So far as the smugglers were concerned the game was up. It was one thing
to attempt to overpower a group of boys and appropriate their sloop, but
it was quite another to offer armed resistance to the officers of the
United States revenue service.
Dolph and Brittler realized that; they realized, too, that they had
absolutely no chance of escaping from the island, so they stood sullenly
by while Jim told his story to the lieutenant commanding the boat. At
the close of his recital the officer turned to them.
"You hear the statements of this young man. What have you to say for
yourselves?"
"Nothing now," replied Brittler.
"You may hand over your guns."
The two surrendered their automatics and were placed under arrest.
Following Jim's guidance, the lieutenant inspected the captured
smugglers in Camp Spurling and the Chinese in the fish-house. Leaving a
guard on shore and taking Jim with him, he went off to make his report
to the captain.
"It's a case for the United States commissioner at Portland," decided
the latter. "We'll have to take the whole party there. Guess you boys
had better come along as witnesses. The _Pollux_ was bound east when we
picked up your wireless; but this matter is so important that I'm going
to postpone that trip for a couple of days. I can bring you and the rest
of your party back here early day after to-morrow."
It meant to the boys a loss of only two days at the outside. That was a
little thing in comparison with what might have happened if the cutter
had not come.
"We'll start without waste of time," resumed the captain. "Lieutenant
Stevenson, you may bring the prisoners aboard."
Jim went ashore with the officer to notify his companions and prepare
for this unforeseen journey. Eleven o'clock found the _Pollux_ steaming
west with her thirty-one additional passengers. The passage was
uneventful and they were alongside the wharf in Portland early the next
forenoon.
Promptly at two came the hearing before the commissioner. It did not
take long. Brittler and his accomplices were held for trial at the next
term of court, and the Chinese were taken in charge by the immigration
inspector. Before six that night the boys were passing out by Portland
Head in the _Pollux_, bound east. The next morning they landed once more
in Sprowl's Cove, and a few hours later they had fallen back into their
customary routine, as if smugglers were a thing unknown. The leak in the
_Barracouta's_ bow was calked, making her as tight as before.
The following day dawned fiery red and it was evident that a fall storm
was brewing. Jim and Percy had to battle with a high sea when they set
and pulled their trawl; and they were glad enough to get back to
Tarpaulin with their catch. By noon a heavy surf was bombarding the
southern shore.
Five o'clock found the gale in full blast. A terrific wind whipped the
rain in level sheets over cove and beach and against the low cabin squat
on the sea-wall. Great, white-maned surges came rolling in from the
ocean to boom thunderously on the ledges round Brimstone. The flying
scud made it impossible to see far to windward. It was the worst storm
the boys had experienced since they came to the island.
At half past five, after everything had been made snug for the night,
they assembled for supper. On the table smoked a heaping platter of
fresh tongues and cheeks, rolled in meal and fried brown with slices of
salt pork. Another spiderful of the same viands sputtered on the stove.
Hot biscuits and canned peaches crowned the repast. Filippo had done
himself proud.
A long-drawn blast howled about the cabin.
"Gee!" exclaimed Percy, "but wasn't that a screamer! This is one of the
nights you read about. 'The midnight tempest was shrieking furiously
round the battlements of the old baronial castle!'"
"Cut it out, Perce, cut it out!" remonstrated Lane. "You make me feel
ashamed of myself. It's really unkind in you to air your knowledge of
the English classics before such dubs as the rest of us."
"Well, at any rate, I'm glad we're under cover. Wonder if the men who
used to go to sea in this cabin enjoyed it anywhere near as much as we
have!"
"Not half bad, is it?" said Jim. "Remember how delighted you were when
you got your first sight of it, three months ago?"
Percy grinned.
"I've changed some since then," he admitted. "Forget that, Jim! It's
ancient history now."
As he drew up his soap-box his eye dwelt appreciatively on the
delicacies in the platter.
"Aren't you other fellows going to eat anything?" he inquired, with mock
concern. "I don't see any more than enough for myself on that platter.
Don't be so narrow about the food, Filippo!"
The Italian pointed to a pan rounded up with uncooked titbits.
"Plenty more!"
"Good!" said Percy. "I was afraid somebody else might have to go
hungry."
