A VOYAGE IN THE DARK
Still, it was some time after the return of Phil and Jerry from their
unsuccessful sortie into the enemy's country, before a practical plan
occurred to the ten-brain-power plotters. But the scheme, once its
details had been worked out, struck them all as having a fair chance
for success. Briefly, it was this:
Two of the boys--Jerry and Phil were again chosen--were to go down the
river to the bridge and cross over and get the _Big Four_. They were to
come back up the river as quietly as possible, hugging the opposite
shore to a point about two hundred yards below the island, where the
east bank spurred off into a fairly high hill. Here one of the boys was
to leave the boat, as near nine o'clock as possible--it was now
seven--and climb the hill, where he was to signal across to Dick
Garrett, who would be watching directly opposite.
Then Jerry and Phil were to make all speed to Lost Island, landing at
the lower end. The Boy Scouts, and Dave and Frank, were to gather as
conspicuously as possible--a flaring camp fire would show their
intentions--and pretend that _they_ were about to embark for the island.
That _ought_ to leave the lower end of the island unguarded for the
safe landing of Jerry and Phil. Once they were ashore, the dense bushes
and the darkness ought to be sufficient cover for their search.
Little time had been lost, really, in making the plan, for the Scouts
had been bustling back and forth, building a camp fire and preparing
supper. Four of them had set up the tents, finishing the task begun by
all of them when Jerry and Phil set out on their first trip to the
island.
It was not a very fancy meal the boys sat down to. The food was served
on paper lunch plates, so there would be no dish-washing. Each Scout
carried knife, fork, spoon and tincup. There was no extra "silverware"
save the cook's big utensils. So the three outsiders ate with fingers
and pocketknives. A nice mess of perch had been caught in a near-by
creek, and Frank Willis, whose turn it was to act as chef, had browned
them most artistically. There were some ash-baked potatoes, and a
farmhouse close by had provided a generous supply of buttermilk.
The last of the meal was eaten by the light of the camp fire, for the
sky had clouded over and night seemed to drop suddenly from above.
Licking the last morsel of the delicious fish from his greasy
finger-ends, and wiping his greasier mouth on his sleeve, Jerry jumped
to his feet and announced:
"I'm ready, Phil, if you are."
"I've been ready for a quarter of an hour--just waiting for the skillet
to be empty, because I knew you'd never stir so long as there was a
crumb left. Where do you put it all?"
"I've got to stow away a lot to balance my brains. I notice you're a
light eater," retorted Jerry, but Phil only chuckled.
"All right, you two--be on your merry way," put in Dick Garrett. "This
is no picnic excursion you're starting off on. And don't forget your
oars, unless you expect to row your boat with your wits."
The two made no reply; a half minute later there were only eight boys
in camp.
Something like a quarter of a mile inland was the gravel road that
followed the windings of Plum Run, to cut across at the wagon bridge.
Two stealthy figures hurried through the woods and across the fields,
to emerge on the other side of a barbed wire fence and trudge off down
the dusty road.
"Some woodsman, you are!" snorted Phil in purposely exaggerated
disgust. "When you skulked through the brush the limbs could be heard
popping for a mile. How many times did you fall down?"
"Fall down? What you mean, fall down? Every time you stumbled over your
shadow I thought you were ducking for cover, so I simply crouched to
keep out of sight."
Phil snorted, and quickened his pace. Jerry put an extra few inches on
his own stride and easily kept up. They passed a farmhouse--at good
speed, for a dog came out and after a few suspicious sniffs proceeded
to satisfy his appetite on Phil's leg. A loud ripping noise told that
he at least kept a souvenir of the visit.
The dog's excited barking kept them company to the next farmhouse,
which they passed as silently as possible, not particularly desiring to
repeat the experience.
"It was your whistling back there that scared up that dog--see if you
can whistle a patch onto my leggins," Phil suggested when they were
once more surrounded by open fields.
Jerry did not answer, for just ahead of them the road forked and he was
trying to remember which turn it was one took to get to the bridge. He
had never gone this way, but he had once heard a farmer giving
directions to a party of automobilists. However, Phil unhesitatingly
took the branch that cut in toward the river, so he said nothing for
some time.
