OVERTAKING A SHADOW
Once again it was night. The wind had gone down with the sun. The sea was
calm. On board the Oriental ship there was a strained air of tense
expectancy.
“I can’t understand what’s keepin’ ’em here,” MacGregor said in a low
tone to his young companions. “It’s plain that they’re scared stiff of
that seaplane. Looks like they’d heave anchor and be away any minute. And
if they do—” There was no need to finish. Both Johnny and Rusty knew that
this would mean a trip to the Orient under circumstances stranger than
any fiction.
“They seem to be waiting for something,” said Johnny.
This was true. All the little brown men not stationed at posts of duty
were standing along the rail looking away toward the distant shores that
were lost in the night.
“They’ll be back,” MacGregor said, thinking of the men on the seaplane.
“Looks like it’s a race against time. But what are they waiting for?”
It was not long until they should know. As they stood there, nerves
a-tingle, listening, a distant confusion of noises came to them.
“If there were a war,” said MacGregor, “I’d say it was rifle and
machine-gun fire.”
This notion was too fantastic to be seriously considered. But what was
it?
Second by second the sound increased in volume. “Can this be what they’re
looking for?” Johnny asked.
If so, these little men welcomed it in a strange manner. Short, sharp
commands were given. Scores of men went into frenzied action.
“Look!” Rusty gripped Johnny’s arm. “They’re lowering my boat into the
water.”
“And it’s got gas in the tank. All ready to turn over and start. If
only—”
“That’s motors we’re hearin’,” MacGregor broke in. “A thunderin’ lot of
’em! I shouldn’t wonder—”
“MacGregor,” Rusty seized his arm, “our boat is in the water. They are
all crowding the rail again. This may be our chance.”
“So it may,” the old man agreed. “Follow me. Not a sound!”
“I’ll get Kopkina,” offered Johnny. “I just saw him on deck.”
Dodging behind a life-raft Rusty and MacGregor went scurrying along in
the dark and Johnny and Kopkina soon joined them.
“It—it’s just here,” Rusty whispered.
“We—we need a rope ladder,” Johnny exclaimed low.
“Here’s one,” came in MacGregor’s cheering voice. “Let her over easy
now.”
“Now,” he breathed. “Over you go.”
The speed with which they went down that ladder, all but treading on one
another’s fingers, would have done credit to the U. S. Navy.
“Now I’ll cut her loose,” said MacGregor. “All right, Rusty, turn her
over.”
The fly-wheel whirled. The splendid motor began a low put-put-put. They
were away into the dark.
“They’d have trouble findin’ us,” MacGregor murmured.
“But listen!” Johnny exclaimed.
The sound of many motors had doubled and redoubled. Just as they were
about to swing around the prow of the ship, something long, dark and
silent shot past them.
“The Shadow!” Johnny exclaimed.
It was true, this was the Shadow. But at last the Shadow was not going to
escape. After it thundered a powerful speedboat and as she shot past them
the excited trio saw a burst of flames and caught the rat-tat-tat of a
machine gun.
This was followed instantly by a wild scream from the Shadow which
sounded very much like a sign of surrender. At the same time the sea
seemed fairly ablaze with lights from many boats.
Johnny’s head was in a whirl. What was happening? Without knowing why she
did it, Rusty seized him by the arm and held him tight while she
screamed, “Johnny! It’s wonderful! Wonderful!”
What had happened may be quickly told. When Blackie and his crew failed
to return, and Rusty as well, there had been consternation about the
cannery. There was little use searching Bristol Bay in a fog. When,
however, Dan MacMillan appeared in his seaplane, they went into action.
Red McGee climbed into the cockpit and they were away. They had circled
for an hour when they sighted the Oriental ship.
As they flew over it Red McGee experienced no difficulty in getting the
unusual signals Johnny and Rusty had set up for him. He recognized the
boxing forms of both Rusty and Johnny.
Realizing that his daughter would be on board that ship only against her
will, he went into a wild rage. He demanded that the seaplane be landed
close to the ship and that he be allowed to “tackle the whole lot of ’em
single-handed.”
To this young MacMillan, would not consent; for, in the first place, the
sea was too rough for a landing and in the second, he was not willing as
he later expressed it, “To see a good man commit suicide by tackling a
hundred Orientals single-handed.”
He had flown back to their base. By the time they reached the cannery,
Red had cooled off.
“I want every last boat gassed up for an emergency run,” he commanded.
“Any of you men that have guns, get ’em loaded and ready. There’s a
couple o’ whale-guns up at my cabin. You, Pete and Dan, get ’em an’ see
that they’re loaded. We’ll show ’em.”
They were about ready for a start when Blackie and his men arrived on the
scene.
“Blackie,” Red exploded, “they’ve got Rusty and your boy, Johnny. They’re
holdin’ ’em captive. Come on! We’ll start a war!”
For once, Blackie did not say, “No.” After they had turned the small,
blue bear loose in a sheet-metal tool-shed he climbed into Dan
MacMillan’s speed boat, dragging Red and Lawrence with him, and they were
away.
It was this speedboat that had spied the Shadow. They had given it chase
and had, as you have seen, at last, after sending a volley of machine-gun
bullets across its bow, overhauled it.
The Shadow was the very craft that had been awaited by the Oriental ship.
Had it put in an appearance two hours sooner, the ship must surely have
weighed anchor and our story might have been much longer. As it was, the
Orientals were destined to wait a long, long time before lifting the
Shadow on deck, if at all.
While Johnny and Rusty looked and listened, the whole cannery fleet,
every small deck bristling with guns, surrounded the ship.
Having overhauled the Shadow, Blackie placed it in charge of another
craft, then came gliding in alongside the _Krazy Kat_.
“MacGregor,” he said in a husky voice, “tell me what happened.” MacGregor
told him. Hardly had he finished when a small motor launch carrying three
little brown officers arrived. The officers were fairly aglow with gold
and braid.
“A thousand pardons,” their leader began. He was allowed to go no
farther.
“Listen!” Blackie stood up. He was dressed in corduroy trousers and a
leather jacket. His face was working strangely.
“Listen,” he repeated. “No apologies, not a thousand, nor even one. I’ll
do the talking.” His voice was low. “I know why you’re here. To catch our
fish. You sank our boat. You have an hour to get your ship headed out of
Bristol Bay. We’ll take that Shadow of yours with us. We caught her
lifting nets inside the three-mile limit. That makes her a fair prize.
“As to the sinking of the _Stormy Petrel_, I shall make a complete
report. The matter shall be taken up by our diplomats.
“I might add, for your further information, that a law is now before our
Congress making Bristol Bay United States waters, open to our fishermen
alone. It will pass. If you care to come back next year we will meet you
with three destroyers.
“And now, gentlemen,” he doffed a ragged cap, “I bid you good-night.”
Clicking their heels, without a single apology, the officers saluted,
then the power boat lost itself in the shadows.