sloop. As they had hoped, the strange zigzag they had described had left
him far astern, but still in sight. Even as they watched, they saw Jones
drop his spinnaker and re-rig it on the new tack. Once more, he was in
pursuit!
“I’ve never seen anyone handle sails that well,” Jerry said in unwilling
admiration.
“Do you think we can outmaneuver him?” Sandy asked.
“Well, we might keep up the sort of thing we’ve been doing,” Jerry
answered. “If we keep changing tacks, we can probably keep him out of
close shooting range all night. Then, by morning, we can hope to see
some other boats and maybe get help. There’s only one thing wrong with
that plan, though.”
“I know,” Sandy offered. “We’re all right as long as we don’t make any
mistakes. But the minute we goof on one maneuver, we lose the race!
Right?”
“Right,” Jerry said. “Still, I don’t see what else we can do but try. We
haven’t got much choice.” As they sailed on in silence, Sandy reviewed
their situation. The trouble with their plan was a simple one. They had
to do a perfect job of sailing, and he doubted whether they were up to
it. All Jones had to do was follow their maneuvers, and when they made
their first mistake, he would close in. There was no hope, he could see,
in waiting for Jones to make the first mistake himself. The man was too
good for that.
If only they could find some new way to take the initiative, things
might work out, Sandy thought. This cat-and-mouse game couldn’t possibly
do any good. Besides, even if they could hold out till day-light, there
was no guarantee that they would get help from any other boat before
Jones could finish the job. After all, lack of light was all that was
preventing Jones from firing at them now. When morning came, it would
most likely be accompanied by a hail of shots!
The more Sandy thought, the less it seemed that they could find a way
out of their desperate straits. Then his gloomy thoughts were
interrupted by Jerry.
“Got any more ideas?” he asked. “I know it’s my turn to think up a good
one, but I can’t seem to come up with a thing.”
“I don’t know,” Sandy answered. “It seems to me though, that we’re going
to have to do something really different now if we’re going to get back
to shore in one piece!”
Then he suddenly sat up straighter, pushing back his blond forelock.
“Jerry! I think I have an idea!”
“What is it?” Jerry asked eagerly.
“It may sound crazy, but I want to go back on a downwind course again!”
Jerry looked puzzled. “A downwind course? Sandy, we don’t have a chance
that way! That’s the way we were sailing when Jones first started after
us, and with his spinnaker in place, he’ll have us in no time!”
“I know,” Sandy said, “but I have an idea that might work this time. I
want Jones to get close—real close—to try this!”
Jerry shook his head. “It sounds nutty to me,” he said, “but if you
think you’ve got something that’ll work, I’m game. Just tell me
what....”
“Not now, Jerry,” Sandy cut him off. “Let’s just change course while I
work out the details. If we don’t do this now, I might lose my nerve!”
“I’ll do it,” Jerry agreed, shaking his head doubtfully from side to
side. “But what worries me isn’t that you might lose your nerve. I’m
afraid that you’ve already lost your mind!”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The End of the Race
It was still pitch-dark on the Pacific, miles off Cliffport, but Sandy
saw a dim, gray smear of light in the east that told him dawn was not
too far off. Dawn—and the shots it would bring from Jones and Turk!
If his plan didn’t work now, it would never work, he knew. This was to
be really a one-shot try! But better to try, he felt, than to tack
aimlessly back and forth, waiting for Jones to close in.
Almost mechanically, Sandy helped Jerry put the sloop about on her new
course before the wind. Once again the genoa jib was held out
wing-and-wing with the boat hook, and once again the mainsheet exercised
only a light pull in his hand. With everything set, Sandy and Jerry
turned their attention to the sloop behind them.
The pursuing white sails shone dimly through the darkness as Jones
followed them in their course. His spinnaker, released from its duty as
a genoa, was once more flying full and round before him, taking
advantage of every puff of wind at his back. It was a foregone
conclusion that he would catch them now, unless they were even faster
than before in putting about on some new tack.
Jerry could not stand the suspense a moment longer. “Sandy, what are you
going to do?” he cried. “Whatever it is, if we don’t do it now, we’re
goners!”
“Not yet,” Sandy muttered. “He’s got to get closer!”
“If he gets any closer, he’s going to start shooting,” Jerry replied.
“What do we do then?”
