_CAUGHT ON THE BAR._
Dave Fletcher and Dick Pray were boys who had grown up in the same town,
but from the same soil had come two very different productions. They
were unlike in their personal appearance. Dick Pray would come down the
street throwing his head to right and left, scattering sharp, eager
glances from his restless black eyes, and swinging his hands.
"Somebody is coming," people would be very likely to say.
Dave Fletcher had a quiet, unobtrusive, straight-forward way of walking.
Dick was quite a handsome youth; but the person that Dave Fletcher saw
in the glass was ordinary in feature, with pleasant, honest eyes of
blue, and hair--was it brown or black?
Dave sometimes wished it were browner or blacker, and not "a
go-between," as he had told his mother.
Dave and Dick were not as yet trying to make their own way; but they
were between fifteen and sixteen, and knew that they must soon be
stirring for themselves.
They had already begun to intimate how they would stir in after life.
Dave had a quiet, resolute way. There was no pretence or bluster in his
methods. In a modest but manly fashion he went ahead and did the thing
while Dick was talking about it, and perhaps magnifying its difficulty,
that inferentially his courage and pluck in attempting it might be
magnified. Dick's way of strutting down-street illustrated his methods
and manners. There was a great deal of bluster in him. Nobody was more
daring than he in his purposes, but for the quiet doing of the thing
that Dick dared, Dave was the boy. Somehow Dick had received the idea
that the world is to be carried by a display of strength rather than its
actual use; that men must be impressed by brag and noise. Thus
overpowered by a sensational manifestation they would be plastic to your
hands, whatever you might wish to mould them into. Dick did not
hesitate to attack any fort, scale any mountain, or cross any sea--with
his tongue. When it came to the using of some other kind of motive
power--legs for instance--he might be readily outstripped by another.
Among the boys at Shipton he had made quite a stir at first. His
bluster and brag made a sensation, until the boys began to find out that
it was often wind and not substance in Dick's bragging; and they were
now estimating him at his true value. Dave Fletcher was little known to
any of them save small Bartholomew Trafton; but Dave's modest, efficient
style of action they had seen in the saving of Little Mew, and they were
destined to witness it in another impending catastrophe.
"Uncle Ferguson, who owns that old schooner off in the river?" asked
Dave one day, as he was eating his way through a generous pile of Aunt
Nancy's fritters. It was the craft to which had been tied the _Great
Emperor_.
"Why, David?"
"Because some of us boys want to go there and stay a night or two. We
take our provisions with us, and each one a couple of blankets, and so
on, and we can be as comfortable on the schooner as can be. Would you
and Aunt Nancy mind if we went?"
"Mind if you went? No; I don't know as I do.--What do you say, Nancy?"
Uncle Ferguson was a middle-aged man, with ruddy complexion and two blue
eyes that almost shut and then twinkled like stars when he looked at
you.
Aunt Nancy was a plain, sober woman, with sharp, thin features, and
bleached eyes of blue.
"Don't know as I mind," declared Aunt Nancy. "If you don't git into the
water and drown, you know."
"Oh, that's all right," said the nephew.
"Only you must see the owner of the schooner," advised the uncle.
"The owner?"
"Yes; Squire Sylvester. He is very particular about anything he owns."
"Oh, I didn't know the thing had an owner," said Dave, laughing. "It
seems to lie there in the stream doing nothing. The boys didn't say
anything about an owner."
"Squire Sylvester is very particular," asserted Uncle Ferguson. "He got
his property hard, and looks after it."
"Yes, he is very pertickerler," added Aunt Nancy.
"Well, we will see him by all means. We boys--"
"Didn't think; that is it, David. Now, when I was a boy we always asked
about things," said Uncle Ferguson.
"Well, husband, boys is boys, in them days and these days. I remember
your mother used to say her five boys used to cut up and--"
"Well," replied Uncle Ferguson, rising from the table, "this won't feed
the cows; and I must be a-goin'. I would see Sylvester, David."
"All right, uncle."
Dave announced his intention to Dick half-an-hour later.
"Well, go, if you want to. We fellows were not going to say anything to
anybody. Who would be the wiser? The thing lies in the river, knocking
around in the tide, and seems to say, 'Come and use me, anybody that
wants to.'"
"If we owned the schooner we would prefer to have it asked for, if she
was going to be turned into a boarding-house for a day or two."
"I suppose it would be safer to ask. If we didn't ask, and the owner
should come down the river sailing and see us, wouldn't there be music?"
