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THE LAST CRUISE OF THE SPITFIRE
OR _Luke Foster's Strange Voyage_
BY EDWARD STRATEMEYER
AUTHOR OF "UNDER DEWEY AT MANILA," "A YOUNG VOLUNTEER IN CUBA" "FIGHTING
IN CUBAN WATERS," "RICHARD DARE'S VENTURE" "REUBEN STONE'S DISCOVERY,"
"OLIVER BRIGHT'S SEARCH" ETC., ETC.
_ILLUSTRATED_
BOSTON
LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO.
COPYRIGHT, 1894,
By THE MERRIAM COMPANY.
COPYRIGHT, 1900, BY LEE AND SHEPARD.
_All Rights Reserved._
Norwood Press
J. S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith
Norwood Mass. U.S.A.
[Illustration: MY WAKENING WAS A RUDE ONE.]
PREFACE TO THE REVISED EDITION.
"THE LAST CRUISE OF THE SPITFIRE" is the opening volume of the "Ship and
Shore" Series, and tells of the things which happened to a boy who ran
away from his guardian's home because he could no longer stand the cruel
treatment received.
In this tale, in order to get close to the heart of the boy, the author
has allowed Luke Foster to tell his own story in his own way. Luke has
never before been to sea, and when he is carried off on the "Spitfire"
his real experiences on the briny ocean, set up in juxtaposition to what
he had imagined a life on the "rolling deep" to be, make reading which I
trust every lad who has a "hankering" after a sailor's life may digest
with profit. Luke concludes that a life on land is good enough for him,
and I feel certain that a majority of our readers will agree with him.
Of Luke's overbearing cousin and his dishonest uncle much might be said
which Luke leaves untold. The boy does this probably out of his natural
good-heartedness. Yet the lives of the pair, and especially that of the
father, well illustrate the old saying, that, sooner or later, every
wrong-doer is bound to overreach himself and fall into the hands of
justice.
Upon first appearing in print, "The Last Cruise of the Spitfire" was as
well received as the stories in the "Bound to Succeed Series," which had
preceded it; and once again the author begs to thank readers and critics
for their continued kindness to him.
EDWARD STRATEMEYER.
NEWARK, N.J.,
May 1, 1899.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I. Myself and my Uncle
CHAPTER II. An Unexpected Letter
CHAPTER III. Somebody's Crime
CHAPTER IV. An Unexpected Arrival
CHAPTER V. An Appalling Prospect
CHAPTER VI. A Turn of Fortune
CHAPTER VII. On Board the Spitfire
CHAPTER VIII. Phil Jones
CHAPTER IX. Up Long Island Sound
CHAPTER X. A Narrow Escape
CHAPTER XI. Captain Hancock's Plot
CHAPTER XII. The Storm
CHAPTER XIII. A New Friend
CHAPTER XIV. Some Plain Facts
CHAPTER XV. Captain Hancock tries to make Terms
CHAPTER XVI. An Important Discovery
CHAPTER XVII. In a Tight Fix
CHAPTER XVIII. I am put in Irons
CHAPTER XIX. The Burning of the Spitfire
CHAPTER XX. On the Raft
CHAPTER XXI. Night on the Hasty
CHAPTER XXII. A Terrible Loss
CHAPTER XXIII. The Deep Blue Sea
CHAPTER XXIV. Picked Up
CHAPTER XXV. The Capture on the Ocean
CHAPTER XXVI. On Land Once More
CHAPTER XXVII. Mr. Felix Stillwell's Hope
CHAPTER XXVIII. On the Cars
CHAPTER XXIX. Back in New York
CHAPTER XXX. An Unexpected Death
CHAPTER XXXI. Conclusion
List of Illustrations
MY WAKENING WAS A RUDE ONE.
I WENT SPINNING THROUGH THE AIR, AND THEN FELL WITH A SPLASH INTO THE
WATER.
DOWN IN THE HOLD.
ON THE RAFT.
THE LAST CRUISE OF THE SPITFIRE;
OR, LUKE FOSTER'S STRANGE VOYAGE.
CHAPTER I.
MYSELF AND MY UNCLE.
"Luke!"
"Yes, Mr. Stillwell."
"Why didn't you sweep and dust the office this morning?"
"I did, sir."
"You did!"
"Yes, sir."
