T. C. Bridges
Martin Crusoe (28) (A Boy’s Adventure on Wizard Island)

XXVIII. Mobbed

Martin stood upon the deck of the Saga as she plowed her way over the surface of a brilliantly blue sea, the small waves sparkling under a cloudless sky.

“So that’s Key West,” he said, gazing at the brightly painted houses which lined the flat shores of the bay.

“The people have spotted us already,” he continued. “I suppose they take us for one of their own naval craft.”

“Yes. We had better show our colors,” said Captain Krieger.

“Remember! Not a word about the island, Captain,” said Martin.

“No need to remind me of that, Martin. In any case my papers show my port of departure as Copenhagen. There will be no trouble on that score.”

Martin stared at the town a minute in silence. Then he turned again to Captain Krieger.

“What are we going to do, sir?” he asked.

“Raise some money, Martin. The only way to get back to Lemuria is by submarine or airship. An airship is out of the question, so our only chance is to get together cash enough to repair the poor old Saga and put her in proper order. Then we’ll go back and help ourselves to the gold which your kind friend Hymer has offered us.”

“How much is it going to cost?” asked Martin.

“I think I can make her thoroughly seaworthy for a matter of five or six hundred pounds English money,” was the reply.

Martin shook his head. “I don’t know where it’s to come from,” he said. “It’s no use going to any American with a story like ours. They simply wouldn’t believe it, and we haven’t a shadow of proof to offer.”

“That’s true,” allowed the Captain. “All the same, when we get ashore I mean to hustle around and see what I can do.”

They were in harbor in another hour. The American port authorities were very civil, and gave them a clean bill of health. Martin took the Professor ashore to the Magnolia Hotel. The old gentleman was far from well, and Martin wanted doctor’s advice for him.

Martin registered in the hotel book, giving his own name and that of the Professor. It did not occur to him to do anything else. Then he went out and found a doctor and brought him back to see the Professor.

As he came through the hall of the hotel a keen faced American stepped towards him.

“You Mr. Vaile?” he asked.

“That’s my name,” replied Martin, rather surprised.

“My name’s Ladd. I’m from the Key West ‘Argus’. I’d like a word with you.”

“In a minute,” replied Martin. “I must take the doctor up first.”

The other nodded. “I’ll be right here,” he said.

Martin left the doctor to overhaul the Professor, and went down again.

“Say,” remarked Mr. Ladd, drawing Martin aside. “You any relation of Mr. Vaile of Willard and Vaile?”

Martin started slightly. It had not occurred to him that he would be connected with the Cleansand business. But he was not going to deny it.

“I am Mr. Vaile’s son,” he answered quietly.

The other gave a low whistle.

“Say, but you’ve got a cheek to come here to Florida!”

Martin drew himself up.

“Let me tell you this, Mr. Ladd,” he said curtly—“my father was perfectly innocent. He had no knowledge whatever of that cruel and abominable swindle. The whole thing was worked by his partner, Willard, who took all the money and threw the guilt on my father.”

Ladd shrugged his shoulders.

“You got any proof of that?” he asked.

“No; but I mean to get it,” answered Martin sternly. “That’s what I’m here for.”

“It’ll take some getting,” said Ladd dryly. He paused and looked at Martin.

“See here, young fellow,” he said. “I’ve no doubt you believe what you’ve told me. All the same, you take a tip from me, and clear right out of this State quick as ever you can. There’s three hundred families lost near all they had through that Cleansand swindle, and just as soon as they hear your name a lot of ’em will be out gunning for you.”

Martin gasped as if someone had thrown a bucket of cold water over him. It was not fear for himself. That was the last thing he thought of. The horror of it was to feel that three hundred families—more than a thousand people—ruined by this Cleansand swindle all believed that his father was guilty of their ruin.

“Makes you feel a bit sick, eh?” remarked Ladd, who was watching Martin keenly.

Martin drew a long breath.

“It’s awful,” he said slowly. “But if you had known my father as I do, you would have been as certain as I am that he never had anything to do with this horrible business.”

The other nodded. “I like to see a chap stand up for his dad,” he said. “Say, now, is it a fact that you gave up all that was left you to your father’s creditors?”

“Of course I did!” returned Martin indignantly. “And if you know anyone who has lost his money at Cleansand Bay, why you can just tell him I mean to pay back every penny.”

Ladd stared at Martin.

“You’ll need a heap of money,” he said dryly.

