Chapter XXV The Prize
But before going to bed that night, Bob had an idea which he proceeded at once to put into execution, with the result that there were some lively telephone exchanges and considerable excitement in various quarters.
The fruit of his work was seen the following morning, when, on reaching Hall’s garage, Mr. Brandon, instead of finding only the two boys waiting for him, found also Miss Nellie Berwick and a Mr. Edgar Wilson, a keen, wide-awake lawyer of Clintonia, whom Miss Berwick had retained to look after her interests.
“I tried to get you also on the telephone last night, Mr. Brandon,” Bob explained, after introductions had been made, “but I couldn’t find you in. So I took the liberty of asking Miss Berwick and Mr. Wilson to go along with us on the chance that we might round up Dan Cassey.”
“That’s all right,” responded Mr. Brandon warmly. “The boys have already told me, Miss Berwick, of the dastardly trick that fellow played on you, and I shall be only too happy to have you and your lawyer go along with us. It would give me the keenest satisfaction to see that fellow get his deserts.”
Miss Berwick thanked him heartily and the party took their places in the automobile, which held five persons comfortably and was of a modern type. That it was speedy was soon proved by the way it sped along the road under the skillful guidance of Mr. Brandon. A rain two days before had laid the dust, and the roads were in perfect condition. In a surprisingly short time they had come in sight of Lansdale, a little village on the coast.
They stopped at the post-office and Brandon climbed out of the car and went in. The postmaster eyed him warily, and was at first somewhat disinclined to give any information, but the sight of the badge that proclaimed Mr. Brandon a government official unloosed his tongue and he talked freely.
“Know anybody about here by the name of Cassey?” asked Mr. Brandon.
“Cassey? Cassey?” repeated the postmaster ruminatively. “No, there’s nobody of that name around here. Or if there is, he’s never been to this office to get his mail.”
“The man I’m speaking of stutters—stutters badly,” said the inspector. “Is there any one like that in town?”
“Just one,” replied the postmaster. “And he stutters enough for a dozen. Worst case I ever knew. Gets all tangled up and has to whistle to go on. But his name’s Reddy.”
“Has he been here long?” pursued the inspector.
“Oh, a matter of a month or two,” was the reply. “Never saw him before this year. Thought perhaps he was one of the early birds of the summer visitors that was rushing the season.”
“Where does he live?” asked Mr. Brandon.
“Just a little way up the street,” replied the postmaster. “Come to the window here and I’ll show you the house.”
He pointed out a little cottage of rather dilapidated aspect, above which the keen eye of Mr. Brandon saw the end of an aerial.
He thanked the postmaster and went out to his party.
“I think we have our game bagged all right,” he remarked, and rejoiced to see the light that came into Miss Berwick’s eyes, “but of course I’m not sure as yet.”
He told them the result of his inquiries, and they were delighted.
“I tell you what I think we had better do,” he suggested. “I propose that we leave the automobile here and go up to the house on foot. Three of us will go in, while Miss Berwick and Mr. Wilson will stay out of sight at the side of the house until they get the sign to enter. The surprise may lead to confession and restitution if properly managed.”
The others signified their consent to this and proceeded toward the house. Miss Berwick and her lawyer stood at the side, where they could not be seen from the door, and the inspector, followed by the boys, mounted the steps and rang the bell.
There was a moment’s delay and then the door opened. A short thick-set man stood there with his hand on the knob. He wore large horn glasses, which may have been because of defective sight or possibly as a disguise. The eyes behind the glasses were furtive and shifty, and the mouth was mean and avaricious.
“Is this Mr. Reddy?” asked the inspector politely.
“Th-th-that’s my name,” answered the man. “W-what can I do f-f-for you?”
“That depends,” replied Mr. Brandon. “I called to see you on a matter of business. May I come in?”
The man eyed his visitors with a look of apprehension and annoyance, but finally assented with a nod of his head and led the way into a small and meagerly furnished living room.
“I see that you have a radio set here,” remarked Mr. Brandon, seating himself and looking around the room.
“Y-y-y-yes,” stuttered the man. “W-what about it?”
The inspector threw back his coat and showed his badge. At the sight of this symbol of authority the man gave a violent start.
“I happen to be a radio telephone inspector,” explained Mr. Brandon.
“O-oh,” said the man, visibly relieved that it was no worse. “W-why do you want to see me?”
“Because you’ve been violating the government regulations,” replied the inspector sternly. “There have been a number of complaints against you, and you’ve got yourself into serious trouble.”
As he spoke he crossed his legs, which was the sign agreed on, and unseen by the man who during this conversation had had his back toward the boys, Bob tiptoed out to the street and beckoned to Miss Berwick and her lawyer, who followed him promptly and softly into the room.
“I’m s-s-sorry,” the man was saying at the moment. “I d-d-d-didn’t mean—”
Just then Bob slammed the door shut with a bang. The man jumped, and as he turned about came face to face with Miss Berwick, who stood regarding him with a look of scorn.
So startled was the man that his glasses dropped from his nose and he had to grasp a chair to hold himself steady. His face turned a greenish hue and rank fright came into his narrow eyes.
