Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustrations.
See 50238-h.htm or 50238-h.zip:
(https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/50238/pg50238-images.html)
or
(https://www.gutenberg.org/files/50238/50238-h.zip)
Transcriber's note:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
STORMY VOYAGE
* * * * * *
Sandy Steele Adventures
Black Treasure
Danger at Mormon Crossing
Stormy Voyage
Fire at Red Lake
Secret Mission to Alaska
Troubled Waters
* * * * * *
Sandy Steele Adventures
STORMY VOYAGE
by
ROGER BARLOW
Simon and Schuster
New York, 1959
All Rights Reserved
Including the Right of Reproduction
in Whole or in Part in Any Form
Copyright © 1959 by Simon and Schuster, Inc.
Published by Simon and Schuster, Inc.
Rockefeller Center, 630 Fifth Avenue
New York 20, N. Y.
First Printing
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 59-13882
Manufactured in the United States of America
By H. Wolff Book Mfg. Co., Inc., New York
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
1 Off to the Mesabi 11
2 The Long Boats 22
3 Bull’s-Eye 34
4 A Plot Discovered 45
5 A New Friend 58
6 Man Overboard! 73
7 In the Locks 81
8 Fire! 93
9 Charged with Arson 105
10 The Unsalted Seas 116
11 The Big Blow 130
12 A Web of Lies 142
13 Cookie to the Rescue 156
14 Checkmated 167
15 Safe in Port 178
16 Summer’s End 184
CHAPTER ONE
Off to the Mesabi
Jerry James’s foot came down gently on the brake pedal of Old Faithful,
his cut-down, open-air jalopy, and as the car slowed, Sandy Steele
vaulted lightly over the side onto the pavement. With a wave of his hand
and the shout, “See you tonight, Jerry,” Sandy whirled and sprinted up
the front walk.
His long, gangling legs gobbled up the distance with astonishing ease
and catapulted Sandy up the porch steps three at a time. But then, after
the screen door had slammed shut behind him, Sandy Steele came to a
sudden halt as though tackled by an entire enemy football team.
“Dad!” he cried. “But I thought you’d be in Alaska by now!”
“Signals off, Sandy,” John Steele said, rising from the porch hammock
and laying aside his evening newspaper. He gazed soberly at his tall,
blond son. “You know, Sandy,” he went on, “I believe you’ve grown
another two inches in the few days I’ve been away.”
“It’s Mom’s cooking,” Sandy said, smiling. He brushed aside the cowlick
that had flopped over his eyes as he ran up the walk. His face resumed
its normal expression of quiet thoughtfulness, and he said, “What
happened, Dad?”
“Change of plans, Sandy. Instead of testing for uranium in Alaska, the
government has decided that I’d better spend the summer on the Mesabi
Range.”
“Mesabi?” Sandy repeated, frowning. Then, brightening, he exclaimed, “Oh
sure. That’s in Minnesota. The ore mines. Mr. Wilson told us all about
it in class the other day. Why are you going there instead of to Alaska,
Dad?”
John Steele’s face became grave.
“I don’t know how much your teacher told you about the Mesabi iron-ore
mines, son. But the truth is that these ore deposits are among our
country’s greatest treasures.” His voice turned grim. “And I’m afraid
they’re running out.”
Sandy looked perplexed. “But I thought there were whole mountains of ore
up there. At least, that’s what Mr. Wilson said.”
“Your teacher’s right, Sandy. But, unfortunately, most of these deposits
are of low-grade ore. As the son of a government geologist, you should
know what that means.” Sandy nodded soberly and automatically lifted a
hand to brush back the cowlick that had fallen forward again. His father
continued, “The average iron content of the Mesabi ore has been dropping
pretty steadily. If it gets much below 50 per cent, it would be doubtful
if it would be worth working. And the Mesabi, son—the Mesabi is the
greatest producer of iron ore in the world.”
“Gee,” Sandy said. “That _is_ serious, isn’t it?”
“Couldn’t be worse, son. From iron ore comes steel, and steel is the
backbone of any modern nation. That’s why it’s important for somebody to
uncover some high-grade deposits. And that,” he said, smiling at the
expression of deep seriousness on the face of his son, “that explains
why John Steele will spend his summer in Minnesota instead of Alaska.”
Suddenly he laughed. Leaning forward, he ruffled Sandy’s hair.
“Come, now. There are other important things in the world. Such as the
score of this afternoon’s game between Valley View and Poplar City. You
haven’t told me who won yet.”
Sandy grinned jubilantly. “We did,” he said. “Three to nothing.”