"Ever been over this road before?" he ventured to ask when the road
suddenly became so rough that they stumbled at every step.
"No--never been up this way. We always fish on the other side of the
Plum."
"How do you know then that this is the right road?"
"It turned in toward the river, didn't it? And the other road angled
off toward Tarryville."
"But the bridge road is graveled all the way, and if this isn't blue
clay I'll eat my hat. It might just be a private road to some farm, and
the other road might have swung around after a bit. This muck-hole
doesn't look good to me."
"All the same, through those trees yonder I can see water. It's the old
Plum all right. Shake a leg."
"I think we'll gain time by shaking two legs--back to the fork. That's
the Plum, all right enough, but you'll walk through marsh all the way
to the bridge if you try to follow the bank. I remember now: this is
the old wood road. It hasn't been used since they cut timber on the
Jameson tract."
Jerry did not wait to finish his argument but had already gone back a
good fifty feet of the way to the other road, when he noticed that Phil
was not following him.
"What's the matter, Phil?"
"Don't you think we've wasted enough time, without losing some more by
going back?"
"We'll lose more by going ahead. And we're losing now by standing still
chewing the rag about it. Come on."
"I'm going ahead. You followed my lead this far; I guess it won't hurt
you to follow it a little farther. I'm Patrol Leader, you know."
Jerry sensed a little resentment in Phil's tone, and remembered that
once or twice he had spoken to the Scout leader just as he did to his
chums--and his chums always looked to him for commands.
"I'm not trying to boss you, Phil, don't think that. But I _know_ that
the other way is the best way, and I've _got_ to follow it. So you go
ahead, and I'll wait for you at this end of the bridge."
Without further word he strode off on the back road. It was so dark
that he might have done so safely, but he did not look back.
Nevertheless, a pleased grin spread over his face, for he was soon
aware that Phil was tagging along not many paces behind. That had
always been the way. Jerry was a born leader; the other boys followed
him willingly because they never found any cause to lose confidence in
his judgment.
"Phil, you're a genuine sport," was all he said as the other boy fell
into step beside him as once more they reached the gravel roadway and
turned into the right-hand branch.
Sooner than they expected they saw the gaunt skeleton of the upper
bridgework against the dark sky. Jerry did not permit himself an "I
told you so," but he said instead:
"We'll be in a pretty pickle if we get on the other side and find our
boat gone."
Phil made no answer and in silence they walked across the
hollow-echoing bridge. A series of giant stone steps led down to the
river bank, and as soon as they reached bottom they saw that their
fears were groundless, for there lay the _Big Four_ as Jerry and Dave
had left her eighteen hours before. Deep footprints in the mud bank,
dimly visible in the dusk, told that someone had stopped to look the
boat over. Perhaps had the oars been handy, the boat might not have
remained so safely.
The boys were glad to relieve their shoulders of the pair they had
taken turns in carrying, and without pausing to rest, they stepped into
the boat, Phil finding some difficulty in making the Scout boat's oars
fit the _Big Four's_ oarlocks. But at last they were off and Jerry bent
to his task. The _Big Four_ had been built for speed, and the craft was
trimmed just right for getting the most with the least effort. The
current was fairly swift here, but Jerry hugged the east bank and took
advantage of every eddy. It was not long before Lost Island swung into
sight.
"Let me spell you off," suggested Phil, but Jerry shook his head.
"After we land at the hill you can take her the rest of the way. I
think I'll pull in at that little cove just ahead. It makes a little
longer walk, but it's well out of sight of the island. Who'll climb the
hill!"
"Leave that to me. I kind of want to try out a little signaling stunt
that Dick and I have been figuring on. Here's a good sandy stretch;
let's beach her here."
The boat grated on the pebbly shore; Phil sprang lightly out, and Jerry
was left alone. He could hear Phil scrunching over the rocks and
through the brush; then all was still. Jerry strained his eyes to see
if he could make out the figure of Dick, who must be almost directly
opposite, but only the dense black of the wood met his gaze. He waited
patiently for the gleam of the flashlight, but minute after minute
slipped by, and no signal appeared.
