A PASSENGER FOR THE SHORE.
“All right below, Ding-dong?” hailed Nat, as he took his place on the
little bridge of the _Nomad_ with Joe by his side. The anchor was up,
and astern towed the dinghy, which had been hastily shoved off the beach
when the boys embarked.
Through the speaking tube came up the young engineer’s answer, “All
ready when you are, captain.”
Nat jerked the engine room bell twice. A tremor ran through the sturdy
sixty-foot craft. Her fifty-horse-power, eight-cylindered motor began to
revolve, and with a “bone in her teeth” she ran swiftly out of the cove,
headed around the southernmost point of the island and was steered by
Nat due westward to intercept the steamer that had flashed the urgent
wireless.
As the long Pacific swell was encountered, the _Nomad_ rose to it like a
race-horse that after long idleness feels the track under his hoofs once
more. Her sharp bow cut the water like a knife, but from time to time,
as an extra heavy roller was encountered, she flung the water back over
her forward parts in a shower of glistening, prismatic spray. It was a
day and an errand to thrill the most phlegmatic person that ever lived,
and, as we know, the Motor Rangers were assuredly not in this category.
Their blood glowed as their fast craft rushed onward on her errand of
mercy at fifteen miles, or better, an hour.
Nat, his cheeks glowing and his eyes shining, held the wheel in a firm
grip, his crisp black hair waved in the breeze and his very poise showed
that he was in his element. Joe, clutching the rail beside him, was
possessed of an equal fervor of excitement. The Motor Rangers all felt
that they were on the threshold of an adventure; but into what devious
paths and perils that wireless message for aid was to lead them, not one
of them guessed. Yet even had they been able to see into the future and
its dangers and difficulties, it is almost certain that they would have
voted unanimously to “keep on going.”
“What a fine little craft she is,” declared Nat, as the _Nomad_ sped
along.
“She’s a beauty,” fervently agreed Joe, with equal enthusiasm; “and what
we’ve been through on board her, Nat!”
“I should say so. Remember the Magnetic Islands, and the Boiling Sea,
and the time you were lost overboard?”
Chatting thus of the many adventures and perils successfully met that
their conversation recalled to their minds, the two young Motor Rangers
on the bridge of the speeding motor craft kept a bright lookout for some
sign of the vessel that had sent the wireless appeal into space.
Nat was the first to catch sight of a smudge of smoke on the horizon.
“That must be the steamer! There, dead ahead!”
“Reckon you’re right, Nat,” agreed Joe. “The smoke seems stationary,
too. That’s the _Iroquois_ beyond a doubt.”
Nat sent a signal below, to apply every ounce of speed that the engines
were capable of giving. The _Nomad_, going at a fast clip before, fairly
began to rush ahead. In a few minutes they could see the masts of the
steamer, and her black hull and yellow funnel rapidly arose above the
horizon as they neared her.
At close range the Motor Rangers could see that the white upper works
were lined with passengers, all gazing curiously at the speedy _Nomad_
as she came on. As they ranged in alongside, the gangway was lowered and
Nat was hailed from the bridge by a stalwart, bearded man in uniform.
“Motor boat, ahoy!” he cried, placing his hands funnel-wise to his
mouth, “did you come off in response to our wireless?”
“We did, sir,” was Nat’s rejoinder. “What is the trouble?”
“A job with a good lot of money in it for you fellows,” was the
response. “Range in alongside the gangway and Dr. Adams, the ship’s
surgeon, will explain to you what has happened.”
Nat maneuvered the _Nomad_ up to the lower platform of the gangway and
Joe nimbly sprang off and made the little craft fast. She looked as tiny
as a rowboat lying alongside the big black steamer, whose steel sides
towered above her like the walls of a lofty building.
The vessel’s surgeon, a spectacled, solemn-looking young man, came down
the gangway stairs.
“This is a matter requiring the utmost haste,” he said; “the man who has
been injured must be taken to a shore hospital at once.”
“We’ll take the job. That’s what we came out here for,” rejoined Nat
briskly. “Who is your man and how was he hurt?”
“His name is Jonas Jenkins of San Francisco. As I understand it, he is a
wealthy man with big interests in Mexico. He booked passage for
Mazatlan. Early to-day he was found at the foot of a stairway with what
I fear is a fracture of the skull.”
“It was an accident?” asked Nat, for somehow there was something in the
voice of the ship’s doctor which appeared to indicate that he was not
altogether satisfied that Jonas Jenkins’ injury was unavoidable.
The doctor hesitated a minute before replying. Then he spoke in a low
voice:
“I have no right to express any opinion about the matter,” he said, “but
certain things about the case impressed me as being curious.”
“For instance?”
The question was Nat’s.
“The fact that Mr. Jenkins’ coat was cut and torn as if some one had
ripped it up to obtain from it something of value or importance.”
“You mean that you think Mr. Jenkins was pushed down the flight of
stairs and met his injury in that way?”
“That’s my theory, but I have nothing but the tear in the coat to base
it on.”
The surgeon was interrupted at this point by the appearance at the top
of the gangway of a singular-looking individual. He was tall, skinny as
an ostrich and had a peculiar piercing expression of countenance. His
rather swarthy features were obscured on the lower part of his face by a
bristly black beard.
