A FEARFUL TWO MINUTES
RUSHING aft, Jeff dropped into a seat beside the motor. In another
instant he had swung the speed on with his left hand, while his right
grasped one of the rudder ropes.
Chug-chug! With the speed beginning, Jeff turned the launch in the
shortest possible circle, then headed toward the people in the water.
“Yell!” he shouted. “Voices often scare ’gators!”
The Florida men in the rowboat won with the first yell by a margin of a
second or so. Then everyone joined in.
The two who bent at the oars of the rowboat were putting in all their
strength at a rapid, strong pull. One of the others crouched in the bow
of the little craft, waiting until he should dare to fire.
Two of the alligators had slowed up, as if waiting to see what menace
to them was conveyed by the chorus of wild yells. Then one of them sank
below the surface.
The ’gator nearest Tom Halstead kept straight on, coming slowly, jaws
moving and eyes blinking, as though the great reptile were figuring
out the chances of successful attack.
“You just look out for Miss Silsbee, Joe,” warned Tom. “I’ll keep off
this big fellow if I have to shove an arm down his throat!”
Ida Silsbee was wholly conscious. A brave girl, she had the good sense
to realize how much depended upon her keeping cool and quiet, allowing
her rescuers free hand to do what they thought best.
Tom Halstead had brought out his sailor’s clasp knife, opening the
blade. He now held this weapon in his right hand, ready to strike, no
matter how uselessly, as a means of attracting the attention of the
nearest alligator.
In the launch Henry Tremaine watched, with a horrible fascination, for
the alligator that had dropped below the surface. If hunters’ tales
were true that vanished alligator was likely to try to drag down one of
the helpless three from underneath.
Tom would not swim away from a straight line between Ida and the
oncoming alligator. He watched, unflinchingly, the approach of the
dangerous foe, wondering whether he could strike hard enough with his
knife to make the ’gator retreat.
All this had occupied only seconds.
Now, Jeff Randolph had a chance to show what he meant to do. He drove
the launch straight for the big alligator. The changed position of the
boat gave Tremaine a possible chance to shoot without hitting any of
those in the water.
“Don’t fire!” warned Jeff, quickly. “Wait, suh.”
Knowing that the Florida boy understood the points of the game vastly
better, Tremaine removed his finger from the trigger.
As the launch sped up, the alligator from which most was to be feared
veered slightly.
Jeff Randolph, however, was watchful and ready. He slightly veered the
launch from its first course, then, as he had intended, drove the bow
of the craft straight against the ’gator’s broadside.
The force of the impact almost capsized the launch. His hand on the
reversing gear, Jeff shot the launch back a few yards, swinging around.
This changed position gave Tremaine a chance to fire—not at the
alligator the launch had just struck, but at the other visible one. His
rifle spoke out instantly, just before a shot came from the rowboat.
By this time the alligators had all they could do to attend to their
own safety. The creature that Jeff had struck with the bow of the
launch had rolled partly over, recovered its balance, and then lashed
its way to greater safety. At this one, too, Tremaine now fired,
hitting, while Oliver Dixon followed it up with another bullet that
registered.
Half standing, and seeing how the day was going, Jeff Randolph now
steered toward Joe and Ida. In a twinkling Dixon reached out for the
girl. Tremaine helped him to haul her into the boat. Joe Dawson pulled
himself in, with slight help from Tremaine. Joe’s first move was to
lean over the opposite gunwale, and aid Captain Tom Halstead into the
boat.
“Yo’ can get one of the ’gators, suh,” reported Jeff, pointing. “He’s
hurt, but floating.”
Henry Tremaine again raised his rifle, sighted and fired. A second shot
from him finished the ’gator.
“Two! That’s good enough sport for one day,” declared the host. “Ida,
child, we’ve got to get you into something drier if possible, or you’ll
have pneumonia. Didn’t you ladies bring some sort of extra clothing?”
“Yes; we’ve some makeshifts in the way of clothes that will make the
child drier and warmer,” replied Mrs. Tremaine.
“Then we’ll run in to shore, disappear under the trees, and let you get
Ida into those clothes,” replied the host, noting that his ward was
already beginning to shake.