“We’ve got to be ready for it,” Sandy answered. “I expect him to shoot,
and I expect him to start pretty soon. In fact, we’d better get down as
far as possible right now!”
Both boys sat together on the cockpit deck, Jerry awkwardly steering and
Sandy holding the mainsheet in his left hand. “You steer, Jerry,” he
said. “I’m going to turn around so I can keep an eye on Jones. I expect
the fireworks to start any minute now!”
“I can do without the entertainment,” Jerry said. Then he added once
more, “Boy, I sure hope you know what you’re doing! If you don’t....”
His voice trailed off.
Half kneeling, Sandy crouched by the stern seat, keeping as much under
cover as possible. Over the edge of the afterdeck he saw Jones’s sloop,
closer now than it had been ever since their fantastic race had begun.
For some reason, Jones was holding back, not closing in as fast as he
had been before. Sandy knew that he must be puzzled, and trying to
figure out what their next move would be. His success depended on
outthinking them as much as it did on outsailing them, and his skill lay
largely in his ability to guess what maneuver the boys were going to try
next. This time, Sandy thought, he must really be baffled. No one in his
right mind would try to escape as they were doing!
For minutes that seemed like hours, the chase continued with Jones
making no effort to advance. Then, Sandy realized, Jones made up his
mind to attack. His sails were trimmed fuller, his spinnaker lofted
higher, and a white bow wave broke out to signify Jones’s new speed.
There wasn’t much time left now before things would start popping!
By now, less than one hundred yards separated the two boats. Not much
more distance, Sandy thought, than a target range. Still, it wasn’t
quite close enough....
A shot! As they heard the crack of the pistol, the whine of the bullet
passed overhead! Another shot—another—and a piece of the coaming
splintered off uncomfortably close to Sandy’s ear!
Jones’s boat surged on, preceded by a rain of shots. Now less than fifty
yards of water were between them! More shots followed, mostly going
through the sails. With a _thunk_, one hit the hull—another gouged up
the deck—a third hit the tiller, not six inches from Jerry’s hand.
Jerry’s face looked white as he craned his neck to look up at his
friend. “Whatever you’re planning, I wish you’d tell me now,” he said.
“Because I may not be around to see the big moment when it comes!”
“You’ll be here,” Sandy said, “because the big moment is now! Turn
around with me and watch Jones’s boat. If this works, it’s going to be
something worth watching!”
As Jerry changed his position, he saw for the first time that Sandy had
the big brass flare gun in his hand! He was cocking it carefully, and
keeping an eye on Jones’s sloop which seemed to be almost ready to ram
them. Lying flat on the foredeck of the pursuing boat, they could
clearly see the figure of Turk, hurriedly reloading his pistol.
“You’re not going to try to shoot him with that?” Jerry said. “Those
things are way too inaccurate! You won’t stand a chance!”
“Not him,” Sandy said. “It!” He steadied the flare gun on the edge of
the afterdeck and squinted down its length, aiming at the spinnaker!
Seeing now what Sandy was attempting, Jerry crouched beside him and held
his breath. Sandy waited till almost the last possible minute until,
just as Turk was raising his pistol to fire once more, he released the
flare.
A dazzling arc of fire leaped from the brass muzzle straight for the
bellying spinnaker! It landed in a shower of sparks, bright enough to
show them Turk’s astonished face turned upward to see what had hit them.
The shot had hit squarely in the center of the ballooning sail, burning
a small, red-ringed hole which slowly spread.
Would this be all? Just a spreading ring of coals that would die in a
minute or two? If this was all, it was not enough! Then, just as Sandy
was beginning to fear that he had made a mistake that might well cost
them everything, the sail burst into flame!
The column of fire shot straight upward into the blackness of the night,
vividly illuminating both boats. In its brilliant light, the boys saw
Turk stand up, black against the flames, then leap overboard.
“One down!” Sandy said. “But what about Jones?”
As the flaming spinnaker spread its fire to the mainsail and the mast,
they saw Jones rise in the cockpit, level his rifle and shoot. Six shots
rang out in quick succession, and all six whizzed harmlessly by. Then
Jones flung his empty gun into the sea and turned his attention to the
fire.
Jerry and Sandy sailed slowly away from the flaming scene, and then
started to sail in a circle around it, still watching Jones. He had
gotten a bucket from below, and was throwing sea water, as fast as he
could scoop it up, over the burning and the unburned parts of the sloop.
