IN DANGER
Mr. Somers' wisdom in selecting a boat with breadth of beam was now
apparent. Had the "Rambler" been a narrow craft, the task which
confronted the members of the club would have been attended with the
gravest danger.
Several of the boys, clutching for support, felt a thrill of
apprehension run through them, as the storm-tossed motor boat, which
shipped water at every lurch, ploughed its way toward the Trailers.
Voices could scarcely be heard above the roaring wind. Dick Travers and
Sam Randall bailed energetically, though they were thrown down with
considerable force more than once. Little Tom Clifton, prey to a terror
he could scarcely control, held on for dear life, while Dick Brandon,
surprisingly calm and collected, stood by the engine, foreseeing that
his services would be required.
The outline of the "Nimrod" became more distinct. She was tossing about
like a chip, and her crew seemed to have become totally panic-stricken.
"Help!" again roared Nat, holding on with one hand, while with the
other he grasped the megaphone. "We're almost full of water, and
haven't a thing to bail with."
The "Pirates" looked anything but a brave lot, as they huddled
together. Their faces were blanched, and, drenched to the skin, they
presented a sorry spectacle. The "Nimrod" seemed helpless, and at the
mercy of every wave.
Bob Somers saw at a glance that they were, indeed, in a serious
position, rendered far more so by their inability to act with any
degree of calmness.
"Give us some buckets, if you have any, quick!" yelled Nat; "or our
boat will be at the bottom of the lake in no time."
The thunder and lightning still continued with unabated force, while
the deluge showed no signs of stopping. Wind and waves made the task
of approaching the "Nimrod" an extremely difficult one. All of Bob's
resourcefulness was needed, but he managed the "Rambler" skilfully.
Randall and Travers stood at the rail with a couple of buckets when,
at imminent peril of crashing into the "Nimrod," the other boat passed
close to windward.
John Hackett managed to seize one bucket, the other being successfully
tossed on board.
"Start your motor and then go ahead, facing the storm!" shouted Bob, at
the top of his voice.
"Don't go away!" yelled Kirk Talbot.
"All right, we'll stand by you."
A moment later, Nat Wingate was seen crouching down at the wheel.
Amidst clouds of spray that dashed over him, he tugged first one way
and then the other, but it did not appear that any move had been made
to start the engine.
"Throw them a line," ordered Bob, quickly.
The boats, however, were drifting apart, and Sam Randall's first
attempt was not successful. Again and again he tried. Bob Somers, in
spite of the risk, came to his aid by stopping the "Rambler," and
within a few minutes Nat Wingate was able to seize the rope that came
flying through the air.
It was made fast, the motor again started, and the "Nimrod" gradually
drawn around until its bow was pointed directly toward the oncoming
waves.
The frantic energy with which its crew was working with the buckets
would have been amusing under other circumstances. It soon became
apparent that the situation was not going to grow any worse, but the
boats were still plunging violently, and, at intervals, large waves
poured over the rails.
For fully fifteen minutes the storm continued in all its fury. Just as
the rain began to slacken, and there was a lull in the heavy gusts,
John Hackett threw down his bucket and shouted to the Ramblers.
"Hello!" he cried. "If this old boat didn't swallow nearly half the
lake, I'm wrong in my calculations."
The speaker looked as if his attempt at humor had caused him a pretty
hard effort.
"It was all on account of the wheel getting jammed," added Nat,
ruefully. "But for that, we wouldn't have been in such a mess."
The storm ended as suddenly as it began. Before the rain had entirely
ceased, a patch of blue was seen in the west. Half an hour later, the
sun was shining on a far-off bank of clouds, while the two boats were
gently rising and falling on the rounded swells.
The Ramblers suffered no ill effects from their wetting, thanks to the
oilskin coats, but the others presented a sadly bedraggled spectacle.
"Did you ever hear of such mean luck?" growled Nat. "I wish I could
interview the man who got up this steering gear."
"Little fishes, but I am wet!" exclaimed Kirk Talbot, with a doleful
smile.
"We ought not to kick about that," protested Ted Pollock. "If Bob
Somers hadn't come along you might be at the bottom of the lake and
wetter than you are now. The way we got thrown around was about the
worst that ever happened."