The launch was ran to the nearest land, the rowboat following. As soon
as both craft had been made fast the men-folks stepped out. Tom lifted
a service-worn telescope bag from under a forward seat, remarking:
“Joe and I carry a few extra things with us, too.”
The Florida men led the way over the bogs, watchfully alert for
rattlers or other dangerous snakes. Jeff encountered one young rattler,
and killed it with a few well-directed blows of a stick. Out of sight
of the boat, Tom and Joe quickly shed their dripping garments, rubbing
down and putting on dry clothing.
After waiting a sufficient length of time, Henry Tremaine shouted to
his wife, receiving answer that the men might return.
They found Ida Silsbee reclining comfortably at the stern of the boat,
wrapped in an overcoat and tucked in with steamer rugs.
“I’m as warm as toast,” she declared. Then, gratefully:
“I hope you boys are as well off.”
“Oh, we are,” Joe nodded. “We’re used to going overboard, or standing
in pouring rains. We never go far without a clothes kit.”
The Florida men now devoted their attention to securing the second
alligator and adding it to the tow behind the launch.
“Mo’ hunting, Mr. Tremaine?” inquired Jeff, coolly.
“Not to-day,” responded the host, with emphasis. “We’ve had very fair
sport, not to speak of a miraculous escape for my ward. We’ve had
quite enough excitement. I think the old bungalow at the head of Lake
Okeechobee will look very cheery to us when we get there.”
Ida had already made some attempt to thank the young motor boat boys
for their gallant conduct. Now, she tried to say much more. Mr. and
Mrs. Tremaine and Oliver Dixon now started to overwhelm the boys with
their gratitude, but Joe Dawson interposed quietly:
“The least said is soonest mended, you’ve heard, and I guess the same
idea applies to thanks. We’re glad we could be useful, but there is no
use in making a fuss about us.”
“That’s about right,” smiled Halstead. He turned to take his seat by
the steering wheel, then observed the wistful looks of Jeff Randolph.
“I didn’t know, before, Jeff,” remarked the young captain, pleasantly,
“that you knew anything about handling motor boats.”
“I won’t claim I _do_ know a heap,” rejoined Jeff, modestly, “but I
will say that there’s nothing I enjoy mo’ than taking the wheel of a
launch or cabin cruiser.”
“Help yourself, then,” invited Halstead, moving back. “You surely do
know more about these black waters than I’ll ever know.”
Jeff’s eyes gleamed with real pleasure as he seated himself at the
wheel. He gave the engineer’s signals, and backed the launch out
neatly, then headed northward.
“Say, you’ve been on boats a good deal,” remarked Skipper Tom, after
watching him.
“Some,” admitted the Florida boy, quietly. “I reckon I’d rather be on a
boat than anywhere else in the whole world.”
Jeff remained at the wheel until he had piloted them out of the
Everglades and back into Lake Okeechobee. The two dead ’gators were
rigged to the stern of the rowboat, in tow, and the small boat’s bow
line made fast astern on the launch. In this order the start was made
for the forty-mile trip up the lake.
“I’m going to spell you at the wheel a bit, now, Jeff,” said Tom
Halstead. “But you can have the wheel again, whenever you want it.”
“That’ll be most all o’ the forty miles ahead of us, then, I reckon,”
declared young Randolph.
It was slow work, indeed, getting back, not much more than seven
miles per hour being possible. Supper, picnic-style, was served not
long after dark. It was nearing the hour of ten when the boat at last
rounded slowly in at the pier.
“Let me take her in,” begged Jeff Randolph, who was again at the wheel.
“Go ahead,” nodded Tom Halstead, good-humoredly. “I know you can do it.”
“Jeff,” laughed Henry Tremaine, “you ought to apply for membership in
the famous Motor Boat Club of the Kennebec.”
“Wouldn’t I like to belong, though?” sighed the Florida boy.
“Would you?” queried Captain Tom.
“Don’t poke fun at me,” protested young Randolph.
“I’m not poking fun,” rejoined Halstead, soberly. “Did you ever have
any experience out on deep water?”
“I’ve been on sailing craft a good deal, and out fo’ two trips on a
motor cruiser,” answered the Florida boy, in a low voice.
“How’d you like to come out on the ‘Restless’ for a while?”
