THE EFFICIENCY OF CLAM BROTH
The mere act of rapid walking had a beneficial effect upon Roy. His
circulation was equalized by the exercise and something of his natural
buoyancy of spirit was restored to him. The detective, too, found
pleasure in the tramp, and the young men walked along many miles of the
Norfolk streets, aimless, but well entertained. They swung at last into
the square where a huge monument commemorates the Lost Cause and heroic
dead. Suddenly Van Dusen's attention was attracted to a huge gilt sign
over the door of a saloon. The outer aspect of the place was attractive
enough, with something of distinctiveness about it. He turned to Roy and
spoke with a tone of amused interest.
"That seems a bit different from other saloons. And I fancy the sign
tells the truth." With the words, he pointed to the gilt lettering over
the door.
Roy turned and looked in the direction of the detective's pointing
finger. "Clam Broth King," he read, and smiled appreciatively.
"Well, old man," he remarked, "it's a straightforward way of advertising
a food, as well as a novel one. And from the labels on the bottles in
the window, it might prove a good place for us to visit before we start
on the return journey to the yacht."
"I really know the place," Van Dusen declared, "and it is excellent.
About a year ago, I was in this city on an important case. It was
through the assistance of The King that I was able to locate a most
valuable witness. And the probability is that but for the sign I would
have missed it. I've always been a perfect fiend for clam broth. After
seeing the sign, I knew, of course, there must be something particular
in that line inside, and so I wandered in. Well, I was served by The
King. When I first entered, I reconnoitered by stepping up to the bar
and ordering a drink. Before I had a chance to question the man who was
serving me, a gentlemanly appearing fellow touched me on the arm, and
asked me pleasantly if I wouldn't like a cup of clam broth. He said that
The King had just made a fresh batch, and that it was fine. I
scrutinized the fellow closely. He had a kindly, youthful face, and his
bearing was agreeable. I answered him promptly that good clam broth was
just what I wished to have. 'But,' I demanded, 'who the devil is The
King? It's a new one on me, to have a king for a chef.'
"The man laughed and then replied:
"'Oh, The King! Why, he's only _me_!'
"To cut it short, a few minutes later the broth was served to me, along
with some dainty wafers, and while I drank it The King and I made
friends."
Van Dusen's tone changed abruptly.
"But let's not loiter here on the outside any longer. Let us go into the
presence of The King."
So it came about that Roy was duly presented to The King, and he was not
disappointed in either that culinary monarch or the throne room. Perhaps
his enthusiasm was the greater since he was sorely in need of food to
nourish a mind and body exhausted by suffering.
The clam-broth King catered largely to the officers of ocean-going
vessels. There's hardly a master sailing the main who has touched at
Norfolk or anchored in Hampton Roads during recent years that has not
known Harry the clam-broth King, and has called him friend. To-day the
usual number of storm-bound seafaring men of the better class were
gathered around the miniature tables in the place. The King was very
busy indeed, passing from group to group to see that none of his friends
were neglected. He greeted Van Dusen with obvious pleasure and had a
welcoming smile for the newcomer when he was introduced to Roy. A moment
later Van Dusen and Roy were seated at one of the tables, each with a
bowl of piping-hot clam broth before him.
But before the contents of the bowls had been wholly swallowed both Roy
and the detective paused to listen with avid interest to the words of a
mariner seated at an adjoining table. And this is what they heard:
"Yes, boys, it was some blow and believe me it is still a-kicking up
good and plenty outside the Capes. I missed the worst of it. My
barometer had indicated that there was going to be some big doings long
before the clouds begun to loom. I was half a mind to haul to in the
hook o' the Cape at Lookout, but the sky seemed so clear and I was so
near Hatteras that I made up my mind that we could get into the Roads by
crowding the boilers a little. I'd a heap rather be laying up close to
the King's clam broth than at that sorry, lonely, Lookout Bight. Don't
understand me that I have got anything against that snug little harbor.
I have every reason in the world not to have for she has saved my vessel
and my carcass many's the time. The only thing is that it is such a
desert place on land, not a house, not a human, with the exception of
the light-keeper and his crew. When a skipper makes harbor he likes it
to be where there are some shore pleasures on tap. I will venture that
there was not less than half a dozen skippers put in there to get away
from this blow and every last one whilst they knew the fact of that
little nook o' safety being there had saved him and his ship, was just
a-raring because he had not taken a chance rounding Hatteras and putting
into Hampton Roads where he could run in here and gossip and inhale the
fumes of King Harry's clam broth and feel the effects of his Scotch,
while this-here West India hurricane wore herself out.
"You know, boys, I wish that I was a yachtsman with a good roll to back
it up. Why, do you know them fellers take lots of chances and it's very
seldom that they lose their craft? Of course, I have navigated over more
of the sea than you, having been coasters all your lives. And do you
know there is hardly a port in the world where I haven't seen a pretty,
trim American yacht lying at anchor or haven't passed them on the seven
seas? And never have I found one in great distress--except for being out
o' some particular kind of liquor. With we fellers it's different. We're
always in some kind o' trouble, not to mention being constantly out o'
all kinds o' liquors. And then we are scairt o' our lives, or run
aground or burn up, and so lose our master's papers, which means our
job."
The speaker paused to clear his throat noisily. Then he went on:
"Speaking along these lines reminds me of a little yacht we passed on
the run up, off Ocracoke Inlet. She was a long ways off shore, headed
in. But I guess she made the inside all right in spite of the waves
running high and breaking and the strength of the wind increasing with
every flaw. Her name was _The Isabel_. And it's my opinion the captain
of that yacht ought to be in the crazy house or dead."