So he was somewhat surprised when after perhaps fifteen minutes he
heard a footstep on the beach and he realized that Phil was returning.
"Our scheme worked fine," announced the Scout leader. "Bet you never
even saw Dick's signal."
"No, I didn't," confessed Jerry.
"Good reason why. You see, I figured out that if you shoot a flash
straight out in front of you very long everybody can see it. A quick
flash--well, anyone who saw it might think it was just lightning or the
interurban. So I just snapped about a dozen straight up into the air,
until I got a return flash from Dick. Then I used this." He pulled out
a little pocket mirror. "I pointed my light straight at the ground, and
gave him a dot and dash message by holding the mirror in the light.
Some scheme, eh?"
Jerry merely grunted, but way down in his heart a deep respect was
forming for these Boy Scouts and their resourcefulness.
"Just flash a few signals to those oars," he advised, taking his place
in the stern. "And be careful with that left oar--she squeaks if you
pull her too hard."
But Phil soon showed that he needed no advice about handling a boat.
Without a sound--without a ripple, almost--they moved away from shore
and cut out into the current.
"Safe to get out into line with the island, I guess. If they're
watching, it's the shore they'll be most suspicious of."
"They? We've only seen one out there."
"Maybe. But I'm betting on a pair of them at least. It's about time for
the boys to--listen to those Indians, would you? I'm afraid they're
overdoing it a bit."
From the far shore, out of sight behind Lost Island, rose a hubbub of
cries that sounded as if the island were about to be attacked by a war
party of Sioux. A Boy Scout yell sounded out, the voices of Dave and
Frank heard above the rest.
"Guess your two must have deserted your banner and joined the Eagles,"
teased Phil.
The island lay dead ahead of them, dark and still. Both boys had a
shivery feeling of being watched, but no sign was apparent as they
floated in behind the point of the island and noiselessly beached the
boat.
"We'd best stay close together," suggested Jerry in a whisper.
"And by all means don't whisper--talk in an undertone. A whisper
carries twice as far," countered Phil. Jerry marked down one more to
the score of the Boy Scouts.
But there was little need for talk. The brush was heavy, broken by
thickets of plum trees and an occasional sapling of hickory; the ground
was boggy in spots, and once Jerry sank almost to his knees in oozy
mud. A screech owl hooted in a tree close by, and cold shivers ran up
and down their backbones. Unbroken by path or opening, the island
wilderness lay before them.
They walked hours it seemed, trying their best not to advertise their
coming in breaking limbs and rustling leaves, for the night was
uncannily still. It was a great relief, therefore, when the underbrush
suddenly gave way to a few low trees and after that open ground. Jerry
was for plunging right ahead, relying on the darkness, but Phil caught
his arm.
"Circle it," he commanded, and Jerry, little used to obeying orders as
he was, at once saw the wisdom of the idea and agreed. They were nearly
halfway around the open plot when they struck a path, evidently leading
to the river. But the other end must go somewhere, and they strained
their eyes into the darkness.
"A house, I do believe," mumbled Phil.
"Shall we risk going closer?"
"Got to. Not a sound now. Let's take off our shoes."
In their stocking feet they stealthily drew nearer the dark blot
against the background. When they were within twenty feet they saw it
was not a cabin, but one end of a long, narrow, shed-like structure,
perhaps twenty feet wide and running far back into the darkness. They
approached it cautiously and began feeling carefully along the higher
side for some sort of door or opening. They had gone a good thirty
feet, their nerves tingling with the hope of next-instant discovery,
when Phil broke the silence with a low-toned sentence.
"There's a house or cabin of some kind less than twenty feet away."
Jerry did not look. His groping fingers had found something that felt
like a door-edge. His hand closed over a knob.
"Here's the door!" he exclaimed eagerly, and then felt his heart almost
stop beating. The knob had been turned in his hand! But before he could
say a word, a sudden "Sh!" sounded from his companion.
"Did you hear it?" gasped Phil.
"What?" asked Jerry, his voice trembling in spite of him.
But Phil did not answer--there was no need. From the cabin came a sound
that set every nerve on edge. It was a groan--the groan of someone in
great agony.