[Illustration]
PRESENTLY Owen suggested that they shift their anchorage to a more
advantageous point; and they had just raised the anchor when Owen
exclaimed, “I’ve forgotten the kettle!”
“Let it go,” said McConnell. It had been one of his contributions to the
supplies.
“No,” Owen insisted, “I don’t feel like giving it up. It has been good
to us and we mustn’t leave it behind. Back her a little with the oar,
Allan, and I’ll skip up and get it.”
With the oar Allan pushed the _Arabella_ nearer the shore and Owen
sprang out, landing on a broad stone, and disappeared among the bushes.
Dropping the oar on the deck, Allan sat down beside McConnell. The river
was very still. They could see nothing but a few feet of the bank.
Everywhere else was the gray, silent fog—a cold fog that made the boys
shiver.
Less than a minute after he had seated himself beside McConnell, Allan
felt something jar the _Arabella_. His first thought was that the boat
had drifted into shallow water, and had either grounded or bumped a
rock. As he turned his head he caught sight, over the bow, of a skiff, a
low skiff without oars; and at the same moment the head of a man
appeared above the deck line of the _Arabella_.
“Keep quiet,” said the man.
The voice in which the man spoke was neither loud nor harsh, and was not
above a whisper in volume; yet it gave Allan a feeling of horror. It was
the voice of one exhausted, of one desperate.
“Quiet!” repeated the man, this time more threateningly, and his eyes
fixed themselves on Allan in a quivering stare. As he looked more
definitely into the man’s face, Allan became aware that he had seen it
before. Changed as the face was, there could be no doubt that it was
that of the Ghost. And it arose beside Allan as the man stood up in the
skiff, and, with a quick motion, stepped into the _Arabella_.
The boys now saw, with increased horror, that the man of the ghastly
white face wore the clothes of a convict.
“Look here!” said the man, in the same voice, crouching beside Allan,
“will you be pleasant and sociable, or must I—?” and he caught Allan by
the neck with his thin hands, and struck the boy’s head against the
centre-board.
Allan struggled to loosen the man’s hands, and then gasped, “What do you
want?”
[Illustration:
“Looking out into the fog.”
]
“What do I want? I want liberty. That’s what I want. I want it so bad
that I have been three days and three nights in this skiff, watching my
chance, since I got out of there,” and he pointed up the river.
“They are watching and they will get me unless I can get into New
York—understand me?” and the man caught Allan by the shoulder, “unless I
can get into New York—into New York _with other clothes_! Do you
understand?—_with other clothes_.”
“I haven’t any clothes for you,” stammered Allan.
“You haven’t, hey? Stand up,” and the man enforced his order by half
lifting Allan to his feet. At this Allan saw that, although the man had
a large head, he was no taller than himself, and wasted by imprisonment,
hunger, and exposure.
“No clothes, hey?” pursued the man, with something that seemed almost
like a smile. “No clothes?—the very thing! Quick now, the fog helps.
Quick!”
“What do you mean?” demanded Allan, who began to understand painfully
well what the man did mean, and who also had begun to cast about for
some plan of defence. McConnell crouched in the stern, stupefied. The
_Arabella_ had drifted, and the untethered skiff with it, out of sight
of the shore. They were shut in by the fog.
“Quick, I tell you!” cried the man, wrenching at Allan’s jacket until it
had been removed. “Now the sweater and the trousers. If I have to speak
again, I will speak with these,” and the man shook his thin hands in
Allan’s face.
It was an extraordinary sight that McConnell saw,—the boy and the man
exchanging clothes there in the boat; for Allan mechanically lifted the
clothes the man threw from him and drew them on. On so cool a morning
there was no room for debate. Excited as he was, Allan could not but
foresee, with the boat adrift, that some action would soon become
necessary, and the necessity for action would preclude dressing in a
blanket.
“Good!” grunted the man, then he gave a start at the sound of a shout.
It was Owen calling through the fog. “I see,” he said, “one of you was
ashore.”
