ADRIFT IN A STORM
Loud and clear came the report of Basker’s pistol. The weapon was aimed
at Bob’s head, and it looked as if the youth must be either killed or
mortally wounded.
But at that instant a heavy ocean swell caught the rowboat, and the
bullet merely grazed Bob’s ear, leaving an ugly scratch behind.
The lad sank back on the seat.
“A close shave!” ejaculated Barry. “I’m afraid we can’t make it!”
Nevertheless he continued to row with might and main, straight out into
the broad Atlantic.
The swells were long and heavy, and soon the rowboat was dancing up and
down like a cork.
Basker was about to fire a second time, when two of the Patagonians
threw him flat and took his pistol from him.
The Indians continued to aim their arrows at the occupants of the
rowboat, but soon the craft was so far off that the arrows fell short.
It was not until the rowboat was a good two hundred yards from the
beach that Barry rested on the oars and stood up to watch the fate of
those left behind.
He saw Captain Fenlick and Basker made prisoners, and saw the Spaniard
was dead.
“They deserve their fate,” he said to Bob.
“So they do,” was the answer. “But what shall we do now?”
“Keep out on the ocean, at least until it grows dark.”
“Perhaps they have canoes handy and will come after us.”
“By Jove, I never thought of that. I’ll row down the coast.”
“I wish I could help you, Barry, but my side is that stiff----”
“You sit still, Bob. I reckon I can take it easy, for it’s not likely
that they have canoes in the immediate vicinity.”
Down the seacoast went the rowboat until the vicinity of the cove was
left far behind.
They watched eagerly for the Patagonians, but if the natives were
following along-shore they kept out of sight behind the brushwood on
the cliff.
A mile or more covered, Barry threw down the oars to rest.
The sky was overclouded, as if another storm were at hand, and by noon
it began to rain.
Yet they did not dare to go ashore for fear of falling again into the
hands of the Patagonians.
“We don’t want to drift too far out to sea,” said Bob. “If we do, we
won’t be able to find our way back to the coast when it gets dark.”
“I wish I knew what had become of Captain Gordon and the others,” said
the young owner of the Arrow.
Slowly the afternoon went by. The rain continued, and presently the
wind came up, blowing southward.
“We’ll have to get to shore now,” said Bob. “If we don’t, we’ll be
blown out to sea.”
“Right you are,” answered his chum, and took up the oars once more.
But the rain had made the blades slippery, and in a twinkle one of them
went overboard.
Barry made a clutch at the blade but missed it.
“Gone!”
“What?”
“The oar!”
“Catch it! We can’t afford to lose it!”
In frantic haste both Barry and Bob tried to turn the rowboat around.
But the craft was heavy, and long before the task was accomplished they
saw the oar drift far away.
Then the rowboat was swept along by the wind, and soon the blade was
completely out of sight.
“Now we are in for it!” groaned Bob.
“Well, we’ll have to make the best of it,” answered Barry,
philosophically.
“How are we drifting?”
“Down the coast, I believe.”
“And the storm is growing wilder each instant!”
“Right you are.”
After this came a long spell of silence, so far as talk was concerned.
It was growing dark, and the wind tore over the ocean in fitful gusts.
How would this strange adventure end?
They tried to turn the craft shoreward, but the most they could do with
the one oar was to keep her head up to the swells of the ocean. Had
they not done this they would have been swamped.
Night found them still driving before the wind, they knew not whither.
Both were cold, wet, and hungry, and Barry had long since sunk
exhausted beside Bob.
Suddenly they heard the sound of breakers.
“The coast! We must be near the coast!” cried Bob, leaping to his feet.
“Or else a reef!” answered Barry.
Both strained their eyes, but could see nothing but the driving rain,
which beat so pitilessly into their faces.
The sounds of the breakers came louder and louder.
Then of a sudden the rowboat struck and was tossed high into the air,
and both youths found themselves thrown out into the sea.
The water boiled and foamed all around them.
Up they went upon a very mountain of the ocean, then down and down into
a hollow which looked as if it would engulf them forever.
“Your hand!” screamed Barry. “We’ll live or die together!”
And Bob gave his hand willingly.
On and on they swept, now on top of the ocean, now under. They could
see absolutely nothing. The shore might be close at hand, or it might
be miles off.
Something struck Bob’s arm. It was a bit of driftwood, and he clutched
at it as a drowning man is said to clutch at a straw.
“What have you, Bob?”
“A board. Catch hold. It is better than nothing.”
“No, you keep it. I----”
Barry got no further.
His feet had struck something. It was the bottom!
“The bottom, Bob! Put down your feet and run in!”
Bob tried to do as bidden. But another wave came along and swept them
back, far beyond their depth.
Yet the returning wave carried them still farther on, and they found
themselves in water not above their waists. With might and main they
pushed on, up a sandy beach and out of the element. At last they were
safe, and threw themselves flat.
Safe! It was enough to make both crazy! All wet, tired, hungry as they
were, they laughed hysterically.
“Thank heaven!” muttered Barry, and Bob said amen.
All through the wild night they lay under the trees which lined the
sandy beach.
Nothing came to disturb them, and sunrise found them sleeping soundly.
In the mean time the storm went down and the ocean resumed its long,
peaceful swells.
The birds began to sing, and their songs at last awoke Bob, who sat up
and gazed around him in bewilderment.
Where were they now?
The question was easy to ask, but impossible to answer.
Before them was the broad Atlantic, behind them a jungle which looked
impenetrable.
Slowly Bob arose and stretched himself, and then he walked down to the
water’s edge.
Hunger was again uppermost in his mind, and he thought he might find
some of the oysters with which he had before satisfied the inner man.
Oysters were there, sure enough, and also a number of strange-looking
fish which the storm had cast up.
Soon he had all he could carry of the bivalves, and he took them to
where Barry still slept.
“If only I could build a fire and broil some fish,” thought Bob.
He still had the pistol taken from the enemy, but it had been in the
water, and might not go off.
“Anyway, I’ll get some wood together and try it,” he said to himself.
The shore was lined with wood, and this the sun was rapidly drying.
Soon he had a small armful, and again he returned to Barry’s side.
His chum was just stirring.
“Oysters, fish, and wood for a fire!” cried the young yacht owner.
“Good enough. But how are you going to make a fire?”
“I’m going to try to fire the pistol into this bit of punky stuff,”
answered Bob.
He was working over the driftwood, sorting out the dryest he could find.
Suddenly he uttered an exclamation of wonder.
“By ginger!”
“What now, Bob?”
“Look at this bit of wood.”
As he spoke he held up a bit of wood about two feet long.
The board was painted brown, and a part of it contained these letters:
ARRO