All devoted themselves to the contents of their plates. They kept
Filippo busy frying until their appetites were satisfied.
Supper was over at last, and the dishes washed and put away. Outside,
the storm raged worse than ever. Stevens sat down to his instrument,
repaired after its damage by Brittler, and put the receivers over his
ears.
"Come on, Throppy!" exhorted Lane. "Don't go calling to-night! Get out
of the ether and give some other wireless sharps a look-in! Pull off
that harness and take down your violin. Let's make an evening of it! We
sha'n't have many more."
Stevens lifted his hands to remove the headpiece. Suddenly a change came
over his face and his arms dropped slowly. He gave his mates a warning
look. There fell a silence in the cabin. Anxiously the others watched
the operator's tense features. Minutes passed.
On a sudden he sprang up and tore off the receivers.
"There's a steamer in trouble outside. Name sounded like _Barona_. Her
engine's disabled and she's drifting. Can't be very far off!"
The boys felt sober.
"It's a hard night for a craft without steerage-way," said Jim. "What's
that? Thunder?"
A long, low rumble made itself heard above the storm. It came again, and
yet again. The gloom was lighted for a second by a sudden blaze.
"What's that!" exclaimed Jim once more.
Between the thunder-peals his ears had caught a single whip-like crack.
A stunning crash followed a lurid glare, lighting up sky and sea. Again
came the sharp detonation, but little louder than a fire-cracker. This
time all heard it.
"A signal-gun!"
Lane's voice was full of excitement. He sprang to the door and the
others followed. The gale was blowing squarely against the end of the
cabin. So great was its force that Roger had all he could do to push the
door open. Presently the five stood outside, exposed to the full fury of
the blast. For a few seconds all was black.
"Look! A rocket!"
Up from the pitchy sea southwest of Brimstone shot a line of fire,
curving into an arc and bursting aloft in a shower of many-colored
balls. At its base were dimly visible two slender masts and a white
hull. Almost instantly they vanished; but the boys had seen enough.
"A steam-yacht!" cried Jim. "Not more than a half-mile off Brimstone and
drifting straight on the ledges. Looks as if she was a goner!"
"Can't we help her somehow?" asked Percy.
"I'm afraid not. We couldn't drive the sloop against this gale and sea;
besides, those rollers would swamp a life-boat. All we can do is to get
out on the point and try to save anybody who comes ashore. Put on your
oil-clothes, fellows! Light both the lanterns, Percy! Budge, you and
Throppy each take one of those spare coils of rope! I'll carry another
and the Coston lights. Now I can see why Uncle Tom always insisted on
having a couple of 'em in the cabin. Filippo, you'd better stay here,
keep up a good fire, and make plenty of coffee. There goes another
rocket! The gun, too! I don't blame 'em. Men couldn't be in a worse
fix!"
Leaning sidewise against the gale, the little lantern-guided procession
trudged along the sea-wall and stumblingly ascended the slippery path to
the beacon on Brimstone. Sheltering the oil-soaked kindlings with his
body, Jim scratched a match; and in a twinkling long tongues of smoky
flame were streaming wildly to leeward.
"Ah! They see us!"
Three rockets in quick succession rose from the yacht, now barely a
quarter-mile away. The thunder and lightning were almost continuous.
Every flash told that the imperiled craft was steadily drifting nearer
the dangerous promontory.
"She'll strike the Grumblers!" muttered Jim. "And that means she's done
for! If only she was a thousand feet farther east she'd float by into
the cove. Hard luck!"
The Grumblers were a collection of jagged rocks, exposed at low tide.
Under the incessant flashes their black heads appeared and disappeared
in a welter of frothy white. It was an ominous spectacle for the men on
the yacht.
Taking one of the Coston lights, Jim clambered down on the ledges. Soon
the warning red glare of the torch, held high above his head, was
illumining the rocks and breakers. He held the light aloft until it went
out, then rejoined the others.
"They're getting a boat over!" cried Stevens.
Half a dozen men, working with frantic haste, were swinging a tender out
to leeward.
"No use!" said Jim, despondently. "She won't live a minute in this sea."
