’ll feet for the launch, and, getting aboard, shut your eyes. See?”

“All right.”

“Then you’re game for it.”

“Game for anything.”

Moore went away, but was back again shortly, telling him to follow.

A steam launch lay alongside, into which Moore dropped, telling Patsy to follow.

This launch ran off to a part of the beach rather out of sight and retired.

A broken-down wharf stretched out into the water, and the launch ran up to it.

At a signal Patsy went ashore. Four other men went ashore also, leaving two men aboard, one at the wheel, and the engineer.

Patsy noticed that none of the other men seemed to be of the yacht’s crew.

The six picked their way over the wharf or pierway and reached the land.

It was a lonely spot, a large, unbroken waste, few houses or buildings near.

They all followed Moore for some three hundred yards, when he stopped, saying to Patsy:

“This is your post. Now keep your eyes open for policemen. Up on that hill yonder the man will be with the red flag. If the way is clear and nobody down there where we landed, wave this.”

He handed Patsy a napkin.

Moore took the other men away. Just then a bell tolled in the distance.

“The devil!” exclaimed Patsy. “We’re not far from Greenwood Cemetery.”

Then he said again:

“And the funeral is to-day.”

He sat down on a stone and did some thinking.

The result of this was that he took off his coat, turned it inside out and put it on again, looking as if he had another coat on. From his pockets he drew a wig and put that on. He rolled up his cap and put on a slouch hat.

Then he stole up in the direction the others had gone. He passed the man stationed on the hill unrecognized.

Arriving at the avenue where the cars ran, he looked around for Moore. By and by he saw him standing in front of a drinking saloon.

He edged up close to him and saw he was anxiously waiting for some one.

That some one appeared shortly in the person of Masson, from a carriage which was driven up to the place.

“Well?” said Masson.

“It’s all right, so far,” replied Moore.

“The funeral carriages will be along in a moment.”

“Is the driver fixed?” asked Moore.

“Yes; to be knocked off his box, and one of our men to take his place.”

“Does she ride alone?”

“No; hang it. There’s a woman with her.”

Patsy went out and sat on the curbstone. Something—an outrage of some kind—was on foot.

A funeral procession came up—a small one. In the carriage immediately behind the hearse were two women. One he recognized at once.

It was Edith, Nick Carter’s wife.

The other was Blanche Constant. He was sure of that from the description he had had of her and a photograph he had seen.

Something of the villainy on foot came to him. He hurried back to his post and again became a steward of the _Derelict_.

His wait was a long one. By and by he saw the red cloth waved by the man on the hill.

He gave the signal of the white cloth—indeed, gave it without care as to whether or not there was any one near or not.

A minute later a carriage came dashing over the hill.

Four men sprang out, one seizing the horses, while one knocked the driver from the box and climbed up himself.

Two others climbed into the coach from either side.

Then the coach made straight for the landing where the launch was.

Patsy started on a run for the little pier, and at the land end waited, well hidden.

As the coach whirled up, he could see within it.

Edith was there, and so was Blanche Constant, but both were unconscious.

Masson and Moore were both there also. The two men—the signal man and the one who had stopped the horses—were left behind.

Masson had planned to seize Blanche Constant as she was returning from the funeral of her sister and carry her off in his yacht.

Edith had been with Blanche, contrary to expectation, and she had been dosed to prevent her from interfering, but was to be sent back to the city.

Patsy’s plan was made in an instant—a plan to spoil the plan that had been carefully laid.

He waited until Masson got out of the coach and had lifted Blanche out.

Then he sprang into full view, both revolvers leveled.

“Hold!” he cried. “Put that lady down!”

“What!” shouted Masson. “What the deuce! Moore, look to that fellow!”

The driver made a movement as if to get off his box.

“Jim Grady!” cried Patsy; “if you stir, I’ll put a ball into you and pull you in beside for that job of two nights ago!”

“Heavens!” cried the driver, “it’s Patsy Murphy!”

He jumped from his box and ran like a deer. Meanwhile Masson was raving like a madman, calling on Moore to shoot the young detective.

Moore did start for Patsy, and with revolver in hand.

Patsy was in no humor for fooling and, as Moore approached, he fired, striking the scoundrel in the shoulder and sending him to the ground with a groan.

Masson, seeing his lieutenant down, dropped Blanche to the ground and rushed like a maniac at Patsy, shouting for help.

The engineer and the wheelman, hearing the shot and the cries of Masson, climbed out of the launch and came rapidly over the rickety wharf.

Patsy saw at a glance that he was likely to be attacked from behind, and, taking deliberate aim, fired at Masson, hitting him in the upper right arm.

Yelling with pain and rage Masson dropped to the ground and Patsy, whirling around, shouted to the two coming over the rickety pier:

“Back, you curs! I’ll serve you as I have the others. I’m Patsy Murphy!”

Whether they knew the name, or were satisfied that he would do what he said he would, the fact is that they stopped, and at Patsy’s command dropped to the pier.

Dashing up to the carriage, Patsy picked up Mrs. Constant, put her in the coach, and, springing on the box, whipped up the horses.

He was not a minute too soon, for the signal man, the driver and the other one were approaching as fast as they could run.

Indeed, as Patsy drove toward them they made an effort to stop his way, but Patsy, standing up in his box, fired his revolver, right and left, in a way that made them believe that caution was the better part.

So he dashed on toward the avenue.

The shots had attracted attention, of course, and several policemen came.

“I’m Patsy Murphy, of Nick Carter’s staff of detectives,” cried Patsy. “This is a case of abduction that I have spoiled. The ladies in the coach are Mrs. Constant and Nick Carter’s wife. Seize those men of that yacht lying out there.”

But, looking out on the water, they could see the yacht was moving out into the harbor under full steam.

Patsy was disappointed, for he would have liked to arrest Masson, but he had saved the women, and that was the important thing.

He first drove them to a drug store, where they were quickly restored to consciousness, and then to the city, having first engaged a driver at a livery stable.

Edith took Blanche home with her, and Patsy was a hero in the eyes of both. But Patsy, getting home, was inconsolable that he had no prisoners.