Allan nodded. He guessed by the sound of Owen’s voice that the tide had
carried them some distance, but it was impossible now to tell from which
direction the voice came.
“Quick!” said the husky voice of the man, “you can join the other one. I
want this boat.”
“How?” faltered Allan, whose horror had been succeeded by a growing
anger.
“The skiff,” said the man. “There it is. If you waste a minute I’ll
pitch you both overboard!” As he said this, he made a stroke with the
oar and soon brought the _Arabella_ close to the skiff. Then he dropped
the oar, clambered to the stern, McConnell making way for him, and
reached for the boat with his hand. “Jump in!” he cried.
Allan had watched every movement with lips drawn, his heart beating
high. To give up the _Arabella_, their cameras, and outfit without a
struggle was more than he could bear. To see the man drop the oar had
been a great surprise. It gave him a moment of hope, and when the man
reached for the boat he saw his chance, and springing with all his force
he pushed the convict over the stern into the river.
“McConnell—the sail!” he yelled, and grasping the oar gave a couple of
quick splashes in the water that put the _Arabella_ out of the man’s
reach when he had risen to the surface, spluttering and cursing.
McConnell had started forward to the lifts. Allan followed and they gave
several quick hauls together, enough to lift the gaff five or six feet.
The sail indicated that there was almost no wind.
Allan sprang back to the oar and called to McConnell to make the lines
fast and get at the other oar. The man had climbed into the skiff and
Allan saw him crouching in the bow paddling furiously with his hands—a
means of propulsion which evidently he had practised in effecting his
escape. His face now wore a frightful expression.
The sight of the fury in the man’s eyes gave energy to the paddle stroke
which Allan applied to his oar. They drew away three yards, four yards,
five yards, from the skiff. McConnell’s oar now joined on the port side
of the _Arabella_; but the man paddled with a dreadful steadiness,
fixing his upturned eyes upon them and cursing in his husky voice.
Then McConnell’s foot slipped, he stumbled in the boat, and his oar went
overboard. Allan made a quick reach with his own oar but could not catch
the drifting blade, without turning the boat. In a few moments the
convict would have the lost oar.
Again Allan sprang to the sail. “All the way up, McConnell!” he cried,
and they tugged at the lines, the blood in their faces. Twice the throat
of the gaff hitched; but at last the sail rose full and free, and
flapped in the faint wind.
“Hold her this way!” exclaimed Allan to McConnell, and loosened the
sheet.
The man had the oar. They would have known this without looking, for
they could hear frantic splashing in the water. Allan added desperate
strokes of his own oar to the pull of the sail. If the wind died, they
were lost. The man in the skiff would have an immense advantage the
moment the sail ceased to draw. Allan fancied that the convict was
calculating on this chance.
Partly because of the oar, and partly because the fog left them no guide
as to direction, the _Arabella_ crossed the wind and the boom swung to
the other side, tangling the sheet in the tiller and throwing Allan
across McConnell’s knees. While they struggled with the lines they lost
much of their headway, and they could hear a husky yell from the man as
he gained upon them. But the accident told good news. It told of a puff
of wind, and when the sail had filled on the other side with the wind
astern, the _Arabella_ very soon led very rapidly in the race.
“We are getting away!” cried McConnell. They were the first words he had
said.
The skiff and the convict grew dim in the fog.
“We have beat him!” ejaculated Allan. “He’s welcome to the oar; I don’t
want to see him caught. But I didn’t want him to take the _Arabella_—and
everything.”
“I was afraid we were goners when I lost the oar,” said McConnell.
They strained their eyes through the fog, but could see no trace of
their pursuer. Yet Allan did not feel that they were safe from him
unless he could keep the wind astern, and thus be as sure as was
possible that they would not cross his track in the fog.
For fifteen minutes Allan kept the _Arabella_ with the wind, utterly
uncertain of their direction.
All about them was the gray, still mist that filled the boys with a
strange sense of mystery.
Overhead the mist was silvery, as if the sun was threatening to come
through; yet when they looked on either side of the boat the veil was
impenetrable.
“Did you hear something?” asked McConnell.