The fire was gaining though, and his efforts were obviously doomed to
failure.
“If he hadn’t been so busy shooting when the fire started,” Jerry said,
“he would have stood a good chance of putting it out. The delay is going
to sink him!”
Jones worked feverishly until the last possible moment, until the decks
and the cabin were aflame, and the fire had spread to the little
cockpit. Finally, when it was obvious that there was no more he could
do, he kicked off his shoes and jumped over the side.
“What do we do now?” Sandy asked. “We can’t just leave them there to
drown. They probably deserve it, but I don’t think it’s up to us to
judge what kind of sentence they get.”
“You’re right,” Jerry agreed. “But if we take them aboard, we won’t
stand much of a chance against them. Why don’t we try to find them and
toss them a couple of life jackets so they can stay afloat while we make
up our minds?”
It was no trouble to find Turk, who came swimming up to the side to beg
to be taken aboard. Sandy kept the empty flare pistol aimed at him while
Jerry looked for the life jackets. When he had found them, he tossed one
over the side, and Turk struggled into it. Then, still frightened of the
flare gun which he did not know was empty, he held up his hands tamely
to allow Jerry to tie them together.
“Now will ya lemme come on board?” he pleaded.
“I don’t think so,” Sandy answered. “I think you’ll be safer at the end
of a long line. Just relax, and we’ll tow you back to shore!”
With Turk in tow, the sloop handled rather sluggishly as the boys
circled the scene of the fire searching for Jones. The bright light of
the flames had died to a glowing, dull orange which was soon to go out
altogether as the sloop settled lower and lower in the water.
“What we need is a searchlight,” Jerry said. “We may never find him
unless he swims to us the way Turk did!”
“Listen!” Sandy said. “If I’m not mistaken, I hear a searchlight coming
now!”
Turning in the direction of the new sound of powerful marine motors,
they were met with a bright searchlight beam, which swept from them to
the burning sloop and back again. For the first time since their
adventure had started, Sandy felt a genuine feeling of relief, as the
Coast Guard cutter reversed its engines and came to a neat stop
alongside.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Another Discovery
With the arrival of the Coast Guard, the problem of finding Jones solved
itself. He quickly realized the hopelessness of his position and swam in
from the darkness toward the cutter and the sloop, tamely giving himself
up.
It was only after he and Turk had both been taken on board the Coast
Guard vessel and placed under guard that the captain of the cutter,
Lieutenant Ames, started to ask the necessary questions.
He listened, absorbed in the story, until Sandy had finished talking.
Then he sighed. “That’s quite a yarn, boys. It sounds pretty wild. For
your sakes, I hope that you can show some evidence to back it up.
Otherwise, all we have is your word. Now, your word may be good enough
for me—” he held up a hand to forestall Sandy’s objections—“but it’s
going to take more than that to make a charge of counterfeiting stick in
a court of law.”
“We’ve _got_ more than that!” Sandy said angrily. “We can show you the
island, and unless I miss my guess, we’ll find Jones’s counterfeiting
presses there!”
“I hope so,” Lieutenant Ames said. “Meanwhile, since you’ve made charges
against these men, I’ll hold them in custody until we get ashore. Then
I’ll turn them and the whole case over to the FBI, where it belongs.”
His official statement done, Lieutenant Ames relaxed into a boyish grin.
“You can get those scowls off your faces now,” he said. “I just wanted
you to realize that we’ve got to have good, solid proof before this
business is over with. As for me, I believe your story, and I think the
FBI will, too.”
“I’m not too worried about proving our story about Jones and Turk,”
Sandy said. “But what worries me is how we’re going to get the
freighter, now that it’s out of U.S. coastal waters.”
“The Navy will take care of them,” Lieutenant Ames said. “But that
reminds me, you didn’t tell me the name of the freighter, and we’ll need
to radio that to the Navy right away.”
“I noticed the name on the lifeboat,” Jerry said. “It was the _Mary N.
Smith_, from Weymouth.”
“No!” Sandy said. “You must have gotten it mixed up in the darkness. I
saw it clear as day on the stern. It was the _Martin South_ from
Yarmouth!”
“I’m sure I had it right,” Jerry said. “I remember thinking to myself
that it was a pretty innocent, girlish name for such a dirty freighter!”
