RESCUED
A few hours before dawn a long, trim, high-powered motor boat cut
through the placidly rolling waves. Its motor was so muffled that it
emitted no more than a low droning sound and could be heard for only a
short distance, despite the fact that it had been let out to full speed.
Besides the man at the wheel the boat carried six men, three standing
fore and three aft. One of the men aft half lounged over the coaming and
his broad shoulders and large, amiable face all but filled the stern of
the boat. The spray constantly swept over his big, dangling hands and
the salt moisture struck at his tanned cheeks but he seemed not to
notice. His entire attention, like that of his comrades, was centered on
the grayish black horizon; his eyes seemed to miss nothing, yet there
was an abstracted look in them that the man at the wheel did not fail to
notice.
“Whadja hear, Big Joe?” he asked quietly.
The big man nodded his head without moving his body.
“’Tis that buoy,” he said absently. “Sure and she’s goin’ a great rate
for such a calm, me lad. Even in pretty bad storms I niver knowed
Flint’s buoy to be ringin’ like that.”
“Flint’s?” queried another of the men, interested.
Big Joe Tully smiled reminiscently.
“And why not? ’Tis what most o’ Flint’s men called it. ’Tis a buoy at
the intrance to Kennedy’s Channel and ’tis a bad spot, if iver there was
wan. Ye niver know how the tide’s goin’ to act. ’Tis like a colleen what
can’t make up her mind, and she’s not to be trusted, so nobody goes by
that way. Besides, ’tis a long way round past the Hook. Anyways, the
ould boss took advantage o’ that place and we used to meet some o’ his
best customers there and unload the stuff to thim.”
“Not a bad idea takin’ us by there for an eyeful, hey, Tully?” suggested
the man at the wheel. “Long’s you’ve decided on playin’ ball with us,
since we squared that case ’gainst you, we might as well take your tips.
Seems like a wise mug like ol’ Flint never made no mistakes. He got rich
an’ the law never got him so if _he_ picked out a spot like this buoy,
he must ’a’ known what he was doin’. Mebbe it’ll be a pretty good spot
for our customers too?”
They all laughed at this, but Big Joe Tully merely smiled and glanced
down at the compass.
“Sure and ould Flint made his mistakes and plenty,” he said in his soft,
deep voice. “He made mistakes whin he didn’t watch out that the coppers
didn’t take the scows o’ men what was workin’ for his racket. And he
made a mistake whin he stuck Toby Dare with a piece o’ junk. I guess he
thought he’d be puttin’ me on me uppers where I’d be goin’ back and beg
him for work.”
“He got knocked off fust, didn’t he, Big Joe?” laughed the man at the
wheel.
“That he did. ’Tis too bad he couldn’t ’a’ lived to see how quick I
connected with you guys.”
“It’s too bad he couldn’ lived anyways,” said another of the men,
“’cause that poor guy Dare wouldn’t be in the can then. Anyhow I don’t
think he knocked him off. I think he’d liked to ’cause Flint give him a
lousy break, but I believe what he said in court that some other guy
beat him to it.”
“I know lots o’ guys what were layin’ for ould Flint,” said Big Joe.
“Sure he’d been dead a dozen times if iverywan what had it in for him,
did what they said they’d like to. That’s why they won’t be holdin’ poor
Toby.”
“All the same, they _are_ holdin’ poor Toby,” said the man at the wheel.
“He was sentenced late yesterday afternoon for twenty years to life an’
by this time he’s hittin’ the hay in the big house, that’s what.”
“And didn’t ye hear!” said another. “His kid, Skippy, ain’t been seen
since he had a talk with Marty Skinner aboard the _Apollyon_. Poor kid,
he went there to plead for his old man, the paper says, and that
hardshell Skinner wouldn’t give him a break, I guess. The second mate
told a reporter that the kid left the yacht in a rush, hopped in his
kicker and beat it for the Hook. Guess he thought as long as he couldn’t
do nothin’ for Toby, he’d get away somewhere and try an’ fergit. Well,
that’s life.”
Big Joe Tully clenched his knotted, hairy fists.
“Sufferin’ swordfish!” he said. “Poor Toby! And that poor kid! ’Tis a
howlin’ shame, so ’tis.”
“Know ’em?” asked the man at the wheel.
“I oughta—I worked ’longside o’ Toby doin’ Flint’s jobs night after
night, so I did. A whiter guy than Toby niver lived. He ain’t
old—thirty-four or so. Got married whin he was a kid and his wife died.
He’s crazy ’bout that kid o’ his, Skippy. ’Tis what makes me feel bad.”
Big Joe looked down at the compass once more. “North, northeast,” he
said to the man at the wheel. “We oughta be at Flint’s buoy in twinty
minutes. There’s the light from the Hook.”
They watched intently the great sweeping arc of light swinging over the
smoothly rolling water. The motor boat plunged north, then northeast and
in Big Joe Tully’s eyes was a thoughtful, puzzled expression, the closer
they got to the buoy.
“D’ye say there ain’t somethin’ spooky ’bout the way that bell’s
ringin’?” he asked his comrades. “Did ye iver hear a bell on a buoy ring
like that without stoppin’? ’Tain’t natural, ’cause....”
Just then he caught a glimpse of the little kicker bobbing merrily
alongside the buoy.