THANKS TO THE PILOT--CONCLUSION.
When the adventurous six left Savannah in their wake, and struck in for
the stream below the city which would take them to Wassaw Sound, they
knew that they had really started on what was destined to be the last
leg of the trip to Florida.
By noon they had managed to make Ossaban Sound, and still kept on,
hoping to cross the wide reach that formed St. Catherine's Sound that
same day. But it was not to be. The sky clouded up, the wind whipped
into the northwest, and in a short time the boys realized that it was
getting very chilly for this far south, in the middle of October.
When they saw the wild aspect that wide stretch of tumbling water
presented, it was quickly settled that the crossing must be put off
until another day. Accordingly camp was made in a hamak, where the
force of the wind was broken. And here they proceeded to take things
as comfortably as possible.
George took his gun and went out to see if he could scare up any sort
of game; for there had been murmurings of late to the effect that they
did not seem to be getting their full share of such things on this trip.
The fact of the matter was, that so much of their precious time was
spent in trying to overcome the numerous difficulties by which they
found themselves confronted, that there were scant opportunities for
fishing and hunting.
Nick persisted in getting a line out, as he had been seized with a
great desire to partake of fresh fish for supper, and no one else
showed any signs of intending to make a try.
Twenty minutes later those in camp were aroused by hearing a tremendous
splash, accompanied by half muffled shouts.
"Help! come quickly, or he'll get away! Hurry! hurry, boys!"
Everybody ran like the wind to the spot where Nick had been seen calmly
seated on a log that projected over the water, offering him a fine
seat, from which to carry on his fishing operations.
What they discovered was the stout boy floundering in the water of the
sound, being drawn this way and that by some unseen agency that was
fastened to the other end of his line.
Nick's obstinate disposition was made manifest by the frantic way he
clung to that same fishing line. No danger seemed sufficient to cause
him to let it go. Perhaps, though, he had been unwise enough to wrap
the cord around his chubby wrist, and could not have let loose, even
had he so desired.
Josh doubled up, and fairly howled, the sight was so very comical to
him; which made the fisherman all the more angry.
"What ails that silly goose?" he spluttered, as well as he was able,
considering that half the time his mouth was filled with salty water.
"He only thinks of the funny part of it. Don't care a cent whether a
human life is sacrificed on the altar of friendship; or a jolly big
fish breaks the line and gets away. Jack, somebody come on in, and
help me land him, won't you?"
Jack was already throwing his coat off, and in another minute he had
leaped from the bank into the water. Just as Nick had said, there was
some danger that he might be dragged out beyond his depth; and at least
the great struggling fish was liable to break away, and become lost to
them.
Once Jack got hold of the line, and it was all over. By degrees they
drew the captive to the shore, upon which he was finally cast, proving
to be an enormous red drum, or as they are called in the South, a
channel bass, weighing pretty nearly forty pounds, Jack figured.
"Is it good to eat?" was the first natural question fired at him by
Nick, whose eyes were fairly glistening with pride as they watched the
dying flops of the bronze-backed quarry.
"First rate, if a bit dry," Jack replied. "The meat is snow white, and
something like halibut, only not quite so fine. But it's a great day
for you, Nick. I can see one time when you're sure to get your fill."
Indeed, it proved to be a good day all around, for just then they heard
George letting fly with both barrels, and following it with a glad
whoop.
"He's gone and got something," declared Josh. "Ain't it queer how
things run? With us it's feast or a famine all the while. D'ye reckon
it was a deer he knocked over, Jack?"
"More'n likely another shoat," said Nick, grinning; "but even if it is,
razorback pork ain't half bad when a feller's real hungry."
Presently George came in. It was getting near dusk, and they could
just see that he was carrying a load of some sort on his back, which he
tried to hide until he could reach camp.
Josh began to grunt at a lively rate, by which he hinted that they
anticipated another diet of pork.
"What did you run up against, George?" asked Jack.
"That!" exclaimed the proud Nimrod, as he swung his burden around.
"Great governor! it's a turkey, as sure as you live!" shouted Josh.
At that Nick could hold in no longer, but began to dance around in
great glee, rubbing himself as though in anticipation of the feast to
come, and making all sorts of suggestive motions, after the manner of a
man feeding.
"How under the sun did you get close enough to knock the big bird down
with a charge of quail shot?" asked Jack, pleased because George had
held up his reputation as a sportsman.
"I don't just know," replied the other. "I was standing in the shade
of a tree, and thinking that it was no use going further, when
something lighted close by me, and I saw it was a wild turkey. Well, I
just up and gave him both barrels, as fast as I could pull the
triggers. Then he flopped over, I ran forward and nailed my prize.