“Oh, ho! Shut ’em out, eh? How many strike-outs?”
“Twelve,” Sandy said, blushing. “But you should have seen the homer
Jerry hit! Boy! It must have traveled close to four hundred feet in the
air. Honestly, Dad, Jerry James could play in the big leagues if he
wanted to. Why, he’s got a big-league arm already. Today he caught two
men trying to steal second and he picked another man off third.”
Inwardly pleased at his son’s refusal to boast of his shut-out victory,
John Steele said, “Well, the pitching helps, too, Sandy.” He turned to
lead the way into the dining room of their comfortable home, when he was
stopped in his tracks by a cry of dismay from Sandy.
“What’s wrong, son?” he said, turning. “What is it?”
“Alaska!” Sandy burst out. “Don’t you remember, Dad? Jerry and I were
going to join you in Alaska this summer! That’s why we’d saved all the
money we made at Mr. James’s drugstore.”
Sandy’s father struck his forehead with the flat of his hand. “By
George, I’d forgotten all about it,” he said.
“Yes,” Sandy said, dejected. “It looks as if Jerry James and I will be
the only ones around Valley View this summer.” His face darkened.
“Pepper March is going to South America with his father. Won’t he rub it
in when he hears that our Alaska trip is off!” He shook his head. “And
Quiz Taylor’s got a job as counselor at a boys’ camp.”
“Oh, come now,” his father said. “It isn’t that bad. Maybe you and Jerry
can use all that spare time to sharpen up your forward-passing
combination.”
Suddenly, the look of disappointment disappeared from Sandy’s face. In
an instant he was his old high-spirited self, and he all but shouted,
“Dad! Dad! I’ve got it! Why can’t Jerry and I go to Minnesota?”
“Minnesota! What on earth would you do there?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Of course it isn’t as romantic as Alaska and all
that. But still—why, we could even ride cross-country in Old
Faithful—you know, Jerry’s jalopy. We’ve got enough money. And, maybe,”
he said, growing more excited, “maybe by the time we got there, you
could find a job for us in the ore mines!”
“Son,” John Steele said, “it’s an idea.”
“Sure, Dad—it isn’t as though Jerry and I aren’t strong enough to do a
man’s work.”
“Well,” his father said with a grin, “I don’t know for sure if you can
do a man’s work, yet, son—but I do know you can put away a man’s meal.
And unless I miss my guess, that’s fried chicken that I smell cooking in
there. So let’s go in and eat, and talk some more about this Minnesota
business.”
Jerry James was already behind the soda fountain in his father’s
drugstore when Sandy Steele came walking through the door. Sandy put on
a long face as he moved around the counter and began winding a white
apron around his own slender, hard-muscled waist.
“Hey, what’s wrong, Sandy?” Jerry said. “To look at you, you’d think it
was Poplar City that won this afternoon.”
“Bad news, Jerry.”
“What?”
“The Alaska trip’s off.”
“Oh, no!” Jerry groaned. “And after we saved all that money!” He slumped
forward on the counter and propped his lean, lantern jaw into his hands.
Then he ran his hands back over his close-cropped inky-black hair and
said, “I could tear it out by the handful! What happened, Sandy?”
“Dad’s orders were changed,” Sandy replied, carefully making his voice
sound glum. Then, unable to contain himself any longer, he let out a
whoop and whacked his chum soundly on the back. “But we’re going to
Minnesota instead!”
“Minnesota?”
“Sure thing! Dad says he’s pretty sure he can get us jobs in the ore
mines. Honest, Jerry, it’ll be great! Maybe it’s a chance we’d never get
again ... to go east I mean. The mines are right on the Great Lakes, you
know. Who knows? We might even take a trip on the Great Lakes.”
“Sa-ay,” Jerry breathed, his dark eyes gleaming. “That would be
something, wouldn’t it? But how will we get there? I mean, would we have
enough money for the train fare?”
“Don’t be a chump, Jerry. Have you forgotten Old Faithful?”
Well, Jerry James had forgotten. But the instant he remembered it, his
face lighted up with an expression of purest joy.
“What a trip!” he shouted. “Driving Old Faithful all the way from
California to Minnesota! Sleeping out at night under the stars! Boy, oh
boy, Sandy, I can hardly wait until—”
“I can hardly wait any longer,” an unfriendly voice cut in, and, turning
around, both boys looked into the features of Stanley Peperdine March.
“Pepper!” Jerry exclaimed. “Have you been waiting here all this time?”