“Maybe you’re both right,” Lieutenant Ames said. “It sounds to me as if
both names have a lot in common. They probably have a set of phony
papers under each name—and maybe under three or four more names that
sound a lot like those. That way, all they have to do is paint out and
change a few letters after each port, instead of having the whole job to
do. It allows them to make quick shifts of identity.”
“It also lets them explain that they were picked up because of an
accidental similarity of names, in case of trouble,” Jerry put in. “I
wonder what name they’re using now,” he added.
“That’s pretty easy to guess,” the Coast Guard officer said. “If I were
changing names after leaving a port, I’d paint the bow and stern while I
was at anchor, and leave the lifeboats and other things for when I was
at sea. My guess is that we’ll find them sailing as the _Martin South_
from Yarmouth.”
“Unless,” Sandy added, “unless they decided to change it to something
else while at sea, after the trouble. After all, they have no idea
whether Jones got us or we got him, and they’ll probably be expecting to
get picked up.”
“Well, we won’t take any chances,” Ames said. “I’ll radio the Navy now
to be on the lookout for any freighter with a name anything like _Martin
South_ or _Mary N. Smith_. And if I know those boys, we’ll have a report
on them within the next few hours!”
After giving his instructions to the radio operator, Ames decided it was
time to head for shore and turn over Jones, Turk and the boys to the
FBI. It was decided to take the sloop in tow behind the cutter, and
Sandy went over the side to find a towing line to hand up to the
cutter’s deck.
“Come on over with me,” Sandy said, “and I’ll show you some of the
bullet holes we’re carrying. They ought to help support our story!”
Lieutenant Ames followed Sandy over the side and joined him on the deck
of the little sloop, where he examined the holes in the sail and the
furrows in the deck and the coamings. “They sure came close!” he said.
“You’re pretty lucky to be here in one piece now.” He ran his finger
thoughtfully along a deep scar in the coaming near where Sandy’s head
had been, and whistled low when he saw the splintered spot on the
tiller.
Lieutenant Ames followed Sandy below in search of the spare mooring
line. (The original one had been left dangling from the deck of the
freighter.) He stood stooped over in the low cabin, surveying the trim
accommodations. At last, Sandy found a line that would do, stowed away
up forward with the anchor.
Joining Ames in the cabin, he pointed to the locker above the compact
galley. “There’s where we found the money when we went looking for the
canned food,” he said. “It was filled up all the way to here,” he
indicated, sliding back the locker door.
“What do you mean, _was_?” the Coast Guard officer asked with a gasp.
The open locker door revealed the stacked counterfeit, untouched, just
as the boys had first seen it!
“Whew!” Sandy sighed. “Well, I guess _that_ takes care of our case
against Jones!”
As they towed the sloop back to Cliffport, heading into the bright
colors of a Pacific sunrise, they pieced together what must have
happened.
“From what we overheard on the freighter,” Sandy said, “Jones and the
freighter captain were both dissatisfied with the original deal they had
made for the counterfeit money. Jones wanted more for the stuff, because
of the risk he had run with us and because of the added chances he was
taking if we disappeared from Cliffport. A local investigation of our
disappearance might turn up someone who had seen us near his island.”
“Right,” Jerry added. “And the Captain wanted a larger share than usual
for himself because of the risk he was running in getting rid of us for
Jones. They bargained about it for a long time.”
Lieutenant Ames nodded. “And Jones wasn’t taking any chances by bringing
the money on board until his deal had been settled. He must have been
going for it when you saw him and the Captain shaking hands on deck. And
the reason he was so desperate when he saw you sailing off was that he
knew you were not only escaping, but escaping with the evidence!”
“I guess it’s not always a bad thing,” Sandy laughed, “to make the same
mistake twice!”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Homeward Bound
Three days later, the case ended where it had really begun—back in the
Cliffport Boat Yard. Only this time, Sandy and Jerry picked their way
over the timbers and rails with Lieutenant Ames instead of with Sandy’s
Uncle Russ.
“I guess you boys are glad this is all over,” he said. “I suppose you’re
all set for your trip home now?”
“We sure are,” Jerry said. “We just need to buy a few things, and we’re
ready.”
