THE RACER BOYS
[Illustration: FRANK DIVED OVERBOARD]
THE RACER BOYS
Or
The Mystery of the Wreck
BY
CLARENCE YOUNG
AUTHOR OF “THE MOTOR BOYS SERIES”
AND THE “JACK RANGER SERIES”
ILLUSTRATED
NEW YORK
CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY
BOOKS BY CLARENCE YOUNG
THE RACER BOYS SERIES
12mo. Illustrated.
Price per volume, 60 cents, postpaid.
THE RACER BOYS
THE RACER BOYS AT BOARDING SCHOOL
THE RACER BOYS TO THE RESCUE
(Other volumes in preparation)
THE MOTOR BOYS SERIES
12mo. Illustrated.
Price per volume, 60 cents, postpaid.
THE MOTOR BOYS
THE MOTOR BOYS OVERLAND
THE MOTOR BOYS IN MEXICO
THE MOTOR BOYS ACROSS THE PLAINS
THE MOTOR BOYS AFLOAT
THE MOTOR BOYS ON THE ATLANTIC
THE MOTOR BOYS IN STRANGE WATERS
THE MOTOR BOYS ON THE PACIFIC
THE MOTOR BOYS IN THE CLOUDS
THE MOTOR BOYS OVER THE ROCKIES
THE MOTOR BOYS OVER THE OCEAN
THE MOTOR BOYS ON THE WING
THE MOTOR BOYS AFTER A FORTUNE
THE JACK RANGER SERIES
12mo. Finely Illustrated.
Price per volume, $1.00, postpaid.
JACK RANGER’S SCHOOLDAYS
JACK RANGER’S WESTERN TRIP
JACK RANGER’S SCHOOL VICTORIES
JACK RANGER’S OCEAN CRUISE
JACK RANGER’S GUN CLUB
JACK RANGER’S TREASURE BOX
Copyright, 1912, by
Cupples & Leon Company
CONTENTS
I. Hit by a Whale
II. The Wrecked Motor Boat
III. The Boy’s Rescue
IV. “Who Are You?”
V. Seeking the Wreck
VI. Chet Sedley’s Style
VII. A Lively Cargo
VIII. Andy is Caught
IX. “Thar She Blows!”
X. A Rival Claim
XI. A Fire on Board
XII. The Stranger Again
XIII. A Midnight Scare
XIV. The Wreck Again
XV. Ordered Back
XVI. On the Search
XVII. On Cliff Island
XVIII. “There He Is!”
XIX. In the Cave
XX. The Rising Tide
XXI. Death is Near
XXII. The Storm
XXIII. To the Rescue
XXIV. The Escape
XXV. A Lucky Quarrel
XXVI. The Prisoner
XXVII. Searching the Wreck
XXVIII. Building a Raft
XXIX. “Sail Ho!”
XXX. The Accusation—Conclusion
THE RACER BOYS
CHAPTER I
HIT BY A WHALE
“How about a race to the dock, Frank?”
“With whom, Andy?”
“Me, of course. I’ll beat you there—loser to stand treat for the ice
cream sodas. It’s a hot day.”
“Yes, almost too warm to do any speeding,” and Frank Racer, a lad of
fifteen, with a quiet look of determination on his face, rested on the
oars of his skiff, and glanced across the slowly-heaving salt waves
toward his brother Andy, a year younger.
“Oh, come on!” called Andy, with a laugh rippling over his tanned face.
“You’re afraid I’ll beat you.”
“I am, eh?” and there was a grim tightening of the older lad’s lips.
“Well, if you put it that way, here goes! Are you ready?”
“Just a minute,” pleaded Andy, and he moved over slightly on his seat in
order better to trim the boat. He took a tighter grip on the oars, and
nodded toward his brother, still with that tantalizing smile on his
face.
“Let her go!” he called a moment later, adding: “I can taste that
chocolate soda now, Frank! Yum-yum!”
“Better save your breath for rowing,” counseled Frank good-naturedly, as
he bent to the ashen blades with a will.
The two boats—for each of the Racer lads had his own craft—were on a
line, and were headed for a long dock that ran out into the quiet inlet
of the Atlantic which washed the shores of the little settlement known
as Harbor View, a fishing village about thirty miles from New York.
“Wow! Here’s where I put it all over you by about six lengths!” boasted
Andy Racer, paying no attention to his brother’s well-meant advice, and
then the two lads got into the swing of the oars, and the skiffs fairly
leaped over the waves that rolled in long swells.
Both boys having spent nearly all their summer vacations at the coast
resort, which was something of a residence, place for summer colonists,
as well as a fishing centre, were expert oarsmen, sturdy and capable of
long exertion. They were nearly matched in strength, too, in spite of
the difference in their ages. They had taken a long, leisurely row that
summer morning and were on their way back when Andy proposed the race.
“Row! Row! Why don’t you put some speed in your strokes, Frank?” called
the younger brother.
