THE STREAK ON THE WATER
The Navy boys arrived at the patch of shallow water over the Blue Reef
at about noon. By that time the fog was pretty well dissipated, and they
had a clear view of miles and miles of sea as well as of the coastline
behind them and the narrow entrance to the cove.
The submarine chaser was out of sight. No other craft appeared upon the
open sea beyond the _Sue Bridger's_ present anchorage. The boys threw
out a little chum, and then dropped their hooks.
"First nibble!" whispered Torry. "Now watch me play him."
But the first few "nibbles" proved to be merely "hook-cleaners." The
fish got the bait, and the boys had the exercise of swishing their lines
in and out of the water.
Channel bass run to large sizes. Torry told about seeing one hung up on
the dock at Seacove weighing sixty-four and a quarter pounds.
"That's all right," grumbled Frenchy, who had just lost a nibbler, "but
a two-pound one will satisfy me. What would we do with a
sixty-four-pound bass?"
"Keep it alive and teach it to draw a little red wagon," chuckled Ikey.
"Oi, oi! That would be fine!"
"It would be as big as Dugan's goat. Don't know why it shouldn't be
tackled up and made use of," Whistler agreed, dryly.
"Only they lack feet--Gee-whillikins! what's this?" burst forth Torry.
He certainly had a bite at last. His reel hummed and the fish started
for the coast of Spain; or, at least, in that general direction.
He had to play the fish well to save his line, for the latter was
neither a very heavy one, nor new. The bass ran stubbornly out to sea.
"That's a whale, Torry," Whistler declared, breaking off in a military
tune to make the observation. "You should have harpooned it."
"I'm going to get him aboard here if I swamp the boat!" declared Torry
with vigor.
The boys were so interested in his playing the fish for the next ten
minutes that they did not cast a glance shoreward. Finally the bass was
tired out, and Torry drew him in close to the boat. Whistler leaned over
the side and, with a maul, tapped the bass on the head.
But when he got his hand in the gills of the fish they clamped down upon
his fingers, and, in the struggle, he was almost hauled out of the
boat.
"Hey! Help!" he bawled. "What are you fellows? Just passengers?"
Frenchy gave him a hand on one side and Ikey on the other; between them
the trio hauled a ten-pound bass over the gunwale. Torry was dancing
around in glee and shouting at the top of his voice.
"Hush!" commanded Whistler. "You'll scare even the sharks and dogfish
away."
"Or you'll dance through the rotten old bottom boards of the boat and
we'll have to walk ashore," added Frenchy.
But it was a great catch, and the others could feel nothing but envy of
Torry's success. He had set a pace that none of them could equal; for
after that there did not seem to be another bass of even two pounds'
weight in the whole ocean.
"Hey, fellows!" ejaculated Ikey suddenly. "Who's this coming?"
"Somebody walking on the water, is it?" chuckled Frenchy.
"Aw, you needn't be correcting my English," responded Ikey. "There are
no medals on you for being a purist."
"Wow, wow!" yelled Torry. "Listen to him sling language."
"Hold on, fellows," Whistler said, diving for the glass he never went
to sea without. "That's no smack."
They all had turned to look at the approaching craft which Ikey had
first sighted. It was a power boat and was running parallel with the
coast in a southeasterly direction and inshore of the anchorage of the
_Sue Bridger_.
She was about forty feet long and was showing some speed; but her hull
looked battered, and there was nothing natty or yacht-like about her.
"No pleasure craft, that," ventured Torry, as Phil trained his glasses
on her. "She's too slouchy."
"She's got speed, just the same," observed Frenchy. "What's her name,
Phil?"
"Can't make it out," returned Morgan. Then immediately he uttered a
surprised ejaculation.
"What's up?" Torry asked him.
Whistler said nothing but he drew his chum up beside him and thrust the
glass into his hand. "Look at that fellow," he commanded.
"Which fellow?" asked Torry trying to focus the glass on the strange
craft.
"The man forward. He's looking this way. See! The man with the
whiskers," whispered Morgan.
"I see him," returned Torry.
The other boys were giving more attention to their fishing again.
Whistler was very much in earnest, and he spoke softly in his chum's
ear:
"You've seen him before. It's the man we saw in the bushes up there by
the Elmvale Dam the other day. Remember, Al?"
"Gee! Yes!" breathed Torry.
"They told me his name was Blake. He doesn't look it," said Whistler
earnestly. "He looks more like a German than Hansie Hertig--and that's
enough!"
"Aw----"
"Of course, he can't help that," agreed Whistler before Torrance could
voice objection. "But he is a stranger in Elmvale. He works at the
munition factory. You'd think of course they'd be careful who they
employ. But he wouldn't be the first alien that has been employed in
such a factory."
"What are you driving at, Phil?" demanded his chum, much puzzled now.
"I found something up there near the dam that I didn't tell you fellows
about. And it is something that I think that man's interested in. Now,
what's he out here for?"
"For a sail."
"In that old tub that is full of oil casks and the like?"
"Whistler Morgan!" breathed Torry in amazement, "how do you know at this
distance what kind of cargo that boat has?"
"Why, she fairly reeks of oil!" said Whistler confidently. "See that
streak along the water in her wake--that purplish, reddish streak?"
"I see it!" admitted Torry in a moment.
"Nothing but oil would do that. She's got leaky casks aboard. And where
would an oil lighter be going out this way? Where is she coming from and
where is she going? And what is that bewhiskered Blake doing aboard her?
Tell me that, will you?"
But the wondering and excited Torrance could not answer these
questions.