Chapter XXIII: The Calling Voices

Tom rubbed his eyes. He wanted to be sure he was not dreaming, or seeing a vision of his lost motorboat. And yet, as his sight cleared, he knew he could not be mistaken.

“It’s her!” he cried. “It’s the dear old _Tag_ all right! Jinks! but I’m in luck! Now, if none of those fellows are in her, I’ll soon be aboard. And if she’s in running order--”

He paused in apprehension. What if the hermit’s crowd had damaged the machinery so that the craft would not run? Tom felt himself grow cold with fear at this possibility.

“I’ll soon see,” he murmured, and he settled down into a long, even stroke that quickly brought him close to the floating craft.

Now he proceeded more cautiously, for he realized that there might be a plot--an ambuscade to trap him, and make him a prisoner as were his companions.

“Ahoy the _Tag_!” he shouted, but there was no answer. The boat continued to drift with the current of the river which made itself felt thus far out in the lake.

“Guess there’s no one home,” murmured Tom. “So much the better. I’ll soon be aboard.”

A few more strokes put him alongside, and a quick look into the interior of the craft showed him that the machinery, at least, was intact.

“Though whether she’ll run or not is another question,” he said aloud. “Come, _Tag_,” he went on, half whimsically, “be nice now, and start for me.”

He looked into the gasolene tank, and saw that he had enough for a run of several miles, enough to get to the old mill, and back across the lake to camp again.

“That is, if I get the boys,” he mused; “I shan’t leave without them this time,” and he shut his teeth grimly. Testing the batteries, he found that the vibration from the coil was strong, and he took out a spark plug to note the current. It jumped blue and spitefully from point to point, when he laid the plug on a cylinder head, and turned the flywheel to make the contact.

“So far so good,” murmured Tom. “Now to see if she’ll start. Probably because everything is all right she won’t, but she ought to. Oh, if only motorboats would do as they ought to!”

The first turn of the flywheel resulted in a sort of surprised cough. The next gave forth a sneeze, as if the engine had just awakened.

Then came a vigorous “chug!” at the third turn.

“Come, we’re getting on!” exclaimed Tom with a laugh--his first good one since the disappearance of his chums and the boat. “As soon as she finds out I’m in her, instead of the old hermit and his crowd, I think she’ll behave herself.”

Tom’s prophecy proved correct, for with the next turn of the flywheel the boat started off as if she had never had an intention of doing anything else.

“Hurray!” cried Tom. “Now for the mill and the boys. But I guess I’d better throttle down, for she’s making too much noise. No use giving my game away in advance.”

He cut down the gas at the carburetor, and proceeded at half speed, meanwhile wondering what he would do when he got to the mill, and puzzling his brains as to how his enemies had allowed the boat to get out of their possession.

“I’ll have a peep at the bow line,” he murmured, and when he looked at the end of it he uttered an exclamation. It was frayed and worn. “That accounts for it,” he went on. “They tied the boat where the line could cut and chafe against a rock, and she worked herself loose. Good old _Tag_! I guess she knew I wanted her.”

Tom actually patted the engine of his craft, as though it was a thing alive. He headed in toward the river, towing the skiff behind him. He intended to return the small craft to the place whence he and his chums had taken it, after the affair was all over.

“Though we may need it in the meanwhile,” he said. “And there is no use letting it fall into our enemies’ hands right away. They might use it against us.”

Reaching the mouth of the river, Tom slowed down his power still more, so as to make less noise, for he could not tell what minute the hermit, or some of those with him, might set out in search of the missing boat.

“And I don’t want them to take me unawares,” he said grimly.

He decided that he would do as had been done on a previous occasion--hide his boat some distance from the mill, and proceed the rest of the way on foot. He took particular pains to hide his craft this time, selecting a place where an eddy from the stream had followed out a miniature bay in the bank. It was well screened by overhanging bushes and trees, and as there were several others like it along the river, it would take a good guesser to pick out this particular one at first.

Tom marked the place so he would know it himself, even if he came past in a hurry, and then, having arranged the bushes so as to further screen his boat, and gathering up his package of food, the small axe, the blanket, and his light, he set out.