And he's pretty heavy to tote any distance, too, I tell you."
"That means another of those earth ovens tonight, don't it, Jack?"
asked Nick.
"Nothing else would do the business," came the reply; "and so everybody
get busy, piling up the wood while I dig a hole," replied the one
addressed.
The turkey was baked to a turn when they uncovered the oven in the
morning, and, having their appetites along, even so early in the day,
those six lads made that noble bird look like a rack of bones before
they admitted that they were satisfied. Indeed, they had to fairly
drag Nick away from the wreck, for he declared it to be the finest
treat of his whole life.
But then, he often said that. What was present always seemed the best
to Nick. Fading events held little interest for him, since the mill
could never grind again with the water that was past.
In the morning the big sound looked smooth enough to tempt them upon
its treacherous bosom. The crossing was made with ease; and later on
came Sapelo with its particular troubles, the wind having risen
meanwhile.
But the boats proved seaworthy, and the young Corinthians who manned
them had learned many a valuable lesson from past experiences; so that
by noon they had navigated this dangerous sheet of water and were well
along their way.
"There's a lighthouse away over there, Jack," announced Josh, pointing
ahead.
"Yes; that must be Doboy Light, and the sound of the same name will be
the next to take our attention, boys," Jack replied, composedly, as
though he had the entire map of the coast region impressed on his mind
by now.
"Is there any end to 'em?" asked Nick, dolefully.
"Two more before we reach Fernandina, St. Simon's and big Cumberland.
And after we've rested at Fernandina we'll go through a few more
passages, and then take a little outside run of a few miles, when we
can enter the St. Johns."
"Oh! happy day!" chanted Josh, pretending to strum a banjo as he sang.
"Then, if all goes well, we ought to bring up at Jacksonville inside of
say two days at the most; is that so, Jack?" Herb inquired.
"Correct. And nothing is going to happen, make up your mind to that,
fellows," Jack declared, resolutely. "We've allowed nothing to
frighten us up to now, and yet used a due amount of caution, just as we
promised those at home, when they gave us permission to take this jolly
trip. And that's our slogan all the time, 'Speed, with care!' It's a
winning combination, I tell you, boys."
They spent the night near Darien, in a creek that they happened to be
passing through as a sort of short-cut.
Jack's confidence proved to be well placed, for on the following day
they safely passed both St. Simon's and the big Cumberland Sound,
bringing up close to Fernandina by nightfall.
Jack advised against trying to reach the city in the dusk. There was
danger of running upon a snag, or happening to attract the attention of
dissolute characters, who, taking advantage of the darkness of the
night and the fact of the cruisers being strangers to the place, might
attempt to rob them.
His plan was to stay where they were, a safe distance away, until
morning, and then make their way across to the city.
"Just to think that we've really and truly done it," said Nick, puffing
out with either pride or the amount of food he had consumed for supper;
"and right at this minute the Motor Boat Club is resting on Florida
soil! Why, I can hardly believe it. A year ago I'd have laughed if
any fellow told me I'd engage to do one quarter of the stunts we've
carried out since we left Philadelphia."
"Oh! you're improving every way," chuckled Josh. "I can even see signs
of it in your eating. You've got three of us combined beat to a
frazzle right now; and honest Injun, we think that by another month you
can stand off the whole bunch. Long practice makes for success, and we
all give you credit for trying your level best, Nick, every time."
It was a lovely night, this their first in Florida. The trees,
festooned with the long, swinging, gray Spanish moss, looked like the
real tropical thing to all of the boys. And they felt a pride that was
surely justifiable, in the success that had attended their cruise down
the coast.
"Best thing we ever did, and that's straight," asserted Herb.
"And not one serious accident to mar the record," Jack nodded, his eyes
sparkling with satisfaction.
"Of course we don't count those several little adventures of our fat
friend here," Josh put in, jerking his thumb in the direction of Nick,
"because we all understand that, being such a good-natured fellow, and
wanting to keep us in good humor, he did those stunts on purpose. Yes,
I agree with the rest of you, that we deserve a whole lot of credit for
coming through it all without a serious accident."
"And much of that luck is due to the wise head that piloted the
expedition," declared George, generously; "and fellows, I propose that
here and now, on the first night we spend on Florida soil, we give Jack
Stormways three good cheers and a tiger, just to show that we
appreciate his leadership. Here goes!"
And they were given with a will that must have made Jack's boyish heart
swell with pleasure; for who among us but would feel flattered at the
expression of admiration from his chums?
