For three or four seconds Tad was too terrified to move. Then he
recovered his presence of mind and scrambled up, drawing a deep breath
to shout for help. But before he could utter a sound the intruder had
dropped, cat-like, to the floor of the stateroom and was on him in a
bound.
A powerful hand closed on his windpipe, and a gag of some sort was
stuffed into his mouth.
Tad, strong and wiry for his fifteen years, fought back at his tall
antagonist savagely, but it was an unequal struggle. With a swift skill
that argued previous experience, the prowler pulled a cord from under
his coat, and twisting the lad over on his stomach, he caught his
wrists in a tight hitch behind him. Half a dozen quick passes of the
cord, and Tad lay trussed up on the bunk, helpless as a baby.
Then the man rose leisurely, produced a tinder-box from somewhere, and
lit a candle, which he stuck on the lid of the box and set down on the
floor. Tad, getting a good look at him for the first time, saw that
he was masked. A black handkerchief with holes cut in it covered the
whole upper part of his face.
With quick fingers the fellow went through Tad’s clothes, taking his
father’s letter, his watch, and a few other trifles, and putting them
in his own pocket.
The boy, struggling desperately to get his hands free, had to lie there
in anguish and see his treasures taken. At last, as the robber paused,
baffled for a moment, Tad felt the knots that held him slip a little.
He bent his knees up to loosen the tension between ankles and wrists,
and worked his arms cautiously back and forth. One hand slid through,
then the other, but he lay still and gave no sign.
The man had opened the portmanteau and was rummaging through it
swiftly, but still he did not find what he was after. As he rose, the
candle’s beam shone full on his right hand and Tad had a momentary
glimpse of a ring--silver, with a dull green stone. It was the gambler
from Wheeling, who had seen him open his purse to pay for his lodging.
Would he give up the search and leave as he had come? It was a foolish
hope. At that very instant the fellow turned and stepped over to the
bunk, his slim, sure fingers feeling under the pillow where the purse
was hidden.
Tad could restrain himself no longer. With a cry, muffled by the gag,
he pulled his arms from behind him and leaped upon the thief. Together
they went sprawling across the tiny cabin. The candle was kicked over
and extinguished and the struggle went on in the dark. Suddenly the
gambler shifted his position, and Tad felt an arm tighten about his
head with a grip like a vise. His ears began to sing, and all his
senses were numbed by the pain of the head-lock. He was powerless to
move. Then he became dimly aware that his antagonist was using his
other hand to open the door. A draft of cold air struck him and he was
pulled out upon the deck. With a suddenness that gave him no time for
terror, he felt himself swung up and outward over the rail. And then,
as in a bad dream, he was falling--falling.
The shock of the icy water brought him out of his stupor. For a second
or two his whole energy was concentrated on getting back to the air
again, for the fifteen-foot drop had plunged him deep. As he came up,
choking, he pulled the gag out of his mouth and tried once more to call
for help. But the stern of the _Ohio Belle_ had already gone past, and
there was nothing around him but watery blackness.
What should he do now? He was a good swimmer, but the water was almost
as cold as in winter, and he knew he could not last long in it. The
steamer had been running close to the Indiana shore most of the day,
and he had been thrown from the starboard side of the vessel. Something
told him to try for the north bank. With the river sweeping down upon
him at five or six miles an hour, it was easy to keep his sense of
direction. He struck out almost at right angles to the current and swam
steadily, saving his strength.
The task seemed endless. As far as he could tell, he might still be
miles from land, and he was numb with cold. Twice he had such an attack
of shivering that he could not take a stroke for several seconds. His
short cotton night-shirt was not much of an impediment to swimming, but
the trailing cord was still tied fast to one of his feet, and he used
up some of his strength in a vain effort to get rid of it.
Some last reserve of pluck kept his arms and legs going despite the
achy weariness that was in them. He thought he saw a blacker mass
rising in the blackness ahead, but it seemed to draw no nearer, and he
lost hope. Then his toe struck something soft that frightened him. He
lashed out desperately to get away from it and struck it again. It was
mud. He could stand up, half out of water, and wade. The looming bulk
ahead of him must be trees. In another minute or two he was crawling up
the bank, so nearly exhausted that he seemed hardly able to move, yet
filled with an indescribable sense of happiness at being alive.
Another attack of shivers made him realize that he must try to get
warm. Rising, he half stumbled, half ran along a sort of path that
followed the top of the bank. And a moment later, to his joy, he saw
a small cabin set in a clearing ahead of him. Hurrying forward, he
approached the front of the shack and was about to rouse its inmates
by knocking on the door, when two huge dogs came running around the
corner and rushed at him. They growled and snapped so viciously at his
bare legs that Tad made a hasty retreat, beating them off with the cord
which he had removed from his ankle and was still carrying.
“Hello, the house!” he cried.
But the people inside either could not or would not hear him, and after
a moment of hesitation a renewed attack by the dogs caused him to keep
on his way westward along the bank. The damp twigs and briars slapped
and scratched his naked legs, but he was past paying any attention to
such trifles. If only he could find a sheltered corner of some sort
where he could curl up and rest without perishing of cold!
The path opened after a while on another clearing, bigger than the
first, and he made out the shapes of half a dozen scattered houses off
to the right, away from the river. There was something depressing in
their silent blackness, and after his experience at the last place, he
had little heart to approach them. Instead he followed a deeply rutted
road that led forward to the bank of what seemed to be a good-sized
creek flowing into the Ohio.
Tad groped his way to the door of a log shanty which stood by the
water--a store-house of some kind, he thought. But here again he was
disappointed, for a heavy padlock secured the latch.
As he stood there, shivering and desperate, his eye fell on a long,
dark bulk beside the landing-stage. It was a boat--a clumsy broadhorn
of the kind he had seen drifting down the river.
He drew closer and saw a roofed shelter covering the after part. It
looked warm and dry. Surely there could be no harm in resting there
until daylight. He would come ashore before the owners appeared, he
told himself. And a moment later he was scrambling aboard. There
were rough, warm burlap bags and a heavy tarpaulin in the shelter.
Shivering, he made a place for himself in a deep, snug corner and
pulled the canvas cover about him. After a moment or two his body began
to warm the nest, and a heavenly peace seemed to soothe his weariness
like a drug. Before another minute passed, he had fallen into a slumber
far too deep for dreams.