_A SKIPPY DARE MYSTERY STORY_
AMONG THE
RIVER PIRATES
BY
HUGH LLOYD
_Author of_
The Hal Keen Mystery Stories
ILLUSTRATED BY
SEYMOUR FOGEL
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
Copyright, 1934, by
GROSSET & DUNLAP, Inc.
_All Rights Reserved_
_Printed in the United States of America_
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I Upstream 7
II Condemned 14
III The Basin 22
IV Compromise 28
V The Apollyon 35
VI A Strange Story 44
VII For Skippy 51
VIII Alone 56
IX A Visitor 61
X A Suggestion 66
XI All of a Kind 73
XII Drifting 76
XIII Lights 80
XIV The Bell Buoy 84
XV Rescued 91
XVI River People 96
XVII Mugs 103
XVIII Bad News 110
XIX Danger 115
XX A Job 120
XXI What Next? 124
XXII Big Joe’s Idea 129
XXIII Another Job 134
XXIV Another Rescue 139
XXV Davy Jones 148
XXVI The Rocks 153
XXVII Suspense 157
XXVIII The Duffys 162
XXIX Good News 168
XXX Beasell 172
XXXI Moonlight 176
XXXII The Last of the Basin 180
XXXIII Skippy’s Wisdom 186
XXXIV The Great Adventure 195
AMONG THE RIVER PIRATES
CHAPTER I
UPSTREAM
The shabby old motor boat moved slowly up the river towing an equally
shabby old barge. Dilapidated and unpainted as the hull was, the engine
was well muffled—suspiciously well muffled—and the disreputable looking
craft moved through the water with all the noiseless dignity of a yacht.
A ferry-boat paused midway of the long tow rope and its commuters,
crowded on the forward deck, watched this slow-moving procession with
some show of annoyance. Not a few impatient remarks rose loud and clear
above the hum of the restless crowd, directed at the head of a man
seated in the stern of the boat, calmly puffing on a pipe. Aft on the
barge, a young boy was wrestling heroically with the tiller, trying to
keep the lumbering hulk head on.
Slowly they crawled upstream. On their left was the precipitous Jersey
shore, and on their right the towering buildings of the great city. Over
the water the late afternoon sun spread a warm, mellow glow and touched
with gold the myriad windows of the clustering skyscrapers across the
river.
The man knocked out his pipe with calm deliberation and turned his wide,
gray eyes to the lofty Palisades, now bathed in a dazzling crimson. Then
slowly his glance wandered back to where the shimmering light fell
across the little shanty on the barge and picked out in hold relief the
incongruously new and shining letters, _Minnie M. Baxter_.
A smile lighted up his lined, weary features, a smile of pride in
ownership.
“She ain’t so bad fer the old battle-axe that she is, hey Skippy?” he
called to the boy.
The boy’s tousled head appeared from around the battered cabin.
“I’ll say she ain’t, Pop,” he answered. “An’ she’s _ours_! Gee, I can’t
believe my pop really an’ truly owns a _whole_ barge!”
The man laughed, then listened for a moment to a significant sound
emanating from the muffled engine.
“That there front cylinder’s missin’ agin, Skippy,” he shouted. “Loop
’er in that there ring; the tide’s runnin’ out now so she’ll stand
upstream. Set ’er even ’n’ come aboard here.”
The boy nodded obediently and with an end of rope fastened the old
tiller to a rusty ring. Then, hurrying forward, he jumped into the water
and grasping the taut tow line, pulled himself hand over hand and
scrambled over the stern of the launch.
The father put out a large, work-worn hand and helped him in with a
tenderness that was surprising in one so rough and uncouth looking.
“Gimme that there shirt and them shoes while I hang ’em near the
engine,” he said, his voice soft with affection. “Ye’ll be gettin’ a bad
throat agin.” He made no demand for the boy’s trousers, which were the
only other article of apparel that the little fellow wore.
Having spread the clothing to dry and adjusted the rebellious motor, the
man returned to the stern. He relighted his pipe and sat down with an
arm about his son.
“I’ll steer her fer a while, Pop,” said Skippy.
For a few minutes there was silence.
“Yer glad we’re goin’ straight?” the man asked with a sudden move of his
arm on the boy’s shoulder.
Skippy’s eyes widened and he looked up at his parent, hesitantly.