“How do you do, Mr. Cassey?” asked Miss Berwick. “Do you happen to have my mortgage with you?”
“Mr. Cassey?” repeated Mr. Brandon with affected surprise. “He told me his name was Reddy. How about it?” he asked, and his voice had the ring of steel. “Have you been trying to deceive a government officer?”
The detected rascal dropped weakly into the chair whose back he had been holding. He seemed near total collapse.
“Come now,” said Mr. Wilson, stepping forward and tapping him on the shoulder, “the game’s up, Cassey. We’ve got you at last. The money or the mortgage, Cassey. Come across with one or the other and come across quick. It’s that or jail. Take your choice.”
Dan Cassey, shaking in every limb, tried to temporize, and stuttered until he got red in the face and seemed on the point of apoplexy. But the lawyer was inflexible, and at last Cassey took a key from his pocket and opened a drawer from which he took a paper and handed it over to Mr. Wilson. The latter ran his eyes over it and his face lighted up with satisfaction.
“It’s the mortgage, all right,” he said, as he handed it over to his client. “That settles his account with you, Miss Berwick, and I congratulate you. But it doesn’t settle his account with the law. You contemptible scoundrel,” he said, addressing Cassey, “you ought to serve a good long term for this.”
Cassey, utterly broken, fell on his knees at this and fairly begged for mercy. He stuttered so horribly that the boys would have had to laugh if it had not been for the tragedy of the wretched creature groveling in such abasement.
Miss Berwick intervened and held a conference with her lawyer in a low voice.
“Well,” said the latter finally, “of course, if you refuse to make a charge against him, there’s nothing to do but to let him go, though he ought to be sent to jail as a warning to others. Get up, you worm,” he continued, addressing Cassey, “and thank your stars that Miss Berwick’s generosity keeps you from getting the punishment you so richly deserve.”
They left him there in his shame and disgrace, and went back to their car, after Mr. Brandon had warned the rascal that any repetition of his minor offense would bring down swift penalty, from the government.
It was a happy party that rode back to Clintonia. There were tears in Miss Berwick’s eyes as she thanked again and again the boys who for the second time had done her such a signal service. And Bob and Joe had a Sense of satisfaction and exhilaration that was beyond all words to express.
On their way they passed through Ocean Point, a summer colony where many of the residents of Clintonia had cottages. It was on the seashore and every foot of it was familiar to the boys, whose own parents spent a part of the summer there every year.
“It won’t be long now before we’ll be on this old stamping ground of ours,” remarked Joe, as he looked at the surf breaking on the shore. “It will be good to be here again.”
“Right you are,” replied Bob. “And we’ll bring our radio sets along. This summer will be more interesting than any we’ve known before.”
How fully that prophecy was carried out, and how exciting were the adventures that awaited the boys will be told in the second book of this series, to be entitled: “The Radio Boys at Ocean Point; Or, The Message That Saved the Ship.”
Herb and Jimmy were as delighted as their chums when they heard of the way that Cassey had been trapped and forced to make restitution. But many of the details had to be postponed until another time, for just now their thoughts were full of the Ferberton prize which was to be awarded that night, and for which they were busy in making their final preparations.
The town hall that night was crowded, and many had to be content with standing room. Upon the platform were numerous wireless telephone sets that had been received for the competition.
Mr. Ferberton himself presided at the gathering. He made a most interesting address, in which he dealt with the wonders of wireless and gave a review of its latest developments. His own set, which was one of the largest and most powerful the radio boys had ever seen, had been installed on the platform with a large horn attached, and for an hour and a half, while waiting for the prizes to be awarded, the auditors were regaled with a delightful concert.
In the meantime, a committee of three radio experts had been examining the sets submitted in competition. They subjected them to various tests, taking into account the care displayed in workmanship, the ingenuity shown in the choice of materials, and the clearness of tone discerned when each in turn was connected with the aerial and put to a practical test. The choice was difficult, for many of them showed surprising excellence for amateurs.
At last, however, the awards were decided on, and Mr. Ferberton, holding the list in his hand, advanced to the edge of the platform. The silence became so intense that one could almost have heard a pin drop.
“The first prize,” he said after a few words of introduction, “is awarded to Robert Layton.”
There was a roar of applause, for no one in town was more popular than Bob.
“The second prize goes to Joseph Atwood,” continued Mr. Ferberton, and again the hall rocked with applause.
“If there had been a third prize,” the speaker concluded, “it would have been awarded to James Plummer. As it is, he receives honorable mention.” And Jimmy too had his share of the cheering and hand clapping.
Long after the lights were out and the audience dispersed, the chums sat on Bob’s porch, elated and hilarious.
“I’m the only rank outsider,” grinned Herb. “I take off my hat to the rest of the bunch. You’re the fellows!”
“You needn’t take it off to me,” laughed Jimmy. “I got only honorable mention, and there isn’t much nourishment in that. Not half as much as there is in a doughnut. I could have used that money, too.”
“What are you two bloated plutocrats thinking of?” asked Herb of Bob and Joe, who had let the others do most of the talking.
“Radio,” replied Joe.
“The most wonderful thing in the world,” declared Bob.
The End