Of course Dr. Moorland was willing to excuse Jack for the remaining
week of school. Indeed, after he had looked up the lad’s term record
and examination marks in his little card index, which he always kept
on the top of his study desk, the old pedagogue even urged Jack to
telegraph his acceptance to Mr. Warner immediately. He pointed out
that a Summer spent among the lighthouse builders would be of great
educational value, and besides it would afford an excellent opportunity
for the youth to earn some extra money. But first of all he suggested
that Jack call his father on the long-distance telephone and secure
permission to avail himself of the opportunity.
Jack’s home was in Middlebury, about fifty miles from Drueryville, and
the rates on telephone calls did not amount to a great deal. He made
the call on the principal’s telephone while the old man listened to
as much of the conversation as he could gather. Jack’s father saw the
offer in identically the same light as Dr. Moorland did and advised the
boy to accept the position immediately. He did say that he hoped Jack
would contrive to spend a day or two at Middlebury before he left for
Portland, however.
When Jack repeated this to Dr. Moorland the principal generously
excused him from any further work at Drueryville and suggested that he
return to Phillip’s Hall immediately and pack his things, so that he
would be ready to leave on the first train Sunday morning, thus giving
the lad at least two days at home. Needless to say Jack was thoroughly
pleased with this offer and he wrung the old gentleman’s hand cordially
as he said good-by.
Ten o’clock next morning found our young friend swinging from the train
as it rolled into Middlebury station. Townsend Strawbridge, his father,
was there to greet him and drive him home in the new red automobile
which he had acquired that Spring. Just at that particular period
Strawbridge senior was a very busy man. During the past Winter he had
completed the organization of a stock company to operate the abandoned
marble quarries on his property, and now he was engaged in the work
preliminary to actual quarrying, which he assured Jack would begin some
time in the Fall or the following Spring. However, he was not too busy
to listen to all that Jack had to say, and you may be sure the lad
from Drueryville Academy had a great deal to tell his dad. He reviewed
everything, from the record of the baseball team to the bad outlook for
the football team next year, and his father listened eagerly to every
word.
Then after all the news was exhausted the two began to plan for Jack’s
stay with the lighthouse builders. Rough, serviceable clothes, warm
sweaters, boots, oilskins and similar garments were dug up and packed
in an old steamer chest which his father unearthed in the garret of the
Strawbridge homestead. Salt water fishing tackle was put in shape, a
compass, and sailor’s clasp knife with a lanyard attached, were added,
and the entire outfit was put in first-class shape for a two months’
stay on the Maine Coast Island.
The preparations and the anticipation of the trip kept the lad keyed up
to a high pitch of excitement. In this state he managed to accomplish a
remarkable number of things during the two short days at home, and when
it finally came time to leave on Tuesday morning both he and his father
were of the opinion that everything was “shipshape” for a very pleasant
Summer of work and play.
Jack lingered in the red automobile at the Middlebury station until
the train on which he was to leave rolled in. Then a hasty good-by was
said and the lad swung aboard the last Pullman car, to appear a few
moments later on the observation platform in the rear. From this point
of vantage he watched the man and the red car until a sharp bend in the
road shut them from sight.
And as he stood there waving farewell, a strange feeling of
homesickness came over this young adventurer and he realized fully how
much his old dad meant to him. In truth a lump gathered in his throat,
for it seemed to him that his father looked pathetically lonesome as he
sat gazing after the disappearing train. Was he selfish to deprive his
father of his company during the Summer vacation? Was the trip going
to be worth the sacrifice his parent was making for him?
“Good old dad,” he murmured as he turned back into the car. “Good old
dad. How lucky I am to have such a corking fine father. I’ll bet there
is many a chap who wishes that he was as fortunate as I am.”
With such thoughts Jack rummaged in his valise and brought forth a
fountain pen and some paper and for the next half hour he was extremely
occupied in writing an affectionate letter to his paternal parent,
which he mailed at the first stop the train made.
The ride to Portland, though it occupied a greater part of the day, was
through very picturesque country. The Green Mountains of Vermont and
later notches in the picturesque White Mountains were traversed, until
finally the train entered the rich, thickly wooded country of western
Maine. A few hours later Jack caught his first view of the coast, and
he knew that he was entering upon the last stage of his long overland
journey.