“And I’ll get a heap of money!” retorted Martin. “I could get it in a month if—”

He pulled himself up short.

“No, I can’t tell you how,” he said. “And you wouldn’t believe me if I did. But I’ll get it and I’ll pay them, then I’ll settle accounts with Morton Willard.”

“You’ve got to find him first,” said Ladd. “Well, like your spirit, sonny, and if there’s anything I can do you call me up at the ‘Argus’ office. Here’s my card. All the same, if I were you, I’d quit this State right off. It’s not going to be a health resort for anyone named Vaile.”

He nodded and strolled off, and just then the doctor, whose name was Curtis, came down. He and Martin went into the sitting-room, which was empty at the moment, and Martin asked Dr. Curtis what he thought of the Professor.

“Nothing wrong with him except old age, Mr. Vaile,” was the answer. “But he’s a little old for traveling around in a submarine, as I understood he’s been doing. What he wants now is a few days in bed, plenty of sleep and good nourishing food. But he’ll need a bit of looking after. Shall I send in a nurse?”

“No need for that,” Martin answered. “His colored man will look after him.”

“All right,” said Dr. Curtis. “I guess I won’t need to see him again unless you send for me.”

Martin thanked him, paid his fee, and went back to the submarine to fetch Scipio. On the way it seemed to him that several people looked at him oddly. He felt hot and uncomfortable. For the first time in his life he was ashamed.

Captain Krieger arrived back at the dock just as Martin reached it. He was looking tired and dejected.

“Not a dollar to be got anywhere, Martin,” he said. “I was counting on a rich cigar manufacturer I know, a man called Stuyvesant. But he’s in New York, and won’t be back for a month or more. No one else will look at any security I have to offer. I tried to borrow money on the Saga herself, but now the war is over no one wants a submarine.”

He glanced at Martin.

“You’re looking a bit down, too, lad,” he said. “What’s wrong?”

Martin told him.

“You’d have done better to register under another name,” said Krieger gravely. “This will make things all the more difficult for us, and sure as fate that reporter will write up a story about you in his paper. Then all the town will know, and there will be the mischief to pay. Now, I think you had better take Scipio up to the hotel, then come back here to supper, and we will have a talk.”

Martin agreed, and he and Scipio went back together to the Magnolia. As they went they saw bare-footed colored boys selling the evening paper in the streets, and by the rapidity with which the copies were being snapped up it was clear that there was news of more than common interest.

Even so Martin was not prepared for what was going to happen.

When he reached the hotel, the proprietor met him.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Vaile,” he said, “but I’ll have to ask you to leave my hotel. You see, they all know who you are now, and it’s only asking for trouble for you to stay here in my place.”

Martin went rather white.

“Very well,” he said, with dignity. “I will leave at once. All I ask is that you will take good care of Professor Distin. He at least is no relation of mine or of my father.”

The proprietor assured him that the Professor would be all right, and Martin, after a word or two with Scipio, went out again and walked quickly back towards the wharf.

Now there was no doubt about his being recognized. He saw people pointing at him.

“That’s him!” a boy shouted. “That’s the son o’ the swindler.”

Martin saw that he was being followed, but he would not run. It would seem as if he was guilty. He did not like the look of things, and so he walked as quickly as he could.

There are no stones in Florida, but some heavy object came whizzing past his head.

“Are you chaps going to stand for this?” came a loud, harsh voice. “Are you going to let this swindler’s brat walk around your town like he owned it? Get hold of him. Teach him you won’t have his sort around. Chuck him in the harbor.”

There was a shout, a rush of feet. Martin began to run, but it was too late. They were all around him—as rough a looking gang of wharf rats as ever he had seen, and led by a tall, swarthy Cuban. He was the man who had called on them to fling Martin off the wharf.

Something about him seemed vaguely familiar to Martin, but there was no time to think. Martin knew that he was in real danger. Seeing he could not escape, he sprang to one side, got his back against the wall of a warehouse, and turned to bay. He had not even a stick—nothing but his fists. How he wished he had Akon or Hymer beside him!

A bullet-headed mulatto, with an ugly, scarred face, made a rush at him. Martin hit him under the jaw, and sent him staggering back against the next man. Both went down together.

The other paused an instant, and Martin leaped forward and drove his fist into the face of a third. But at that moment another got behind him and kicked his legs from under him. He went down in the dust with the whole pack on top of him.