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CATTY ATKINS, SAILORMAN
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Books by
CLARENCE BUDINGTON KELLAND
CATTY ATKINS, SAILORMAN
CONFLICT
SCATTERGOOD BAINES
YOUTH CHALLENGES
EFFICIENCY EDGAR
CATTY ATKINS
CATTY ATKINS, RIVERMAN
THE HIDDEN SPRING
THE HIGHFLYERS
THE LITTLE MOMENT OF HAPPINESS
MARK TIDD
MARK TIDD IN BUSINESS
MARK TIDD’S CITADEL
MARK TIDD, EDITOR
MARK TIDD, MANUFACTURER
MARK TIDD IN THE BACKWOODS
THE SOURCE
SUDDEN JIM
THIRTY PIECES OF SILVER
HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK
Established 1817
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[Illustration: NEXT I KNEW, SOMEBODY WAS FEELING ALONG THE WALL]
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CATTY ATKINS, SAILORMAN
By
Clarence Budington Kelland
Author of “MARK TIDD”
“CATTY ATKINS, RIVERMAN” ETC.
Illustrated
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
MCMXXII
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Catty Atkins, Sailorman
Copyright, 1922
By Harper & Brothers
Printed in the U. S. A.
First Edition
D-W
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ILLUSTRATIONS
Next I Knew, Somebody Was Feeling Along the Wall
When We Got Just Under Her Tail We Could Hear a Murmur of Voices
We Cranked Until We Wore the Skin Off Our Hands, and Until Our
Backs Were ’Most Busted
There Was Excitement for a Minute and Everybody Came Running
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CATTY ATKINS—SAILORMAN
CHAPTER I
It seems as if Catty and I have a lot of luck, and this summer we had
more than usual, for Mr. Browning, who lived in New York, and was
interested in all kinds of businesses, invited us to go for a cruise on
his yacht. He was out to our town to see Mr. Atkins on some sort of
business, and before we knew it Catty and I were friends with him, and
took him fishing, and went around with him—and the day he left he said
we were to come for the cruise.
We were to start in July, and it was hard for us to wait for the time to
come around, but it did come. We were kind of surprised that it actually
did, but as Mr. Atkins says, if you only wait long enough _any_ time
will come. We packed our stuff and took the train, and when we woke up
next morning we were coming into New York.
Mr. Browning met us and we went to a big hotel, the biggest I ever saw,
and after breakfast we got into his automobile and drove out into the
country on Long Island. In about an hour we got to the town where Mr.
Browning kept his yacht anchored off a club. We didn’t know what kind of
a boat it was going to be, but you can bet we were anxious to find out.
There were about a hundred yachts anchored there—all kinds, from great
steam yachts and enormous sailing yachts to little thirty-foot launches.
There was a power dinghy tied to the float and a man in it dressed in
“whites.” The name _Albatross_ was on the dinghy in gold letters, so we
knew it belonged to Mr. Browning, for that was the name of his yacht.
Mr. Browning walked out on the float and says, “Hello, Naboth.
Everything ready?”
“Ready as human hands kin git it—considerin’,” says Naboth.
“Help get the baggage aboard. Here’s the rest of our crew, Naboth. Catty
Atkins and Wee-wee Moore.”
“Huh. Eat more ’n they’ll work,” said Naboth.
“We’ll set them polishing brass,” says Mr. Browning.
“Won’t nuther. Don’t calc’late to have no boys tinkerin’ with my brass.
’Tain’t ’s if it was ord’nary brass. Uh-uh. Seems like I _raised_ that
brass from a pup. Hain’t nobody goin’ to tetch a polishin’ rag to it but
me, not so long’s I’m able to waggle a fist.... You hear that?” he says,
turning to us kind of fierce.
We said we heard, and he said we’d better hear and heed, and then we all
got into the dinghy and Naboth started the engine, and we went
skittering out toward the fleet. In about three minutes we came up under
the stern of a big white boat with _Albatross_ across her stern, and
Naboth brought the dinghy up against her jacob’s ladder as soft as if it
was an egg and he was afraid of breaking it.
“Make ’em git rubber soles on quick, so’s they won’t scratch up my
deck,” says he.
