Tom Swift and His Submarine Boat by Howard R. Garis (read after .TXT) 📖

“Bless my water ballast, but that certainly is a fine boat!” cried Mr. Damon, when he had been shown over the new craft. “I think I shall feel even safer in that than in the Red Cloud.”

“Oh, don’t go back on the airship!” exclaimed Mr Sharp. “I was counting on taking you on another trip.”

“Well, maybe after we get back from under the ocean,” agreed Mr. Damon. “I particularly like the cabin arrangements of the Advance. I think I shall enjoy myself.”

He would be hard to please who could not take pleasure from a trip in the submarine. The cabin was particularly fine, and the sleeping arrangements were good.

More supplies could be carried than was possible on the airship, and there was more room in which to cook and serve food. Mr. Damon was fond of good living, and the kitchen pleased him as much as anything else.

Early the next morning Tom set out for Atlantis, to meet Captain Weston at the hotel. The young inventor inquired of the clerk whether the seafaring man had arrived, and was told that he had come the previous evening.

“Is he in his room?” asked Tom.

“No,” answered the clerk with a peculiar grin. “He’s an odd character. Wouldn’t go to bed last night until we had every window in his room open, though it was blowing quite hard, and likely to storm. The captain said he was used to plenty of fresh air. Well, I guess he got it, all right.”

“Where is he now?” asked the youth, wondering what sort of an individual he was to meet.

“Oh, he was up before sunrise, so some of the scrubwomen told me. They met him coming from his room, and he went right down to the beach with a big telescope he always carries with him. He hasn’t come back yet. Probably he’s down on the sand.”

“Hasn’t he had breakfast?”

“No. He left word he didn’t want to eat until about four bells, whatever time that is.”

“It’s ten o’clock,” replied Tom, who had been studying up on sea terms lately. “Eight bells is eight o’clock in the morning, or four in the afternoon or eight at night, according to the time of day. Then there’s one bell for every half hour, so four bells this morning would be ten o’clock in this watch, I suppose.”

“Oh, that’s the way it goes, eh?” asked the clerk. “I never could get it through my head. What is twelve o’clock noon?”

“That’s eight bells, too; so is twelve o’clock midnight. Eight bells is as high as they go on a ship. But I guess I’ll go down and see if I can meet the captain. It will soon be ten o’clock, or four bells, and he must be hungry for breakfast. By the way, is that Mr. Berg still here?”

“No; he went away early this morning. He and Captain Weston seemed to strike up quite an acquaintance, the night clerk told me. They sat and smoked together until long after midnight, or eight bells,” and the clerk smiled as he glanced down at the big diamond ring on his little finger.

“They did?” fairly exploded Tom, for he had visions of what the wily Mr. Berg might worm out of the simple captain.

“Yes. Why, isn’t the captain a proper man to make friends with?” and the clerk looked at Tom curiously.

“Oh, yes, of course,” was the hasty answer. “I guess I’ll go and see if I can find him—the captain, I mean.”

Tom hardly knew what to think. He wished his father, or Mr. Sharp, had thought to warn Captain Weston against talking of the wreck. It might be too late now.

The young inventor hurried to the beach, which was not far from the hotel. He saw a solitary figure pacing up and down, and from the fact that the man stopped, every now and then, and gazed seaward through a large telescope, the lad concluded it was the captain for whom he was in search. He approached, his footsteps making no sound on the sand. The man was still gazing through the glass.

“Captain Weston?” spoke Tom.

Without a show of haste, though the voice must have startled him, the captain turned. Slowly he lowered the telescope, and then he replied softly:

“That’s my name. Who are you, if I may ask?”

Tom was struck, more than by anything else, by the gentle voice of the seaman. He had prepared himself, from the description of Mr. Sharp, to meet a gruff, bewhiskered individual, with a voice like a crosscut saw, and a rolling gait. Instead he saw a man of medium size, with a smooth face, merry blue eyes, and the softest voice and gentlest manner imaginable. Tom was very much disappointed. He had looked for a regular sea-dog, and he met a landsman, as he said afterward. But it was not long before our hero changed his mind regarding Captain Weston.

“I’m Tom Swift,” the owner of that name said, “and I have been sent to show you the way to where our ship is ready to launch.” The young inventor refrained from mentioning submarine, as it was the wish of Mr Sharp to disclose this feature of the voyage to the sailor himself.

“Ha, I thought as much,” resumed the captain quietly. “It’s a fine day, if I may be permitted to say so,” and he seemed to hesitate, as if there was some doubt whether or not he might make that observation.