“I have,” Pepper March said coldly. “I was wondering if you two brave
explorers were ever going to stop telling each other fairy stories.”
“I guess we were kind of charged up,” Jerry said sheepishly. “What’ll
you have, Pepper?”
“A Coke, please. And please remember not to put cracked ice in it.”
“Why no ice, Pepper?”
“It makes my teeth chatter,” Pepper said, and then, hearing Jerry
snicker, he flushed darkly and turned to Sandy to sneer, “So your old
man’s going to Minnesota?”
“Do you mean my father?” Sandy said, with a quiet note of warning in his
voice.
Sandy’s reply flustered Pepper March. He turned away to sip his drink,
pretending not to have heard. Sandy studied his old rival. As usual,
Stanley Peperdine March was dressed in the height of fashion. When
Pepper March was around, it was never hard to tell which boy came from
the wealthiest family in Valley View. In fact, Pepper’s people were
among the richest in the state. And he rarely overlooked a chance to let
the world know about it.
Sandy Steele moved down behind the counter a bit so as to look Pepper in
the eye, and said, “As I said before, Pepper, did you mean my father?”
Pepper looked deliberately at the soda jerk’s cap and white apron that
Sandy wore and said, “It seems to me that you’re getting kind of uppity
for a hired hand.”
Sandy felt himself flushing. He fought hard to keep control of himself,
and he carefully avoided looking into Pepper’s taunting eyes for fear of
getting angrier. Then he felt Jerry’s reassuring hand on his arm and
heard him say, “Be careful, Pepper, I’m warning you.”
“Oh, you two. Can’t you take a little joke? Of course, I meant his
father. What’s the difference, anyway? Father, old man—”
“Careful!” Jerry snapped.
“Oh, all right. All I meant was that I was wondering if Sandy’s old, uh,
if Mr. Steele was going to Minnesota to make ore testings. Is he?”
Pepper rushed on eagerly, dropping his customary air of superiority.
“Nosy, aren’t you?” Jerry grinned, but Sandy stopped him before he could
make further sport of the nettled Pepper.
“Why do you want to know?” Sandy asked evenly.
Pepper shrugged. “Just curious, that’s all.” He finished his Coke and
got off his stool with a jaunty air, and just then, Sandy Steele had a
sudden inspiration.
“I know why you want to know!” he said triumphantly. “That’s why you’re
going to South America with your father, isn’t it? To inspect the South
American ore fields!”
Pepper whirled in anger. “Think you’re smart, don’t you?” he snarled,
and Sandy smiled and said, “_I_ never said it, Pepper.”
“Oh, yes, you do!” Pepper went on, furious by now. “But let me tell you,
Mr. Goody-Goody, maybe we _are_ going to South America to look for ore!
And that’s nobody’s business but ours. And furthermore, my old man says
that anybody who bothers with the Mesabi mines any more must be crazy!
You hear that, Steele? So your old—” he stopped short at a warning
glance from Sandy, before racing on—“so your father’s going to Minnesota
on a wild-goose chase. He isn’t going to find anything but a lot of
dirt! And while you two dopes are sweating away in a worked-out iron
mine, I’ll be sailing up the Orinoco River on my father’s yacht.” He
smirked, threw a dime on the counter, made a little mocking bow at the
door, and went out.
For a moment, there was silence in the drugstore. Then Jerry James
picked up Pepper’s glass, rinsed it and dried it off and returned it to
the shelf. With a wink, he turned to his friend and said, “That Pepper’s
sure a windbag, isn’t he?” Sandy shook his head. His face was sober.
“I wish it was just talk, Jerry,” he said. “But I’m afraid it’s true.
Dad said tonight there was a possibility of just that very thing
happening. And he said it would be a terrible thing for American
industry if we had to start buying our iron ore in South America.”
For another moment, Sandy Steele frowned. He pushed his cowlick back
from his eyes and struck the counter top with the flat of his hand.
“Boy,” he said grimly, “now I’ve got another good reason for hoping that
Dad finds what he’s looking for in Minnesota!”
CHAPTER TWO
The Long Boats
Two weeks later, Old Faithful chugged away from the curb in front of the
Steele home with the farewells of Sandy’s mother ringing in the ears of
both boys.
“Goodbye, Sandy; goodbye, Jerry,” she had cried, waving one hand with a
gaiety that was at odds with the tears forming in her eyes. “Be good
boys, both of you. And please be careful! Give my love to your father,
Sandy.”
“Okay, Mom,” Sandy had shouted back. “And tell Aunt Netty I’ll send her
a postcard.”
