TOM LANDS A TARPON AND BOB A TARTAR
Just before dawn, the mournful sound of a conch shell, blown by the
capacious lunged Jerry, aroused Bob, Tom and Mac, and the camp boys
tumbled out just in time to give a welcome to the _Three Sisters_
pushing the spray aside and headed for the cove.
When the schooner’s freight had been “toted” ashore, a rousing fire
was made to limber up the stiffened cruisers, and then, the dew
still sparkling on the waxen palmetto scrub, all hands turned in to
prepare breakfast. This over, and it was yet hardly full sun up, hasty
preparations were made for the first day’s program――an excursion out on
the gulf for deep sea fish――tarpon, if luck ran with them.
Hal alone remained behind. With a box of food and a pot of cold
coffee, the remainder of the party was off for the home of the _grande
écaille_, or the silver king of all game fishes.
As a result of their recent good fortune, each boy had new and
special tackle, split bamboo rods about eight feet long, with large
multiplying click reels that would hold two hundred yards of stout
linen line. For a half hour before starting, Jerry had been busy
catching mullet with a hand line, and his efforts gave the fishermen a
bucket of bait.
Sailing southward to the “wash” between Greater Anclote and its Keys,
Captain Joe headed for the outer Keys. Just beyond these, in anchorage,
the sails were dropped, and, the _Three Sisters_ sleepily riding the
gentle gulf swell, the eager fishermen began operations.
Baiting their hooks with mullets, Mac on one side of the boat and
Tom on the other, the young sportsmen cast their bait as far out as
possible, let it sink to the bottom, and then began the long wait.
“I reckon they bite accordin’ to their size,” remarked Bob, after a
quarter of an hour’s unfruitful interval.
“Never you mind,” retorted Tom. “Real Tarpon fishermen wait a week
sometimes.”
“An’ then don’t get nothin’,” added Mac.
“I could get a bucket of perch up on Lake Michigan in this time,”
yawned Bob.
The two fishermen sneered in disdain.
“Just you wait,” exclaimed Tom. “If we do have any luck, this old
boat’ll be the busiest place you evah saw fo’ a few hours.”
“A few hours?” shouted Bob. “And we’ve got to sit here suckin’ our
thumbs all that time? Not on your life. I’ll take a snooze.”
Jerry followed his example. Twice, while the two idle boys slept,
curled up in the vacant cockpit with a loose sail stretched to ward off
the sun, Captain Joe hoisted anchor, and, with the jib, changed the
position of the schooner searching for a possible school. Suddenly,
about eleven o’clock, Tom had a strike.
For an instant, he was in doubt. Then the unmistakable leap, with its
shower of silvery spray, left no question. As his line disappeared and
Tom’s reel began to hum, there was swift action on deck. Captain Joe
sprang to the main sail and yelled for Jerry. Mac reeled in his line
with speed and then tumbled aft to the wheel.
In the excitement, Bob and Jerry appeared. All sail was made, and the
chase of the silver king was on.
“Haul in on him――haul in,” shouted Bob.
“Go suck your thumb,” said Tom.
“Shoot him,” yelled Bob. “He’ll jump off the hook. Lemme help.”
“Go on, finish your snooze,” laughed Tom. “Keep away. This is my fish.”
“They’re bitin’, Mac,” continued Bob, growing more and more excited.
“Where’s your pole? Lemme have it? I can get one, I’ll bet.”
Mac, laughing, explained that the etiquette of tarpon fishing demanded
that when a fish is hooked, boats and other fishermen near by shall up
anchor and keep out of the way. Bob, charged with excitement, forgot
all about “sucking his thumb” or snoozing. As Captain Joe and Mac
manoeuvred the boat in pursuit of the darting, struggling fish, and
Jerry stood near the perspiring Tom with a gaff handy, Bob hung over
the rail or ran back and forth, eager to assist and finding nothing to
do. It was Tom’s first “silver scale,” but all his angling skill on
Perdido waters led up to this supreme combat. Despite his thumb stall,
the sizzling wet line soon wore through the skin of his thumb, but he
gave no heed. At one point, after a moment’s quiet, the desperate fish
made a sudden dash and leap. Tom’s reel went off like an explosion. The
handle caught the boy’s thumb with a glancing blow, and, like a knife,
snipped the skin off his knuckle.