“That’s all right—you won’t want to do any speeding by the time you get
to the dock,” and Frank glanced over his shoulder to where the public
dock stretched out into the bay like some long water-snake. “It’s nearly
two miles there, and the swell is getting heavier.”
Frank spoke quickly, and then relapsed into silence. It was
characteristic of him to do whatever he did with all his might, while
his more fun-loving brother sometimes started things and then left off,
saying it was “too much trouble.”
For a time Andy’s skiff was in the lead, and then, as he found the
exertion too much, he eased up in his strokes, and lessened the number
of them.
“I thought you were going it a bit too heavy,” remarked Frank, with a
smile.
“Oh, you get out!” laughed Andy. “I’ll beat you yet. But I like your
company, that’s why I let you catch up to me.”
“Oh, yes!” answered Frank, half sarcastically. “But why don’t you stop
talking? You can’t talk and row, I’ve told you that lots of times.
That’s the reason you lost that race with Bob Trent last week—you got
all out of breath making fun of him.”
“I was only trying to get him rattled,” protested Andy.
“Well, he got the race just by sticking to it. But go on. I don’t care.
I’m going to win, but I don’t want to take an unfair advantage of you.”
“Oh, lobsters! I’m not asking for a handicap. You never can beat me in a
thousand years.” And, with a jolly laugh Andy began to sing:
“The stormy winds do blow—do blow,
And I a winning race will row—yo ho!
You’ll come in last,
Your time is past.
Out on the briny deep, deep, deep!
Out on the briny deep!”
“All right, have your way about it,” assented Frank good-naturedly. “I
can stand it if you can,” and with that he increased his strokes by
several a minute, until his skiff had shot ahead of his brother’s, and
was dancing over the waves that, now and then, brilliantly reflected the
sun as it came from behind the fast-gathering clouds.
“Oh, so you are really going to race?” called Andy, somewhat surprised
by the sudden advantage secured by his brother. “Well, two can play at
that game,” and he, also, hit up the pace until in front of both boats
there was a little smother of foam, while the green, salty water swirled
and sparkled around the blades of the broad ashen oars, for the boys did
not use the spoon style.
For perhaps two minutes both rowed on in silence, and it was so quiet,
not a breath of wind stirring, that each one could hear the labored
breathing of the other. The pace was beginning to tell, for, though
Frank was not over-anxious to make record time to the dock, he was not
going to let his brother beat him, if he could prevent it.
“I shouldn’t wonder but what there’d be a storm,” spoke Andy again,
after a pause. He couldn’t keep quiet for very long at a time.
“Um,” was all the reply Frank made.
“What’s the matter; lost your tongue overboard?” questioned Andy with a
chuckle.
Frank did not reply.
“I’m going to pass you,” called the younger brother a moment later when,
by extreme exertion, he had regained the place he had held, with the bow
of his craft in line with Frank’s. Then Andy fairly outdid himself, for,
though Frank was rowing hard, his brother suddenly shot ahead.
“It’s about time you did some rowing,” was Frank’s quiet remark, and
then he showed that he still had some power in reserve, for he caught up
to his brother, and held his place there with seeming ease, though Andy
did not let up in the furious pace he had set.
“Oh, what’s the use of killing yourself?” at length the younger lad
fairly panted. “It’s—it’s farther than I thought.”
He began losing distance, but Frank, too, had no liking for the fast
clip, so he, likewise, rowed slower until the two boats were on even
terms, bobbing over the long ground swell that seemed to be getting
heavier rapidly.
From time to time one brother or the other glanced over his shoulder,
not so much to set his course, for they could do that over the stern,
having previously taken their range, but in order to note the aspect of
the fast-gathering clouds which were behind them.
The wind, which had died out shortly after they had started on their row
that morning, now sprang up in fitful gusts, with a rather uncanny,
moaning sound, as if it was testing its strength before venturing to
develop into a howling storm.
“Don’t you think it’s going to kick up a rumpus?” asked Andy, tired of
keeping quiet.
“Um,” spoke Frank again, for his breath was needed to keep up his speed
in the swells.
“There you go again—old silent-face!” and Andy laughed to take the sting
out of his words. “Your tongue will get so tired being still so long
that it won’t know how to wiggle when you want it.”
Frank smiled, and glanced over his shoulder again. He noted that the
dock, which was their goal, was now a little more than half a mile
distant. He could see several fishing boats and other craft making for
the more sheltered part of the harbor. Frank was calculating the space
yet to be covered, to decide when he should begin the final spurt, for,
though the race was only a friendly one, such as he and his brother
often indulged in, yet he wanted to win it none the less. He decided
that it would not do to hit up the pace to the limit just yet.
“It’s a heap sight longer than I thought it was,” came from Andy, after
a bit. “What say we call it off?”
“Not on your life” exclaimed Frank vigorously. “I’m going to finish
whether you do or not—but you have to buy the sodas if I do.”
