CAST ADRIFT.
“Good-by, Frank Merriwell!”
Flynn was leaning over the stern of the _White Wings_, which was tossing
on the heavy seas, and looked down into the small boat where Frank,
still bound, had been cast.
At the last moment, Walter Wallace had rebelled and tried to prevent
Flynn from carrying out his plan. He had been silenced by a blow that
knocked him flat upon the deck. Steve, the sailor, had taken no hand in
the work, but Flynn had carried it out alone, and now he was preparing
to set the small boat adrift.
At times the clouds scudding across the sky broke and showed a few
half-smothered stars. Somehow, even when no stars could be seen, it was
not intensely dark on the face of the troubled water, which seemed to
give out a light of its own.
But it was a bad night, and everything seemed to indicate that a storm
was approaching. The wind howled and the sea made a rushing sound. In
the distance it could be heard thundering on The Horses.
“Come!” growled the sailor at the wheel; “be lively there, Flynn. We’ve
got to git in somewhere before long. This ain’t no place for us
to-night.”
“Good-by, Frank Merriwell!” repeated the man who leaned over the stern,
holding the painter of the small boat in his hands. “You’ll go out to
sea, and that boat will swamp long before morning. This is the last of
you.”
“You think so,” said Frank, his voice steady and firm, “but I tell you
again that I’ll live to see you punished for this dastardly work. If you
want to make a sure job of this, you had better finish me now before you
set the boat adrift.”
Flynn seemed to hesitate. At that moment a fear entered his heart that
Merriwell would escape in some manner and keep his vow.
“It would be easy to finish you,” said the ruffian, reaching into his
hip pocket and pulling out a revolver. “I could fill you full of lead.
Perhaps I’d better!”
He lifted the weapon, but Steve caught his arm with a furious
exclamation.
“None of that!” shouted the sailor, hoarsely. “You can set the boy
adrift, but you can’t murder him before my eyes!”
“It’s murder, anyway,” came huskily from Walter Wallace, who, reckless
fellow though he was, was now sick at heart. “I am against it. I didn’t
agree to take a hand in anything like this.”
“Shut up!” howled Flynn, who seemed half demented by his fierce desire
to destroy Frank Merriwell. “You came along of your own free will, and
it won’t be good for you if you squawk now!”
“I didn’t come along to have any hand in such business as this. I wash
my hands of it. When the time comes, I’ll swear who did the job. That’s
what I’ll do!”
“You will, eh?” shouted the man with the revolver, now raging like a
maniac. “What do you think of that, Steve? This young fool will give us
away! He threatens us! He was ready enough to come with us——”
“Because I did not like Frank Merriwell,” said Wallace; “but I didn’t
suppose you were going to do anything more than take this yacht, which
you declared was rightfully yours, anyway. Had I known just what sort of
a fellow you were, you can be sure I would not have run into this
scrape.”
Wallace was a rascal at heart, but he had no relish for anything like
murder, and he was weakening. The thought that he might be concerned in
a murder had taken the courage out of him, and now he hoped to force
Flynn to give over his bloodthirsty scheme.
Already, in his mind, Wallace was thinking that, if he succeeded,
Merriwell would owe him his life. Of course Frank would be grateful, and
Wallace would not be held responsible for his share in stealing the
yacht.
But the Belfast boy did not know the character of the man with whom he
was dealing. A thorough ruffian at heart, Flynn did not pause to count
the cost of any rash act. He did not think that some time in the future,
if Frank Merriwell was drowned that night, he might be tried for murder
and convicted. He did not have imagination enough to fancy himself
standing at the bar, securely ironed and charged with the dastardly
crime he contemplated committing at that moment.
Some men commit crimes from lack of imagination; some commit them
because they have too much imagination.
“Hold this line, Steve!” snarled Flynn, thrusting the end of the painter
into the hand of the man at the wheel.
Steve obeyed.
Flynn advanced straight on Wallace, revolver in hand.
“Now,” he grated, lifting the weapon, “you do just as I say, or by the
skies! I’ll shoot you in your tracks!”
Wallace realized that the ruffian meant what he said.
“March aft!”
It was Flynn’s command, and Wallace dared not disobey. He marched to the
stern of the boat, and the man followed, holding the revolver ready.
“Get over into that boat!” snarled Flynn, savagely. “Be lively, or I’ll
sink some lead in you and then throw you over!”
“What do you mean to do?” gasped Wallace, now thoroughly frightened and
cowering.
“Get over!” yelled Flynn, furiously. “I am going to shoot!”
The Belfast lad started to obey.
“Please don’t make me get into the boat!” he whimpered, beginning to
cry. “I didn’t mean anything! I’ll never tell a word as long as I live—I
swear I won’t!”
“If you are not in that boat when I count three, I will shoot you! One!”
Wallace caught hold of the line and drew the boat containing Merriwell
nearer to the yacht. Now he was weeping outright, shaking with fear.
“Oh, you can’t mean it, Mr. Flynn——”
“Two!”
Wallace dropped into the boat. Then Flynn caught the painter out of
Steve’s hand and cast the small boat with its two human occupants adrift
on the tempestuous sea.
The boat drifted away. The yacht swung round, the wind filled her sails,
and away she went into the darkness of the night.
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