"We will save the music, Dick. I will just ask him."
As Dave neared Squire Sylvester's office he could see that individual
through the window. He was a man about fifty years old, his features
expressing much force of character, his sharp brown eyes looking very
intently at any one with whom he might be conversing. Dave hesitated at
the door a moment, and then summoning courage he lifted the latch of the
office door and entered.
"Good-day, sir."
The squire nodded his head abruptly and then sharply eyed the boy before
him.
"We boys, sir--"
"Who are you?" asked the squire curtly.
"David Fletcher. I am visiting at my uncle's, Ferguson Berry."
"Humph! Yes, I know him."
"We boys, sir, wanted to know if you would let us--"
"What boys?"
"Oh, Jimmy Davis, John Richards--"
"I know those."
"Dick Pray---"
"Pray?"
"He is visiting his cousin, Samuel Whittles."
"Oh yes; I've seen him in the post-office. Curly-haired boy; struts as
if he owned all Shipton."
"Just so."
"Well?"
"John Richards's brother--that is all. We want to know if you will let
us stay out in the old schooner for a while. We will try to be
particular and not harm the vessel."
"How long shall you want to be gone?"
"Oh, two or three days and nights."
"Humph! Well, you can't have any fire on board. Got a boat?"
"Yes, sir."
"Of course, for you can't wade out to her. Put it out there on purpose
so folks couldn't paddle and wade out to her, such as tramps, you know.
Well, if you have a boat you can cook on shore."
"Yes, sir."
"You may have a lantern at night. No objection to that."
"We will remember."
"All right, then."
"Oh, thank you! Good-day, sir."
"Good-day."
The squire's sharp brown eyes followed Dave as he went out of the door,
and then watched him as he tripped down the street laughing and
whistling.
"Like all young chaps--full of fun. Rather like that boy."
Dave announced the result of the conference to several boys anxiously
waiting for him round the corner.
"Got it?" asked Dick Pray.
"Yes; tell us what he said," inquired Dab Richards.
The boys pressed eagerly up to Dave, who announced the successful issue
of his application. A burden of painful anxiety dropped from each pair
of shoulders, and the boys separated to collect their "traps," promising
to meet at Long Wharf, where a boat awaited them. Did ever any craft
make a happier, more successful voyage, when the boat received its load
two hours later and was then pushed off?
"Everything splendid, boys!" said Dick. "Won't we have a time while we
are gone, and won't we come back in triumph?"
The return! How little any of the party anticipated the kind of return
that would end their adventure!
"There's the schooner!" shouted Dave. "I can read her name on the
stern--_RELENTLESS_. Letters somewhat dim."
"She is anchored good," said Dab Richards. "Got her cable out."
"Anchor at the bottom of it, I suppose," conjectured Jimmy Davis.
"We will find out, boys, won't we? We will just hoist her a bit, as the
sailors say, and see what she carries," said Dick, in a low tone.
"Nonsense!" said Dave. "Sylvester has our word for good behaviour."
"Oh, don't you worry!" said Dick, in a jesting tone. "Let's see! Shall
we make our boat fast round there? Where shall it be?"
The best mooring was found for the boat, and then a ladder with hooks on
one end was attached to the vessel's rail, and up sprang the boys
eagerly.
The _Relentless_ was an old fishing-schooner. She had been stripped of
her canvas, and portions of her rigging had been removed. There were
the masts, though, still to suggest those trips to distant
fishing-grounds, when the winds had filled the canvas and sent the
_Relentless_ like an arrow shot from one curving billow to another.
There was the galley, empty now of its stove, and showing to any
investigator only a rusty pan in one corner; but the wind humming round
its bit of rusty funnel told a story of many a savoury dish cooked for a
hardy, hungry crew. And the little cabin, so still now, save when a
hungry rat softly scampered across its floor, had been a good corner of
retreat to many when heavy seas wet the deck on stormy nights and sent
the spray flying up into the rigging.
The boys transferred their cargo of bedding and eatables to the deck,
and then scattered to ramble through the cabin or descend into the dark,
musty hold. They came together again, and lugged their baggage into the
cabin, save the dishes and eatables, which were stowed away on shelves.
"This is just splendid, Dick!" declared Dave, leaning over the vessel's
rail. "It is going to sea without having the fuss of it."