Instantly, the blood welled out over his hand, mixed with the salt
water running down his bared arm and then reddened his shirt.
Bob sprang forward with his handkerchief.
“Keep away from me,” shouted Tom. “This is my fish, and I’m goin’ to
land him.”
“Yo’ all’s bleedin’ to def,” panted Jerry. Mac and Captain Joe smiled.
They knew that only death itself could come between a real tarpon
fisher and his prize.
“Keep those kids off me, Mac,” savagely exclaimed Tom. “Put ’em in the
hold.”
At a quarter to one o’clock, the battle was over. The sails were
dropped again, and Captain Joe, not Jerry, sank the gaff into the
conquered fish. As Tom’s rod and reel dropped on the deck and the
exhausted boy fell backwards, four willing pairs of arms pulled his
victim into the boat. It was six feet, seven inches long, and weighed
one hundred and fifty-three pounds.
A shot in the spinal column, and the monster fish was dead. With its
last flop, the panting Tom crawled to its side and pulled off one of
its largest and most brilliant scales.
“Help yourselves, boys,” he said, his face aglow with the pride of
conquest. “Get a few souvenirs, and then throw him overboard.”
“Not much,” protested Mac. “That fish is goin’ in to Tarpon Springs to
be weighed and registered. He’s a record fish.”
“Throw him overboard?” almost shrieked Bob. “What do you mean? Aren’t
we goin’ to keep him?”
“Why keep him?” laughed Tom. “He ain’t fit to eat. Take a couple of
scales. That’s all you can do with a tarpon, except to lick him.”
But Mac’s proposal was carried out. The schooner was headed shoreward.
The chase had carried the boat five or six miles seaward, and the Keys
were just in sight.
Hal, in the camp, had a long day of it. Awake by midday, he immediately
began the work assigned him in carrying out the brilliant idea
conceived by Bob the evening before, one of the reasons he had remained
ashore. Securing a piece of light colored wrapping paper, he charred
the edges of it until it was about a foot square. Then, after prolonged
search, he found a red pasteboard box which he soaked in water until he
had some carmine fluid. With this and a stick, he laboriously inscribed
something on the charred sheet.
This done, he took a small wooden box, placed a lemon in it, and then
carried the box to Oak Tree Point. Here, he stepped off a certain
number of paces in line with the trees and digging a hole in the sand
about three feet deep, deposited in it the box and the lemon.
It was six o’clock when the _Three Sisters_ reached the cove again. The
tale of the battle with the tarpon came first, and then the evening
meal. It was well after eight o’clock when Bob, lighting a candle,
asked Jerry to follow him into the tent.
“Jerry,” began Bob, solemnly, “I suppose you know the time’s up.”
“Yo’ mean dat ole colored pirate’s papah?” asked Jerry, nervously.
“I certainly do,” said Bob positively. “But I know you didn’t find it.
Jerry, you lied to me. You told me you wrote what the Black Pirate said
on regular paper. You didn’t!”
“No, sah. Ah tole de truff. It was reg’lah papah――writin’ papah.”
“And you lost it?”
“Mistah Bob, Ah been sarchin’ ever’whar. Ah cain’t fin’ hide nur hair
o’ dat writin’.”
“We’ll take you over to the mainland in the morning and leave you,”
said Bob decisively. “You’ll have to get home the best way you
can――walk, I reckon.”
Jerry’s mouth curved, and he began to whimper.
“That is,” went on Bob, “unless you confess you were telling a story.”
“No, sah, Mistah Bob, no sah. Dat ole colored pirate he shore ’peared
to me prezackly like I tole you. Ah ain’t tell no lie.”
“Well,” announced Bob, “we won’t believe it unless you show the paper.
Off you go in the morning――no airship for you, and no more camp.”
Jerry’s whimper turned into a sob. But at that moment, Tom and Hal, who
had been listening, rushed into the tent.