Ten seconds confirmed his prediction. The yacht rolled. As the boat
struck the water a giant sea filled her. Then came darkness. The next
flash showed the boat drifting bottom up beside the larger craft.
Another tender was launched; it survived one sea, but the next
overturned it. Still a third boat met with the same fate.
Every surge was heaving the yacht nearer the breakers with dismaying
speed. A group of figures gathered amidships. Silently, with pale faces,
the boys watched the progress of the doomed craft. She was going to her
death. How could any of those on board escape?
Jim threw off his despondency.
"Now, fellows," he cried, "the minute she strikes she'll begin to pound
to pieces! Their only chance'll be to run a line ashore. We must get out
as far as we can to catch it."
Every billow buried the base of the point in snowy foam and sent the
spray flying far up its rugged front. Using the utmost caution, the boys
descended to the limit of safety. At the next flash they peered eagerly
seaward.
The yacht was almost on the Grumblers! Up she heaved on a high surge,
dropped. They caught their breaths. No! Not that time. She rose again.
Down ... down ...
Suddenly she stopped. A grinding crash reached their ears.
"She's struck!" screamed Lane.
A blaze of sheet lightning showed her, careened landward, lying
broadside toward them about one hundred feet distant. It was the
beginning of the end. Jim, clinging to a boulder far out on the
streaming ledges, now showered with spray, now buried waist-deep, was
watching every movement of the crew.
"They've made a line fast round the foremast!" he shouted back. "They're
going to send its end ashore on a barrel! Watch out!"
Presently the tossing cask was visible, drifting rapidly landward. For
the first twenty-five yards its progress was unhindered; then a
half-tide ledge barred its way. It hung on this in the trough of a sea;
but the next billow swept it over. Before long it was bumping on the
rocks almost within Jim's reach.
Watching his chance, he lunged forward and caught it. A crashing surge
flung him down heavily and rolled him over and over; but he stuck
stoutly to his prize. When the water ran back he came crawling up on his
hands and knees, sliding the cask before him.
"Can't stand!" he explained, briefly. "Ankle hurt! Now muckle onto this
line, everybody, and haul in! They've got a hawser bent on the other
end."
A glance toward the yacht told that he was right. It also told that the
peril of her human freight was greater than ever. Each sea, raising her
slightly, dropped her back with her decks at a sharper angle toward the
land. The grinding of the rocks through her steel side could be
distinctly heard.
"All together! In she comes! Now ... heave! Now ... heave! Now ...
_heave!_"
Their strength doubled by the realization that life hung on their
efforts, the boys swayed at the line until at last they grasped the end
of the hawser. To it was attached another smaller rope for pulling in a
boatswain's chair.
Working rapidly, they made the hawser fast round an upright boulder. The
lightning flashes were now less frequent, but lanterns on the ship and
ashore enabled each group to note the other's progress. At last the
slender cableway was rigged. Jim swung a lantern. Another lantern on the
yacht answered.
"The smaller line, boys! Pull in! Careful!"
As the boys hauled, a figure dangled away from the vessel's side.
Shoreward it swayed, now high above the wave-troughs, now dipping
through a lofty crest. It dragged safely over the inside ledge, while
the boys held their breaths; and presently they were unlashing a man
from the boatswain's chair.
"Yes," he said in response to Jim's question, "she's the steam-yacht
_Barona_. Belongs to Churchill Sadler of New York. One of his
millionaire friends chartered her for a short trip to the Maine coast.
Fifteen men aboard. I'm the mate. Came ashore first to see if this rig
would work all right."
The chair was already half-way back to the vessel.
"They'll send Mr. Whittington next," continued the mate.
Percy started with surprise.
"What's that? Whittington?"
"Yes. John P., the millionaire! He's the man who hired the yacht."
"He's my father!" gasped Percy.
The mate gave an exclamation of astonishment.
"Lucky we got this chair to working or soon you wouldn't have had any
father!"
The swinging seat had now reached the yacht. Two men lashed into it a
stout, squarely built figure. The lantern signaled that all was ready
and the shoreward journey began. Percy was shaking so violently that he
could hardly pull. The mate reassured him.
"Don't be frightened, young fellow! We'll land him all right!"
He added his strength to that of the others, and John P. Whittington
came in faster. He reached the ledge, only twenty-five feet from shore.
