AN EARLY TASTE OF SALT WATER
In the early morning, Bob and his mother had an animated conference.
Mrs. Balfour forgave Bob’s late return only after she heard the story
of his kidnaping by Tom Allen and Hal Burton and had listened to his
account of Mrs. Mendez and Mrs. Allen.
When Bob had finished a description of Captain Joe Romano and of the
Anclote Club, his mother at once vetoed a membership in the latter
body. But the boy expected this, and in a short time, with many
arguments, he had made the prohibition conditional. When Mrs. Balfour
said she “would see about it,” Bob knew the worst was over.
Mrs. Balfour had plans for a little tour of her own in the shopping
district, in which her son was to be a guide. And Bob was now too much
concerned with his afternoon program to urge very strongly the launch
ride on the bay. As his mother seemed to have forgotten this program as
outlined the previous day, he did not revive it.
While Mrs. Balfour and the landlady fell to discussing desirable
“French organdies” for sale in a certain shop, Bob decided to begin the
day with an examination of the boarding house premises. A shell walk
led around the house. In the rear, on each side of a deep, wide lot,
were low, white buildings. Their roofs were green, with moss-covered
shingles, while three wide-spreading oaks between them were garlanded
with long strands of sombre but picturesque Spanish moss. The kitchen
yard beneath the oaks was of hard packed earth. In one of the
buildings, Bob heard a colored woman’s voice.
The odor of coffee, the soft sizzle of something frying, and the sharp
clatter of dishes told him it came from the kitchen, isolated as usual
in southern homes from the dwelling house. The woman seemed in a
critical mood, to say the least. As Bob stopped to watch a scurrying
fat hen, he could not avoid hearing what the unseen speaker was saying.
“What yo’ done wid dat two bits I done guv you day befo’ yistiday?”
There was an undistinguishable reply.
“Yo’s a liah, yo’ good fo’ nothin’ loafin’ niggah. Los’ it? How yo’
gwine lose a piece o’ real money? Dat two bits nevah git cole in yo’
pocket. Craps――das what. Ef de money goes wid craps, let it come back
wid craps. No sah, not a nickel.”
There was a feminine sob or two, but they did not sound real.
“Yo’ reckon Miss Franko’s gwine feed yo’ eber day? No sah! Go long now,
boy. Yo’ ole mammy ain’t no use fo’ no crap shooters. An’ Miss Franko
ain’t nuther. She sho skin yo’ ef she fin’ yo’ snoopin’ roun’ hyar.”
There was a gurgle as of some one drinking, and then the other person
said:
“Yo’ done ’sult me, mammy. I’se gwine ’way to stay. Yo’ ain’t goin’ to
see me no mo’.”
The other grunted. “Huh! You’ all don’ go no furder ’an you’ kin walk.
An’ ah reckon de tas’ o’ dat meat an’ coffee’ll be gone by to-morrer.”
“Yo’ don’ know what I’se gwine to do,” retorted the other speaker.
“I’se got a job.”
“Yo’ got a job?” snorted the woman. “Ain’t dat sun hu’t yo’ haid,
chile?”
“Marse Tom Allen allows he ain’t gwine campin’ dis spring lessen I
goes wid him. Das all.”
Bob started. Tom Allen! That was his new friend. This must be Jerry
Blossom. Bob advanced to the end of the yard. Pretending to examine
the chickens, he turned back toward the house, and, as he did so, had
his first sight of Jerry. A colored boy, heavy for his height, and
perhaps eighteen or nineteen years old, was coming jauntily toward the
gate in the rear, intently examining a silver dollar.
“Hello, Jerry,” exclaimed Bob.
“Mawnin’, sah,” answered the boy, touching his hat. “Fine mawnin’,
sah,” he added hastily pocketing his coin. “Ah yo’ a boada hyah, sah?”
he continued.
Bob nodded his head. Beyond question, the colored boy was decked in
garments inherited from older persons of various tastes. His hat was
too small, and his white shirt too large. He wore neither coat nor
vest, and his shirt sleeves were held up with brass sleeve holders.
His trousers, a loud black and white check, were hitched far toward
his shoulders with most intricate and complicated suspenders. This,
however, did not prevent their frayed ends from trailing behind Jerry’s
shoes. These were of patent leather, worn and cracked, with gray cloth
tops and large white bone buttons.