“It certainly is,” agreed the lad. Then, with a smile he added: “It is nearly eight bells.”

“Ha!” exclaimed the captain, also smiling, but even his manner of saying “Ha!” was less demonstrative than that of most persons. “I believe I am getting hungry, if I may be allowed the remark,” and again he seemed asking Tom’s pardon for mentioning the fact.

“Perhaps you will come back to the cabin and have a little breakfast with me,” he went on. “I don’t know what sort of a galley or cook they have aboard the Beach Hotel, but it can’t be much worse than some I’ve tackled.”

“No, thank you,” answered the youth. “I’ve had my breakfast. But I’ll wait for you, and then I’d like to get back. Dad and Mr. Sharp are anxious to meet you.”

“And I am anxious to meet them, if you don’t mind me mentioning it,” was the reply, as the captain once more put the spyglass to his eye and took an observation. “Not many sails in sight this morning,” he added. “But the weather is fine, and we ought to get off in good shape to hunt for the treasure about which Mr. Sharp wrote me. I believe we are going after treasure,” he said; “that is, if you don’t mind talking about it.”

“Not in the least,” replied Tom quickly, thinking this a good opportunity for broaching a subject that was worrying him. “Did you meet a Mr. Berg here last night, Captain Weston?” he went on.

“Yes. Mr. Berg and I had quite a talk. He is a well-informed man.”

“Did he mention the sunken treasure?” asked the lad, eager to find out if his suspicions were true.

“Yes, he did, if you’ll excuse me putting it so plainly,” answered the seaman, as if Tom might be offended at so direct a reply. But the young inventor was soon to learn that this was only an odd habit with the seaman.

“Did he want to know where the wreck of the Boldero was located?” continued the lad. “That is, did he try to discover if you knew anything about it?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Weston, “he did. He pumped me, if you are acquainted with that term, and are not offended by it. You see, when I arrived here I made inquiries as to where your father’s place was located. Mr. Berg overheard me, and introduced himself as agent for a shipbuilding concern. He was very friendly, and when he said he knew you and your parent, I thought he was all right.”

Tom’s heart sank. His worst fears were to be realized, he thought.

“Yes, he and I talked considerable, if I may be permitted to say so,” went on the captain. “He seemed to know about the wreck of the Boldero, and that she had three hundred thousand dollars in gold aboard. The only thing he didn’t know was where the wreck was located. He knew it was off Uruguay somewhere, but just where he couldn’t say. So he asked me if I knew, since he must have concluded that I was going with you on the gold-hunting expedition.”

“And you do know, don’t you?” asked Tom eagerly.

“Well, I have it pretty accurately charted out, if you will allow me that expression,” was the calm answer. “I took pains to look it up at the request of Mr. Sharp.”

“And he wanted to worm that information out of you?” inquired the youth excitedly.

“Yes, I’m afraid he did.”

“Did you give him the location?”

“Well,” remarked the captain, as he took another observation before closing up the telescope, “you see, while we were talking, I happened to drop a copy of a map I’d made, showing the location of the wreck. Mr. Berg picked it up to hand to me, and he looked at it.”

“Oh!” cried Tom. “Then he knows just where the treasure is, and he may get to it ahead of us. It’s too bad.”

“Yes,” continued the seaman calmly, “Mr. Berg picked up that map, and he looked very closely at the latitude and longitude I had marked as the location of the wreck.”

“Then he won’t have any trouble finding it,” murmured our hero.

“Eh? What’s that?” asked the captain, “if I may be permitted to request you to repeat what you said.”

“I say he won’t have any trouble locating the sunken Boldero,” repeated Tom.

“Oh, but I think he will, if he depends on that map,” was the unexpected reply. “You see,” explained Mr. Weston, “I’m not so simple as I look. I sensed what Mr. Berg was after, the minute he began to talk to me. So I fixed up a little game on him. The map which I dropped on purpose, not accidentally, where he would see it, did have the location of the wreck marked. Only it didn’t happen to be the right location. It was about five hundred miles out of the way, and I rather guess if Mr. Berg and his friends go there for treasure they’ll find considerable depth of water and quite a lonesome spot. Oh, no, I’m not as easy as I look, if you don’t mind me mentioning that fact; and when a scoundrel sets out to get the best of me, I generally try to turn the tables on him. I’ve seen such men as Mr. Berg before. I’m afraid, I’m very much afraid, the sight he had of the fake map I made won’t do him much good. Well, I declare, it’s past four bells. Let’s go to breakfast, if you don’t mind me asking you,” and with that the captain started off up the beach, Tom following, his ideas all a whirl at the unlooked-for outcome of the interview.