The Moving Picture Boys on the Coast/Chapter 8
CHAPTER VIII
BLAKE LEARNS A SECRET
Blake, looking on from a little distance, saw Joe turn aside from the aged man.
"That's rather queer," thought the lad. "If that was his father it isn't a very cordial welcome."
As he looked, he saw Joe walking out of the garden.
"Queerer still," Blake mused. "Even if that isn't Mr. Duncan, he must be somewhere around, for lighthouse keepers can't be very far away from their station, as I understand it."
Joe came walking toward his chum. His face showed his disappointment so unmistakably that Blake called out:
"What's the matter, Joe?"
"He's gone—he isn't here! He never got my letter!"
"Where has he gone?" asked Blake, always practical.
"I—I don't know. I didn't ask."
"Look here, Joe!" exclaimed his chum. "I guess you're too excited over this. You let me make some inquiries for you. Suppose he has gone? We may be able to trace him. Men in the lighthouse service get transferred from one place to another just as soldiers do, I imagine. Now you sit down here and look at the sad sea waves, as C. C. would say if he were here, and I'll go tackle that lighthouse keeper. You were too flustered to get any clues, I expect."
"I guess I was," admitted Joe. "When I found he wasn't there I didn't know what to do. I didn't feel like asking any questions."
Blake placed his arm around his chum's shoulder, patted him on the back, and started toward the aged man, who was still leaning on his hoe, looking in mild surprise at the two lads.
"I'll find out all about it," called back Blake.
"Ha! Another boy!" exclaimed Mr. Stanton, as Blake approached. "I didn't know this was going to be visiting day, or I might have put on my other suit," and he laughed genially. "Are you another son of Mr. Duncan?" he asked.
"No," replied Blake. "I'm Joe's chum. We're in the moving picture business together. But he says his father has left, and, as he naturally feels badly, I thought I'd make some inquiries for him, so we can locate him. Do you know where Mr. Duncan went?"
"No—I can't say that I do," was the slow answer. "And so you are chums; eh?"
"Yes, and we have been for some years."
"That's nice. You tell each other all your secrets, I suppose?"
"Well, most of 'em."
"Never hold anything back?"
"Why, what do you mean?" asked Blake, for there seemed to be a strange meaning in the old man's voice.
"I mean, lad," and the lighthouse keeper's tones sank to a whisper; "I mean, if I tell you something, can you keep it from him?"
"Why—yes—I suppose so," spoke Blake, wonderingly. "But what is the matter? Isn't his father here?"
"No, he's gone, just as I told him. But look here—he seems a nice sort of lad, and I didn't want to hurt his feelings. I'd rather tell you, as long as you're his chum, and if you can keep a secret."
He looked to where Joe was sitting on the rocks, watching the waves roll lazily up the beach and break. Joe was far enough off so that the low-voiced conversation could not reach him.
"I can keep a secret if I have to," replied Blake. "But what is it all about? Is Mr. Duncan—is he—dead?"
The old man hesitated, and, for a moment, Blake thought that his guess was correct. Then the aged man said slowly:
"No, my boy, he isn't dead; but maybe, for the sake of his son, he had better be. At any rate, it's better, all around, that he's away from here."
"Why?" asked Blake quickly. "Tell me what you mean!"
"That I will, lad, and maybe you can figure a way out of the puzzle. I'm an old man, and not as smart as I was, so my brain doesn't work quickly. Maybe you can find a way out. Come inside where we can talk so he won't hear us," and he nodded toward the quiet figure of Joe on the beach.
Blake wondered more than ever what the disclosure might be. He followed the aged man into the living quarters of the house attached to the light tower.
"Sit ye there, lad," went on Mr. Stanton, "and I'll tell you all about it. Maybe you can find a way out."
He paused, as if to gather his thoughts, and then resumed:
"You see I'm pretty old, and I have to have an assistant at this light. I expect soon I'll have to give up altogether. But I'm going to hang on as long as I can. I've had three assistants in the last year, and one of 'em, as you know now, was Nathaniel Duncan, Joe's father. Before him I had a likely young fellow named—ah, well, I've forgotten, and the name doesn't matter much anyhow. But when he left the board sent me this Duncan, and I must say I liked him right well."
"What sort of a man was he?" asked Blake.
"A nice sort of man. He was about middle aged, tall, well built, and strong as a horse. He looked as if he had had trouble, though, and gradually he told me his story. His wife had died when his boy and girl were young"
"Girl! Was there a girl?" cried Blake. "Has Joe a sister, too?"
