THE IRON BOX AGAIN
Sandy looked at Ken, and then back at the spot where the lean-to had
stood. He seemed completely stunned by the catastrophe which had
overtaken them.
Ken’s bloodless lips shaped the words. “That was our last chance.”
“We’re not licked yet,” Sandy shouted. “Come on around the other side.
I noticed something there—covered by canvas. Maybe it’s a hand pump.”
This time Ken couldn’t respond to the determined hope in Sandy’s voice.
But he obediently followed the redhead around the cabin into the windy
fury of the cabin’s other side. There Sandy went down on his knees
beside a canvas-wrapped mound nestling against the bulkhead.
His fingers tore at the lashings without effect. The ropes were frozen
fast.
Ken roused himself out of his despair and exhaustion.
“Knife,” he said briefly, and fought his way around the corner to the
cabin door. When he came out he had the paring knife in his hand.
Sandy took it from him and hacked at the icebound ropes until he could
rip the canvas off.
“It _is_ a hand pump!” The wind threw his shout back into his teeth.
Sandy braced himself against the storm’s strength, grabbed the pump
handle, and began to move it back and forth.
It seemed a small weapon with which to fight the vast quantities of
water that must already have accumulated in the barge, but Ken knew it
was all they had. He took up a position opposite Sandy and bent his own
back to the task.
Suddenly a stream of dirty water began jetting from the outlet hole to
splash on the deck.
“She’s coming!” Sandy yelled. “Faster!”
Back and forth, back and forth, they worked the handle as rapidly as
they could. When a big wave raced over the aft bulwark and threatened
to drown them, they still hung onto the pump handle, and were working
it again the moment the receding water let them breathe.
Back and forth ... back and forth.... Under their heavy oilskins their
frozen bodies began to warm up.
Ten minutes went by, and then ten more. They were becoming
uncomfortably hot. Sweat mingled with the salt spray on their faces.
Their aching muscles cried for rest. But they kept on. Back and forth
... back and forth....
Suddenly Ken knew that the agony of his parched throat was one thing he
could no longer bear.
“Water,” he said. “I need water.”
Sandy answered without losing his rhythm. “Go ahead. I’ll get some
later.”
The cabin was warm and peaceful and quiet. Ken had to avoid passing
near a chair, for fear he would slump down on it and never rise again.
He forced himself to hurry, gulping his drink and turning back toward
the door the moment he had slaked his burning thirst.
Back at the pump once more, he caught the rhythm quickly. And it wasn’t
so bad now, he thought. He must be getting numb.
Back and forth ... back and forth.... Sandy seemed tireless. He even
shook his head when Ken motioned toward the cabin, indicating that he
could keep the pump going alone if Sandy wanted to go inside for a
moment.
Back and forth ... back and forth....
Ken fastened his eyes on the stream of water that was pouring from the
outlet. It seemed extremely small compared to the enormous amount of
water that must be in the bilge.
“How fast?” he asked Sandy, jerking his head toward the outlet.
Sandy understood his query. “Two quarts a stroke.”
For a moment Ken thought he must be fooling. Only two quarts a stroke!
He had already figured that they were pumping at about the rate of one
stroke a second. Now he tried to compute the results of their labors.
Two quarts a second—thirty gallons a minute.
It wasn’t enough! It couldn’t be! Every time a wave washed over the
bulwarks it probably dumped several hundred gallons of water into the
hold—more than they could pump out in ten long minutes of back-breaking
work. And the waves came far oftener than once in every ten minutes. It
was a losing battle.
“What’s the use?” Ken shouted at Sandy, looking down at their steadily
moving hands.
Again Sandy understood. “We’re buying time. Can’t keep her afloat
forever, but maybe something will happen. Ship might sight us. Or the
storm might die down.”
His body sagged slightly. The effort of speech, against the wind and on
top of his weariness, had been too much.
Ken tried to smile, and could feel the caking of salt on his cheeks
crack when his muscles moved.
“Sure,” he shouted. “Something’s bound to happen. Go inside and rest a
minute.”
Sandy looked questioningly at the pump.
“I’ll keep her going,” Ken assured him.
Sandy nodded. Then his figure disappeared around the corner of the
cabin.
Ken made himself keep an even pace. His impulse was to drive his
muscles with every bit of strength he could muster—to quicken the rate
of the strokes. But he knew he couldn’t maintain a faster speed for
more than a moment, and that the effort would leave him completely
exhausted.
Back and forth ... back and forth.... The rhythm never broke except
when a big wave came over the bulwarks and Ken had to put all his
energies into hanging onto the handle to prevent himself from being
swept off his feet.
Back and forth ... back and forth....
Suddenly he was aware that Sandy had been gone a long time.
Ken felt panic seize him by the throat. If Sandy was lying unconscious
in the cabin, too weak to get up—if he had been washed overboard—!
Ken let go the pump handle and turned toward the rear of the cabin.
“Sandy! Sandy!” he called desperately into the wind.
And in that moment Sandy appeared at the corner of the cabin. With him
was Cal, looking pale and obviously terror-stricken.
Sandy’s haggard face wore a grim smile. “New recruit!” he shouted. He
shoved Cal forward, ordered him with a gesture to seize the pump handle.
Then Sandy leaned close to Ken’s ear. “Go inside for a rest. We’ll take
turns working with him.”
Ken was still staring, stupefied. “But—”
“Don’t worry,” Sandy told him. “He knows we’ll go down if he doesn’t
lend a hand. He’s scared stiff.”
He looked at Cal, who seemed to be gazing at the pump as if he’d never
seen it before.
“Work!” Sandy yelled. “You—”
None of them had noticed the big wave coming.
Ken grabbed for the pump and ducked as the sweeping torrent landed.