“Yes,” said Bob, with a smile, “I’m a boarder here. I’m goin’ to be
here several months. Do you live with Mrs. Franko?”
“No, sah,” replied Jerry, promptly. “No, sah. Not prezackly――not now.
Ah used to be a waitah hyah, but Miss Franko an’ me we done have a
fallin’ out.”
Bob already had an idea. Jerry didn’t know him. Why not utilize the
black boy to pick up a little information?
“Haven’t you got a job now?” continued Bob.
“Me?” replied Jerry. “Sure, Ah has got a job. Ah wuk reg’lar ebery
year――sometimes.”
“What are you doin’ now?” went on Bob.
“Well, sah,” replied Jerry, throwing out his chest, “Ah is what
yo’ call a chef――dat means a cook, speakin’ common. Dey is a few
rich gemmen in dis city ’at won’t eat no cookin’ ’ceptin’ mine. Dey
constitute sah, what’s called de Anclote Club.”
“Oh, I see,” commented Bob. “I suppose it’s one of those rich country
clubs.”
“Yas, sah,” continued Jerry. “Ah reckon it is about de riches’ club in
de south. Ah has hearn tell dey ain’t nothin’ in de north kin tech de
Anclote club house fo’ bigness an’ costiveness.”
“Must be pretty fine,” said Bob, without a smile. “And so you are the
chef of this club.”
“Dat’s my reg’lar job,” answered Jerry. “O’ course, outen de club
season, Ah has othah business.”
“What’s that?” asked Bob relentlessly.
“Well, sah, recently Ah was assistant janitor down to de Creole Coffee
House. But Ah is restin’ now, preliminahy to my wuk at de club.”
“Then the club isn’t open at present?”
“We open day after to-morrer, Friday. Mos’ ob de membahs ah engaged
in de banks and de countin’ houses till de end ob de week. Ef yo’ ’ll
’scuse me, I mus’ now has’en on as Ah have an appintment to engage some
ob my assistants.”
Bob could not refrain from laughing.
“Wha’ fo’ yo’ laffin at, boy?” exclaimed Jerry.
“I’m laughing at you, Jerry. I’m onto you. I know about the Anclote
Club, and I know some of its members. Tom Allen is my friend.”
The inflated Jerry collapsed like a pricked toy balloon. But he made a
feeble stand.
“Ah is de cook,” he blustered.
“I know,” said Bob. “It’s all right. I’m not going to say anything
about it. Now tell me about the real club; where it is, and what you
do.”
By following the still alarmed Jerry out into the back street to a
convenient seat on the curb, Bob coaxed out of him the history of the
club a membership in which he was a candidate. By the time Bob rejoined
his mother ready for her shopping tour, he was poorer in money by a
quarter, but considerably richer in information.
It was tedious work shifting from one foot to another while his mother
leisurely looked over organdies and summer silks, and it required the
bracing influence of two surreptitious lemon phosphates. At last, about
half past ten o’clock, Bob got his mother on a street car and they went
to the Long Wharf. It was hot, and, somewhat over her protest, the boy
persuaded his parent to accompany him in search of Captain Joe.
The first sight of the _Three Sisters_ schooner, freshly scrubbed and
resplendent in its spring coat of green and blue paint, was reward to
Mrs. Balfour and Bob for the hot walk on the long, fishy, crowded pier.
Captain Joe, pipe in mouth, was lounging on the dock.
The fishing excursion was out of the question, but Mrs. Balfour――somewhat
to Bob’s surprise――at once acquiesced in Captain Joe’s proposal that she
and her son go for an hour’s sail. The boat was roomy and substantial,
and the ease with which the old red-girdled sailor handled his spread of
canvas reassured Mrs. Balfour. As the _Three Sisters_ heeled over and
slid out into the rippling harbor, its feminine passenger even gave a
little exclamation of delight.
After a half hour’s sail out soundward, the _Three Sisters_ came about.
With several short tacks, Bob almost on the bowsprit to enjoy the zest
of the salt spray (despite his mother’s half-hearted protests), Captain
Joe laid over on his last haul for the wharf landing. Then came the
accident that turned the pleasure sail into a catastrophe.