“I will not. I’ll finish, too, and I’ll beat you.”
Once more came a period of silent rowing. Then, whether it was because
he pulled more strongly on one oar than on the other, or because of the
drift of the current, and the effect of the wind, the younger lad
suddenly found himself close to the boat of his brother.
At that moment Frank had once more turned to look at the dock, and Andy
could not resist the chance to play a little trick on him. Skillfully
judging the distance, he suddenly swept back his left oar, so that the
flat blade caught the crest of a long roller and a salty spray flew in a
shower over Frank.
“What’s that—rain?” Frank cried, turning quickly.
He saw the laughing face of his brother, and guessed what had happened.
“I thought this was a rowing race, not a splashing contest!” he cried
good-naturedly.
“It’s both,” was the answer. Then, though Frank kept on vigorously
swinging the oars, Andy paused, rested on the ashen blades, and, holding
the handles of both under his left palm for a moment, he pointed out to
sea with his right hand, and cried:
“Look! What’s that out there, Frank?”
“Oh, ho! No you don’t! You don’t catch me that way—pretending to show me
a sea serpent!” objected the older lad.
“No, really, there’s something there—something big and humpy—it’s
moving, too! Don’t you see it? Look, right in line with the Eastern Spit
Lighthouse! See!”
Andy stood up in his boat, skillfully balancing himself against the
rolling swell, and pointed out to sea. His manner was so earnest that,
in spite of the many times he had joked with his brother, Frank ceased
rowing and peered to where the extended finger of the younger lad
indicated something unusual.
“Smoked star fish! You’re right!” agreed Frank, forgetting all about the
race now, and standing up in his craft, in order to get a better view.
“What is it?” cried Andy. “A floating wreck?”
“That’s no wreck,” declared Frank.
“Then what is it?”
“It’s a whale, if I’m any judge. A whale, and a big one, too!”
“Dead?”
“I guess so. No—by Jupiter! It’s alive Andy, and it’s coming this way!”
“Cracky! If we only had a harpoon or a bomb gun now, that would be the
end of Mr. Whale. Let’s row out and meet him!”
“Say, are you crazy?” demanded Frank, with some heat.
“Crazy? No; why?”
“Wanting to tackle a whale in these boats! We’d be swamped in a minute!
We’d better pull out to one side. Most likely the whale will keep on a
straight course, though he’ll be stranded if he goes much farther in.
The tide’s out, and it’s shallow here. Pull to one side, Andy—the race
is off. Pull out, I tell you!” and Frank swung his skiff around with
sudden energy.
“I am not! I’m going to get a nearer view of the whale!” cried Andy.
“Maybe he’s hurt, or perhaps there’s a harpoon with a line fast to it in
him. We might get hold of it and—”
“Yes, and go to kingdom come. Nixy! Get out of the way while you’ve got
time. Jinks! He’s coming on faster than ever!”
Frank’s manner so impressed his brother that the younger lad now began
to swing his craft around. They could both see the whale plainly now,
even while sitting down, for the great sea animal was nearer.
Then, whether it was some sudden whim, or because he saw the boats and
took them for natural enemies, there was a sudden swirling of water and
the whale increased his speed, heading straight for the two skiffs that
were now almost touching side by side.
“He’s coming!” yelled Andy.
“I told you he was!” cried Frank. “Row! Row! Get out of the way!”
This was more easily said than done. In vain did the lads pull
frantically on their oars. The whale was now coming on with the speed of
an express train. He was headed right for the two boats!
“Pull out! Pull out!” shouted Andy. “He may go between us then!”
It was good advice, and Frank, who was a little the better rower,
started to follow it.
But it was too late. On came the monster of the deep, his great head
throwing up a huge wave in front of him. Andy was rowing as hard as was
his brother until he suddenly jumped his left oar out of the oarlock. In
another moment it had gone overboard.
This seemed to attract the attention of the whale to the skiff of the
younger lad. The monster might have thought that the occupant of the
boat was trying to hurl a harpoon.
Suddenly changing his course, the leviathan, which had been headed for
Frank’s craft, now turned toward Andy’s.
“Look out!” frantically shouted the older lad.
“I can’t! He’s got me!” screamed Andy.
The next instant there was a splintering, crashing and rending of wood.
A shower of spray flew high in the air. Frank’s boat rocked on the heavy
swell caused by the flukes of the whale, as they went deep into the
water after delivering a glancing blow upon the unfortunate Andy’s
skiff.
Frank had a momentary glance of his brother’s boat, with one side
smashed down to the water’s edge. He saw the green sea pouring in, and
he saw Andy standing up, ready to leap overboard. He saw the maddened
monster sheering off out to sea again, and then Frank cried:
“I’m coming, Andy! I’m coming! I’ll save you! Hold on to your boat!
Don’t jump!”
The whale disappeared in a smother of foam, as Frank, with desperate
energy, bent to his oars and swung his boat in the direction of the
sinking one containing his brother.