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The Motor Boat Club and The Wireless: The Dot, Dash and Dare Cruise, a novel by H. Irving Hancock |
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Chapter 23. Hank Becomes Really Terrible |
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_ CHAPTER XXIII. HANK BECOMES REALLY TERRIBLE Bump! Whack! Tom Halstead tried to slam the door shut in his pursuer's face, but one of Dalton's feet barred the closing, then thrust the door open. As Halstead raced into the corridor Anson Dalton was close behind him, his hand yanking a revolver from his pocket. There would have been a shot in another instant. Halstead might have been badly hit. But Hank Butts, on duty in the corridor, had heard the cries. As the door was thrust open Hank leaped forward. Out from under his rain coat he brought that same old hitching weight. There was an instant, only, for action, but young Butts was an expert with the weapon he had made his own. His hands flew aloft, then descended, just as Anson Dalton's left foot was thrust forward in his running. "Halt, you----" roared Dalton. Bim! Down came the hitching weight, and landed squarely across the left foot of the pursuer. Dalton let out a fearful yell, while his revolver fell to the floor. There was a flash and a crashing explosion in that confined space; the weapon had been harmlessly discharged. As for Dalton, he swayed dizzily for a few seconds, trying to lift the injured foot. Then, with a groan and a burst of ugly language, he sank to the floor. Hank darted in, securing his hitching weight and backing off with it once more. Though he had heard the discharge of the pistol, Jim Hunter did not stop to reach for his own revolver. He leaped through into the corridor, his pocket police club in hand. "There he is, but you won't have to club him any," announced Hank, dryly, pointing to the groaning Dalton. "He'll eat out of your hand, now--will Anson Dalton." Pausing only to drop his club to the floor, Jim Hunter whipped out a pair of handcuffs from a cavernous pocket, bent over Dalton, and---- Snap-click! The troublesome enemy of the motor boat boys was not only badly hurt, but a secure prisoner as well. Now, Seaton and the boys gathered about the law's captive. "I reckon you'll have to git up," announced Jim Hunter, putting a helping hand under one of Dalton's arms. "I can't--oh, stop! Let up! My foot's crushed. I can't stand on it!" yelled Dalton. Hunter came quickly to realize the fact that Dalton could not stand with much comfort. Joe came up with a chair, onto which the prisoner was allowed to sink. "Oh, you boys think you've finished things for me, don't you?" leered Dalton, glaring around him in a rage. "But you haven't. You'll soon find that you've just begun to stir up trouble for yourselves." "Go easy, man--do!" begged Hunter, soothingly. "Of course yer pet corn feels bad just now. But, say! That's the niftiest way of stopping a bad man, I reckon, thet was ever invented." "Is it?" groaned Dalton. Then, catching the trace of a smirk in Hank's eyes, the rascal shook his fist at the steward of the "Restless," snarling: "I'll find my own way to settle with you!" "Take your time--when you're feeling better," Hank begged, cheerfully. Fair-haired, soft-voiced young Dawley had followed the crowd out into the corridor. The hotel clerk, the proprietor and three or four of the servants all had increased the crowd there. Dawley rapidly learned what had happened. "It's a beastly outrage," he announced, his soft voice sounding almost harsh in the indignation that he felt. "Oh, take a fan, Dolly, and go out on the porch to cool off," growled Joe Dawson. One of the servants, in the excess of excitement, actually took the fair-haired youth by the shoulders, and, though the latter protested, thrust him out through the open door onto the porch, slamming the door after him. "That's too bad," grinned Hank. "I'll go out and see if the poor fellow has fainted." As Butts stepped out on the porch, closing the door shut after him, Dawley, his cheeks very red, leaped out from the chair into which he had sunk. "It was you who played that mean trick on my friend," cried Dawley, in a voice which he fondly believed trembled with rage. "Yes," admitted Hank, meekly. "I'll punish you for that!" quivered the soft-voiced one, stepping forward. "Don't strike me on the wrist," pleaded Hank. "I have rheumatism there." But Dawley, too angry, or else too dull to understand that he was being made a mark for ridicule, continued to advance upon Butts, who retreated, a look of mock alarm in his face. "Keep away from me--please do, while you're angry," begged Hank, still retreating. "I won't!" snapped Dawley. As Hank now retreated rapidly backward, Dawley went after him with corresponding speed. "If you must have it, then, why--take it!" cried Hank, in a tone of desperation. One of his hands had been held under his rain-coat all along. Now Hank thrust the other hand inside, as well, to reach for some object concealed there. "Oh. O-o-oh! Don't you drop that weight on my foot!" yelled Dawley, blanching and falling up against the wooden wall. But Hank, ruthlessly, as one whose blood is up, brought both his hands swiftly into view as he sprang at Dawley. There was a yell from the fair-haired one as Hank bent forward, then dropped squarely on the toes of Dawley's right foot--his _pocket-handkerchief_! "There, now!" mimicked Hank Butts, turning on his heel. A roar of laughter came from Mr. Seaton, Tom, Joe and two or three of the bystanders who had followed outside. _ |
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