Part 14 (1/2)
”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 amus.e.m.e.nt.
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 s.h.i.+pping 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 s.h.i.+pped?” 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!”
CHAPTER XIII
A MIMIC FIRE