HOME AGAIN—AND AWAY.
Though the crew of the vessel was saved, the surfmen’s work was not yet
over. The breeches-buoy had to be disentangled from the broken mast,
spars and ropes, and the other apparatus had to be packed on the beach
wagon and returned to the station. All this occupied some time. The
hands of both sailors and lifesavers were sore and slippery with brine,
the ropes were badly snarled, and the wind and waves tore viciously at
the tackle. The task was completed at last, however, and then all made
their way to a small shanty or refuge adjoining the boathouse. Here the
shipwrecked men were provided with dry clothing and with food which they
devoured ravenously.
“My stars! that grub looks good to little Willie!” declared one of the
sailors, hastily climbing into dry flannels and a suit of overalls.
“Thank’ee, cap’n; I’ll take corned beef an’ brown bread an’—an’ a swig
o’ the hot coffee that ye have handy. Here’s to ye all, sir, with many
thanks and a blessin’ on ye!”
All joined in the toast, and then made an onslaught on the plain but
bountiful repast set before them.
One man, the captain of the ill-fated schooner, dejectedly explained
between huge mouthfuls that they had been making for Santario, to get
provisions for a voyage to Key West. The schooner’s rudder had broken on
a reef, and they had drifted for thirty-four hours without food, each
man filling “the aching void” with nothing more substantial than water.
While the process of refreshment was going on, two patrols outside were
continuing their beat, watching for portions of the ship’s cargo of
bales of cotton to be washed ashore. Without regard to the hardships
already undergone, these men, taking turns, remained on duty all that
stormy day.
Late in the afternoon the wind died down, and at ebb tide the crew of
the _Mary Jane_ and the four scouts took leave of their brave friends.
“We’ll never forget this experience as long as we live,” Hugh said as he
grasped Keeper Anderson’s hand. “It’s meant a lot to us and has taught
us more than we could ever learn from books.”
“Well, well, guess that’s true, son,” replied Anderson. “Perhaps I ought
not to have let you boys—but we won’t say anything more about that,
since there’s no harm done.”
“Hope we weren’t too much in the way, sir,” said Billy and Chester, and
Alec added his word to the general chorus. Then, with a parting
invitation from the surfmen to come again, they departed.
It was a long time before the boys were to pay another visit to the Red
Key Life Saving Station, and when they did so, it was to be under very
different conditions, They saw it next at midsummer when the great ocean
was calm, when gentle breezes filled the sails of vessels passing along
the horizon, and when the sun shone benignly over land and sea.
Meanwhile, soon after their arrival at Palmdune, and in the midst of
preparations for their cruise on the _Arrow_, they wrote a joint letter
to Keeper Anderson and his crew thanking him again for his kindness to
them. To this letter Mr. Sands added a pair of field-glasses for each of
the crew,—even better than those they already possessed,—and a huge
packing-case full of books and magazines.
Roy Norton arrived on the day following the boys’ return. He had read
newspaper accounts of the unusual storm along the coast, and he was much
interested in hearing all about the adventures of the youthful
lifesavers.
From the first, the boys liked Norton; in many ways he reminded them of
George Rawson, their assistant scout master at Pioneer Camp. Unlike
Rawson, however, who was tall and lean and sinewy, Norton was a young
man of medium height, rather thick-set and muscular, yet agile and quick
in action. He, too, possessed an apparently inexhaustible fund of energy
and good humor.
Captain Lemuel Vinton, who met them one morning on the main fishing dock
at Santario, proved to be a stout, grizzled, salt water veteran of fifty
years or more. He greeted them with gruff cordiality and escorted them
aboard the _Arrow_, where he assigned them their sleeping quarters.
With him, as their future guide through the Everglades, was Wastanugee,
a Seminole Indian who answered to the more convenient nick-name of Dave.
He was much given to living among the whites, and, while it was clear
that he liked civilized ways and also hard dollars, or “chalks,” as the
Indians term them, it soon became evident,—toward the end of the first
day’s cruise,—that he disliked and dreaded “the big salt,” as he called
the ocean.
“Uh! Bad medicine!” he grunted. “Bad weather. Dave better stay home. Go
home, anyhow, when get Big Cypress Harbor. Incah!”
Having baited the boys’ hooks, he settled himself resignedly within the
folds of his blanket, stretched out his trousered legs and moccasined
feet, and yawned loudly.
“Best kind of fishing weather, this,” said Alec. “Tarpon are bound to
bite now, aren’t they, Captain?”
Captain Vinton shook his head slowly.
“You can’t never tell ’bout tarpon,” he answered. “Sometimes they will,
then ag’in they won’t. Mostly they’ll do as they durn please, which is
likely to be jest w’at you don’t want ’em to do. One thing, though:
we’re goin’ to have wuss weather afore we have better, mark my words.”
Hearing this, Dave grunted dolefully.
Vinton’s remarks about the tarpon seemed to be verified, for the boys
had such poor luck in getting bites that presently they made their lines
fast by wedging the poles under the thwarts and turned their attention
to a faint blur of smoke rising far out against the brilliant blue
horizon.
“Wonder if Cap’n Bego really did git out?” said Vinton, as if communing
with himself.
But Norton overhead the query. “Who’s Captain Bego?” he inquired
casually.
“Oh, he’s a greaser who’s been havin’ some trouble with a United States
revenue cutter from Havana. Cutter’s the _Eagle_. If Uncle Sam gits
after Bego ag’in, there’ll be one set o’ rascils turned back, I reckon.”
“You mean——”
“Filibusters,” was the startling answer.