“No, what was it like?”
“Like a boat whistle.”
Allan’s face changed. Yes, he could hear the sound himself. It was
distant, but he could discern the deep-throated note of a large river
steamer.
“What can we do?” asked McConnell, with a new anxiety.
“I don’t see what we can do. I don’t know whether we are going across or
down the river, and I can’t tell from which direction the sound is
coming.”
The whistle could now be heard distinctly every few moments, and
presently they decided that it was astern. “In that case,” said Allan,
“we are going down the river, for that must be one of the delayed night
boats, and it will be best for us to keep to the west. We couldn’t have
gone far enough out to get into the track of the steamers.” The course
of the _Arabella_ was turned slightly to starboard, and then the boys
were thrown into new confusion by finding that the whistle was sounded
on the port side. The rumble of the paddle had grown very distinct.
Allan turned the _Arabella_ farther to the starboard, drawing in the
sheet.
“We must make some noise—all the noise we can,” said Allan; “it will be
better than any signal. They would never see us in time.” Thereupon
Allan took two of their pans and began clashing them together as
violently as he could. McConnell took two flat pieces of wood from the
bottom of the boat and produced sounds like pistol shots by clapping
them together. But the rumble of the paddle wheels grew louder, until
Allan began straining his eyes for a sight of the approaching danger. He
had never fancied it could be so difficult to tell the direction from
which sound came in a fog.
“They hear us!” shouted Allan.
Several quick blasts came from the steamer whistle, the paddles turned
slower, and then stopped. At the same moment the bow of a steamer seemed
suddenly to grow out of nothing within a hundred feet of them, and the
whistle was giving a resounding roar.
“They are passing us—it’s all right!” cried Allan, with an excited
laugh. Indeed, the paddles had started again.
“Now for the shore.”
“Which shore?” asked McConnell.
“The west shore. We couldn’t risk going across yet.” Allan, with the
hint offered by the wake of the steamer, turned the _Arabella_ so as to
head southwest. As nearly as he could guess, this was at right angles to
the course he had established in getting away from the convict.
It was not until he had left the two dangers behind him that Allan began
to think of the plight he was in. Then he laughed, and McConnell joined
him.
“Don’t you want to sit for your picture?” asked McConnell.
“No, thank you. I don’t think I want to see myself in a striped suit,
even for fun. I must get you to hunt up some one who will send word to
Hazenfield, even if I can’t go myself.”
The wind drew a little stronger, and Allan began to think that the fog
was lifting. It had grown sufficiently thin to justify him in running
straight for shore.
“Go to the bow,” Allan said to McConnell, “and yell when you see
anything.”
They both watched eagerly for the shore, but it was nearly ten minutes
later that McConnell shouted, “A dock!”
They would have crashed into it in a few moments. Allan swung the
_Arabella_ and ran the boat up under the lee of the dock.
It was a small private dock adjoining a boat-house. Making fast to one
of the rings, the boys climbed out.
[Illustration:
“Allan looked down at his clothes.”
]
Allan looked down at his clothes. “I wonder what any one would think of
this?”
McConnell laughed. “You’ll have to explain,” he said.
The boys turned up the dock, and they had scarcely done so when a man
stepped from behind the boat-house and caught Allan by the shoulder.
“No, you don’t!” said the man, “no convicts here, please. If this don’t
beat all! Mike!” And the man shouted again, until another man came
strolling from beyond the boat-house. At the sight of Allan, Mike
stopped, and his jaw dropped. “Holy saints!”
“I don’t mind yer gettin’ away,” said the first man; “but makin’ use of
us is too much—too much, I say.”
“I’m not a convict,” said Allan, “I—”
“Of course not,” said Allan’s custodian, “of course yer innocent. You
all are.”
“You don’t understand,” said Allan; “a man escaped and I—”
“Yes, and you couldn’t resist keeping him company. Right you are, my
boy, and I suppose I’d do it myself if I was in your shoes; but I’m not,
and I’m goin’ to keep my conscience clear. I’ll hand you over and save
all trouble. And yer only a kind of kid, after all.”
