THE O MOO RIDES THE STORM
Florence and Marian lay clinging to the bare springs of a berth. They had
made that point of safety before the avalanche of furniture, books and
bric-a-brac had reached their end of the cabin. They were enduring
discomforts beyond description. The yacht was now pitching from side to
side in an alarming fashion. The wires of the spring on which they rested
cut their tender flesh. Their scant clothing was saturated with cold
water. The cabin had grown cold. Since the burning of the electric fuses,
there was no heat. They were chilled to the bone, yet they dared not
move. The heavy furniture, pitching about as it did, was a deadly menace.
Here, above it all, they were safe.
As Florence lay there, benumbed with cold, suffering agonies of suspense,
listening to the thud and smash of furniture, the rush and crush of waves
that washed the deck, awaiting the crash which was to be the final one,
only one question occupied her mind: How and when would the final moment
come? She dared not hope that the O Moo would ride such a storm safely.
"Would the O Moo," she asked herself, "turn turtle in the trough of a
wave and, floating, mast down, would she hold them there to drown like
rats in a cage? Or would some giant wave stave her in to sink to the
bottom like a water-soaked log?"
An answer was postponed. The O Moo rode bravely on. They were in the
worst of it; she was sure of that. "Ought to get the engine started," she
told herself. "Then we could cut the waves; ride them, not wallow along
in a trough."
She half rose to attempt to reach the engine room.
"No use," she groaned; "no light. If we fool around with gasoline and a
candle we'll blow the whole thing up."
But even as she thought this, she became conscious of a dim light. What
could it be? She sat up quickly, then she uttered a hoarse laugh.
"First gray streak of dawn," she muttered. Then she thought of Lucile.
"Stay where you are," she said to Marian. "I'm going to try to get to
Lucile."
By the aid of the feeble light she saw her opportunity to vault over a
careening chair and to make a dash for it. A second later she was at
Lucile's side.
"Lucile!" she said softly. "Lucile!"
The girl's eyes were closed. A sudden fear seized Florence and her heart
stood still a beat. Was Lucile asleep, unconscious, or--or was she dead?
* * * * * * * *
Over in the darkness and storm by the old scow, Mark Pence was slowly
regaining consciousness. At first he imagined that a tiny train of cars
was running about on the top of his head. This illusion vanished. He felt
something hard in his mouth--tried to think what it was. He had been
gagged! That was his first thought. No, that wasn't it. He was breathing
through the thing. The mouthpiece to his mask! That was it. He had kept
it in his mouth.
He was fully conscious now but did not attempt to sit up. Footsteps were
approaching. He heard a voice.
"They got away," a man's voice grumbled.
"All but one. Drunk, that's what they was. You can't hardly shoot drunk
men."
The first voice retorted:
"No, you can't."
"Well, anyway, we got one; the one with the mask. Didn't hit him hard. He
ought to be coming round."
Mark tried to discover the meaning of all this. The place had been
raided. The Orientals had escaped. They had swarmed out yelling like mad
men probably. The quick action gas would make them act as if under the
influence of liquor. Probably they had tumbled the raiders over. But who
were these raiders?
He did not have long to wait for the answer. A rough hand dragged the
mask from his face. He looked up into the frank blue eyes of a burly
policeman.
"You're comin' round. Sit up. Why, you're no Oriental! You're a white
kid. What you doin' here?"
Mark sat up and told them what he had been doing.
"That quick action gas now," laughed one of the men, "wouldn't be bad
stuff for the police force now and again."
Suddenly Mark made an effort to rise. He had thought of the plight of his
friends on the O Moo.
"You--you'll help me launch my schooner!" he exclaimed.
"What's the idea?"
"Why you see those girls in the O Moo don't know how to start their
engine. Somebody's got to bring them in."
"What's your schooner?"
"The Elsie C."
"That turtle shell? You'd be committin' suicide to go in her. You come
along with us. We're holdin' you as a material witness and--and to
prevent you from committing suicide by trying the lake in that shell."