The next day they made for Nassau Sound; and happening to strike a
favorable time for passing over the few miles in the open, they crossed
the bar at the mouth of the St. Johns at just half-past two, continuing
up the river to the metropolis of fair Florida.
Here in Jacksonville we will have to leave them for a time,
recuperating after their eventful voyage, and making due preparations
for continuing the same through Indian River and the keys that dot the
whole Florida coast, with New Orleans as their destination.
THE END.
The further interesting and thrilling adventures of the Motor Boat Boys
will be found in volume No. 5 of this series, entitled "The Motor Boat
Boys Among the Florida Keys; or, A Struggle for the Leadership."
[Transcriber's note: This short story was part of the source book. Its
author is unknown.]
MRS. STONE'S MONEY-ORDER.
One day a well dressed lady, purporting to be Mrs. Richard Stone,
called at the money-order division of the New York office and asked for
the money on an order for L10, which had been issued in Lowestoft,
England, payable to the order of Richard Stone. The order presented on
this occasion had apparently been properly endorsed by Richard Stone,
who had made it payable to his wife.
The only precaution necessary on the part of the examiners and paying
clerks was, therefore, simply to satisfy themselves that the lady was
Mrs. Richard Stone, the rightful payee. There being no person present
to identify her she exhibited several letters addressed to herself and
her husband, and the identical letter from Lowestoft, which contained
the money-order.
She told them where her husband was employed, and gave the name and
number of the street of their residence. It seemed clear enough, and
the money was paid.
Just such transactions as this occur a hundred times a day, and it
cannot be expected that the clerks can remember very much about any
particular transaction many hours after it occurs. Three weeks later,
when another lady called, also purporting to be Mrs. Richard Stone, to
make inquiries about a money order for L10 sent to her husband from
Lowestoft, England, there was not very much to say except that the
order had been paid.
This lady also produced a letter from her husband's sister in
Lowestoft, saying that on a certain day she sent a money-order for the
amount named; that she had just received his last letter, and there
being nothing said about having received the order, she wrote to
ascertain if the order had not been received.
Mrs. Stone, the second, stated that this was the first that her
husband, or herself, had known of the existence of such an order, and
she had called to see what could be done about it. If it had been
paid, surely somebody must be responsible for the wrong payment.
It is the custom, where a wrong payment can be established, for the
postmaster or the clerk making the mistake, to make the amount good to
the right payee. Mrs. Stone's case was accordingly referred to me for
adjustment.
Her story was told in such a simple manner that no one who heard it
could doubt her word. But it was possible that she had received the
money, and had forgotten about the transaction.
When the order was paid the lady who received the money was questioned
by two examiners, both of whom were satisfied that she was the person
to whom the order should be paid. The same two examiners talked with
Mrs. Stone, the second, and one of them thought she was the lady to
whom the money was paid, while the other could distinguish very little
similarity and felt confident the first Mrs. Stone was not the second
Mrs. Stone.
On the following day Richard Stone himself called to talk the matter
over and give me some points. He suspected a young woman named Nellie
Mason, who had been in the habit of calling on his wife, who was an old
friend of hers, and who resembled her very much.
Mr. and Mrs. Stone resided in Twenty-eighth Street at this time, but at
the time the missing letter must have arrived in New York they were
living in a flat in Twenty-seventh Street. The mail for the occupants
of this flat was left by the carrier on a table in the lower hall, and
any person so inclined could have picked up the lost letter.
He had several samples of Nellie Mason's writing in the form of letters
that Mrs. Stone had received from her from time to time, and they
corresponded with the endorsements on the order.
The case was now becoming interesting, and, at Stone's request, I
consented to call at his residence the next afternoon to talk with Mrs.
Stone about Miss Mason.
Richard Stone was a young man of probably thirty-two, and an
Englishman. His dress and appearance were faultless, while his
conversation indicated that he was well educated. He had been in this
country scarcely fifteen months, yet he was holding a confidential
position in one of the largest corporations in the city, where he was
held in the highest esteem, and where he was complimented alike for his
rare abilities and gentlemanly deportment. Indeed, every person
interested was delighted with him, and they had all often wondered at
their good fortune in securing the services of such a preeminently
competent man.
Mrs. Stone was somewhat younger than her husband, and was of fair size
and fine form. "Her brow was like the snowdrift; her voice was low and
sweet," and nature had also generously endowed her with an abundance of
the most beautiful red hair that ever gladdened the heart of man with
its warm and genial rays. She was an American, and had been married to
Mr. Stone only a few months.