The two boats lay to. Bob and his companions set about putting things
to rights. Swabs were brought out and before long the "Rambler" resumed
its former spick and span appearance.
The members of the Nimrod Club were fully aware of the fact that a
great service had been rendered them, and they all expressed their
appreciation of it, Nat, however, sandwiching his remarks between
numerous growls and complaints, while tinkering at his wheel with an
enormous wrench.
From odd scraps of conversation, the Ramblers managed to learn that
their rivals had bought a box of canned goods in town, and that Nat,
carrying it from one place to another, just as the storm broke, had
slipped and let it drop. Nat tried to get his companions to stop
talking, but they did not seem to realize the necessity for keeping the
facts secret.
"Bump-bang!" exclaimed John Hackett, at length. "Maybe if it hadn't
been for the wheel, Nat, that box would have gone clean through the
bottom of the boat."
Nat Wingate, with a very red face, arose, holding a spoke, which the
wrench, instead of straightening, had broken off. Without a word, he
started the motor, and it was presently seen that the "Nimrod" had been
restored to a serviceable condition.
"Our friends don't seem to be in a pleasant humor, Chubby," remarked
Bob, with a smile, as Nat was heard angrily explaining to Hackett that
any more funny remarks would result in trouble.
"Those chaps are only good-natured when they have everything their own
way," said Sam Randall, with a laugh.
The "Rambler," having been put in motion, was soon skirting the point
of land. Upon rounding it, the entrance to a bay was disclosed, there
being a fine stretch of beach along one side and a strip of woods
beyond.
"Bob, don't you think that looks like a good place to camp?" suggested
Sam Randall.
"Yes! We might as well tie up for the night," replied Bob.
A gentle hill began a short distance back from the water, and, after
landing, the boys lost no time in climbing it. They found that a dense
forest extended, with but few breaks, in all directions.
It seemed that the Trailers had kept a careful eye on their movements,
for, upon returning to the boat, a familiar voice was heard.
"My little salts!" yelled Nat, as the "Nimrod" lazily slipped through
the water of the bay. "Are you fellows going to stay in this place for
the night?"
Bob answered in the affirmative, and the others, without having
anything further to say, continued on their course.
"Guess they will camp close by. We can't lose 'em," observed Dave
Brandon, when, after a short interval, the "Nimrod" was seen turning in
toward the shore about a quarter of a mile away.
The boys soon saw that in many respects the site was the best they had
yet found. The top of the bank was comparatively free from underbrush,
while a good deal of fallen timber was strewn around, showing the
ravages that various storms had caused.
The ground was still wet in many places, but a spot which the warm
afternoon sun had almost dried was finally discovered.
"This is the wildest region we have seen, fellows," observed Dave
Brandon, with great satisfaction.
"It would look perfectly natural to see a bear or wildcat stalking
through the woods," added Dick Travers, with a grin.
"Well, I hope none of them poke their ugly noses in our camp," ventured
Tom Clifton, little apprehensively.
"Say, fellows, let's pitch the tents to-night, for a change," suggested
Bob Somers.
"Sure! Let us have the tents," broke in Dick, enthusiastically. "It's
going to be a job making a fire all right; can't find a stick of dry
wood," he announced a moment later.
"Find a cedar," said Bob, "or get some pieces of bark from the
sheltered side of a tree. But first of all, boys, help me with the
tents."
The two huge rolls of canvas were thereupon lugged ashore, one of
them being spread out on the spot selected for a camp. Bob and Dick,
armed with hatchets, then betook themselves to the woods in search of
long poles. Of course they were not found without some difficulty. At
length, ten, all neatly trimmed, were carried back to the shore.
"How are you going to do it, Bob?" asked Sam Randall, with interest.
"To find out, lend a hand," laughed the captain.
First, one of the poles, together with a long piece of rope, was laid
upon the ground, and the canvas unrolled on top. While this was being
done, Dick and Tom began to join a number of the stripped saplings in
pairs, so that when spread apart, the upper portion of each formed a
crutch.
"Now," said Bob, "we will stick one at each end of the tent, then set
the ridge pole in the fork."