It was nearly sundown when he reached his destination, and he was
tired and hungry and his clothes were somewhat soiled from his day of
travel when he jumped aboard the Portland trolley car on his way to
the Jefferson House. He was not too tired, however, to make note of
the fact that the city was unusually cozy in appearance, nor did he
neglect to take a good look at the quaint, old-fashioned houses and
particularly the one which the conductor pointed out to him as the home
of America’s greatest poet, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
James Warner, the same enthusiastic, sun-browned engineer whom Jack had
met on board the _Yucatan_ just a year before, greeted the lad from
Drueryville Academy as he swung up the front steps of the Jefferson
House. Mr. Warner was sitting in one of the long line of chairs in the
hotel lobby when he caught a glimpse of Jack.
“Well, Jack Straw, how are you, anyway? I’m mighty glad you decided to
come along,” he shouted, as he gripped the hand of the young traveler.
“Huh, decided to come--why, there wasn’t any alternative. I simply had
to take advantage of such a piece of good luck. I think I’m the most
fortunate boy in the world to get an invitation to join your crew,”
responded Jack, just as enthusiastic as Mr. Warner.
“Tut, tut, my boy, don’t be too sure of your luck. You’ll have to work
mighty hard. It won’t be all play, let me tell you. I know, because
I’ve been through it a dozen times,” replied the engineer.
But Jack could not be convinced that a Summer on a Maine island with a
lighthouse construction crew would not be about the most delightful two
months he had ever spent in his life.
Mr. Warner changed the conversation completely the next instant.
“You haven’t had dinner yet, have you, Jack? I haven’t. I have been
waiting for you and I’ve been getting hungrier by the minute. I spent
most of my day down at the lighthouse depot, seeing to the loading
of the _Blueflower_ (that’s the lighthouse tender that will take us
to Hood Island to-morrow), and the sea air has put a real edge on my
appetite. Come on into the dining-room and help me devour a good big
steak. You can arrange for your room later.”
Traveling had certainly not dulled the keenness of Jack’s appetite
either, and he assured Mr. Warner, as they entered the long
dining-room, that he would be able to do justice to the steak in
question. And he clearly demonstrated this fact during the ensuing hour.
The evening was spent in Mr. Warner’s room, for the engineer had a
great deal to do in the way of packing clothes, books, and bundles of
blueprints. At nine o’clock he called for a bell boy and instructed
that worthy to bring two glasses of iced lemonade and a dish of
assorted crackers, to fortify themselves, as Mr. Warner humorously
explained, against a night attack of hunger.
Jack was thoroughly in accord with this strategic measure and fell
to with a will. The luncheon disposed of, Mr. Warner suggested that
they retire, since they would have to have breakfast at sunrise the
following morning in order to report at the lighthouse depot at
half-past six.
Considering the importance of the day, it is not at all surprising that
Jack did not oversleep next morning. Indeed, he was up and dressed and
ready to go down to the dining-room when Mr. Warner knocked on his
door to arouse him. Breakfast was disposed of in short order, and
the engineer and his young companion were on their way down to the
waterfront before the city was thoroughly awake.
But the men at the district lighthouse depot were wide awake and
working with a vigor when they arrived. They were loading tools and
supplies on board the _Blueflower_, and from the pile of barrels and
boxes on the long dock at which the tender was moored it was evident
that it would be some little time before the engineer of the Hood
Island expedition would be ready to start.
The depot was an extremely interesting place to Jack. It was a
reservation on the edge of Portland Harbor, surrounded by a high brick
wall. Part of this space was taken up by long low buildings occupied as
repair shops, and the remainder was devoted to storeyard space. Long
docks reached out from the shore front and at these a varied assortment
of craft were moored, ranging from tiny motor boats to the businesslike
looking _Blueflower_. There was a frowning gray torpedo boat destroyer
that had put in there for some official reason or other, and two
weather-beaten lightships that were undergoing repairs, not to mention
a coal barge and several other unimportant vessels. On the docks and in
the storeyard were huge iron buoys that looked quite enormous out of
water. These were being painted and repaired, and Mr. Warner explained
that they would soon be loaded aboard a tender and taken out to the
various bars and reefs in the harbor to be planted as permanent channel
marks.
The lightships were curious looking vessels. They were built of steel
and painted red, with their name marked in tall white letters the
entire length of the hull.