“Are these young men going to take Mr. Jenkins ashore?” he asked in a
dictatorial sort of tone.
“That is our intention,” was Nat’s rejoinder.
“Where are you going to land him?”
The words were ripped out more like an order than a civil inquiry. Nat
felt a vague resentment. Evidently the black-bearded man looked upon the
Motor Rangers as boys who could be ordered about at will.
“We are going to run into Santa Barbara as fast as our boat will take us
there,” was Nat’s reply.
“I want to go ashore with you,” declared the stranger. “I received word
early to-day by wireless that makes it imperative that I should return
to San Francisco at once. Land me at Santa Barbara and name your own
price.”
“This isn’t a passenger boat,” shot out Joe.
“We only came out here as an accommodation and as an act of humanity,”
supplemented Nat. His intuitive feeling of dislike for the dictatorial
stranger was growing every minute.
Perhaps the other noticed this, for he descended the gangway and took
his place beside the ship’s doctor on the lower platform of the gangway.
“You must pardon me if my tone was abrupt,” he said in conciliatory
tones; “the fact of the matter is, that I must return as soon as
possible to San Francisco for many reasons, and this ship does not stop
till she reaches Mazatlan. It was my eagerness that made me sound
abrupt.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” rejoined Nat, liking the cringing tone of the
man even less than he had his former manner, “I guess we can put you
ashore.”
The man reached into his pocket and produced a wallet. He drew several
bills from it.
“And here’s something to pay for my passage,” he said eagerly.
“Never mind that,” said Nat, waving the proffered money aside. “As I
told you, we are not running a passenger boat. If we land you in Santa
Barbara it will be simply as an accommodation.”
“And one for which I will be grateful,” was the reply. “I’ll have a
steward put my baggage on board your boat at once. I may be of aid to
you in caring for Mr. Jenkins, too, for I am a physician.”
“Yes, this is Dr. Sartorius of San Francisco,” rejoined Dr. Adams, as
the other ascended the gang plank with long, swift strides and was heard
above giving orders for the transfer of his belongings.
“You know him, then?” asked Nat of the ship’s doctor.
“Well, that is, he is registered with the purser under that name,” was
the reply, “and I have had some conversation on medical subjects with
him. As a matter of fact, I think it is an excellent thing that he
wishes to go ashore, for Mr. Jenkins is in a serious way and really
needs the constant watching of a physician.”
“In that case, I am glad things have come out as they have,” rejoined
Nat. “Joe, will you go below and fix up the cabin for the injured man’s
use, and then, doctor, if you will have him brought on board I’ll be
getting under way again.”
Dr. Adams reascended the gangway and in a few minutes two sailors
appeared carrying between them a limp form. The head was heavily
bandaged, rendering a good look at the man’s features impossible. But
Nat judged that he was of powerful build and past middle age. He
descended into the cabin with Dr. Adams, and under the surgeon’s
directions Mr. Jenkins was made as comfortable as possible. His baggage,
as well as that of Dr. Sartorius, was brought below, and then everything
was ready for a start.
Dr. Sartorius bent over the injured man and appeared really to take a
deep and intelligent interest in the case. The ship’s doctor indorsed
one or two suggestions that he made and the boys, for Ding-dong had
joined the party, began to think that they might have been mistaken in
their first estimate of the doctor’s character.
“After all,” Nat thought, “clever men are often eccentric, and this
black-whiskered doctor may be just crusty and unattractive without
realizing it.”
When everything had been settled, Nat and Joe made their way to the
bridge and bade farewell to the doctor. The two sailors who had carried
Mr. Jenkins on board cast off the _Nomad’s_ lines, and the steamer’s
siren gave a deep booming note of thanks for their act.
“You’d better lose no time in getting ashore,” hailed the captain, after
he had thanked the boys for their timely aid.
“We shan’t, you may depend on that,” cheerily called back Nat, as the
_Nomad’s_ engines began to revolve and the big _Iroquois_ commenced to
churn the water.
“We’re in for a sharp blow of wind, or I’m mistaken,” came booming
toward them through the captain’s megaphone, for the two craft were by
this time some little distance apart.
Nat looked seaward. Dark, streaky clouds were beginning to overcast the
sky. The sea had turned dull and leaden, while a hazy sort of veil
obscured the sun. He turned to Joe.
“Hustle below and tell Ding-dong to get all he can out of the engines,
and then see that all is snug in the cabin.”
“You think we’re in for a blow?”
“I certainly do; and I’m afraid that it’s going to hit us before we can
get ashore. It is going to be a hummer, too, from the looks of things,
right out of the nor’west.”
“But we’re all right?”
“Oh, sure! The _Nomad_ can stand up where a bigger craft might get into
trouble.”
Nat’s tone was confident, but as Joe dived below on his errand he
glanced behind him at the purplish-black clouds that were racing across
the sky toward them. The sea began to rise and there was an odd sort of
moaning sound in the air, like the throbbing of the bass string of a
titanic viol.
“This is going to be a rip snorter,” he said in an undertone. “I’ll bet
the bottom’s tumbled out of the barometer.”