"He had—whether he has yet, I don't know," went on Mr. Stanton. "I'll tell you all I know.
"As I said, Nate Duncan seemed to have had lots of sorrow, and he told me how, after his wife died, he had placed the boy and girl in charge of some people, and gone off to the California mines to make some money. When he come back, rich, the children had disappeared, and so had the people he left 'em with. He never could locate 'em, though he tried hard, and so did his half-brother, Bill. But Bill was different from Nate, so I understand. Bill was a reckless sort of chap, while Joe's father was quite steady."
"That's right," spoke Blake, and then he related how Joe had come to get a trace of his father.
"Well," resumed Mr. Stanton, "as I said, Duncan came here, and he and I got along well together. Then there came trouble."
"Trouble? What kind?" asked Joe.
"Trouble with wreckers, lad. The meanest and most wicked kind of trouble there can be on a sea-coast. A band of bad men got together and by means of false lights lured small vessels out of their course so they went on the rocks. Then they got what they could when the cargo was washed ashore."
"But what has that got to do with Joe's father?" asked Blake.
"Too much, I'm afraid, lad. It was said that the light here was allowed to go out some nights, so the false light would be more effective."
"Well?"
"Well, Nate Duncan had charge of the light at night after I went off duty. And it was always when I was off duty that the wrecks occurred."
"Do you mean to accuse Joe's father of being in with the wreckers?"
"No, lad. I don't accuse anybody; I'm too old a man to do anything like that. But ugly stories began to be circulated. Government inspectors began to call more often than they used to, inspecting my light—my light, that I've tended nigh onto twenty-five years now. I began to hear rumors that my assistant wasn't altogether straight. He was said to be seen consorting with the wreckers, though it was hard to get proof that the men were wreckers, for they pretended to be fishermen.
"Then come a day when, with my own eyes, I saw Nate Duncan walking along the beach with one of the men who was said to be at the head of the wrecking gang. I could see that they were quarreling, and then Nate knocked the man down. He didn't get up right away, for, as I said, Nate was strong. I knew something would come of that, and I wasn't much surprised when that day Nate disappeared."
"Disappeared?" cried Blake.
"Went off completely, and left me alone at the light. I tended it all night, same as I had done before, many a time, and the next day I reported matters, and I had a new assistant—the same one I have now."
"But that doesn't prove anything," said Blake. "Just because Joe's father, and a man suspected of being a wrecker, had a quarrel, doesn't say that Mr. Duncan was a wrecker, too."
"There's more to it," went on the old man. "The day after Nate Duncan disappeared detectives came here looking for him."
Blake started. There was more to the story than he had suspected. He looked at Mr. Stanton, and glanced out of the window to where Joe still sat.
"So that's why I say maybe it would be better for Joe if his father was dead," went on Mr. Stanton. "Disgrace is a terrible thing, and I couldn't bear to tell Joe, when he asked me about his father."
"But where did he go?" asked Blake. "Didn't he leave any trace at all?"
"Not a trace, lad—folks most generally doesn't when the detectives are after 'em. Hold on, though, I won't say Nate was guilty on my own hook. I'm only telling you what happened. I'd hate to believe he was a wrecker, misusing this light to draw vessels on the dangerous rocks; but it looks black, it looks black."
"Did the detectives actually accuse Mr. Duncan?" asked Blake.
"Well, they as much as did. They said some of the wreckers had been arrested, and had incriminated the assistant light-keeper. But Duncan was smart enough—provided he was guilty—to skip out. As I told Joe, his father left just before the letter from Flagstaff came, so he doesn't know his son is alive. Poor man, I'm sorry for him. He told me how he had searched all over for his children, and at last, becoming tired and discouraged, he took this job just to have something to do, for he's well enough off not to have to work."
"And there's no way of telling where he went?" questioned Blake.
"Nary a one that I know of, lad. As I said, maybe he's better off lost."
"Not for Joe."
"Well, maybe not; but for himself. There are heavy penalties for wrecking, and it's well he wasn't caught, though, as I say, I don't accuse him. Only it looks black, it looks black. If he was innocent why didn't he stay and fight it out? Yes, lad, it looks black."
"I'm afraid so," sighed Blake. "How can I ever tell Joe the news?"
"You mustn't!" exclaimed the old man. "That's just it. You must not tell him. I'd hate to destroy his faith in his father. It would be cruel. That's why I asked if you could keep a secret. You won't tell him; will you?"
"No," said Blake, in a low voice; "I won't tell him."