“Do yo’ mean it?” asked Jeff, anxiously.
“I certainly do. Still, at the same time, I must warn you that your
duties on the ‘Restless’ would be mixed. You’d have to cook, be
steward and take an occasional trick at the motors or the wheel.”
“I don’t care what it is,” retorted Jeff, stubbornly, “so long as it’s
something on deep salt water, and on a motor boat at that.”
“Make a good landing then,” proposed Tom Halstead, smiling, yet
serious, “and we’ll talk it all over on shore.”
Jeff Randolph laid the boat in at the pier without a scratch or a jar,
with just enough headway and none to spare. Tom leaped ashore at the
bow, Joe at the stern, and the little craft was made fast at her berth.
Ham Mockus was glad enough to see them back. He was hanging about at
the land end of the pier. Though the black man’s faith in ghosts had
received a severe knock, still, to be all alone about the place after
dark—well, it was a bit fearsome, anyway!
“Have any ghosts called, Ham?” laughingly demanded Henry Tremaine, as
he caught sight of his black servitor.
“No, sah; no, sah,” admitted the darkey, grinning sheepishly.
“Then the officers must have succeeded in keeping all the members of
the ghost safely locked up in jail.”
“Ah reckon so, sah—unless——”
“Well, unless what?”
“Wy, sah, it jest might be, ob co’se, dat some restless fo’ks done take
dem Eberglades trash out an’ hitch ’em to a tree, wid deir feet off en
de groun’.”
“Oh, I guess it could not be as bad as that,” smiled Mr. Tremaine.
“What have you been doing all these hours, Ham?” inquired Mrs. Tremaine.
“Wy, Ah done ’low, ob co’se, dat maybe yo’ don’ feel much satisfied wid
dat cold food yo’ done had erlong in de bo’t, so Ah’s done got some hot
food up at de house—ef yo’ want it.”
“Ham,” cried his employer, enthusiastically, “you’re kind-hearted and
proper. Lead us to that hot banquet.”
It was over the table, an hour later, that Mrs. Tremaine asked her
husband:
“How many more days do you intend to remain here hunting?”
“Have you ladies had all you want of it?” queried the host, looking at
his wife and his ward.
“More than enough for my part,” answered Mrs. Tremaine. Ida Silsbee
added that she, personally, did not care to go alligator hunting again.
“You’ll both of you be more contented,” decided Mr. Tremaine, “if we
run down to Oyster Bay and hoist anchor for Tampa. Up at Tampa you
girls will have a chance to wear your pretty dresses. Jeff, can you
start, before ten in the morning, and get the wagons back here to
convey us to the coast?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then we’ll leave here to-morrow afternoon,” announced Mr. Tremaine.
“We have alligator skins enough, anyway, to answer all purposes,
including the making of an alligator leather bag for Halstead’s mother.
I’ll have the bag made, Tom—a good, generous and handsome looking one.”
“Captain Halstead,” called out Jeff, following the young skipper away
from table and speaking almost ceremoniously.
“You want to talk to me about going on the ‘Restless’?” asked the young
sailing master.
“Yes. Yo’ wa’n’t fooling, were yo’?”
“Of course not,” rejoined Tom, heartily.
“And—and—would there evah be any chance fo’ me to get into the Motor
Boat Club?”
“We’d be only too glad to have you for a Florida member,” replied young
Halstead, “just as soon as you’ve shown that you can handle a boat of
our kind.”
Then Halstead and Joe discussed with Jeff his pay in his new position,
and the exact nature of his duties.
“I reckon it all seems too good to be true,” sighed Jeff Randolph, but
he knew, just the same, that it was no dream, and he was happy.
“Now, I’ve got to keep mighty cool and lull any suspicions Dixon may
have,” muttered Halstead to himself. “Of course he knows I received
that letter from Clayton Randolph. Perhaps, until we get back to Oyster
Bay, I can make Dixon feel that I don’t believe any such thing possible
of him. Once we get there, and Clayton Randolph backs up what he wrote
me, I’ll take the whole thing to Mr. Tremaine. Then, Dixon, if you
_are_ as big a scoundrel as I think you, your time will have come to
pay back and take your medicine!”