Mrs. Steele had nodded and brushed a hand across her eyes. Then she
waved again. For fully another minute, she stood on the porch steps
watching until the freshly painted jalopy piled high with luggage and
other belongings at last disappeared around a corner. Then, with a sigh,
she went inside to begin packing for her own visit to a widowed sister
who lived in northern California.
In the front seat of Old Faithful, meanwhile, there was anything but
tears. Both boys wore wide grins on their faces as they rolled down the
main street in Valley View, waving and calling cheerfully to friends
that they passed. As they neared the bus terminal, they saw Quiz Taylor
herding a group of boys into a big station wagon.
“So long, Quiz,” Sandy called. “See you in September.”
Quiz Taylor looked up and his round, bespectacled face broke into an
affectionate grin. “So long, boys,” he yelled. “Hope you have an
ore-full time.”
Both Jerry and Sandy made wry faces at Quiz’s terrible pun, but then
they burst into good-natured laughter and waved again to their stubby
friend as Old Faithful sped on down the street.
“He’s something, that Quiz,” Jerry said.
“He sure is,” Sandy said. “I kind of wish he were coming along.”
“Well,” Jerry said slowly, spinning the wheel to make the turn that
would take them through the higher part of town lying between them and
the highway, “Quiz would be okay if we were going to write a history
about ore mines. But _working_ in one? Nosirree!”
“I guess you’re right, Jerry. Give Quiz a week up there and he’d have
the whole history of mining memorized, backward and for—”
“Oh, ho,” Jerry said, interrupting. “Do you see what I see?”
Sandy leaned forward. They were passing along Ridge Road, the finest
street in town. A hundred yards ahead of them, in front of the March
mansion, a big black Cadillac limousine was drawn up to the curb. A
uniformed chauffeur held the rear door open while Mr. March got in.
Standing on the curb, awaiting his turn, was Stanley Peperdine March.
“Shall we wave to the stinker?” Jerry asked with a grin.
“Might as well,” Sandy said. “No sense in holding a grudge.”
“Okay,” Jerry said, and as Old Faithful came abreast of the shining,
expensive March car, he tooted the horn gaily and called out, “Hi-ya,
Pepper, old sport.”
“Hi, Pepper,” Sandy yelled, and lifted his hand to wave. But Pepper
March had looked up and stiffened when he heard Jerry’s voice. He stared
straight at them both with open dislike, and then, as Sandy Steele
raised his hand in greeting, Pepper March raised his to his nose and
wiggled his fingers at both of them!
There was a silence in the front seat of Old Faithful. At last, it was
broken by Jerry James, saying in disgust, “See what I mean, Sandy?
You’re too nice to that stinker.”
“Oh, well,” Sandy said. “At least we can look forward to a whole summer
without Pepper.”
Then Jerry slipped his jalopy into second gear as they descended the
steep ramp leading down to the highway. In a moment, they had reached
the broad cement strip and Jerry carefully forced the speedometer up to
a point a few miles below the limit. Then he let out a long exultant
yell. “Only two thousand miles to go, Sandy!” he shouted above the roar
of Old Faithful’s motor.
“Yep,” Sandy said. “Minnesota, here we come!”
What a trip it was, from inland California east and north to the shores
of Lake Superior! The boys alternated at the wheel during those glorious
five days. They averaged 400 miles a day. For the first time, they got a
notion of the grandeur of their country, as Old Faithful whined
patiently up the terrific grades of the Rocky Mountains and the boys
could see the gigantic peaks rearing grandly in the air.
Then they were rushing down again into the valley of the Great Salt Lake
in Utah and through the clean, neat streets of Salt Lake City. After
climbing again into Wyoming, they drove across the Bad Lands of South
Dakota into Minnesota. It was wonderful, indeed, driving by day,
frequently pausing to take in the sights, and sleeping out under the
stars.
One night they chose a farmer’s field to spread their sleeping bags in.
In the morning, Sandy awoke suddenly. He had dreamed that his mother had
come into his bedroom and was smothering him with kisses. “Aw, Mom,” he
protested, “cut the kissing.” When he opened his eyes, he saw that he
was really being kissed—by a big brown cow who was busily licking his
face.
“I guess the cow didn’t like your sleeping on the best eating-grass,”
Jerry laughed as they ran from the field and jumped back into Old
Faithful.
That was on the morning of the last day, and by that afternoon, they had
driven through Duluth and finally come to the Lake Superior port of Two
Harbors—not far from the Mesabi pits inland.
When the two of them got their first glimpse of the lake they couldn’t
believe their eyes.