Reluctantly Mark obeyed.
"Can't something be done?" he demanded desperately.
"Not before morning. Not much then, probably. How'd you find a yacht
blowin' round loose in this whirlin' bag of snow?"
* * * * * * * *
There is a bottom to every depth, a state of darkness which cannot be
exceeded, a limit even to despair. As Florence looked upon Lucile's
closed eyes she reached the bottom; experienced the utter darkness; found
the limit of despair.
And then a strangely joyous thing happened.
Lucile's eyes opened. She smiled faintly. Strange to say, in the midst of
this tumult, she had merely fallen asleep.
Florence took a new and firmer grip on hope.
"How--how do you feel?" she stammered.
"I think I am better," Lucile whispered. "Where are we?"
"We're all right," said Florence quickly. "Day is breaking. The storm
will go down as the sun rises. They'll be after us in a tug. In a few
hours we'll be back on the dock?"
She said all this very quickly, not knowing how much of it she believed
herself, but feeling quite sure that Lucile ought to believe it. Just
then a chair, pitching across the floor, caught her behind the knees and
sent her sprawling.
The very shock of this set her blood tingling. "Believe we could do
something about the furniture now it's getting light," she told herself.
"Marian," she called, "come on down and let's see what we can do to save
things. We're ruined as it is. No more university for us. It will take
all the money we have to put this cabin back into condition. But we might
as well save what we can."
A table came lurching at her. She caught it as if it were a piece of
gymnasium equipment. Then rescuing a water-soaked sheet from the floor
she tied the table to a hand-rail.
Marian joined her in pursuit of the cabin furnishings. It really grew
into quite a game. If a chair came at them too viciously they were
obliged to vault over it and bring up an attack from the rear. If a whole
platoon of tables and chairs leaped at them in the same second, they took
to the cots.
Little by little order was restored. When a survey had been made it was
found that one table was broken to splinters, two chairs had broken legs
and numerous books and pictures had been utterly ruined.
"It might have been worse," said Florence cheerfully.
"Yes," agreed Marian, "We might have gone to the bottom. I do believe the
storm is letting up."
She attempted to look out of a porthole. Daylight had come. Snow had
ceased falling but a heavy fog was driving over the turbulent waters.
"Fine chance of anyone finding us," Marian whispered.
"Sh!" Florence warned as she shook a finger at Lucile's berth, then
aloud: "Boo! but I'm cold. Where are our clothes?"
Marian pointed mournfully at a mass of soggy rags in the corner. "No!"
she exclaimed suddenly, "no, not all. We put our evening skirts and
middies and slippers in the hammock of our berths. And," she shouted
joyously, "they are there still."
After some desperate struggles at keeping their balance and dressing at
the same time, they found themselves warmly clad and immediately matters
took on a different aspect.
"I believe," ventured Florence, "that we might get the generator going.
There's just one place where water would cause a short circuit and that
can be dried out by a candle. Then we can put in a new fuse and that
little old friend of ours will be chug-chugging as well as ever. Not that
I feel any need of heat," she mocked with a shrug and shiver, "but you
know the supplying of warmth to our homes has become a social custom."
Having taken a candle from a drawer she lighted it, lifted a trap door
and descended to the generator. She was relieved to note that the O Moo
had shipped very little water.
"She's a dandy staunch little craft," she sighed. "It's a pity to have
abused her so. I'd like to have a hand on the person who turned her
loose."
For a quarter of an hour she worked patiently on the generator; then
there came a sudden pop-pop-pop and the hardy little machine was doing
its work once more.
At once a drowsy warmth began to creep over the cabin.
The storm was really beginning to abate. Waves no longer washed the deck.
The O Moo rose high, to fall low again as great, sweeping swells raced
across the surface of the lake, but she did not pitch and toss.
Marian brought the electric range up from its hiding. After wiping it
dry, she made toast and tea. The first she gave to Lucile. Then, after
seeing her eyes close once more in sleep, she shared a scant breakfast
with Florence.
