THE PIRATES’ FIRST CRUISE.
“Go and put your hand in the holler of that log, Dave,” ordered Tom
Pagdin.
“What you got planted there?” demanded Dave, suspiciously.
“Never you mind,” replied Tom, in a tone of overwhelming mystery, “You
jist do it.”
“It ain’t a tree snake or a jumper ant’s nest, is it? You ain’t playin’ a
lark on me?”
“Pirates don’t play larks on one another,” replied Tom. “If one pirate
plays any larks on the other, the other pirates what the lark is played
on challenge him to a duel.”
“What’s a duel?”
“A duel is like this!” explained Tom. “You take your pistol and I take
my pistol, and we stand about ten yards away from one another, with our
backs turned, and the referee sings out ‘Fire!’ and we both turn round
and fire, and I kill you, and you wound me very bad in the sword arm,
so’s I can’t use my sword for about a month. Then I get in the boat with
the seconds, and leave you on the sand of the island dead—an’——”
“Tom Pagdin,” interrupted Dave, indignantly, “if you’re goin’ to play at
any of them silly games, I’m not on. I don’t want to be left dead on the
sand of no island with a pistol ’ole in me. I’d rather be whaled by the
old man with a greenhide, I would!”
“Well, you _are_ a cur,” exclaimed Tom. “I didn’t say I was goin’ to; I
only said that’s what they did. Put your hand down the log and see what
God’ll send you!”
Dave obeyed reluctantly.
“What’s this?” he cried. “It’s a swag!”
“Yes,” said Tom; “that’s my swag. It’s a bit more heavy nor yours. I bet
you I got more things than you did!”
“I got a good lot,” replied Dave, “considerin’ the ole woman was pokin’
round!”
“Pooh! that’s nothin’; I got all these things while the old man wuz on
the punt comin’ back with the milk carts ’bout dusk. I made seven trips.
I’d go in an’ get one thing, and come back and hide in the lantana
bushes; then somebody else would hail, and as soon as he started the punt
across for the other side, I’d slip in an’ nick somethin’ else. By gosh,
it wuz a heavy swag when I did it all up.”
“Wonder where they’ll think we are?” asked Dave.
“The ole man, he’ll think I’ll try to sneak back,” chuckled Tom, “I
looked through a crack in the slabs last thing to-night an’ I see him
settin’ with his face to the door an’ the buckle strap in his hand. He
kin set. I’m not going back no more.”
“Neither am I,” avowed Dave.
“We’ll take the swags and go down the river a piece in the boat, and
plant ’em for to-night,” said Tom.
“Where’ll we plant ’em?” inquired Dave.
“On that little island jest below the bend,” replied Tom. “It’s not more
than a mile. We’ll pull down quiet, leave ’em there, bring the boat back
here, go down along the bank again, and swim across to our camp. That’ll
put ’em off the scent if they’re after us.”
“Do you think they’ll foller us?” asked Dave.
“They’re bound to after we don’t turn up to-morrow. They won’t let us go
without lookin’ for us, you kin bet. We’re a bit too useful for ’em for
that. But you leave this business to me. They kin get a detective from
Scotland Yard, wherever that is, if they want to. They won’t ketch _us_!”
“Where’s the boat, Tom?” inquired Dave.
“Pick up yor swag an’ foller me,” ordered Tom. “I’ll take yer right away.”
Dave did as he was told.
The elder conspirator, staggering under a heavy load, led the way.
They skirted a weedy swamp, disturbing the wild duck and ibis at their
feed, and came out upon a short creek, which emptied its shallow tide
into the Broadstream.
The banks of the creek were covered by a dense scrub of tangled lantana
bush.
“We can’t get through this,” said Dave, as they paused at the edge of the
scrub.
Tom chuckled.
“I can,” he said; “stoop down, an’ foller me.”
He went on his hands and knees, and started crawling along a track made
probably by paddymelons or wallabies.
The boys wormed their way through the lantana a foot at a time, dragging
their swags after them, until they arrived at the edge. Here the tall
water reeds rustled their leaves softly in the night wind.
“What do you think of this fer a hiding place?” ask Tom. “Kin you see the
boat?”
“No,” replied Dave, peering into the darkness. “I’ll be hanged if I can.
Where is she, Tom?”
For answer Tom felt with his hands along a small log, half hidden in the
mud, found a rope, and began to pull it gently towards him.
“Give as a pull,” he said.
The two boys bore on the painter. The reeds swayed and parted, and out of
the darkness came the bow of a boat.
“By gosh!” cried Dave, “she’s a beaut. I wonder where she came from?”
“That’s got nothing to do with us,” responded Tom. “Git the swags in.
She’s our boat, anyhow; I found ’er.”
“Where’s the paddles?” asked Dave. “Did she have any paddles when you
found ’er?”