“What’s this mean?” began Hal holding out the charred paper. “Here’s a
paper with something on it in blood.” Jerry’s sobs stopped short, and
his eyes began to grow big. “Captain Joe says he found it under Jerry’s
blanket in the schooner.” The colored boy’s eyes popped open until the
whites looked like little moons.
“Ah ain’t――” he began, but Bob stopped him and grasped the red smeared
sheet. “Jerry,” he exclaimed in an alarmed voice, “is this yours? Why
it’s signed ‘Black Pirate’. Is this the paper you had?”
“Ah――” he began, and then stopped open mouthed.
The three boys crowded over the mysterious looking sheet, and appeared
to be puzzling out its contents.
“That’s what it is all right,” commented Tom in a low voice.
“Certainly tells all about it,” added Hal.
“But that isn’t ‘reg’lar paper’,” said Bob.
“Mebbe――” began Jerry, making a bold front.
“Maybe what?” snapped Bob.
“Mebbe,” said Jerry with dry lips, “mebbe dat ole sword man done change
dat papah on me. What’s de writin’ writ dar? Dat papah ain’t familiar
to me, but Ah knows what de writin’ was.”
Bob handed the trembling colored boy the blood written sheet, and held
the candle aloft. Jerry, his hands shaking and his lips trembling,
managed to read:
“Anclote Key. Oak Tree Point. Fifty paces in line of trees
east. Treasure. Dig, alone, at midnight.
“Black Pirate.”
As Jerry finished, he looked up and began to blubber. With him, it was
any port in a storm. Never in his life had he acknowledged to telling a
lie. With a gulp and clearing his throat, he said:
“Dar’s a hoodoo on dat papah, but dem’s de words prezackly ’at Ah done
took down. Yas, sah, Mistah Bob, dat’s what he said.”
“I guess he must be tellin’ the truth boys,” announced Bob at once.
“There’s something strange here, but I reckon Jerry’s all right. Jerry,
I apologize for thinkin’ you were telling a lie.”
“Oh, dat’s all right, Mistah Bob. We all gwine make mistakes. Ah cain’t
hardly blame yo’ all. But Ah reckon yo’ done belieb me now.”
“We certainly do,” said Hal. “But I wish I had your luck.”
“Mah luck?” repeated Jerry, puzzled.
“Yes,” added Mac. “A chance at the treasure you are going to find at
midnight.”
“Treasuah? Me? Midnight?” cried the colored boy, in sudden alarm.
“Certainly,” exclaimed Bob, in apparent surprise. “You don’t mean you
aren’t goin’ to dig it up?”
“All alone?” wailed Jerry, who, like all colored folks when they seek
buried treasure, preferred to be fortified with rabbit’s feet, dried
frog skins or the powdered bones of an owl. “Ah done gib yo’ all a
chanst to go wif me.”
“It reads ‘alone’,” explained Bob, with a straight face. “You ain’t
scared, are you?”
“Who? Me scairt? Ah ain’t scairt, but Ah reckon dey is ’nuff gold fo’
all of us.”
“We wouldn’t think of it,” explained Hal. “This is a message to you
from your relative. If he can change that paper, he could strike us
dead. I wouldn’t go near it.”
Jerry shifted his feet nervously. “Mebbe dat ole pirate lyin’ to me,”
he ventured, with new nervousness.
“Well, you can’t lose,” argued Bob. “If you do as he says and don’t
find anything, that’s his fault――not yours. Anyway, you’ve convinced us
that you’re tellin’ the truth.”
“Yas, sah,” spoke up Jerry, with sudden determination to carry his
bluff to the end. “Whar’s de shubble?”
After three hours of tedious waiting, in which time Jerry’s companions
sat about the flickering campfire and discussed grewsome and ghastly
tales of bewitched pirate gold, the boys announced the hour of the
search. The colored boy, trembling and speechless, was given the
lantern and dispatched on his quest.
No sooner had he taken the path along the west shore of the island than
the three jokers, carrying a white sheet, a freshly loaded revolver and
Captain Joe’s conch shell, lit out with racehorse speed along the east
beach for the ridge slope opposite the big oaks. Captain Joe followed
in the rear, but even he was concealed behind the rise of ground when
the faltering Jerry could be made out gingerly approaching the little
wave swept inlet at the foot of the oaks.