“I mean yer glad we’re goin’ straight—in a straight racket, I mean? Now
there ain’t goin’ to be no more worry about coppers. I won’t care if
they’re floatin’ all over the harbor an’ I won’t be worryin’ about no
pinches. A man don’t ever think uv bein’ pinched when his racket’s on
the up and up. An’ that’s me from now on. I said when I got three
hunderd saved I’d buy a barge an’ not touch no more shady rackets. _An’
I have!_ Three hunderd—every penny we had in the world, sonny, I paid
Josiah Flint fer the _Minnie M. Baxter_. She’s worth every dime uv it.”
Skippy nodded gravely.
“An’ll that help me t’ be honest when I grow up, too,” he asked eagerly,
“an’ be like—like a gentleman even?”
“Sure, Skippy. Ain’t that just why I saves up an’ buys the _Minnie M.
Baxter_? So’s yer kin grow up clean an’ honest like—that’s why I done
Josiah Flint’s dirty work fer his dirty money! So’s I could save an’ buy
this ol’ battle-axe an’ give yer a good an’ a clean start.”
“But we’re gonna carry garbage an’ ashes on her,” said Skippy. “That
ain’t so clean exactly, is it, Pop?”
“Garbage an’ ashes’ll bring in clean money, Skippy—that’s what I’m
talkin’ about—clean money. Since yer ma died I ain’t had many real
honest like jobs. It’s been hard ter git ’em with yer needin’ me with
yer so much counta yer bad throat. Anyways the money come easier an’
quicker on my jobs even if it was dirty an’ now I’m all through with
gettin’ it shady like.”
“An’ my throat’s lots better’n it usta be, Pop,” said Skippy eagerly. “I
ain’t had a bad one for three months’n over.”
“Sure, I know. Everthin’ll be jake now with us goin’ straight. Ol’
Flint, let him have his dirty money an’ his fine yacht. It’s a wonder he
gets so generous an’ sells me such a good scow fer three hunderd
smackers. Everybody says he’s such a money-pincher he’d even try makin’
money on a rusty nail.”
“A regular miser, huh, Pop?” said Skippy. “Maybe he felt sorry about you
savin’ all that money so’s you could get a clean business. Did he say
the _Minnie M. Baxter’s_ a good barge for haulin’ garbage an’ ashes?”
“Sure. He boosted her hisself when I tells him I wants a good scow. An’
he oughta know, him that owns more scows’n he can count.”
“Gee, three hunnerd dollars—real money,” mused the boy.
“Sure, but not for no scow like this one. Brand new ones cost four times
that. Big Joe Tully paid Ol’ Flint five hunderd fer his an’ Joe cleaned
up two thousand bucks on the first year. He tole me that fer a fact.”
“But ain’t Big Joe Tully doin’ sumpin’ for Mr. Flint now?” Skippy asked.
“Big Joe can’t keep away from dirty money,” replied the man. “He wants
to get rich quick. Not me, though. I can keep away from Ol’ Flint from
now on, an’ what’s more, _I will_!”
“Gee, I know you will, Pop,” said the boy, with shining eyes. “You’re
not like—well, you’re different from old Mr. Flint an’ that Big Joe.”
The father ran his hand over his son’s tousled head and gripped a
handful of the straight brown hair affectionately.
“That cabin ain’t goin’ ter make us no bad little shack, hey Skippy?” he
said nodding toward the little square shelter aft.
“She’s swell inside—for a barge, I mean. Three bunks an’ a nice oil
stove an’ a table an’ chairs. Gee, that’s a regular home, huh Pop? Even
there’s a kerosene lamp.”
“Sure. Yer can read books an’ be nice and comfortable in there nights.
That paint job,” he said, scrutinizing it thoughtfully; “I ain’t so fond
uv that there red, rusty color. It’s kinda gloomy. Well, we can repaint
her sometime when we’re makin’ money. Blamed if that launch across
stream ain’t headin’ straight this way.”
“It’s the harbor inspectors, Pop. Whadja s’pose....”
“Well, I got my license all ready, if that’s what they’re after.
Anyways, we ain’t got no stuff[1] aboard, so we should worry.”
Skippy wondered and shivered a little. His father’s services in the
employ of the rich, unscrupulous Josiah Flint had brought a certain
instinctive fear of all uniformed officials and the harbor inspectors
were no exception. It was difficult for him to believe even now that
these uniformed men meant no harm to his father.
Skippy had lived in the shadow of the law a little too long.