Then came disaster!
Something gave way on the yacht, and the hawser suddenly slackened,
letting the boatswain's chair drag on the ledge. The end of a swinging
rope caught in a crack. The millionaire stopped short!
"Harder!" shouted the mate, setting the example.
The boys surged on the rope, but to no avail; they could not budge the
chair. Percy stood motionless with horror.
Up curled a huge wave, high over the struggling figure. A thundering
deluge hid him from view. It looked bad for John P. Whittington. Two or
three seas more and it would matter little to him whether he was pulled
in or not.
Guttering and rumbling, the water flowed back. Down over the ledges
after it leaped a slim, wiry figure. It was Percy Whittington!
He had thrown off his oil-clothes to give his limbs greater freedom. His
head was bare and his light hair stood straight up from his forehead.
Grasping the hawser, he plunged into the sea and dragged himself toward
the rock to which his father was fastened.
The group on the point stood silent, watching him struggle yard by yard
through the black water until he gained the ridge. On it lay the figure
in the boatswain's chair, struggling feebly. Percy planted his feet on
the slippery rock. But before he could reach his father another liquid
avalanche buried them both.
It seemed to the anxious watchers as if it would never run back. When it
did, the older man sagged from the chair, motionless; the lad still
clung to the hawser. The future of the house of Whittington hung
trembling in the balance.
The mate gave a groan.
"He can't do it!"
At that very instant Percy roused to activity. Even before the ledge was
entirely clear he was leaning over his father, knife in hand. It was
useless to attempt to extricate the rope-end from the crack in which it
was caught; the only thing to do was to cut it. Percy stooped quickly.
Already the next sea was curling over his head. He made a savage assault
upon the rope.
Slash! Slash! Twice his arm rose and fell. The billow was breaking down
over him when he leaped erect and flung up his hand.
"Pull!" yelled Jim.
Just as the flood boiled over the ledge the chair and its senseless
burden jerked away. Percy grasped the lashings and was towed along
behind his father. Dread overcame him as he felt the limpness of the
older man's body.
Through the eddying tide ... up over the slippery rocks ... and
presently Jim and the mate were unfastening the bonds that held the
insensible millionaire in the boatswain's chair. They carried him up
near the beacon and laid him down on Percy's oil-clothes.
"He's breathing!" said the mate. "He'll come round all right. You'll
know what to do for him. I'll go back and help get the other men off.
Their lives mean just as much to their people as his does to you."
Working with Budge and Throppy, he took in the slack of the hawser, and
soon the chair was dancing back to the yacht. Meanwhile Jim and Percy
were working over Mr. Whittington, and before long he recovered his
senses. With a groan he half raised himself.
"Where am I?"
"You're all right, Dad!"
"Percy!"
Both father and son showed a depth of feeling Jim would hardly have
credited them with possessing.
"You don't need me here any longer," he said. "I'll go down and help
pull the others ashore. Throw these oil-clothes of mine over your
father, Percy, and make him comfortable, and as soon as the rest are
safe we'll carry him to camp."
"What's that?" growled the millionaire. "Carry me? I guess you don't
know the Whittingtons, young man!"
His jaw set and he rose somewhat unsteadily to his feet.
"Come on, Percy! Where's that camp?"
Walking slowly, the father leaning on his son's shoulder, the two
disappeared in the darkness. Jim watched them for a few seconds, then
started down over the ledges. The last half-hour had raised his
estimation of the Whittington stock considerably above par.
Then for a time, engrossed in life-saving, he forgot everything else. At
last all the men were landed safely. It was none too soon, for the yacht
was now almost down on her side; and it was plain she would pound to
pieces before very long.
Rescuers and rescued sought the cabin, where a good fire and hot coffee
awaited them. Whittington, senior, clad in dry clothing, lay in Percy's
bunk. Filippo was bustling to and fro to supply the wants of his
numerous guests. His eyes fell upon a dark-haired, olive-skinned young
man in the rear of the shipwrecked group, and the cup he was carrying
clattered on the floor.
"Frank!" he cried. "_Fratello mio!_"
The brothers flung themselves into each other's arms. The Whittington
family was not the only happy one in Camp Spurling that night.