Each was equipped with two steel masts at the top of which were the
lanterns and the big wickerwork day marks. The mast of one of the boats
had been taken out, and Mr. Warner explained that she would later be
equipped with a new kind of mast like a miniature lighthouse, which
would be built of steel and large enough to permit a man to climb up
through its center and not expose himself to the fury of the elements.
“Service on board the lightships, Jack,” said Mr. Warner as they walked
through the yard, “is not as dreary as it might seem. These vessels
are usually anchored out in the steamship lanes and passing vessels
steer dead on for their light in order to keep into the deep channel.
Imagine how comfortable it must be on a foggy night to be aboard one
of these vessels and know that every steamer coming that way is headed
straight for you. Oh, yes, they are run down quite frequently, for you
see that they are without motive power in most cases and cannot get
away from danger. Then, too, they are not allowed to slip their cable
or leave their anchorage under any circumstances, no matter what the
danger may be.
“There have been several serious accidents since the United States
established a lightship service back in 1820, by putting a light vessel
at the entrance of Chesapeake Bay.”
“How many light vessels are there in the Government Service?” queried
Jack.
“There are now about fifty on duty, not including the relief ships,
some of which sail under their own power and travel from place to
place, relieving vessels that are brought into the stations to be
repaired and overhauled,” replied Mr. Warner.
By this time the two had made a complete circuit of the yard and
reached the dock at which the _Blueflower_ was moored. A tall,
good-looking man in uniform and smoking a pipe was coming down the
gang-plank. Mr. Warner hurried ahead when he caught sight of him and
greeted him heartily.
“Jack,” he said, “this is Captain Wilmoth, who will take us to Hood
Island, and, Captain, this is John Strawbridge, otherwise known as
Jack Straw. He is a young adventurer whom I met on the way to Mexico
last Summer. He is going to Hood Island with me as clerk. Incidentally
he hopes to learn something about the service and a great deal about
lighthouse construction work, for he intends one day to be an engineer.”
“Well, you couldn’t have found a more competent instructor, Jack,” said
the captain, as he shook the lad’s hand. Then turning to Mr. Warner, he
announced that the cargo had been loaded and everything was ready for a
start. Mr. Warner made a last and hasty inspection of everything about
the dock, saw that all personal luggage had been carried aboard, and
then all three climbed the steep gang-plank. A few moments later the
men on the dock cast off, and with whistle shrieking the _Blueflower_
backed out of her berth and turned her sharp prow toward the open sea.
The boy was left to his own devices for the next few hours, for Mr.
Warner had a mass of plans and blueprints to look over. He did not
become lonesome, however, for he seized this opportunity to inspect the
tender. From stem to stern he rambled, taking in every detail of the
vessel. He found that she was a roomy and rather speedy craft built
like an ocean-going tug, only on a much larger scale. She was rigged to
withstand all sorts of weather and accomplish all kinds of work, and
her rugged lines appealed to the lad immediately.
While he was on his tour of inspection he ran across Captain Wilmoth,
coming out of the cabin. He was a very affable-looking man of middle
age, with sharp blue eyes and stiff black hair liberally sprinkled
with gray. In his natty blue uniform, he was Jack’s idea of a modern
sea captain, and as he advanced across the deck the lad could not help
admiring him.
“Well, son,” said the officer genially, “having a good look at the old
tub? Like her?”
“You bet I do. She looks as if she might fight any kind of a storm.”
“Right, my boy, she can,” said the captain as he filled his pipe from
a leather tobacco pouch. “The old _Blueflower_ will take any kind of a
sea without a shiver. All the lighthouse tenders are fine craft. They
have to be mighty stanch for they are traveling the high seas all the
year round, carrying provisions to lightships and lighthouses, and
seeing that everything is kept in order along Uncle Sam’s forty odd
thousand miles of coast line.”
“How many tenders does the Government have in service?” queried Jack.
“I think there are about forty-six on both coasts. And you may be
interested to know that they are all named after some kind of a flower,
the same as battleships are named after States. There is plenty of work
for them to do, too, for besides carrying the supplies, they take care
of all the buoy planting. That’s tough work. In the Spring and Fall we
have to gather up all the old buoys that have been in the water a long
time and replace them with new ones that have been overhauled in the
Portland yard. You see barnacles and other submarine growths make it
necessary to take the buoys out every so often and scrape and paint
them. Then of course they have to be returned to the water again. There
are all kinds of buoys in the service and they all mark different types
of danger points. There are whistling buoys, bell buoys, light buoys,
unlighted buoys and spar buoys, and none of them is particularly easy
to handle, I can assure you. Many a man has lost a leg or an arm while
trying to put one of the blooming things over the side of a vessel.”