“Only a broken one,” replied Tom, “but I got two since. Git in!”
Tom cast loose with the air of the commander of a man-o’-war.
“I’ll pole ’er out of the creek,” he said, “and then I’ll let you pull
one oar. Sit still, and don’t make no row.”
“We got to go as quiet as mice,” he explained, digging the blade of an
oar in the soft black mud, and pushing the boat out gently through the
high reeds into the stream. “Ere’s your oar, an’ don’t make no more nise
with that rollick than you kin ’elp.”
They sculled down stream in silence, taking care to dip the oars into the
water as noiselessly as they could, and keeping in under the shadow of
the banks.
It was all splendidly mysterious, and exciting, and brave, and good.
Overhead the skies were powdered with stars, and when they drew in their
paddles and drifted, the two adventurers could see the reflections of
a myriad of scintillating worlds mirrored in the dark waters of the
Broadstream.
The island for which the boys were bound was about three or four acres in
area. On one side of it the Broadstream ran deep and narrow. The other
arm was wider and shallow and gradually choking up with lilies and water
weeds.
On the island, primeval scrub grew in almost impenetrable thickness, and
as the place had the reputation of being alive with snakes, it was seldom
visited.
Tom Pagdin had swum across on the deep side one day and made a few
investigations.
The centre of the island was occupied by an immense fig tree, a patriarch
of unknown age, whose roots were a study in floral architecture. To the
butt of this fig clung immense vines, which made a natural covering. The
sky was only visible in patches here and there.
Tom had found a track through the jungle to this tree—a track which was
apparently possible only to bandicoots or paddymelons—a track which wound
in and out of lawyer vines, rattans, and the thousand and one spiked and
clinging growths of the Northern scrubs.
The roots of the fig formed an excellent hiding-place. It was there that
the runaways had decided to make a temporary camp.
The boys landed their bundles, pulled the boat up again to their original
starting-place, tied her to the log, left her hidden among the reeds and
started to trudge back.
They headed the creek, crossed out through the grass paddocks, where the
dairy cows were grazing, skirted the maize and sugar-cane patches until
they arrived at the last farm opposite the island. Then Tom stopped.
“Whose place is this?” asked Dave.
“Ole M’Dermid’s,” replied Tom. “I say, can you see any light in the
house?”
“No,” replied Dave. “I reckon they must ’a’ turned in.”
“Dave,” mused Tom, pulling little splinters off the top rail of the
fence on which he was leaning, “I wonder if any of them watermelons of
M’Dermid’s is ripe?”
“I dunno,” responded Dave. “I wonder if they are?”
“Suppose we go into the maize patch and see?” suggested Tom.
“It ain’t right,” began Dave doubtfully, “is it?”
“Not under or’nery circumstances,” replied Tom, “but when a cove’s
chucked out of house and home an’ druv to turn pirate, he’s got to look
out and get tucker wherever he can. I reckon it ain’t right for a cove to
thieve when he’s got a good home and plenty of tucker, but when a cove’s
druv an’ he’s piratin’ round on a dark night on his own, I reckon it
ain’t no harm to take a bloomin’ melon from a stingy ole Scotchman that’s
got more’n he can use, do you?”
“I dunno,” said Dave. “I don’t reckon it ought to be.”
“Well, we’ll chance it,” said Tom, putting one leg through the fence.
“You stay there and keep ‘nit.’”
Dave waited patiently at the fence until Tom came back with a huge melon
on his shoulder.
“We’ll take it acrost to our island,” he explained. “It ain’t safe to do
it in here. You don’t want never when you’re out on a pirate cruise to
leave no more evidence be’ind you than you can help.”
“Is it ripe?” queried Dave.
“Ripe!” replied Tom. “You bet it’s ripe. I put my knee on it ’an squoze,
and you could ’ear it go kerrack inside.”
The bank opposite the island on that side was steep and high, so Tom went
first and Dave lowered the melon down to him, and he put it in the water
and showed Dave how it would float.
“You tie my clothes on your back along with yours, an’ I’ll shove her
ahead of me,” he explained.
It was a warm tropic night, and they found the short swim across
freshening and pleasant; so much so that, when they landed the melon
and their clothes, they slid into the water again and stayed a while
floating and kicking about. Tom said it was no use trying to work their
way through the scrub until daylight, so they found a little clear grassy
place after a lot of trouble, and Dave got out his pocket knife.
They dug into the red heart of the melon and ate as much as they could,
carefully hurling the rind into the water as it occurred, because, as Tom
said, solemnly, “Dead melons tell no tales.”
At last, tired out, they unrolled their tent, spread it on the grass, and
lay down with a ragged blanket over them which Dave had “borrowed” from
home.