“You’re making a break,” spoke up McConnell; “he’s no convict. He had a
fight with one, and he—”
“Now you keep quiet, young feller,” said Mike. “Don’t complain to us.
You don’t suppose we’re goin’ to git ourselves in a scrape, do yer?”
“What’s this?” demanded a voice.
“An escaped Sing Sing man, sir,” said Mike.
“A what?—dear me!” said the voice.
Allan and McConnell had started at the first sound of the voice. When
they saw its owner, their suspicions were confirmed. It was Mr.
Prenwood.
“Dear me! a convict!” continued Mr. Prenwood. “Why, it’s not a man at
all; it’s only a boy—”
“Mr. Prenwood!” cried Allan, “don’t you know us?”
“Know you?” stammered Mr. Prenwood, stepping closer.
“Don’t you remember—Coney Island?” interposed McConnell.
“Why—upon my soul—yes, you—you are the kodak boys!”
[Illustration:
“‘No, you don’t!’ said the man.”
]
“Yes,” said Allan, “we were attacked by a convict, and he forced me to
give him my clothes, and so—”
“And so you had to take his! Yes, yes. Blickens,” said Mr. Prenwood to
the man who had first encountered Allan, “you’ve got the shadow; the
substance has escaped.”
The man laughed. “I never knowed, sir.”
“Come into the house,” said Mr. Prenwood, who was laughing a little to
himself. “Well, well! I never expected to see you this way, Mr. Allan
Hartel. You see, I remember your name. And I’m glad to see you again.
And what a monster this convict must have been to treat you so! Though I
suppose you got off very well. Tell me all about it. Milicent,” Mr.
Prenwood now spoke to a lady who stood on the porch. “Don’t be
frightened. This is not a convict, but only a boy who was attacked by
one; and these are boys I met last month at Coney Island. And I know
they are hungry. Won’t you get us up something nice?”
Allan expostulated that he was not hungry, that he only was anxious to
get home as soon as possible, or at least to have word sent to
Hazenfield.
“Blickens,” called Mr. Prenwood, “get things ready on the launch. The
fog is lifting, and I shall want these boys and the cat-boat towed over
to Hazenfield in half an hour. Meanwhile, Allan, I’m going to get you
some clothes and make you comfortable. Come upstairs and let me see if I
can’t fit you out while they are getting that bite ready for you. You
don’t look exactly right to me. Did that brute hurt you?”
Allan said the man had not hurt him, but admitted that he had not been
feeling just right since he met with the accident on the bluff the day
before. “I knew it. I knew you weren’t right.” Allan went on with his
story while Mr. Prenwood rummaged in a closet and several trunks. “You
see this is Sunday,” continued Mr. Prenwood. “You couldn’t go home on a
Sunday without looking trim and nice. There—slip into these things. I
guess that shirt will fit you.”
Though they were both too greatly upset to eat much, the boys made an
effort to do justice to Mr. Prenwood’s hospitality, and were delighted
by his cordial talk.
As he walked with them to the dock, Mr. Prenwood said he knew Owen would
get home all right, somehow, and he made the boys promise to come and
see him.
Blickens sat in the launch. “I’m sorry I was so rough,” said Blickens.
“I didn’t think you were so rough,” said Allan, reassuringly, as he
stowed the convict’s clothes in the _Arabella_.
“A souvenir?” laughed Mr. Prenwood.
Allan explained that he had made up his mind to hand the clothes over to
Detective Dobbs. “He owns the _Arabella_,” said Allan, “and we can go
right to his dock.”
“I understand,” said Mr. Prenwood. “Make the best time you can,
Blickens. You see you are to take him to a detective after all.”
Blickens looked rather uncomfortable. He did his utmost to make things
right with Allan. The _Arabella_ was made fast to the launch by a long
line, the boys taking their seats in the launch.
Mr. Prenwood waved his hand, and shouted a cheery good-by as the launch
and cat-boat slid out into the river.
------------------------------------------------------------------------