"You did!" repeated the gentleman, who, I may as well state, was my
esteemed uncle. "I must say, young man, that lately you have falsified
to an astonishing degree."
"Excuse me, but I have not falsified--not to my knowledge, sir."
"Stop; don't contradict me----"
"I am telling the truth, sir."
"Stop, I tell you! I will not have it! Look here, and then dare to tell
me that this office has seen the touch of a broom or duster this day!"
And my Uncle Felix motioned me majestically into his office with one
hand, while with the other he pointed in bitter scorn at the floor.
Mr. Felix Stillwell was in a bad humor. His sarcastic tones told this
quite as well as the sour look upon his face. Evidently some business
matters had gone wrong, and he intended to vent the spleen raised
thereby upon me. He was a high-strung man at the best, and when anything
went wrong the first person in his way was sure to catch the full
benefit of his ire.
I was an orphan, and had lived with my Uncle Felix three years. Previous
to that time I was a scholar at the Hargrove Military and Commercial
Academy, a first class training-school for boys, situated upon the
Palisades, overlooking the Hudson River.
My father was a retired lawyer, who, being in ill health, went with my
mother on a two years' trip to Europe. They journeyed from place to
place for sixteen months, and then lost their lives in a terrible
railway accident in England. The death of both my parents at once was a
fearful blow to me, and for a long while I could not think, and was
utterly unable to judge what was taking place around me. At the end of
three months I was informed that Mr. Stillwell had been appointed my
guardian, and then I was taken from school and placed in his office in
New York City.
My duties at the office of Stillwell, Grinder & Co. were varied. In the
morning I was expected to clean everything as bright as a pin. Then I
went to the post-office, and on a dozen other errands; after which I did
such writing as was placed in my hands.
For this work I was allowed my board, clothing and fifty cents a week
spending money--not a large sum, but one with which I would have been
content had other things been equal.
But they were far from being so. I lived with my uncle, but I was not
treated as one of the family. His wife--I do not care to call her my
aunt--was a very proud woman who had come from a blue-blooded Boston
family, and she hardly deigned to notice me. When she did it was in a
patronizing manner, as if I was a menial far beneath her.
My two cousins, Lillian and Augustus, were even less civil. Lillian, who
was a fashionable miss of seventeen, never spoke to me excepting when
she wanted something done, and Gus, as every one called him, thought it
his right to order me around as if I was his valet.
In the matter of food and clothing I was scarcely considered. Any of
Gus's cast-off suits were thought good enough for the office, and my
Sunday suit was two years old. I had my breakfast with the servants
before the others were up, took my noon lunch with me, and dinner when I
returned from the office, which was generally two hours after Mr.
Stillwell, when everything was cold.
Looking back at those times I often wonder how it was I stood the
treatment as long as I did. During my parents' lives I had had nearly
everything that my heart wished, and to be thus cut short, not only in
my bodily wants, but also in consideration and affection, was hard
indeed.
To my mind there was no reason why I should be treated as one so far
beneath the family. My mother had been a gentlewoman and my father a
gentleman, and I was conceited enough to think that by both breeding and
education I was fully the equal of my cousins. Besides, my father had
been well-to-do, and had, no doubt, left me a fair inheritance.
Had I had less to do I would have been lonely in a city where I hardly
knew a soul. But my work kept me so busy I had no time to think of
myself, and perhaps this is one reason why I did not rebel before I did.
In the whole of the metropolis there was but one person whom I
considered a friend. That was Mr. Ira Mason, who had his law offices in
the same building with Stillwell, Grinder & Co. I had done a number of
errands for this gentleman, and in return he had become interested in
me.
To Mr. Mason I confided my story in all its details, and when I had
finished he told me that if matters did not mend, or got worse, to let
him know, and he would see what could be done for me.
My uncle did not like Mr. Mason, who, on several occasions, had had
clients who wished to obtain patents, and whom he had taken elsewhere;
the reason given being that Stillwell, Grinder & Co.'s rates were too
high, though their peculiar methods of getting patents had much to do
with it.
It was the morning of my seventeenth birthday. I had requested my uncle,
several days previous, to give me a holiday, which I intended to spend
with an old school chum of mine, Harry Banker, at his home in
Locustville, a pretty village, fifty miles northwest of the city.