"Things are looking better, don't you think?" she sighed. "I am really
beginning to think we'll get out of this alive. Won't that be wonderful?"
"Those questions," smiled Florence, "must be answered one at a time, but
I have faith that they will both be answered and that we'll be back in
the dear old city for Christmas."
"Christmas?"
"Two weeks off. Next week is final exams. We've just got to be back for
them."
"In that case let's have a look at the engine."
A half hour later the two girls, dressed in greasy overalls, their hair
done in knots over their heads, their hands black with oil, might have
been seen engaged in the futile attempt to unravel the mysteries of the
small gasoline engine, which, in other days, had been used to propel the
O Moo when the wind failed to fill her sails.
"We might be able to sail her home," suggested Marian.
"Might," said Florence.
Risking a look out on deck, she opened a door. Her eyes swept the space
before her. Her lips uttered a low exclamation:
"Gone! Mast, canvas, everything. We can't sail home, that's settled."
* * * * * * * *
Mark Pence, after his strange adventures at the old scow, was marched off
to the police station, where he was allowed to doze beside the radiator
until morning.
Soon after daybreak he was motioned to a desk, where a sergeant
questioned him closely regarding his knowledge of the events of the night
and of the Orientals who lived in the old scow.
He was able to tell little enough and to explain next to nothing. When he
had told of the disappearance of the O Moo, of the grease on the tracks,
of the sample he had saved and of the block of wood with the cross
embossed upon it, the officer proposed that they should together make a
trip to the beach and go over the grounds.
"But these friends of mine? These girls in the O Moo?" he protested.
"Oh! That!" exclaimed the sergeant. "What could you do? That was reported
to the life-saving station hours ago. Best thing you can do is to help us
track down the rascals who played such an inhuman trick on your friends."
"What could have been their motive?" demanded Mark suddenly.
"That," said the officer, "is a mystery which must be cleared up. We
think we know. But you never can tell. Are you ready? We'll have a cup of
coffee before we go."
A half hour later Mark found himself standing once more before the old
scow. In the broad light of day it had lost much of its air of mystery.
The door had been left open and had been blown half full of snow. Having
climbed over this pile of snow, they entered the hallway and descended
the narrow, circular stairs.
A hasty search told them that the place was deserted. A careful
examination revealed the fact that the bottom of the scow had been cut
away; that a cellar had been dug beneath it, then walled up with cement.
"Regular underground den," the officer exclaimed. "Must have been a swarm
of them."
"Twenty or thirty, I guess," said Mark absent-mindedly. He had picked up
a clumsily hand-forged ax.
"Guess I'll take that along," he said presently.
In another room he found a large iron pot one-third full of a peculiar
grease.
"That settles it," he murmured. "Come on over to my schooner."
They went to his schooner. A comparison of his sample of grease with that
in the iron pot left no doubt as to who had greased the track over which
the O Moo had glided to the water. The ax he had brought from the scow
had a cross on one side of it, cut no doubt with a chisel when the steel
was still hot. The cross embossed on the wood exactly fitted in the cross
on the side of the ax.
"They drove the ax in to pull the nails," Mark explained. "Then when the
cleats didn't give way, they used something to pry the ax loose. That's
how the ax came to leave its mark."
"You'd have thought the noise would have wakened your friends," said the
officer.
"There was a wild storm. Couldn't hear anything."
"Well," said the sergeant, yawning as he rose, "that fixes something
definitely on them. That's what we've been trying to do for some time.
Next thing is to catch them."
"But why did they do it?" insisted Mark.
"Well," replied the sergeant, "since you've helped us and I know you
won't go blabbing, I'll tell you what we think."
It was a long story, a story so absorbingly mysterious that Mark started
when he looked at the clock and saw that a whole hour had been consumed
in the telling of it.
"So that's that," smiled the officer as he rose to go. "Tell your lady
friends on this O Moo if you like but not anybody else. They've got a
right to know, I guess, and they'll keep quiet about it until the thing's
settled for good and all."