The Moving Picture Boys on the Coast/Chapter 12
CHAPTER XII
ON A LONG VOYAGE
"This is a serious charge," went on the man in uniform, who was evidently from the police department. "We have had some dynamiting outrages here, and we don't want any more."
"Dynamite!" exclaimed the hotel clerk; "do you think it could be that, officer?"
"That's what it seems like to me," said the other. "I have investigated a number of infernal machines, and they all make the same sort of sound before they go off."
"Go off!" cried the clerk, while Joe and Blake were vainly endeavoring to get in a word that would explain matters. "If it's dynamite, and goes off here, it will blow up the hotel. Get it away! Porter, go up and get that infernal machine, and dump it in a pail of water."
"'Scuse me!" exclaimed the colored porter, as he made a break for the door. "I—I guess as how it's time fo' me to sweep off de sidewalk. It hain't been swept dish yeah day, as yit. I'se gwine outside."
"But we've got to get rid of that infernal machine!" insisted the clerk. "It's been clicking away now for some time, and there's no telling when it may go off. Get it, somebody—throw it out of the window."
"No! Don't do that!" cried the officer. "That will only make it go off the sooner. I'll get some one from the bureau of combustibles and"
"Say, you're giving yourselves a needless lot of alarm!" interrupted Blake. "That's no infernal machine!"
"No more than that ink bottle is!" aded Joe, pointing to one on the clerk's desk.
"But it clicks," insisted the clerk. "It sounds just like a clock ticking inside that box."
"And it's pointing right at the bank," went on the officer. "That bank was once partly wrecked because it was built by non-union labor, and we don't want it to happen again."
"There's no danger—not the slightest," cried Blake, while the crowd in the hotel lobby pressed around him. "That's only an automatic moving picture camera, that we set this morning, and pointed out of the window to take street scenes. It works by compressed air, and the clicking you hear is the motor. Come, I'll show you," and he started toward his room, followed by Joe.
"Is—is that right?" asked the hotel clerk, doubtfully.
"Are you sure it isn't dynamite?" inquired the officer.
"Well, if we're not afraid to take a chance in going in the same room with what you call an infernal machine, you ought not to be," said Joe, with a smile.
This was logic that could not be refuted, and they followed the boys to the room. There, just where they had left it, was the camera, the motor clicking away industriously. It worked intermittently, running for five minutes, and then ceasing for half an hour, so as not to use up the reel of film too quickly. Also, it made a diversity of street scenes, an automatic arrangement swinging the lens slightly after each series of views, so as to get the new ones at a different angle.
"Now we'll show you," said Blake, as, having noted that all the film was run out, and was in the light-tight exposed box, he opened the camera and showed the harmless mechanism. Several of the hotel employes crowded into the room, once they learned there was no danger.
The boys explained the working of the apparatus, and this seemed to satisfy the officer.
"But we were surely suspicious of you at first," he said, with a smile.
"Yes," said the clerk. "A chambermaid called my attention to the clicking sound when she was making up the room. I investigated, and when I heard it, and saw the queer box, and remembered that we had had dynamiting here, I sent for the police."
"We're sorry to have given you a scare," said Blake, and then the incident was over, and the crowd in the street dispersed on learning there was to be no sensation.
"Say, I think there's some sort of hoodoo about us," remarked Joe, as he and Blake sat in their room.
"Why, you're not going to come any of that gloomy C. C. business on me; are you?" asked Blake.
"Not at all," went on his chum. "But what I mean by a hoodoo is that something always seems to happen when we start out anywhere. We've been on the jump, you might say, ever since we lost our places on the farms and got into this moving picture business."
"That's so. And the latest is being taken for dynamiters."
"Yes. But if things are going to keep on happening to us I wish they'd take a turn and help me find my father," went on Joe. "You don't know how it feels, Blake, to know you've got a parent somewhere and not be able to locate him. It's—why, it's almost as bad as if—as if he were dead," and Joe spoke the words with an obvious effort.
