Earl Derr Biggers: Complete 11 Novels in One Volume (Illustrated Edition). Earl Derr Biggers

go to the police station right away—"

      "Yes," said John Quincy, "I must. But I want to thank you, Mr. Mayberry. And"—he turned to the white uniforms—"you fellows too."

      The stocky lad was picking up his cap. "Why, that's all right," he said. "A real pleasure, if you ask me. But look here, old timer," he added, addressing Mayberry, "how about your Honolulu water-front and its lost romance? You go tell that to the marines."

      As John Quincy hurried away Pete Mayberry was busily explaining that the thing was unheard of—not in twenty years—maybe more than that—his voice died in the distance.

      Hallet was in his room, and John Quincy detailed his evening's adventure. The captain was incredulous, but when the boy came to the wrist watch on the driver of the car, he sat up and took notice.

      "Now you're talking," he cried. "I'll start the force after that car to-night. First two figures 33, you say. I'll send somebody aboard that tramp, too. They can't get away with stuff like that around here."

      "Oh, never mind them," said John Quincy magnanimously. "Concentrate on the watch."

      Back in the quiet town he walked with his head up, his heart full of the joy of battle. And while he thought of it, he stepped into the cable office. The message he sent was addressed to Agatha Parker on that Wyoming ranch. "San Francisco or nothing," was all it said.

      As he walked down the deserted street on his way to the corner to wait for his trolley, he heard quick footsteps on his trail again. Who now? He was sore and weary, a bit fed up on fighting for one evening. He quickened his pace. The steps quickened too. He went even faster. So did his pursuer. Oh, well, might as well stop and face him.

      John Quincy turned. A young man rushed up, a lean young man in a cap.

      "Mr. Winterslip, ain't it?" He thrust a dark brown object into John Quincy's hand. "Your July Atlantic, sir. Came in on the Maui this morning."

      "Oh," said John Quincy limply. "Well, I'll take it. My aunt might like to look at it. Keep the change."

      "Thank you, sir," said the newsman, touching his cap.

      John Quincy rode out to Waikiki on the last seat of the car. His face was swollen and cut, every muscle ached. Under his arm, clasped tightly, he held the July Atlantic. But he didn't so much as look at the table of contents. "We move, we advance," he told himself exultantly. For he had seen the watch with the illuminated dial—the dial on which the numeral two was very dim.

      Chapter XX. The Story of Lau Ho

       Table of Contents

      Early Sunday morning John Quincy was awakened by a sharp knock on his door. Rising sleepily and donning dressing-gown and slippers, he opened it to admit his Aunt Minerva. She had a worried air.

      "Are you all right, John Quincy?" she inquired.

      "Surely. That is, I would be if I hadn't been dragged out of bed a full hour before I intended to get up."

      "I'm sorry, but I had to have a look at you." She took a newspaper from under her arm and handed it to him. "What's all this?"

      An eight-column head on the first page caught even John Quincy's sleepy eye. "Boston Man has Strange Adventure on Water-Front." Smaller heads announced that Mr. John Quincy Winterslip had been rescued from an unwelcome trip to China, "in the nick of time" by three midshipmen from the Oregon. Poor Pete Mayberry! He had been the real hero of the affair, but his own paper would not come out again until Monday evening, and rivals had beaten him to the story.

      John Quincy yawned. "All true, my dear," he said. "I was on the verge of leaving you when the navy saved me. Life, you perceive, has become a musical comedy."

      "But why should any one want to shanghai you?" cried Miss Minerva.

      "Ah, I hoped you'd ask me that. It happens that your nephew has a brain. His keen analytical work as a detective is getting some one's goat. He admitted as much in a letter he sent me the night he took a few shots at my head."

      "Some one shot at you!" gasped Miss Minerva.

      "I'll say so. You rather fancy yourself as a sleuth, but is anybody taking aim at you from behind bushes? Answer me that."

      Miss Minerva sat down weakly on a chair. "You're going home on the next boat," she announced.

      He laughed. "About two weeks ago I made that suggestion to you. And what was your reply? Ah, my dear, the tables are turned. I'm not going home on the next boat. I may never go home. This gay, care-free, sudden country begins to appeal to me. Let me read about myself."

      He returned to the paper. "The clock was turned back thirty years on the Honolulu water-front last night," began the somewhat imaginative account. It closed with the news that the tramp steamer Mary S. Allison had left port before the police could board her. Evidently she'd had steam up and papers ready, and was only awaiting the return of the red-haired man and his victim. John Quincy handed the newspaper back to his aunt.

      "Too bad," he remarked. "They slipped through Hallet's fingers."

      "Of course they did," she snapped. "Everybody does. I'd like a talk with Captain Hallet. If I could only tell him what I think of him, I'd feel better."

      "Save that paper," John Quincy said. "I want to send it to mother."

      She stared at him. "Are you mad? Poor Grace—she'd have a nervous breakdown. I only hope she doesn't hear of this until you're back in Boston safe and sound."

      "Oh, yes—Boston," laughed John Quincy. "Quaint old town, they tell me. I must visit there some day. Now if you'll leave me a minute, I'll prepare to join you at breakfast and relate the story of my adventurous life."

      "Very well," agreed Miss Minerva, rising. She paused at the door. "A little witch-hazel might help your face."

      "The scars of honorable battle," said her nephew. "Why remove them?"

      "Honorable fiddlesticks," Miss Minerva answered. "After all, the Back Bay has its good points." But in the hall outside she smiled a delighted little smile.

      When John Quincy and his aunt were leaving the dining-room after breakfast Kamaikui, stiff and dignified in a freshly-laundered holoku, approached the boy.

      "So very happy to see you safe this morning," she announced.

      "Why, thank you, Kamaikui," he answered. He wondered. Was Kaohla responsible for his troubles, and if so, did this huge silent woman know of her grandson's activities?

      "Poor thing," Miss Minerva said as they entered the living-room. "She's been quite downcast since Dan went. I'm sorry for her. I've always liked her."

      "Naturally," smiled John Quincy. "There's a bond between you."

      "What's that?"

      "Two vanishing races, yours and hers. The Boston Brahman and the pure Hawaiian."

      Later in the morning Carlota Egan telephoned him, greatly excited. She had just seen the Sunday paper.

      "All true," he admitted. "While you were dancing your heart out, I was struggling to sidestep a Cook's tour of the Orient."

      "I shouldn't have had a happy moment if I'd known."

      "Then I'm glad you didn't. Big party, I suppose?"

      "Yes. You know, I've been terribly worried about you ever since that night on the avenue. I want to talk with you. Will you come to see me?"

      "Will I? I'm on my way already."

      He hung up the receiver and hastened down the beach. Carlota was sitting on the white sand not far from the Reef and Palm, all in white herself. A serious wide-eyed Carlota quite different from the gay girl who had been hurrying to a party the night before.

      John Quincy dropped down beside her, and for a time