Tom went to sleep at once and snored; but Dave, who was younger and less
hardened, lay there thinking.
The more Tom snored the more restless and lonesome Dave got.
There is nothing so trying as hearing another person snoring when you
cannot get to sleep yourself.
Two or three times Dave asked his companion softly if he was asleep, and
got no definite reply.
A dog howled away up on the flat somewhere, and another dog answered him
from across the river. Then they organised a sort of mournful canine
conversation at long range, and woke a third dog, who took up the thread
of the discourse. Now and again the sharp sound of a Texas bell was
carried across from the hills, where some timber getters were camped.
Some unknown danger caused a mob of wild ducks, which had come in from
the lagoons at nightfall, to get up quacking loudly.
Dave heard the burr of their wings as they flew over his head.
He could not stand it any longer. He reached down and pinched Tom on the
calf of the leg.
Tom jumped clean out of the blanket.
“What’s up?” asked Dave, pretending to wake out of a sound sleep. “What’s
the matter with you?”
“Light a match!” yelled Tom. “I’m bit!”
“Bit!” cried the other boy. “What bit yer?”
“A snake!” shouted Tom. “A black snake! I felt him!”
“Where did he bite you?” demanded Dave, apparently much concerned.
“He’s bit me on the leg,” groaned Tom, in a voice of awful apprehension.
“Strike a match, quick!”
“It couldn’t a been a snake,” cried Dave, trying hard to keep solemn.
“It was, I tell you,” insisted Tom. “This island is crowded with snakes.
I felt ’im cold again me leg; gimme the match; gimme the match, quick!”
“It wuz a black snake,” he mourned, “an’ I’ll die, I know I will.”
“There’s no teeth marks on yours leg,” said Dave, holding a lighted match
while Tom made a fevered examination. “You must a been dreamin’.”
“I wasn’t dreamin’,” protested Tom. “I felt something bite me. See,” he
said in a voice of hollow despair, “here’s a mark on me leg—a red mark!”
“That ain’t mo snake bite,” said Dave. “It’s a moskiteer.”
“It’s a snake bite!” insisted Tom. “You’ll have to cut the bit outer me
leg and tie a string round, and swim across an’ get a doctor!!”
Dave exploded in ribald laughter.
“You’re a dam scoundrel, Dave Gibson!” shouted Tom, hysterically. “I tell
you I am bit by a snake!”
“No you ain’t,” chortled Dave, “No you ain’t.”
“I am!” cried Tom. “I tell you I am, an’ if I die I’ll come and haunt
you, you brute!”
“Oh! oh!” roared Dave. “Oh—ow—oh!”
“Get up,” shouted Tom, kicking his mate furiously in the ribs. “Get
up an’ tie some string round me! Get up an’ cut the bit out, I tell
you! Good God, Dave Gibson, ain’t you got any sense or feeling or
understandin’?”
“Ah, Oh!” cried Dave. “Let up, you fool! You ain’t bit; I only pinched
yer!”
Tom rubbed his leg.
“Pinched me!” he said, in a suppressed voice. “What did you do that for?”
Dave noticed the threat in Tom’s voice.
“I thought I heard a noise in the bush,” he explained.
“You thought you heard a nise!” repeated Tom, with great scorn. “I
thought you wuz asleep!”
“So I was; but I woke up. Don’t you hit me, Tom Pagdin, or I’ll swim back
and go home.”
“Hit you!” replied Tom; “I ain’t going to hit you. I wouldn’t be bothered
hittin’ you. If you don’t know no better than to act the goat wakin’ your
mate up in the middle of the night with a monkey trick like that, I got
nothin’ to say.”
“Well,” said Dave, apologetically, “I thought it wuz the best way to. I
did hear a nise.”
“There wasn’t no nise,” replied Tom, “an’ if there had a been, you went
the right way to put the whole thing away.”
Dave said nothing.
“Gimme some blanket,” remarked Tom, disgustedly, “and lemme go to sleep.
I’m sorry I let you come now!”
Tom rolled himself up sulkily, and Dave lay and thought a while longer,
and then fell asleep.
The sun was just rising when Tom woke again, rather cold and stiff.
He sat up and dug his elbow into Dave’s ribs.
“It’s daylight,” he said; “we’ll have to get into the scrub before
anybody sees us.”
They rolled up the tent and blanket hurriedly, lifted their swags, and
made for cover, Tom leading the way, stooping every now and then beneath
the brambles, or pausing to disentangle himself from the insidious clutch
of the lawyer vines, which reached out their long tentacles armed with
strong, curved teeth to stay him.
Very often the boys had to crawl on their hands and knees under the
dense, scrubby growths for yards.
At length they reached the centre of the island.
They were almost under the fig-tree when Tom Pagdin stopped suddenly and
caught Dave by the arm.