I began to wonder who owned the yacht—whether it was Mr. Browning or
Naboth, but I didn’t say anything, and neither did Catty. As Catty says,
“You never make a fool of yourself by keeping your mouth shut and your
eyes open.”
We climbed up to the deck, and then Mr. Browning took us down into the
cabin. You’d be surprised how big that room was. Why it was almost as
big as the parlor at home! Behind it was Mr. Browning’s stateroom, with
two berths in it, and forward of the cabin was a bath room and the
galley, and then came the engine room with the biggest six-cylinder
engine I ever saw, and still ahead of that was the crew’s quarters. The
boat was seventy feet long! And clean! And shining!
In the main cabin were four Pullman berths that folded into the wall,
and Mr. Browning said Catty and I were to sleep there. He showed us how
to take them down, and there they were, with the bed clothes all
strapped on, and behind them some shelves for our clothes. He told us to
fix things up and then to come on deck, for we would be getting under
way in a few minutes.
We hustled and then went up on the bridge where we found Mr. Atkins
talking to a young man who was introduced to us as Mr. Topper. He looked
as if he was about twenty-six or seven, and was so long and thin and sad
looking we didn’t know what to make of him. He hardly said a word, but
just sat on the leather cushion looking off at the water and wiggling
his fingers.
The crew, Mr. Topper said, was Naboth and the engineer, whose name was
Tom, and the cook, whose name was Rameses III.
“Rameses III?” says I. “Is he a king or something?”
“He’s a king of a cook. No, that’s his name. Rameses Third. Comes from
Cape Cod some place. Always fighting with Naboth,” said Mr. Browning.
Pretty soon the crew cast off the mooring, and we were on our way. Mr.
Browning was at the wheel, and we started out of the harbor for Long
Island Sound. It was a lovely day, and the water was as smooth as glass.
Lots of small boats were all around us, and everybody seemed happy
except Mr. Topper, and he was about the gloomiest looking man I ever
saw.
Just as we came out of the harbor we saw a black yacht, almost as big as
we were. It was going along slow, and I saw somebody on deck watching us
through glasses. Mr. Topper sat up and made a face and says, “What
boat’s that?”
“Never saw her before,” says Mr. Browning. “Why?”
“I don’t like her looks,” says Mr. Topper. “There’s something about that
boat that goes against my grain.”
“Fiddlesticks,” says Mr. Browning.
“She’ll follow us,” says Mr. Topper.
“Nonsense. Nobody knows you’re here. Nobody knows anything about what
we’re up to.”
“You can’t tell. If that boat follows us——”
“But it won’t,” says Mr. Browning.
I looked at Catty and Catty looked at me. That was funny kind of talk,
and I wondered what we were getting into.
We turned up the sound, and, sure enough, the black yacht circled and
turned and came right along in our wake, about half a mile behind us.
Topper pointed. “There,” says he, “what did I tell you?”
“You’re seeing things,” says Mr. Browning. “Black boat, isn’t there?”
“Yes.”
“Turned and followed us, didn’t she?”
“She turned, but not to follow us. Why, Topper, what in the world would
anybody follow us for?”
“You know that as well as I do,” said Mr. Topper.
“But nobody knows but you and I.”
“Can’t ever tell. You can’t keep anything secret in this world.”
“We’ve kept this secret. Nobody knows what you know, and nobody knows
what I know.”
“But somebody may know I’ve been there, and somebody may suspect—what I
know.”
“You’ve got the shivers,” says Mr. Browning.
“I don’t want to lose out now, after all the trouble I’ve been through.”
“And you won’t,” says Mr. Browning. “Forget it.”
I was interested, you can bet, but just then I heard a racket on the
after deck that sounded as if we had been boarded by pirates, and when I
looked back, there were Naboth and Rameses III going it like all git
out. Naboth had Rameses backed against the rail and was whacking at him
with a dirty rag, and Rameses was whacking back with might and main, and
the way they hollered at each other was a caution.
“You will go monkeyin’ with my brass, will ye?” Naboth hollered. “You
hip-shouldered, bow-legged, cow-eyed wampus! Hain’t I told you time and
again that I’d chaw ye up if I ketched you layin’ a rag to that rail?
Eh? What d’you know about polishin’ brass, you soup-stirrin’,
apple-stewin’ whang-doodle?”