"That's so, Dave. You don't have any sea-sickness, any blistering your
hands with handling ropes, any taking in sail--"
"Oh, it's huge, Dick. Now you want to divide up the work."
"Not going to have any; all going to have a good time."
"But who's going to cook, and bring water, and--"
"Oh, I see! Forgot that."
A division of work was finally pronounced sensible. Dave became "cook,"
Jimmy Davis was elected "water-boy," Dick took charge of the sleeping
arrangements, and the brothers Richards were constituted table-waiters
and dish-washers--"without pay," Dave prudently added. All that day, up
to twilight, life in the old fishing-schooner was smooth and happy as
the music of a marriage-bell. Dave's cooking was adjudged "splendid,"
and between meals there were spells of story-telling, of games like
hide-and-seek about the ancient hull, and of fishing from the deck,
though there sometimes seemed to be more fishermen than fish.
At twilight most of the boys were seated in the stern of the vessel,
looking out to sea and watching the light fade out of the heavens and
the warm sunset glow steal away from the waters.
"There's the light starting up in the lighthouse near the bar," said Dab
Richards.
Yes, Toby Tolman, keeper of the light at the harbour's mouth, and not
far from a dangerous bar, ever changing and yet never going, had kindled
a star in the tall lantern as the western clouds dropped their gay
extinguisher on the sun's dwindling candle. Between the boys and the
outside, dusky surface of ocean water stretched a line of whitest foam,
where the waves broke on the bar.
"Getting chilly," said Dave. "Hadn't we better go into the cabin and
light our lantern?"
"Guess Dick is looking after that," said Jimmy.
No; Dick was looking after--meddling, rather, with something else. He
had whispered to John Richards, "Come here, John," and then led him to
the bow of the vessel.
"See here, Johnny."
"What is it, Dick?"
"Wouldn't it be nice to see this old ark move?"
"Move! what for?"
"Oh, I've got tired of seeing it in one place."
"Why, what do you mean? How?"
"Why, just have it go on a little voyage, you know."
"Voyage?"
"You booby, can't you understand?"
"Understand? No," replied John good-naturedly. "Don't see how we can
have a voyage without sails, and the masts are bare as bean-poles when
there ain't any beans on 'em."
"Oh, you're thick-headed. Don't you see this anchor?"
"Don't see any. I suppose there is one somewhere--covered up, you know,
down on the bed of the river."
"Only water covers it, and it could be raised, and we could have a sail
without any sails."
"Come on!" said John, who was the very boy for any kind of an adventure.
"But," he prudently added, "how could we stop?"
"Drop the anchor again. Why, we could stop any time."
"So we could."
"We could sail, say a hundred feet to-night--tide would drift us
down--and then we could drop anchor; and to-morrow, when the tide ran up
river, we could sail back again and drop anchor, just where we were
before."
"We could keep a-going, couldn't we, Dickie?"
"Certainly. I don't know but we could go quarter of a mile and then
back again. We should have, of course, to go with the tide; but the
anchor would regulate us."
"So we could. Just the thing. Let's try it. Shall I tell the fellers?"
"No; let's surprise 'em."
"But they'll hear us."
"No; they are quarrelling about something, and they won't notice
anything we do here."
"But how can you manage the anchor?"
"Raise it."
"But how raise it?"
"Johnny, I believe you have lost your mind since coming here. What is
this I have got my hand on?"
"The capstan."
Dick here laid his hand on a battered old capstan, around which how many
hardy seamen had tramped singing "Reuben Ranzo" or some other roaring
song of the sea.
"Don't you know how this works?"
"Not exactly."
"I will tell you. You see this bar?"
Dick with his foot kicked a battered but stout bar lying at the foot of
the capstan.
"There! one end of the cable to which the anchor is hitched goes round
this capstan, you see. Now, if I stick this bar into that hole in the
capstan and shove her round--I mean the bar--the capstan will go round
too, and that will wind up that cable and draw on the anchor. Don't you
see?"
"Yes, I see."
"Well, now we are ready. I will sing something like real sailors."
"The boys will hear us."
"No: they are fighting away; they won't notice."
It was a tongue-fight, but that may be as absorbing as a fist-fight.
"You know 'Reuben Ranzo'?"
"Yes."
"Well, sing in a whisper and pull."
The bar was inserted into the capstan, and the boys, as they shoved on
the bar, sang softly,--
"O poor Reuben Ranzo!
Ranzo, boys, Ranzo!"
