DREAMS
“Johnny,” Rusty’s voice was low, husky with strangely mingled emotions,
“when we are back at the cottage, I’ll make a big pan of ice-box cookies.
We’ll take them with a big bottle of hot cocoa. We’ll go out on a sunny
rock and have a feast.” They were still on the deck of the rolling ship
and it was still night.
Rusty’s voice rose. “And such sunshine! Nowhere in the world is it so
glorious.”
“All right,” Johnny agreed. “Ice-box cookies, hot chocolate and sunshine.
That will be keen.”
“Dreams,” he was thinking. “How often when things are hard, very hard, we
dream.” As he closed his eyes now he could see dead salmon in endless
rows. He could hear the monotonous drone of brown men and the endless
wash-wash of the sea. “How grand at times to dream of other things far
away!” he said. “And what a joy to know of other places where we have
been gloriously happy.”
“Yes,” she agreed, “that is wonderful. And Johnny,” she went on, “we have
a home in Seattle, father and I. It is small, but, oh, so beautiful!
Climbing roses and pine trees. There’s a lake before it. There is a
dancing pavilion not far away where the boys and girls I know best come.
There they swing and sway to bewitching waltz time. _Over the Waves_,
_Blue Danube_ and all the rest. Johnny, will you come sometime and join
us there?” Her voice seemed dreamy and far away.
“Yes,” said Johnny. “Some day I’ll come.”
“But first,” he thought savagely, “I’ll see this infernal boat at the
bottom of the sea.”
For a time after that they were silent. Once again they heard the beating
of ropes against spars, the wail of the wind and the dash of spray on the
deck. How was all this to end?
“Rusty,” Johnny said, “I would like to leave you for a while.”
“Why?”
“There’s something I want to do. You know,” he leaned close, speaking in
a hoarse whisper, “there’s a hole in the gas tank of your boat.”
“Yes, but—”
“We may get a break. Your boat was put on deck after two others. That
means they’ll have to put her in the water before taking the others off.
If there was gas in her tank we might slip down to her and get away.”
“But the gas, Johnny?”
“There are two large cans in another boat. I saw them. I—I’m going to
plug up that hole in your tank, then try to fill it from the cans.”
“They—they may catch you.” Her voice trembled.
“I’ll take a chance.” He rose without a sound. “I’m off. If I don’t come
back, tell good old MacGregor.”
“I—I’ll tell him.” Her whisper was lost in the wind. He was gone.
Creeping along the swaying deck, dodging behind a lifeboat when the watch
appeared, scooting forward, then pausing to listen, he at last reached
the side of the _Krazy Kat_.
After securing the cans of gasoline, he lifted them to the deck of
Rusty’s small boat. Then, with a deft swing, he threw himself after the
cans. The deck was wet with fog. Slipping, he went down in a heap, but
made no sound.
Feeling about in the dark, he found the tank and the leak. A sharpened
splinter of wood stopped the hole.
“Now the gas,” he whispered. This he knew would be most dangerous of all.
Cans have a way of gurgling and popping in an alarming manner. The
gurgle, he concluded, would not matter. It would not be heard above the
roar of the wind and the wash of the sea. But the tinny bangs? Ah, well,
he’d have to risk it.
When one can was emptied into the _Krazy Kat’s_ tank, he heaved a sigh of
relief. The second was half-emptied when he caught the sound of
footsteps.
“The watch!” Consternation seized him. Flattening himself on the deck, he
clung to the still gurgling can.
The sound of footsteps ceased. His heart pounded. Was he caught? Seconds
seemed minutes. If the can popped he was lost. Ten seconds, twenty,
thirty—again the footsteps. Then they grew indistinct in the distance.
“Ah,” the boy breathed.
Just then the all but empty can gave forth a loud bang!
Johnny jumped, then lay flat, listening with all his ears. For at least
two full minutes he remained there motionless. The watch did not return.
With great care he lifted the empty cans from the deck of the _Krazy Kat_
to toss them into the foaming sea. Then, stealthily as before, he made
his way back to Rusty’s side.
“I—I did it,” he shrilled. “Now for a good break and we’re away.”
“Here—here’s hoping.” She drew her hand from beneath the blankets to grip
his own.
“MacGregor, what do you think they’ll do to me?” Johnny asked an hour
later. The storm had partially subsided. Rusty was feeling better. They
were back in their staterooms. Johnny had told the old man of the night’s
adventure.
“It’s my opinion,” said MacGregor, “that you’ll be shot at sunrise.”
“That won’t be so bad,” said Johnny, joining in the joke.
“Not half-bad,” MacGregor agreed. “I mind an Eskimo we shot up there in
the far north. He’d killed a white man. The revenue cutter came along an’
the judge tried him.
“When the judge’s decision had been arrived at, they told this Eskimo to
stand up.
“Well, sir, he stood there stiff an’ straight as any soldier. He was sure
he had been condemned to die and that he was to be shot. They’re a sturdy
lot, those Eskimos.
“Well,” MacGregor paused to laugh. “They set a thing up an’ aimed it at
the Eskimo. Something clicked. The Eskimo blinked. But nothin’ else
happened.
“The white men folded things up and left. But the Eskimo still stood
there, not knowin’, I suppose, whether he was dead or alive.
“Know what happened?” he concluded. “He’d been found innocent and they
had taken his picture.
“For all I know,” he added, “he’s livin’ still an’ so’ll you be, me boy,
forty years from today.
“What can they do?” he demanded. “They don’t dare harm us.”
“I wouldn’t trust them too far,” said Johnny.
“Nor I,” Rusty agreed.