“I’d like to watch the operation some time,” said Jack.
“Well, perhaps you’ll have an opportunity to. But just now I’d
forget about it and pay more attention to the cook’s bell. He’s been
ding-a-linging all over the ship. Don’t you want something to eat?”
“Eat, why I’m starved,” said the lad. And together he and the captain
went into the dining-room.
The marine engineer had finished his work on the plans during the few
hours before dinner and was at liberty to spend the time on deck with
Jack and the captain during the afternoon. The run to Hood Island took
about eight hours in all, and the captain had estimated that they would
not make their destination much before four o’clock.
The vessel was well out to sea and running due north when Jack came on
deck and the boy thrilled with pleasure when he viewed the vast expanse
of lonesome water. Astern was a long trail of black smoke across
the sky left by a steamer that had disappeared below the horizon,
while north and off the port bow was a distant sail almost directly
in the path of the tender. Jack watched this sail curiously, for he
was interested to know how soon the _Blueflower_ would overtake it.
Gradually they drew up on it until he could make out the rig without
difficulty. She appeared to be a very swift sailing yawl and Mr. Warner
confirmed this when a few minutes later he brought his binoculars from
the cabin and had a good look at her.
“She’s a trim little yawl and from the pulpit-like affair on her
bowsprit I take it she’s a swordfisherman. These waters are full of
’em. I wish that they would locate a big fish, then you’d see some fun.”
“From her lines,” he said after another inspection, “I should say
she was a mighty speedy craft. She has a big patch in her main sail.
And her name is--F-i-s-h--H--it looks like Fish Hawk, but I can’t be
positive. Hang it, I would like to-- Say, fellows, get your glasses.
They _are_ after a swordfish! There’s a man with a harpoon climbing out
onto her bowsprit now! Hurry!”
Jack and the captain hustled into the cabin and a moment later returned
armed with binoculars. Through his, Jack got an excellent view of the
little vessel. She had altered her course so that she was running at
a right angle to the direction taken by the tender and the huge patch
in the mainsail was quite visible. He could see the harpoon wielder
climbing out on her bowsprit, too, and he watched intently as he saw
him poise, spear aloft, ready to strike.
For fully five minutes the man stood in this attitude. Then suddenly
he lunged forward and hurled the shaft. Instantly there was a mighty
splash just under the yawl’s bow and the next moment the craft shot
forward with a rush.
The fight was on! This way and that the little ship zigzagged, jerked
about like a nut shell by the powerful fish it was hitched to. It was a
terrible struggle! Now and then the monster would come more than half
out of the water in a frenzied effort to tear the harpoon loose! Jack
could see its long tusk cut the waves and he shuddered when he thought
of the damage the sword would do to a dory or any other small craft in
its way. But these tremendous rushes soon began to tell on the captive
and the struggle settled down to a steady pulling match, in which the
fish towed the yawl at least three miles out of the tender’s course.
At this point Mr. Warner and the rest put down their glasses. Jack,
however, watched longer than the rest for he was extremely interested.
But before he saw the finish, his attention was diverted by a shout
from the bow:
“Hood Island--Ho!” came the cry of the lookout.
There was something in the call that thrilled the lad and instantly
he turned his glasses toward the north. In the dim distance he could
make out a long wooded island, the seaward end of which was a high
promontory. On this was perched the black and white tower of the old
Hood Island light; the structure which was soon to be replaced by a
more modern building, providing Mr. Warner and his men were able to
conquer the breakers that swept the head of Cobra Reef.
“Well, Jack, there’s the scene of our future triumphs,” said Mr.
Warner, clapping the boy on the shoulder.
“Fine; it certainly does look interesting from here,” said the lad
enthusiastically.
“In about an hour you’ll have a chance to see the place at close range.
Then perhaps you won’t be so keen about it, my boy.”
“Oh, I’m sure I will,” insisted the lad from Drueryville, as he took
another look at the island through his glasses.