Mr. and Mrs. Stone were both at home when I called. I was as warmly
greeted as though I had been a welcome messenger of peace from a mortal
enemy. Mrs. Stone had hardly recovered from a terrible scare she had
received the previous evening, and the household affairs had scarcely
resumed their wonted cheerfulness and repose.
"Was it a burglar?" "No, worse than burglars!" And having never
learned that anything brought more terror to womankind than the soft
step of the artful burglar, I listened with bated breath to the
interesting story of the husband.
It was his custom to arrive home each afternoon about six o'clock,
where the bright smiles of Mrs. Stone had never, till yesterday, failed
to bathe him in the warm and tender adorations of perennial affection.
Last evening when he entered at the usual hour the house was still and
dark, and the bright face of his loved one greeted him not.
A strange man approached him, in as great surprise us if the dead had
come to life, and bade him be calm and composed, and said he thought
Mrs. Stone would soon recover consciousness; that somebody had sent her
word that her husband had been killed, and the shock was too great and
too sudden for her to bear. A telegram from a down-town office, which
brought the dreadful intelligence, lay upon the table, and it was
signed, simply "N. M."
From this circumstance alone it was painfully evident that Nellie Mason
was a bad and designing individual. Mrs. Stone was sweetly reclining
on a richly-covered couch, and her faithful husband was lovingly
administering to her every little want. The lady, like tender blades
of grass that have been watered by a passing storm, seemed more
beautiful than before her severe trial. Under the warm sunshine of
sympathy and love, her many pleasing charms shone like diamonds in the
diadem of royalty.
Seating myself within easy hearing distance of the fair Mrs. Stone, she
began the enchanting tale about Nellie Mason, the sorceress. It was as
follows:
"My maiden name was Francis West. My parents died when I was young,
and I went to live with an aunt in Peekskill on the Hudson. There I
received every attention that a dear relative could bestow upon the
young offspring of a deceased sister. There I attended school, and in
that school I first met Nellie Mason. She was about my age, and, like
myself, was living with an aunt, though she was not an orphan.
"Pardon me when I tell you that I was an attractive young miss in those
days. Young girls know as well as older ones that good looks, grace,
and fine dress are envious attractions. No one understood this more
perfectly than Nellie Mason.
"At school, at church, at parties, and everywhere, she seemed to grieve
at my good fortune. I always treated her kindly, for I had been taught
the charm of charity, yet, with all, it seemed that sometimes I could
no longer bear the unpleasant feeling that steals over a person when it
is known that another is constantly trying to imitate, and perhaps
injure you.
"It is true, she looked like me in several particulars. That is,
Nature had made her something like me, and the points of difference she
was ceaselessly attempting to assimilate. There was only one marked
difference, but that was easily changed. Her hair was brown; now it is
exactly like mine. We were in the same classes and the same social
circles.
"She tried to imitate my voice, my actions, and, so perfectly did she
imitate my writing, that no person can tell which is the genuine and
which the false. Whenever I procured a new gown, Nellie was as certain
to have one like it as she was to live. She would even squeeze her
foot into a two-and-a-half shoe, and was dying to imitate my smile.
Poor thing, how I did worry her! But what bothered her more than
anything else, was her inability in every instance to associate with
the same particular persons that I did.
"In Peekskill, as I suppose it is in most places of its size, the young
men are quite attentive to the young ladies. While my aunt was very
solicitous about my company, I managed to receive about as much
attention as the other girls, and, do you know, I never had a beau in
my life that Nellie did not try to get away from me.
"Finally, just to bother her, I would tell the young men that if they
paid Miss Mason any attention I would have nothing whatever to do with
them; that I would cut them squarely. Well, one young fellow, whom I
had thus admonished, thought it would be smart to tell the young lady
what I had said, and since that day Nellie Mason has not been trying so
much to imitate as she evidently has to injure me.
"Soon after I married Richard and came to New York to live, Nellie went
home to Lewiston, Maine; and after she had been there a while she wrote
me a letter in which she said she had married. I have her letter now.
She did not remain long in Lewiston, for the next thing I heard of her
she was here in New York.
"She called on me and said she was living with a Mrs. Gilbert, in East
Thirteenth Street; that she and her husband had quarreled, and that she
had resolved to make her own living, and was then at work in an
Insurance office. It is needless for me to say that I did not return
the call, but I presume it would have been better for me if I had.
"One evening, about half-past five, about three weeks before we left
our old apartments, one of Mr. Stone's most intimate friends called.