As the little schooner sped gallantly forward, all on board had busied
themselves watching a heavily laden tramp steamer making seaward. She
had loaded with lumber at a private dock, her bow shoreward, and a
puffing little tug had just finished heading her out into the bay. The
_Three Sisters_ was well to starboard, but, the steamer being just
under way, Captain Joe, it could be seen, would pass close astern.
At the moment when the swell from the steamer’s screw first struck the
_Three Sisters_ and the lumber tramp’s rusty red sides rose almost
above the swiftly scudding schooner, a little leg o’ mutton rigged boat
shot across the big boat’s stern. The fragile craft had been concealed
from Captain Joe by the hull of the steamer. Who ever was in the
approaching boat was apparently unaware of the impending collision, as
the occupant was out of sight behind the sail.
Captain Joe, astern at the helm, could escape the little boat only
by falling further off the wind and that meant a collision with the
steamer stern or its low-hanging starboard boat. With a shout of
warning, he took one quick glance at Mrs. Balfour and hesitated. The
moment was long enough to bring about the threatened collision.
Mrs. Balfour screamed and caught Captain Joe’s arm. Bob, still astride
the bowsprit, threw his legs backward onto the deck, and, grasping a
stay, lunged downward in an effort to fend off the little boat. But,
as he did so, a full swell from the now rapidly churning screw of the
steamer caught the schooner and lifted it on a foamy crest. Checked in
its course, the heavy schooner hung for a moment, its sails flattening,
and then, almost jibing, pounded downward into the eddying swirl and
smashed the slender mast of the cockle shell crossing its bowsprit.
There was another piercing scream from Mrs. Balfour, and Captain Joe
threw the schooner into the wind. Its sails flapping, he sprang forward
to the wreckage. Quickly as he did so, Bob beat him, and as the bronzed
seaman saw the boy throw himself overboard, he caught up a line and ran
out on the bowsprit. A moment later, the captain of the _Three Sisters_
was in the bob stays with firm grips on the unconscious sailor of the
wrecked boat and the white-faced Bob.
In truth, Bob’s physical ailment had been largely caused by his
overindulgence in indoor aquatics. He had twice been a candidate for a
place in the Y. M. C. A. polo team, and he had plunged into the foam of
Pensacola Bay with no more fear than if he were starting on a game in
the tank.
He had not stopped to consider the handicap of a full suit of clothes,
minus his coat which he had laid aside because of the summery sun, and
it was too late to do so after he sprang overboard.
He had caught only a glimpse of a boy, had seen him pitch forward as
the little boat sank and he knew that help was needed. Bob came to the
surface――blowing water as if in a forty-yard dash――his hat well adrift
and his shoes already like lead, but with the unconscious form of their
victim in his arms.
Captain Joe threw true, and Bob had enough strength to free one arm
and grasp the line. Mrs. Balfour screamed again, but the experienced
seaman reassured her with a smile. Then the agitated woman even helped
pull the limp form of the rescued boy into the schooner. Thereupon,
although Bob was able to clamber aboard, almost unassisted, she became
hysterical. Bob, a little weak in his legs and arms, applied himself
to her pacification, and in a short time, they were both able to give
attention to the boy on the deck.
“All right,” exclaimed Captain Joe, “breathin’ reg’lar. Got de boom on
’is ’ead. Ain’t no drown.”
A red spot on the unconscious boy’s temple indicated that he had been
struck by a bit of wreckage. While Captain Joe hastened to the helm
again, Bob and his mother raised the boy’s head, wiped his face and in
a few moments, he groaned slightly. Just before the schooner reached
the wharf, the unconscious boy was able to move, and, after coughing
and clearing his throat, he turned on his side.
[Illustration: BOB HAD ENOUGH STRENGTH TO FREE ONE ARM AND GRASP THE
LINE.]
“Captain Joe,” said Bob, “you know who we are and where we are
stopping. If the boy is all right, don’t say anything about us. Take
care of the boy, and if he thinks we ought to pay for his boat, come
and see us. Here’s the money for our sail, and the next time, I hope
we’ll have better luck.”
As the _Three Sisters_ came alongside the wharf, her forward sail came
over and hid the still unconscious boy in its shade. Urged on by Bob,
Mrs. Balfour climbed ashore. At the last moment, the still dripping Bob
remembered a five dollar bill his father had given him. Slipping it to
Captain Joe, he whispered:
“Give him this for his doctor’s bill, if he needs attention.”