But the water shot Cal’s feet out from under him and threw his big
helpless body toward the bulwark. Sandy grabbed him just before he went
over. When the wave subsided he shoved Cal erect again.
“Now pump!” he yelled. “And hang on the next time a wave comes over!”
Then he seized the handle himself and nodded to Ken to take a breather
inside.
Ken moved toward the cabin door, still feeling dazed.
Inside, out of the wind and the cold, he dropped onto the lower bunk
for a few minutes until his thudding heart slowed to normal again.
He had been startled when he saw Cal come out on deck with Sandy, but
now—as he thought it over—he realized that Cal’s strength could be an
asset instead of something to dread. Now that he and Sandy both were
free of their bonds they could take care of Cal if it became necessary.
In the meantime, Cal could give valuable service at the pump, spelling
the boys one at a time. Sandy had pointed out that they were buying
time. Cal could help them to buy a little more of it.
Ken looked at his watch. It was only half past nine! He felt as if days
had gone by since Sandy and he first staggered out onto the deck to try
to re-start the pumping engine.
Suddenly he realized that the fire in the stove had died down—that the
cabin was not as warm as it had been. He was beginning to shiver as his
sweat- and sea-drenched clothes congealed. He struggled up from the
bunk, shook the fire, and poured on more coal.
Coffee, he thought—that’s what we need. He found the coffeepot in a
corner under the cupboards, filled it, and set it on the stove.
Then he dived back toward the corner again. He had belatedly become
aware of an object that he had seen there—a two-burner gasoline stove,
apparently for use in the summer when the coal stove would not be kept
going.
Ken picked the small compact mechanism up and shook it. Its tank
gurgled. There was gasoline inside! Not much—but perhaps a gallon.
Hugging the stove to his chest he made his way outside to the pump.
“Gas!” he shouted to Sandy.
Sandy needed no further explanation. His cracked lips split wide in a
grin.
“Keep pumping!” he ordered Cal. And then, taking the stove from Ken, he
led the way to the engine house.
Carefully, as if they were pouring molten gold, they emptied the liquid
from the stove’s gas tank into the tank of the engine. Then Sandy
wrapped starting rope around the pulley.
“Here goes!” The engine spun under Sandy’s pull, but it didn’t quite
catch. Sandy wrapped the rope around the pulley again. He hunched his
shoulders forward and threw his full weight against the line.
The engine coughed—sputtered—spit. It died momentarily, and then it
started again. The gears began to move the rocker arm that worked the
twin pistons. Water spurted out of the pump’s big outlet pipe!
“She’s going!”
Sandy closed the flap of the engine house. He got it shut just before
another wave struck them. They came up gasping when it had subsided.
The engine hadn’t faltered.
Ken shouted against Sandy’s ear. “How long will she run on a gallon?”
Sandy shrugged. “Maybe an hour. Better keep the hand pump going too.”
Ken nodded. Somehow he felt the worst was over. They were going to
survive after all, now that the big pump was in operation. And suddenly
a lot of questions—questions he’d had no time to consider in his fear
for their lives—began to push their way forward from the back of his
mind.
“Will Cal keep pumping if we leave him a minute longer?” he asked.
Sandy looked puzzled but he nodded. “I think so. He’s afraid we’re
going down.”
“Then come inside a minute.” He took Sandy’s arm and pulled him toward
the cabin.
“What’s the idea?” Sandy asked, when they had closed the door. “We
can’t let him go it alone too long. He’ll tire and slow down.”
“This barge is a part of the counterfeiting organization,” Ken said.
“What do they use it for?” He jerked open the two cupboards they had
not yet explored.
“Are you crazy?” Sandy demanded. “With luck we may keep this thing
afloat for a couple of hours—or less—if we pump our fool heads off.
Why’d you bring me inside here to listen to riddles?”
Ken was tossing clothes and various oddments out into the middle of the
floor. He answered without ceasing his search. “Barges are handy for
getting rid of bodies. We know that’s why we were brought aboard.
They’re good for any illegal job that has to be done privately. Why
wouldn’t they be a good place for printing counterfeit money?”
“Here?” Sandy’s jaw dropped. “Where are you expecting to find the
printing press? In the coffeepot?”
Ken, peering under the bunks, muttered, “Nothing but a couple of life
belts.” He turned and began to scan the rough surface of the floor.
“Look,” Sandy began impatiently, “if you can’t—”
He broke off as Ken shoved his nose close to the floor, studying one
particular plank. Without looking up he reached onto the table for a
fork from the cutlery box. He jammed its tines into the crack alongside
the plank and pressed down on the handle. The plank lifted.
Ken pulled it upward and it rose easily—a length of ten-inch-wide
board. He whistled softly.
Sandy dropped onto his knees beside him. Together they peered into the
cavity that had been exposed.
“Printing ink,” Ken said, lifting out one of the several bottles
visible. “Green.” He checked another. “And black.”
Sandy had his hand beneath the floor too, his anger with Ken lost in
curiosity. “A portable printing press!” he breathed. “Dismantled—but
you can see that’s what it is!” He looked over at Ken, his eyes round.
“I humbly apologize for—”
Ken had lifted something else out of the cache.
Sandy gasped.
“Mom’s jewel box!”
“A duplicate of Mom’s box,” Ken corrected.
With shaking hands he lifted the lid. The box was empty. But the lead
lining in the bottom lay on a slant out of its proper place. Ken
inserted the fork under one corner and pulled.
The lining lifted, revealing a half-inch of space beneath it. Ken took
out the object that had been concealed in that shallow secret
compartment. It was flat, almost the same size as the box, and wrapped
in flannel.
He unwound the cloth.
Neither of them said anything for a long moment. They were looking at
the three steel engravings required to print a ten-dollar bill.
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