ATTACKED BY A SWORDFISH
"Don't do it!" cried Mr. Ringold. "Let that fire burn!"
But there were now so many fishermen rushing about here and there that
they paid no attention to the excited theatrical man, who issued orders
right and left.
"What shall we do?" demanded C. C., who had gotten off to one side with
the girl he was supposed to have "rescued" from the burning cabin.
"I don't know!" cried Mr. Ringold. "The whole play is spoiled by those
fellows butting in. Hi, there!" he called to Blake and Joe, as he saw
them operating the cameras. "Stop the reel! We don't want any of this!"
The clicking machines grew silent, and then the boys knew that something
was wrong.
Meanwhile, the hand engine was placed in position. It was learned,
later, that the fish concern kept it for use in cases of emergency.
There had been some small blazes, in which the old engine had proved
its worth.
The fishermen knew how to operate it to advantage, too, and soon a
double line of them, extending from the surf to the tank, began passing
the filled buckets up one side and the empty ones down the other. As the
tank filled, other men worked the handles and a stream of water was soon
spurting on the fire.
"Quit it! Oh, quit it!" begged Mr. Ringold. "I want that shack to burn!"
"He's crazy--don't mind him!" shouted the self-appointed chief. "We'll
soon have it out now."
"I'll see if I can stop them," said C. C., for the water had about
quenched the blaze, and it was useless to try to go on with the play.
"They'll listen to me," the comedian declared.
He rushed forward, but at that moment the hose got from the control of
the two men holding it. The nozzle swung around, and the stream came
full force over Christopher Cutler Piper, drenching him in an instant.
"I say there--hold on--shut that water off! I--I'm being drowned!" he
spluttered. And then, as the men again got the nozzle under control, the
comedian, dripping water at every point, walked away, saying:
"There, I told you something would happen!"
"I should say it has!" declared Mr. Ringold, for once agreeing with the
gloomy actor.
A few more strokes of the pump handles, a few more gallons of water, and
the fire, which had quickly attacked all parts of the cottage at once,
died out.
"There!" cried Abe Haskill, the old fisherman-chief. "We saved your
building for ye, Mr. Ringold. Ain't no use in buyin' a shack an' then
havin' it burn down--no matter if it ain't wuth much. We saved her for
you, though at one time it looked pretty dubious. This is the first fire
we've had in some time, an' I reckon we got a bit rusty.
"I might add," he went on, "that it's customary, in cases where a
volunteer department saves a buildin' from destruction--it's customary,
I say, for the owner to donate a leetle suthin' to the department. In
this case, seein' as how Jim Belton sold his shack to you--why, you're
the owner. And, as I say, we saved her for you!" he concluded, proudly.
"Yes, I see you did," remarked Mr. Ringold, dubiously. "Now I've got to
buy another, and burn that down, for this play is spoiled."
"What! Did you _want_ her to burn?" asked Mr. Haskill, in accents of
horror. "Did you want the devourin' element to consume that buildin'?"
"I did," replied the theatrical man.
"Well--I vum!" declared the volunteer chief. "Boys, we made a mistake."
"The next time I'll tell the inhabitants here what my plans are," went
on Mr. Ringold, grimly. "I told you I wanted it to burn."
"I know you did," admitted the chief; "but I thought you was so excited
you didn't know what you was sayin'."
"So did I," admitted several of the volunteer fire-fighters. "It's too
bad!"
"Well, you meant all right, anyhow," went on Mr. Ringold, with cheerful
philosophy; "and I'll make the department a donation. But next time,
please don't interfere. I'll set another shack on fire as soon as I can
arrange to buy one," he said to his company. "Meanwhile we'll go on with
another drama. Save whatever you can of the films," he added to Blake
and Joe. "Up to the time the firemen broke in they'll be all right. Next
time I'll be more explicit."
"I knew something would happen," declared C. C., gloomily, as he tried
to wring some of the water from his clothes. "I didn't burn, but I
nearly drowned."
