THE MYSTERY THAT CAME WITH THE NIGHT
Into the night, in the direction of the Oak Island wide waters, four
miles ahead, the Sally Ann slowly and steadily made its way, the engine
throbbing under its load, the rudder squeaking on its rusted hinge pins
as Peg moved the tiller first one way then another.
It was our plan to put up for the night within a mile of the big wide
waters. Then in the morning, in continuing our passage to Steam
Corners, we could conveniently stop at the island and fill our water
cask at the spring in the rocks on the island’s north side. We really
didn’t have a cask; what we had for a water container was a pail, but
Scoop spoke of it as a cask in shaping our plans. Ships, he told us,
always filled their “casks” with water—he never had read in a story of
a ship filling its “pail.”
We liked to have him talk that way. For it lent an added touch of
adventure to our cruise. We could almost imagine, in our talk, that we
were hardened south sea buccaneers bending a course to strike a
rendezvous, as they tell about in pirate stories, where needed food and
drink awaited us.
Having covered at least three miles in our moonlight passage, we
stopped the engine and tied the Sally Ann to the stubbed bushes that
grew along the water’s edge.
It was now close to twelve o’clock. And as we got ready to turn in,
removing our shoes and outer clothing for sleeping comfort, we joked
back and forth, telling each other that the “friendly ghost” was
probably pacing the tow path, impatient for us to settle down for the
night so that it could board our boat at the customary midnight hour.
And the funny part is that in our crazy talk we actually got Red
scared. When we lay down on the stage, wrapped in our blankets, the
frightened one sort of snuggled up to me, hanging to my arm. I didn’t
shove him away. As a matter of fact I kind of liked his evident
dependence in me. It gave me a sort of steady, capable feeling.
There was some final scattered talk about the greased pig and the
Strickers. Certainly, we boasted, laughing, we had turned a neat trick.
We had outclassed the Strickers in our smartness. They’d think twice
hereafter before electing to pester us.
“If I can find a pig post card in Steam Corners,” Scoop laughed, “I’m
going to mail it to Bid Stricker. For I don’t want him to be in any
doubt as to who dropped the greased porker on top of him.”
I often think of that night. It seemed to me as I lay in the moonlight,
lulled by the gentle night sounds, that the exciting and hazardous
things in life were a million miles away. Yet I was to learn, within a
very few hours, that perils, grim and deadly, were fast swooping down
upon us.
As Scoop said afterwards in recalling our evening’s light-hearted fun,
those were the last really care-free hours that we enjoyed throughout
the remainder of our cruise. After that night things moved swiftly—and
the things that happened to us were not pleasant things, as you will
learn.
But, as I have pictured in my story in the preceding paragraphs, we
went to sleep with untroubled, contented minds. It was a great lark, we
told ourselves. Days of hilarious fun lay ahead of us. Even Christopher
Columbus’ voyage across an uncharted ocean was scarcely less thrilling
than this voyage of ours into the canal’s hidden haunts.
I must have been asleep for an hour or two. I was having a dream about
the engine. I was trying to start it, and couldn’t. The other fellows
weren’t in the dream. I was alone.
After a lot of back-breaking work I managed, to get the engine started.
As I straightened I could hear the singing put! put! put! of the
exhaust. Bending to its task, the engine quickly picked up speed. I
could feel the Sally Ann quiver as the propeller blades bit into the
water. Another such dream, so real and so vivid, I never had had.
Suddenly I sat up, rubbing my eyes. Was I awake? I pinched myself. No,
I wasn’t dreaming. My mind wasn’t sleeping. And what I had dreamt to a
result had actually taken place—the Sally Ann was under way, was moving
slowly down the canal, its motor singing in full speed.
I jumped up. The others were still asleep. So I knew it wasn’t one of
my chums who had started the engine.
“Wake up,” I breathed in Scoop’s ear, trembling in my excitement.
“What the dickens?...” he gasped, sitting up. He blinked his eyes.
“We’re moving!”
“Some one’s stealing our boat.”
He leaped to his feet.
“Where’s Red and Peg? They may be playing a joke on us.”
I pointed to the two sleepers.
“Get up,” Scoop shook them. “We’ve got a fight on our hands.”
“Who—who started the engine?” Red mumbled sleepily.
“That,” Scoop gritted, “is what we’re going to find out.”
The freckled one, now wide awake, went into a frightened panic.
“Oh!...” he gurgled. “Maybe it’s the—the ghost.”
Scoop grunted.
“The Strickers probably. Git a club, fellows. Here’s an extra one. Come
on.”
Peg was directly behind the courageous leader, I came next, then Red.
He was hanging to me and gurgling. In other adventures of ours I had
seen him scared, but never anything like this. I could feel the
thumping of his heart in his grip on my arm. Maybe, though, it was my
own heart that I detected.
We tiptoed single file across the scow’s pit. It was still moonlight,
but the silver light was of no aid to us in identifying the engineer
who was running off with our boat, for the motor and tiller were hidden
from our sight by a hanging canvas that we had put up to keep the
engine’s flying oil from spattering the clothing of our back-row
customers.
That a steady hand was holding the tiller we could not doubt. For the
scow was keeping its proper course. Yet, as we bent our ears we could
detect no human sounds from behind the screen—there were no whispering
voices or the scraping of feet on the wooden deck.
Gosh! I began to share Red’s panicky fear. For I suddenly realized that
there was something ghostly in our experience.
As I say, in my stealthy approach on the curtained engine, I was
directly behind Peg, He was close on Scoop’s heels. So, when the leader
slowly lifted the hanging canvas, I had a clear view of the engine deck
over my chums’ shoulders.
There was a lantern beside the engine. I saw that it was a lantern that
didn’t belong to us. From the attracting spot of light I lifted my eyes
to the helmsman. And then....
We went back in a heap, Red groaning at the bottom of the human pile.
“Did—did you see who it was?” gasped Scoop, gaining his feet.
“The girl in the blue tam,” I breathed, dizzy.
Here was an amazing mystery. Our boat was being stolen by a girl.
Beyond all doubt she was acting to a purpose. But what that purpose was
I could not conceive.
Yet in my dizziness I had a crazy grinning thought. Here we were, four
big boys, armed with clubs, creeping up on one lone girl. Four boys, I
might add, who were only half dressed.
“Go-osh!” shimmied Red, weak-kneed in his tumbling embarrassment,
“where’s m-my p-pants?”