“You hit me with that there rag, and I calc’late to show you. I was
polishin’ brass when you was cuttin’ eye teeth. I know more about brass
polishin’ in a minute than you do in a year. I got a right to shine
brass if I want to. Hain’t I part of this here crew, you leather-necked
ol’ turtle?”
“They’re at it again,” says Mr. Browning. “Been at it just like that
ever since anybody ever heard of them. They always ship on the same
yacht. You can’t separate them, but they never do a thing but fight.
Next row’ll be because Naboth pokes his nose into the galley. Rameses
thinks he’s a sailorman, and Naboth believes he’s a cook.”
“Why not let them swap jobs,” says Catty.
“Some day I’m going to try it,” says Mr. Browning, and then the noise
got so loud he turned and yelled at the men. “Hey,” he says, “stop the
noise or I’ll heave you both overboard. You get below Rameses III and
get lunch. You Naboth, get things stowed away shipshape in the
lazarette.”
They quit in a second and Rameses III ducked below. I turned to look
behind, and there was the black yacht, not more than half a mile behind,
cutting through the water as business-like as could be.
Catty motioned to me and jerked his head aft. I saw he wanted to say
something to me, so I got up and went to the after deck and he came
along in a minute.
“Hear that talk?” says he.
“Not being deaf,” says I, “I did.”
“What did you make out of it?”
“Nothing,” says I, “unless Mr. Topper is crazy, or he’s running away
from somebody with something.”
“Um. He doesn’t look crazy to me.”
“That settles it then,” says I, kind of sarcastic.
“And he isn’t running away from the police. Mr. Browning wouldn’t have
that kind of a man aboard.”
“What then?” says I.
“Treasure,” says he, “buried treasure. Old Captain Kidd used to hang
around these parts.”
“Piffle,” says I. “All the treasure’s been dug up long before this.”
“Bet it hasn’t,” says he. “Bet Mr. Topper’s got a map, and that black
yacht is full of folks who know it, and they’re going to attack us and
take it away from him.”
“You’ve been reading books,” says I. “Look, there’s New York back there.
Over there is Connecticut. This is Long Island. You’re off your base.”
“All right,” says he, “you wait and see. Come on, they may suspect we’re
talking about it.”
We walked forward, and just as I got to the bridge I heard Mr. Browning
say, “Hush. Here come the kids. You’ll be scaring the lives out of
them.”
Well we chugged along and Mr. Browning showed us how to keep the log and
navigate by chart. He showed us how to set a course, and all day we were
busy checking up lights and nuns and bell buoys and beacons and red and
black stakes. It was a lot of fun, and Mr. Browning said if a fog was to
come up, that would be how we would find our way. Every time we passed a
mark we would put it down in the log with the exact hour and minute.
Along about five o’clock—we had crossed the sound diagonally and were
running up the Connecticut shore just near enough so we could see how
lively it was through the glasses—Mr. Browning says, “There we are. The
Thimbles. It’s a hard place to get into. All rocks and reefs.” He
slacked speed and headed for what looked like a solid cliff of rock, and
on both sides we could see the water lapping on nasty ledges of rock. In
a few minutes we swung into a channel of deep water, with high rocks
lifting on either side, and on the rocks were summer cottages. And
pretty soon we were right among the Thimbles, and could see dozens and
dozens of little rock islands, all with cottages on them, and channels
running every which way.
“This used to be a refuge for pirates, years and years ago,” said Mr.
Browning. “They used to run in here and hide, and folks have dug up
every inch of this place for buried treasure.”
“Ever find any?” says Catty.
“I don’t know,” says he.
“Do you think there is any—anywheres? Must have all been dug up years
ago,” says Catty.
“Oh, I don’t know,” says Mr. Browning. “I guess a lot of it was buried,
and it isn’t likely it’s all been found.”
“Gosh,” said Catty, “I wish we could get a chance to dig for some.”
“Well,” says Mr. Browning, with a grin, “you may before this cruise has
ended. Never can tell what will happen when you’re on salt water.”
Catty looked at me and wrinkled his nose, as much as to say, “I told you
so.”
And then—the black yacht nosed through the passage and dropped her
anchor not a hundred yards from us.