“It was sure nice of the FBI to let us have Jones’s sloop as part of the
reward,” Sandy added. “I felt pretty bad when I saw my boat on fire. I
was sure that if we ever got back to shore, we’d be taking the train
home!”
“There was no sense in keeping it,” Ames said. “Not even for evidence.
We had all the evidence we needed with that bundle of counterfeit
money—and even more than that, with the printing press and the plates we
found at Jones’s little resort. And everyone agreed that you ought to
have it.”
They walked along the sea wall until they reached the corner of the
shed, where Lieutenant Ames suddenly stopped. “As long as you’re
thanking the FBI for the boat,” he said, “I think you might as well
thank the Coast Guard too!”
“Well, of course,” Sandy said, puzzled. “I only meant that it was the
FBI who really had title to it, and they were the ones who decided.... I
mean, we’re grateful to you all.”
Ames laughed. “I don’t want to keep you in the dark,” he said. “The FBI
gave you the boat, all right, but we decided to pitch in a little, too.
Look!”
They turned the corner of the boat-yard shed. In front of them, resting
in a high cradle, was the sloop, freshly painted and gleaming in the
sun, her sides as smooth as glass.
After both boys had thanked Lieutenant Ames profusely, Jerry asked, “How
did you ever get so much done in just three days?”
“Oh, that’s the Coast Guard way with boats,” Ames said and he laughed.
“A whole gang of the boys decided to go to work on her, and we did in
three days what would take most boat yards a week or two. It started
when we decided to fix up the bullet scars, and it just didn’t stop
until we had finished the whole thing!”
Climbing to the deck, they inspected the newly painted cabin and
cockpit, the freshly varnished coamings and mast, the almost invisible
repairs on the decks.
“We’ll have her launched within the next hour,” Lieutenant Ames said.
“Why don’t you go into town to buy whatever you need in the meanwhile?
It shouldn’t take you too long to get stores for a short trip.”
“That’s a good idea,” Sandy said. “But we’re going to need more than the
regular stores. I’m going to spend some of that reward money right away
on a new spinnaker. That’s one thing I’ve decided never to be without
again!”
“Not only that,” Jerry added, “but we want to get some more shells for
the flare pistol. I don’t think I’ll ever feel comfortable without that
on board!”
“There’s something else, too,” Sandy said. “I think we ought to think up
a name for this boat right away, and pick up some brass letters for the
stern. I don’t want to keep on making mistakes!”
Ames joined in the laughter, then said, “That’s one thing I think you
don’t have to do. That is, unless you don’t like the name the Coast
Guard picked out for you!”
Rushing to the stern, Sandy and Jerry leaned over to see the shiny brass
letters screwed to the counter of their sloop. Looked at upside down,
they spelled:
REWARD
SANDY STEELE ADVENTURES
1. BLACK TREASURE
Sandy Steele and Quiz spend an action-filled summer in the oil fields of
the Southwest. In their search for oil and uranium, they unmask a
dangerous masquerader.
2. DANGER AT MORMON CROSSING
On a hunting trip in the Lost River section of Idaho, Sandy and Mike
ride the rapids, bag a mountain lion, and stumble onto the answer to a
hundred-year-old mystery.
3. STORMY VOYAGE
Sandy and Jerry James ship as deck hands on one of the “long boats” of
the Great Lakes. They are plunged into a series of adventures and find
themselves involved in a treacherous plot.
4. FIRE AT RED LAKE
Sandy and his friends pitch in to fight a forest fire in Minnesota. Only
they and Sandy’s uncle know that there is an unexploded A-bomb in the
area to add to the danger.
5. SECRET MISSION TO ALASKA
A pleasant Christmas trip turns into a startling adventure. Sandy and
Jerry participate in a perilous dog-sled race, encounter a wounded bear,
and are taken as hostages by a ruthless enemy.
6. TROUBLED WATERS
When Sandy and Jerry mistakenly sail off in a stranger’s sloop instead
of their own, they land in a sea of trouble. Their attempts to
outmaneuver a desperate crew are intertwined with fascinating sailing
lore.
PUBLISHED BY SIMON AND SCHUSTER
* * * * * *
Transcriber’s note:
--Copyright notice provided as in the original—this e-text is public
domain in the country of publication.
--Silently corrected apparent typographical errors; left non-standard
spellings and dialect unchanged.
--In the original, the last word in the text was printed upside down.