“Don’t spoil everything now by making a noise until he finds it,”
suggested Tom. “And then give him time to see what he has. Then I guess
we’ll cure him of pirates and treasure and lying.”
Then something happened. By the time the colored boy reached the trees,
he had forgotten how his own fabrication had started the search. The
paper in his pocket began to have a real significance, and, when he
arrived at the scene of his search, his simple reason deserted him. He
was on an actual, real quest for buried pirate gold. The Black Pirate
had suddenly become real.
Jerry’s plan of action had been suggested by the boys. To get his fifty
paces in line with the two trees, he stationed his lantern behind the
trees and then, his shovel held like a weapon, he was seen to emerge
from the shadows of the oaks. In the full moonlight, he was coming
forward, with long, precise strides, glancing backwards from time
to time to see that he kept the lantern out of his line of vision,
by which he knew that his progress was straight to the east. He had
advanced but a dozen or so full strides when Hal whispered excitedly:
“He’s steppin’ twice as far as I did. He’ll pass the box!”
What was to be done? Nothing――unless the boys revealed their presence.
“If he misses it, we’ll send him out again,” whispered Tom.
“Let him dig awhile, anyway,” suggested Bob, in a low voice. “Then
we’ll give him a scare, if part of the joke is on us.”
“I should say not,” hastily added Hal. “He’s got to find that lemon,
or――”
But he had to stop. The long-strided Jerry was too close for further
talking.
“Fo’ty-eight, fo’ty-nine, fifty,” the intent Jerry called. As he
finished, he thrust his shovel into the sand, and the boys could see
him fumbling in his pockets. In a moment, he produced and lit a candle.
Sticking it in the sand, he carefully expectorated on his hands, and
the first shovelful of sand flew over his head.
Tom, shaking with laughter, glued his mouth to Bob’s ear and whispered:
“Why not let him have it now? He ain’t goin’ to find the box.”
“Let him get up a perspiration,” whispered Bob. “It’ll do him good.”
In all his life, the shiftless Jerry had probably never done as
energetic work as followed in the next five minutes. The loose sand
seemed to fly through the air as if coming from a spout. The colored
boy was soon knee deep in a hole, mumbling a negro chant. Then his
knees disappeared.
“It’s a shame,” said Hal, in the faintest whisper, as he crawled in
between the other boys, who were rolling on the sand, holding their
hands over their mouths.
“Ssh!” came almost inaudibly from the prostrate Captain Joe.
[Illustration: THE COLORED BOY WAS SOON KNEE DEEP IN A HOLE.]
Three heads popped above the ridge. Jerry was almost out of sight
in his excavation. As the boys held their laughter, the form of the
treasure seeker suddenly hurled his shovel from the hole. Then the
active Jerry sprang out, caught up his candle and rolled into the
excavation again.
“Somethin’ doin’,” remarked Captain Joe, in a little bolder voice, as
Bob, Tom and Hal eagerly rose to their knees.
“He’s tired,” exclaimed Bob, in an excited whisper. “Get ready.”
Quickly drawing his revolver, Tom caught up his sheet and Hal thrust
the conch shell to his lips. As the pandemonium rang out, and Tom
sprang up with his ghostly sheet, Jerry rolled out of the hole. A
piercing cry of alarm rose from the colored boy, and with one wild look
behind, he fled toward the beach. Again a pistol shot rang out, and Hal
sounded a wail on the conch. “I’m Black Pirate’s ghost,” yelled Tom,
starting forward.
“Let him go,” shouted Bob, laughing, “he’s got enough.”
“He got something,” broke in Captain Joe. “He fine something.”
“Got something?” repeated Bob.
“He got something he found,” added Captain Joe. “Ain’t no lemon,
neither,” he concluded, dryly.
There was a moment’s silence, and then Hal, lowering his conch shell,
said in a peculiar voice:
“Do you reckon we’ve been horned?”
They had.