There was nothing to do but return to their boarding place and arrange
for another drama, rehearsals for which would take place in a day or so.
"Meanwhile," said Mr. Ringold to Joe and Blake, "you may have a little
time off. I tell you what you might do. We could use a fishing scene, I
believe. Suppose you go out in one of the small boats here and get a
series of views when they lift their nets."
"The very thing!" cried Blake. "We'll do it; eh, Joe?"
"Sure thing!"
"You might, in fact," went on Mr. Ringold, "show the whole process of
fishing, from the launching of the boats until they come back filled
with the day's catch."
This the boys arranged to do, and that noon, when the power boats were
launched, they were on hand to make moving pictures.
The craft, as I have explained, were "eased down" the sloping beach, by
means of rollers and planks, until the stern was just at the edge of the
surf. The motor was then started, the boat being still held fast by a
rope. This rope was fastened in a peculiar knot, so that one man,
standing near it, could loosen it with one pull when the word was given
to "cut loose."
The men watched the rollers with practiced eyes, for if the surf was
heavy the boat might get into the trough, on being launched, and
capsize. Often fishermen are drowned in this way, being struck by the
heavy boat, or getting under it.
With the engine racing, the men got into the boat. One remained on the
beach, holding the restraining rope. Another took his place at the
stern, with a long steering oar that was to be used to get her bow on to
the waves.
A particularly large wave was seen coming in.
"Get ready!" ordered the captain.
The man at the big oar took his place. The boat was almost afloat now.
"Cut loose!" came the order.
The man at the rope yanked the knot loose. The boat slid into the water
and the next instant was being tossed about in the breakers, the man
with the oar forcing her head around, aided by the powerful gasoline
engine that turned the propeller. The craft came near to capsizing, but
kept upright, and a little later was beyond the surf, into deep water,
speeding out to the nets two miles away.
Blake and Joe, working by turns, got some fine views of the launching.
Then, getting into another of the fishing boats with their cameras, and
with Macaroni to aid them, they prepared to go out to the fishing
grounds, where the nets were.
"Say, this is rough, all right!" exclaimed Blake, as they found
themselves in the boiling, frothing surf.
"That's what!" agreed Joe.
"Let me out! I want to walk!" pleaded Macaroni, who was not very fond of
the water.
"You'll be all right in a minute!" called Abe Haskill, who was captain
of the boat. "Soon as you git out beyond the breakers you won't mind
it."
And they found that they did not, though there was some motion, as there
was quite a swell on. They reached the nets safely, and while the meshes
were hauled up, bringing a good catch of fish, the moving picture boys
took many views. It was interesting as well as instructive.
"This would make a good educational reel," suggested Blake, as he spread
his legs to maintain his balance against the rocking motion of the boat.
"Indeed it would," observed Joe. "Look, there's some one overboard!" and
he pointed to one of the other boats.
A man had indeed slipped into the sea. The moving picture boys were
ready, however, and trained one of the cameras on the fisherman, who,
laughing at his mishap, soon swam to the boat again, and was pulled in.
It took some little time to haul the nets, but at last, with their own
boat well filled with flapping fish, as were the others, Joe and Blake
started for shore.
"Well, we made out all right, I think," said Blake, as he looked to see
if there was any more film left in his machine.
"Sure we did," declared his chum. "If we had to take some other views we
could."
"We'll want some of the landing of the boats, and the carting of the
fish up to the sheds," Blake reminded him.
"That's right, we will. I guess I can----"
Joe did not finish his sentence. At that moment there came a jar and
Blake cried:
"We've hit something!"
"No, something has hit _us_!" corrected one of the fishermen, leaping
up, and grabbing a long, iron-shod pole.
"What is it?" demanded Joe.
"A pesky swordfish. He's ramming us, and he may poke a hole in us! If I
can get a chance I'll jab him!" and the man leaned over the side. As he
did so there came another attack on the craft, so fierce that it heeled
over, and the man with the pole, giving a cry, was flung overboard.