The Banker family and mine had been well acquainted, and I had received
numerous invitations from them to spend some time at their home, a
large farm; but was each time forced to decline.
When I had requested my uncle to let me go for just one day, I had
thought it would be impossible for him to refuse, as it was the middle
of July, and business was dull. I had saved my money for some time,
determined to be prepared to pay my own way if he should not give me the
price of a ticket.
My request for a day off was met with a sharp refusal. It wasn't
necessary, there was work to do, and, besides, Gus was going to take the
day to go to Coney Island, and I must attend to his desk during his
absence.
I was taken back by the curt negative that I received, and was inclined
to "air my mind." I had had no holiday for two years, and was clearly
entitled to one. Gus had had a week at Christmas, and half a dozen days
since. It was not treating me fairly to pile up the work upon me, and
give me no breathing spells.
What made me feel worse was the fact that I had written to Harry telling
him of my expectations, so that I might find him home, and we could have
a good time. He would surely expect me, and it was doubtful if I could
get him word in time telling him I could not come.
On the evening before I had written him a letter and posted it. Gus had
seen me do so, and had made a mean remark concerning the fact that I was
to stay at home while he was to have a good time.
The remark was entirely uncalled for, and it made me angry. Hot words
passed; and he was on the point of hitting me when my uncle came in and
stopped the row. But my cousin was fearfully angry still, and vowed to
get even with me; and I knew he would try his best to do so.
On arriving at the offices that morning, I was in no bright humor. But I
knew sulking would accomplish nothing, and so set to with a will to
clean up as usual. This job took fully half an hour, and when it was
done I crossed over to Mr. Mason's office to return a book he had loaned
me, and also to obtain another from his large library.
While in the office I heard footsteps in the hall, and looking through
the partly closed door had seen Gus enter his father's private office,
closing the door after him. I was on the point of following, when I
remembered what had passed between us, and so waited until some member
of the firm might appear.
Fully five minutes elapsed, and then my cousin came out, closing the
door softly behind him. He paused for a moment in the hallway, and,
seeing no one, hurried down the stairs, and out of the building.
I thought nothing more of his movements, but continued to look over the
books, Mr. Mason meanwhile being busy at his desk in a smaller office
beyond. Presently I heard my uncle's well-known step, and hurried out,
meeting him just after he had been in his private office, which was
behind all the others.
"Don't think that because it is your birthday you can neglect your
work," he went on, in a rising voice. "This office is to be cleaned
thoroughly every morning."
"I cleaned it thoroughly not half an hour ago," I replied stoutly.
"Do you mean to contradict me?" he cried.
"I'm telling the truth," was all I could say.
"Does that look like it?"
The floor certainly did not look like it. Bits of paper were strewn in
all directions, and the bottle of ink on the desk had been upset,
creating a small blue-black river, running diagonally over the oil-cloth
towards the safe that stood beside the window.
Of course I knew at once who had done all this. Gus had vowed to get
square with me, and this was his method of doing so. Yet I could not
help but wonder what the outcome would be.
"I say, does that floor look like it?" repeated Mr. Stillwell, in
gathering wrath.
"I didn't do this, Uncle Felix."
"You didn't?" he sneered. "Well, who did, then? We haven't any cat to do
it."
I was on the point of saying it was a two-legged cat, but thinking he
would not relish the joke, replied:
"I don't know. Gus was here."
"My son? Impossible! I left him at home half an hour ago."
"He was here not ten minutes since," I said.
"I don't believe it! Besides, why should he make a pig-pen of the
office, answer me that?" stormed Uncle Felix.
"Because he knew I had just cleaned it up, and he wanted to get even
with me for that row we had yesterday."
"A likely story, I must say! As if Augustus wasn't beyond such
childishness! You did this yourself. I want you to clean it up at once."
"I didn't do----" I began.
"Not another word! Clean it up, I say."
My uncle was in such a savage humor I knew it would be useless for me to
attempt to reason with him. So getting a sponge and some water, I began
to clean up the muss on the desk. I had hardly cleaned the writing-pad
when my uncle stopped me.
"If you are going to take all day, do the job when you come back from
the post-office. I want some letters to go in the nine o'clock mail.
Here they are."
He shoved the letters into my hand.
"Now don't get them all dirty!" he cried, "or I'll crack you over the
head. Be off with you."
In a moment I was on my way to the post-office, three blocks distant.