Somehow at the outset, the narrative had riveted the attention of Roy
and Van Dusen. It was as if their intuitions warned them that something
significant was to issue from the mariner's rambling remarks. The
utterance of the yacht's name thrilled them both, and they stared at
each other for a moment with startled eyes. Then they listened again
with new intentness as the speaker continued his account:
"It was just after daylight. I had been on the bridge all through the
night, for I was anxious over our position, should the hurricane break
with full force. I knew from the glass that it was close on us. I was
looking dead ahead. Suddenly out of the mist appeared a craft as white
and trim as a swan. She would plunge forward on a giant wave, then
disappear for a moment in the trough, to appear again right side up, and
coming at full speed to meet the next one. She was driving so fast that
often she would force herself through, rather than over, the oncoming
waves. I just naturally kept expecting from second to second that that
fool skipper, sending her along at such reckless speed, would bury her
so deep that it would be impossible for her to shake off the tons of
brine, and so float on top again. If the fool only had sense enough to
slow her down, I thought to myself, that bit of a craft would almost go
through hell itself without a scorch. I realized that we were getting
dangerously close, for I was going fast before the wind. So I quickly
gave a passing-signal blast from our whistle, indicating that we would
pass her on the port side. What do you suppose that fool at the wheel
did then? Close as we were, and with no other reason that I could guess
other than a desire to court death, he deliberately answered my signal
with two blasts. They meant that he was going to starboard, almost
diagonally across our bow. I saw it was too late to correct his error,
so I simply had to accept his cross signal, and I did my best to avoid a
collision. I was successful--no thanks to him. We missed _The Isabel_ by
a hair. As it was, I thought that in spite of all we could do the
suction from our propellers would draw in and crush the smaller boat
against our side. I fancy we missed it more through good luck and the
grace of God than through good management. And now what do you think?
"That chap at the wheel, instead of appearing grateful and giving me
three blasts in salute, stuck his head and shoulders out of the
pilot-house window and shook his fist at me. He yelled, too, and the
wind brought the words down to me. 'You're only a dirty tramp, but you
think you own the seas!' You boys know that that word 'tramp' for a good
honest trading steamer always did get on my nerves. I admit I swore a
little at the bunglesome cuss, but he was well to windward, so I might
just as well have saved my breath.
"I honestly believe that that ornery fellow in the pilot house was crazy
as a bed-bug. Stranger still, there wasn't another soul in sight aboard
of her. I'm thinking I'll report the affair to the inspectors. There's
no doubt in my mind that _The Isabel_ weathered the storm for the chap
was headin' her straight as he could go for Ocracoke Inlet. As the yacht
was of light draft she could easily get over the bar and into Pamlico
Sound, where he could haul to under the lea of the sand dunes. Down
there that craft would ride out 'most anything that might come along."
The detective, with a gesture to Roy that he should remain in his seat,
arose and crossed over to the Captain of the tramp steamer. He called
the man aside, and frankly explained how he had overheard the narrative
concerning the yacht _Isabel_. He admitted that this information was of
vital importance to his friend and himself.
The Captain at once became intently interested. Doubtless he foresaw
something in store for the yachtsman that would settle his own score
against the fellow, the fellow who had reviled him.
"If you really want to come up with that critter," the mariner declared,
"it would be the easiest thing in the world according to my mind,
provided you have the right sort of a boat."
Van Dusen described his yacht.
"How much does this _Hialdo_ of yours draw?" the swarthy-faced skipper
demanded.
"She draws, fully stocked, just eight and a half feet aft," the
detective answered. "And we could shift the gasoline so that she would
get through on eight feet of water."
The captain nodded appreciatively.
"That fellow, the chances are, is right this minute at anchor somewhere
in Pamlico Sound, or else he's cruising around on some of those
connecting inland waters. The one and only place where he could get to
sea again would be where he went in at Ocracoke, or else at Beaufort
Inlet--though he might head for Norfolk by way of one of the two canal
routes. You can bet your bottom dollar that, even as crazy as he is, he
won't tackle the open sea just yet while this heavy swell is still on.
It's my idea you got your man sure enough, for he's in a trap. The thing
for you to do is to get aboard your craft, and then hot-foot it through
the Dismal Swamp Canal for Ocracoke by way of Albemarle, Coratan and
Pamlico Sounds.
"If you like," the Captain added with a touch of embarrassment lest he
might seem officious, "I'll keep a sharp lookout on the other canal, so
that he can't pass you while you're going through old Dismal. You might
post the authorities at Elizabeth City to keep an eye open for the
yacht, and to detain her if she shows up while you're rushing on at full
speed for Ocracoke and Portsmouth. They're the little towns, one on each
side of the Inlet. If you don't happen to find the outfit at either of
these places, there ain't a particle of doubt according to my judgment
that those folks can inform you of the direction taken by _The Isabel_
when she sailed, for they keep mighty close tabs on every vessel that
comes or goes through the Inlet. If you find she headed south on the
inside, you'll know that loony is making for Beaufort Harbor with the
idea of waiting there for the sea to calm down before venturing on the
outside. Or maybe he hasn't any intention of going out at all. It seems
to me he's more likely to be heading for some one of those tributaries
to the Sound that are narrow and deep, with the shores covered by a
regular jungle growth. Boats of any size seldom go into them--except
once in a while one run by a drag-net fisherman. This crazy man could
expect to hide there for weeks on a stretch without danger of being
disturbed. If it's actually a case of kidnapping he's certainly shown
himself as cunning as mad folks sometimes are."
The detective motioned to Roy to join him and the Captain. Then in a few
crisp words he explained the situation as it was indicated by the
mariner. Both he and Roy joined in expression of gratitude to the
skipper, who gave his name as Jake White. Then the two, realizing the
need of haste, said farewell, and made their way back to the wharf with
what speed they might.