"That's the chorus, Johnny. Sing the other part. Shove hard but sing
easy."
"Oh, Reuben was no sailor.
_Chorus_--O poor Reuben Ranzo!
Ranzo, boys, Ranzo!
O poor Reuben Ranzo!
Ranzo, boys, Ranzo!"
"Sing another verse, Johnny. That shove just took up the slack-line,
and the next will pull on the anchor. Hun-now, Johnny! You're a real
good sailor. Sing easy, but shove."
"He shipped on board of a whaler.
_Chorus_--O poor Reuben Ranzo!
Ranzo, boys, Ranzo!
O poor Reuben Ranzo!
Ranzo, boys, Ranzo!"
The last tug at the bar came hard, but the boys took it as an
encouraging sign that the anchor too was coming. They were not
mistaken. Another minute, and Johnny eagerly exclaimed,--
"Dick, I do believe she's going!"
"Good! That's so. I knew 'Reuben Ranzo' would bring her."
Yes, the _Relentless_ had relented before the fascinating persuasion of
"Reuben Ranzo," and without a murmur of resistance was softly slipping
through the dark sea water.
"Can you stop her any time, Dick?" asked Johnny in tones a bit alarmed.
"Easy. Just let the anchor slip back again, you know."
"Shan't we tell the boys?"
"Wait a moment. We want to surprise 'em. They'll find it out pretty
soon."
The boys at the stern had been discussing a subject so eagerly that
every one had lost his temper, and when that is lost it may not be found
again in a moment. It was like starting the _Relentless_--a thing quite
easily done; but as for stopping her--however, I will not anticipate.
The boys were quarrelling about a light on shore, and wondering why that
illumination was started so early, when it did not seem dark enough for
a home light. In the course of the discussion a second light, not far
from the first, came into view. Over this the controversy waxed hotter
than ever, and led to much being said of which all felt heartily
ashamed.
No one heard the creak of the capstan-bar at the bow or the devoted
wooing of the _Relentless_ by the fascinating "Reuben Ranzo."
"That's funny," said Dave, after a while. "One of those lights has
gone. They have been approaching one another, I have noticed. Look
here, fellers: I believe this old elephant is moving!"
"She is," exclaimed Jimmy Davis.
They all turned and looked toward the bow. The figures there were
growing dim in the thickening twilight, but they could see Dick and
Johnny waving their hats, and of course they could plainly hear them
shout, "Hurrah! hurrah!"
"What's the matter?" cried Dave, rushing across the deck.
"Having a sail," said Dick.
"And without a sail too," cried Johnny triumphantly.
"What do you mean?" asked Dab.
"Why, we just hoisted the anchor, and the tide is taking us along,"
replied Dick. The party at the stern did not know how to take this
announcement.
"But," said Dave, advancing toward the capstan, and remembering his
promise to Squire Sylvester that he would be "particular," "we are
adrift, man!"
"Oh, we can stop any time--just drop the anchor--and the next tide will
drift us back where we were before."
"Y-e-s," said Dave, but reluctantly, "if we don't get in water too deep
for our anchor. I like fun, Dick, but--"
"Oh, well," replied Dick angrily, "we will stop her now if you think we
need to be so fussy.--Just let her go, Johnny."
Johnny, however, did not understand how to "let her go." It seemed to
him and the others as if "she" were already going.
"Oh, well, I can show you, if you all are ignorant," said Dick
confidently. "Just shove on this bar--help, won't you?--and then knock
up that ratchet that keeps the capstan from slipping back--there!"
The weight of the anchor now drew on the capstan, and round it spun,
creaking and groaning, liberating all the cable that had been wound upon
it; but when every inch of cable had been paid out, what then?
"There! The anchor must be on bottom, and she holds!" shouted Dick in
triumph.
"No--she--don't," replied Dab. "We are in deep water, and adrift."
"Can't be," asserted Dick. "All that cable paid out!"
Dick leaned over the vessel's rail and tried to pierce the shadows on
the water and see if he could detect any movement.
"Don't--see--anything that looks like moving, boys. Surely the anchor
holds her," he said, in a very subdued way.
"Dick, see that rock on the shore?" asked Dave.
A ledge, big, shadowy, could be made out.
"Now, boys, keep your eyes on that two or three minutes and see if we
stay abreast of it," was Dave's proposed test.
Five pairs of eyes were strained, watching the ledge; but if there had
been five hundred, they would not have seen any proof that the vessel
was stationary.