"All right, Master of Ceremonies," returned Sam, smilingly; "up she
goes."
When this had been done, the rope was tied to stakes at the front and
rear of the tent.
"Now, just as soon as the canvas is pegged down along the sides, we'll
have a shelter that would make old Bill Agnew open his eyes," declared
Bob, with satisfaction.
"I should say so. It's great," agreed Dave, who paused a moment from
his labor of building a fire; "going to pitch the other tent now?"
"Yes. But it is smaller, and won't take much time," responded Bob.
In the course of another half hour, the two tents stood side by side.
"Now we'll fix up the interior," said Bob.
Tom Clifton was dispatched to the woods for more material, returning
in due course with a quantity of neatly trimmed branches, most of them
rather short. Two were driven into the ground in the corner of each
tent and cross pieces nailed on top.
"These will do to hang our things upon," said Bob.
Having had considerable practice, the boys soon had the beds in
position.
By this time Dave Brandon, spurred on by a prodigious appetite, had
dressed one of the ducks, pared a surprising number of potatoes, and
thrown all into their biggest pot.
"Was I ever so hungry before?" sighed the poet laureate, as he looked
longingly at the simmering pot.
The boys had worked hard, and all felt glad when preparations were
completed.
"I only hope that nothing disturbs me to-night," observed Sam Randall,
with a yawn.
"So do I," drawled Dave; "a lot of things have certainly happened in
the last twenty-four hours. Oh ho, look at that dandy sunset."
The sinking sun, resting just above a line of purplish clouds, suffused
a glow across the entire sky and lighted the tree tops with a mellow
warmth. A broad band of color glistened and sparkled in the lake.
"Isn't that a fine sight, boys?" went on the poet; "wish I could paint
it."
"Just at the present moment, the stuff in that pot interests me more,"
declared Dick Travers, with a laugh.
"Hello--that must be the Trailers."
The latter remark, which came from Tom Clifton, was caused by the
report of a gun, then several others, at a point not far distant.
"Well, supper is ready, boys," announced Dave.
"And we for it, I can tell you that, Chubby," returned Bob, promptly.
Sitting in front of the tents, the Ramblers enjoyed their meal as they
rarely had, even under similar circumstances.
"If my appetite keeps up like this, I'm afraid my father will soon be
ruined," observed young Travers, with comical gravity.
"If there is enough salt left, I'll cook a special stew for you. Want
it?" asked Tom Clifton, kindly.
But the Ramblers with singular unanimity declared that they could not
think of putting him to so much trouble.
"Dave Brandon," began Sam Randall, suddenly, "as a self-appointed
committee of one, I want to know if your great American poem is nearly
finished."
"Yes, yes, read us a line or two; go ahead, Chubby," pleaded Dick.
The poet laureate gave a negative gesture. "Oh, no! Not yet, boys," he
laughed. "Don't forget, too, that in becoming cook, I was fired from my
proud position as chief poet."
"But now you are put back again," insisted Sam.
Dave, however, could not be persuaded, so Bob Somers, who had a good
voice, came to his rescue by starting a song they all knew. Then
stories were told until bedtime.
Before turning in, the one remaining duck was hung on a pole outside
the tents.
The Ramblers were soon sleeping soundly. It was a typical summer night.
The moon finally rose, but the sky was considerably overcast. On the
western horizon, an occasional gleam of lightning shone with a deep
copper hue.
Little Tommy Clifton, who occupied the smaller tent in company with
Dave Brandon, was disturbed by a curious dream. He thought that a
dragon, uttering a weird cry, had attempted to enter the tent. This
caused him to awake with a start, cold chills creeping along his spine.
The tent was partially open, and Tom stared at the view outside,
mechanically taking in the shore and gray expanse of lake extending off
to meet the sky.
A curious crackling of twigs drove all thoughts of sleep from the boy's
mind, while a strange, vague terror took possession of him. Sitting
bolt upright, he listened, undecided whether to awaken his companion or
not.
With startling abruptness, a low, rasping cry almost froze the blood in
his veins. Then a pair of blazing green eyes, but a few paces from the
tent, brought his terror to a climax. Tom Clifton gave a loud cry of
alarm and struggled to his feet.