It was nervous work, for he realized that because of the loss of the boat a searching party might be out looking for it.

“But they’re likely to stick to the river,” he argued, “and if I strike inland a bit, and go that way, they’re not so apt to find me. I’ll do it.”

He had to pass near the cave where they had spent the night the time they first missed the boat, and he looked inside the cavern. To his surprise it showed signs of occupancy since he and his chums had been there.

“They have been here,” he argued. “Or maybe it was the hermit, who spent a night here, instead of in the mill.”

There were signs that a fire had been recently made, and food cooked, and there were portions of the latter scattered about. Tom, however, did not stay long there. It was getting on toward noon, and he had much before him.

On the top of the bank, overlooking the river, he found an old trail, which he followed. It was narrow, showing that probably only one man had traveled it in recent years.

“The old hermit,” mused Tom. “This is one of his paths. It must lead right to the mill, and it’ll take me there as well as if I had gone along the river, and a deal safer, too.”

He walked briskly until he judged that he was close to the ancient structure, and then he proceeded more cautiously. As he came in sight of it he crouched behind the bushes, fairly crawling on until he had a good view.

His first glimpse was at the window where he had seen the sentinel stand with a gun, and to his surprise and disappointment, he now saw the sun glinting on the barrel of a weapon.

“Pshaw!” exclaimed Tom. “No chance of taking them by surprise. And they aren’t out, as I half-hoped they’d be. They are still on guard. I’ve got to wait.”

He sat down under a bush and ate some of the lunch he had brought, sipping water from a bottle he had in his bundle. Then, after a half hour, he looked again. The gun was still pointed out of the window, seeming to be aimed at whoever should advance directly against the mill.

“Still there,” mused Tom angrily. “They are taking no chances.” Intently from his screened post of observation, he watched the gun barrel. Then a strange thought came to him--a thought that sent the blood tingling through him.

“Of course!” he cried to himself. “Why didn’t I think of it before? Now to see if I’m right.”

Boldly he stood up, in plain view of anyone from the window. The gun did not move to follow his action. It remained pointing in the same direction.

“That’s it!” he exulted. “The gun is just fixed there! No one is holding it. It’s just like the trick once played in some battle. It’s a dummy gun. Hurray! I’m all right now. They have gone out, and left the gun pointing from the window to scare anyone who might come along.”

Still Tom did not abandon all caution. He realized that though those guarding his chums might be gone from the top story, they still might be somewhere in the mill.

“I’ve got to be careful,” our hero assured himself. “But I’ll take a few chances.”

Approaching until he stood close under the open window from which the gun protruded, he tossed a stone up. It fell within the casement, and Tom heard it drop on the floor.

“That ought to raise something,” he said, looking warily around to see if he was observed. There was no movement, and no one appeared.

“Here goes for another,” said our hero. This time his stone hit the gun barrel, and it tinkled resoundingly. But it was not moved, proving conclusively that it was fastened there and not held by hands.

“If I could only get Jack or some of the others to answer,” thought Tom. “I guess I’ll have to get inside and let ’em know I’m here. But how?”

It was quite a puzzle. He knew he could not get to the third story from inside the mill, or at least he did not know the secret of the hidden staircase.

“I haven’t time to hunt for a trick door,” he told himself. “I’ve got to find a way that’s plain to be seen. And I don’t want to go inside unless I have to, either, for if they are hiding and playing some trick they’ll nab me sure.”

This thought made him look around apprehensively, and he decided to make a circuit of the mill from without, in order to make sure there was no one on the outside.

He moved away from in front, and went to one side, the place where, on the plans, the secret staircase in the thick wall was shown to be. The ground sloped away on this side, and as Tom came opposite a pile of stones, he was startled and surprised to hear a voice saying:

“Oh, if only Tom would come!”

“Yes, I don’t see why he doesn’t,” another voice answered.

“Maybe they have him, too,” spoke a third person.

Tom stood as if electrified.

“My chums!” he murmured. “Their voices! But where do the sounds come from?” He looked around to find the source of the hidden tones, but he could see nothing.