"That's right," agreed Blake, and then there came to him the memory of what the lighthouse keeper had said about Mr. Duncan being implicated in the wrecking. If this was true, it might be better for Joe not to find his father.
"But he may not be guilty," thought Blake, and he mused on this possibility, while Joe looked curiously at his chum.
"Say, Blake," suddenly asked Joe. "What's the matter?"
"Matter? Why, what do you mean?" asked Blake, with a start.
"Oh, I don't know, but something seems to be the matter with you. You've acted strangely of late, ever since—yes, ever since we were at the lighthouse. Is anything troubling you?"
"No—no—not at all; that is, not exactly."
"You don't speak as if you meant it."
"But I do, Joe. There's nothing the matter with me—really there isn't."
"Well, I'm glad of it. If there is, and you need help, don't forget to come to me. Remember we're pards, and chums, not only in the moving picture business, but in everything else, Blake. Anything I've got is yours for the asking."
"That's good of you, Joe, and if you can help me I'll let you know. I didn't realize that I was acting any way strange. I must brighten up a bit. I guess we've both been working too hard. We need some amusement. Let's go to a moving picture show to-night, and see how they run things here, and what sort of films they have. We may even see one of our own."
"All right. I'll go you. We can't see that shipping agent until to-morrow. A moving picture show for ours to-night, then. Though, being in the business, as we are, it's rather like a fireman going around to the engine-house on his day off, and staying there—a queer sort of a day's vacation."
But, nevertheless, they thoroughly enjoyed the moving picture play, interspersed, as it was, with vaudeville acts. Among the films were several that Mr. Ringold's company had posed for, and several that the boys themselves had taken. The reels were good ones, too, the pictures standing out clear and bright as evidence of good work on the part of the boys and Mr. Hadley.
"Had enough?" asked Joe, after about an hour spent in the theatre.
"Yes, let's go out and take a walk."
"Feel any brighter?" went on Joe.
"Yes, I think I do," and Blake linked his arm in that of Joe, wondering the while, as they tramped on, how he should ever break the news to his chum, in case Joe himself did not find it out. "The only hope is that he isn't guilty," mused Blake, "and yet running away just before the accusation was made public looks bad, just as Mr. Stanton said. However, I'm not going to think about it." As long as it had gone thus far without any outsider giving away the secret to Joe, his chum began to feel that there was little danger.
"Well, you haven't any more infernal machines; have you, boys?" the hotel clerk asked them when they came in to get their keys. "Because, if you have, just keep quiet about 'em. I don't want to be awakened in the middle of the night with some one from the bureau of combustibles coming down here," and he laughed.
"No, we're all out of dynamite," responded Blake, in the same spirit.
He and Joe were early at the office of the sailing master, who made a specialty of fitting out vessels with crews. With a rather trembling voice Joe asked for information about Mr. Duncan.
"Duncan—Duncan," mused the agent, as he looked over his books. "Seems to me I remember the name. Was he the Duncan from somewhere down the coast?"
"The Rockypoint light," supplied Joe.
"Oh, yes, now I know. But why are you asking?" and the agent turned a rather suspicious look on Joe. "Is there anything wrong—is Mr. Duncan wanted for anything? I always try to protect my clients, you know, and I must find out why you are asking. Has he committed any crime, or is he wanted by anyone?"
Blake started at the coincidence of the words.
"Yes," answered Joe; "he is wanted by me—I'm his son, and I'd like very much to find him. We found some of his letters, and there was one from you about a berth you might have vacant."
"That's right, my boy, and I'm glad to learn that is why you want Nate Duncan, for he and I are friends in a way."
"But has he shipped?" asked Joe, eagerly.
"He has," answered the agent. "He signed for a trip to China, and it will be a good while before he gets back here, I'm afraid. It's a long voyage."
"To China!" cried Joe. "Oh, if he had only received my letter he would be here now with me. Poor Dad!"