There was nothing particularly singular or remarkable about the call,
for the gentleman often came with Richard and made real homelike
visits. He had not been in the house long on this occasion before he
said he was delighted to receive my kind letter. Of course, not
knowing what he referred to, I promptly demanded an explanation, when
he took from his pocket a neat little letter apparently written by me
and signed 'Frances,' requesting him to call at 5:30 that day, as I
wanted to see him particularly. Did you ever hear the like of that?
"Well, to make matters still more embarrassing, presently in walks
Richard with another letter written in a scrawling anonymous hand, in
which he was advised to be home by 5:45 as he would find company. The
next thing we heard was the money-order affair, and the next was the
telegram announcing Mr. Stone's death last night, which nearly killed
me; and who knows what will be next?"
The only appropriate words I could command, after Mrs. Stone had
finished, were: "Wonderful woman!" I assure you I was unable to state
just then whether I referred to Mrs. Stone or Nellie Mason. If the
strange story was true, Nellie Mason was wonderfully remarkable. If it
was untrue, then Mrs. Richard Stone was the most remarkable character I
had ever met. I promised to call again in a day or so, and hastily
withdrew to strengthen or unravel the nicely-woven fabric Mrs. Stone
had offered.
Richard Stone had acted so much in sympathy with his beautiful wife,
that I began to think if she was wrong, Richard could not be right
himself; so I determined to know more about him. I called upon the
chief officer of the company where he was employed, and confidentially
asked him what he knew about Stone.
He told me that Stone came from England with the best kind of written
recommendations from several of the oldest established business houses
in London and Norwich; and further, that he had been warmly recommended
by the Young Men's Association, in New York to which he had been
splendidly introduced, and in whom the officers of the association
still retained a deep interest. He was a first-rate business man, and
he thought there could be no more question about his character than
there was about his own.
I told him there were some decidedly singular features about my case;
but, of course, they could possibly all be cleared up without leaving a
blemish on Stone's character. I thought, under all the circumstances,
it would be best to have a frank talk about the matter, and if he still
thought Stone was honest and honorable we would say no more about it.
He was so impressed with the story that he said they could not afford
to retain him, valuable as he was, if there was a probability that he
was not what he should be. But to be sure that they were making no
mistake, they would commence the investigation in England, and at once.
That day a cablegram was forwarded to an agent in London, who was given
full instructions what to do and how to send his report.
Having disposed of Mr. Stone for a brief period I devoted a day or two
to investigating Mrs. Stone and Nellie Mason, and I know the result
will be read with interest. There was no record at Peekskill that
showed that either of the ladies ever resided there. There was no
record in Lewiston of Nellie Mason's father or Nellie Mason. She had
never lived at Mrs. Gilbert's in East Thirteenth Street, but Miss
Frances West had, and, by the loquacious landlady, who knew about all
there was in this world worth knowing, and who had not kept a boarding
house all these years for nothing, I was advised to investigate Miss
West very sharply indeed. When I asked Mrs. Gilbert if she had not
heard of Miss West's marriage, she said: "Tut, tut, I do not believe
one word of it."
I was not long in determining beyond a doubt that Mrs. Stone sent the
telegram to herself, announcing her husband's death. She had
ingeniously sent it to her own number in West Twenty-seventh Street,
knowing that the messenger, when he found no such person on the west
side, would surely cross to East Twenty-seventh, and would not reach
the last number till after she had arrived home. While I was looking
up the telegram I heard that a detective was looking up a Miss Nellie
Mason from Peekskill, who, it was supposed, had purloined a beautiful
stem-winding, full jeweled Elgin, No. 10,427 from a gentleman from
Boston, who had been spending a short vacation in New York. It is
needless to add that there was no such person as Nellie Mason, and that
the money-order was not repaid.
When the first returns were in from London it was quite evident that
Mr. Stone had been elected by an unusually large majority. The highly
perfumed letters of recommendation that he brought over with him were
all false, the supposed writers never having heard of such a person.
He had been compelled to leave England because of a few slight slips of
the pen, which, at this time, it is not worth while to mention and that
at Lowestoft, where his parents resided, he was looked upon as a "very
slippery gentleman," whose true name was not Stone, but Hartley.
Not long afterward, and quite recently, Stone attempted by
misrepresentations to procure a large amount of money from certain Wall
Street brokers, which would enable him, he said, "to return to England
and live in splendor." But the scheme failed after he had procured a
few hundred dollars, and, instead of being permitted to enjoy the
magnificence of the old world, he suddenly found himself enjoying the
splendors of one of the oldest prisons in New York.
[Transcriber's note: the publisher's five-page catalog follows.]
End of Project Gutenberg's Motor Boat Boys Down the Coast, by Louis Arundel