“It’s as big as the ocean,” Sandy said in amazement.
“You can’t even see the sides, let alone the other end,” Jerry said. “It
sure is different seeing a thing than reading about it in school.”
But they _really_ boggled when they saw the enormous ore docks built out
into the water, with the famous “long boats” of the Great Lakes nestled
beneath them. The size of the equipment for loading the boats with
precious ore was truly unbelievable.
“They’re like skyscrapers lying on their sides,” Sandy said. “Look,
look, Jerry! See all those railroad cars up on top of the docks. There
must be hundreds of them.”
“Railroad cars! Is that what they are? They look like Tootsie Toys from
here.”
“Yes, but how about those ore boats? I never saw ships so long. Look at
that big one over there, will you, Jerry? It must be twice as long as a
football field.”
Although Sandy was not aware of it, he had come pretty close to hitting
a bull’s-eye. Some of the ships, or boats as they call the Great Lakes
vessels, actually were 600 feet and more in length, and a football
field, as Sandy well knew, is only 300 feet long. Just then, the boys
heard a terrific clanking and clanging above them. Looking up, they saw
a gigantic crane seize a railroad car as though it truly were a toy,
turn it over in the air and let the ore run out of it—like a boy shaking
sand from his shoes. The ore dropped down through chutes into the holds
of the freighters below.
For a full minute, neither youth could speak. They were too filled with
admiration for the vast industry their country had created on the shores
of the inland seas, and too full of pride in the achievement.
Then Sandy said, “We’d better go find my father before it gets too
dark.”
Jerry nodded and they climbed back into Old Faithful and drove on. At
last, when they came to what appeared to be a series of hills filled
with puffing and panting steam shovels occupied in slicing deep cuts
into the hillside, Jerry stopped the car in front of a sign that said:
Lake Ore Mines, Inc.
“That’s it!” Sandy exclaimed. “That’s where Dad’s doing his testing.
Lake Ore Mines. Come on, Jerry, drive through the gate.”
“But, Sandy,” Jerry said in disbelief. “These can’t be mines. I don’t
see any mine shafts.”
Sandy grinned. “If you’d paid more attention to Mr. Wilson instead of
diagraming football plays you’d know that the Mesabi doesn’t have
shafts. There’s so much ore on top of the ground here that they don’t
need them. They just skim it off with steam shovels. Strip mining, they
call it.” With a sheepish shrug of his broad shoulders, Jerry James let
out the clutch and Old Faithful leaped ahead. They drove along a bumpy
dirt road, raising clouds of dust. They went for about a mile across a
maze of railroad tracks over which the ore cars passed, before they
reached a rough wooden shack.
The front door opened and a short, strongly built man stepped out. He
had the rolling gait of a sea captain, and from this and the nautical,
visored cap that he wore, Sandy guessed that he was a skipper of one of
the ore boats. The man stopped and looked at them, and both boys saw
that he had a small, flat nose, little brown, close-set eyes and thin,
tight lips. He needed a shave, too.
“Pardon me, sir,” Sandy said politely. “But can you direct us to the
Government Geologist’s station?”
The man paused and gave them a searching look before he answered. “Back
there,” he said, jerking his finger over his shoulder—and walked away.
Jerry and Sandy exchanged glances. Then the shack door opened again.
This time, John Steele stepped out—trim and youthful-looking in his
leggings and whipcord breeches and open-necked shirt and wearing the
campaign hat he’d saved from his days in the U.S. Marines.
“Dad!” Sandy shouted, overjoyed. He almost knocked his friend down in
his haste to greet his father.
“Well, well,” John Steele said. “If it isn’t the adventure twins from
Valley View, California. How are you, son?” he said, grasping Sandy’s
hand. Then he gave Jerry a hearty whack on the arm. “Glad to see you
again, Jerry. How was the trip out?”
“Great, sir!” Jerry said with enthusiasm. “I’ll never forget it.”
“That’s the ticket. Do these things while you’re young, boys. Sort of
gives you a cushion of memories for your old age.”
John Steele’s face went grave.
“You didn’t get my telegram, did you, Sandy?”
“Telegram, sir?”
“I see you didn’t. Well, boys, buck up—there’s another dose of bad news
coming. I’m afraid I won’t be able to get jobs for you.”
“No jobs!” the two youths chorused disbelievingly.
“That’s right. This low-grade ore situation has gotten so bad that ...
well, to make a long story short, boys, there’s not as much work around
here as there used to be. And that means jobs only for those who really
need them.”
Sandy and Jerry stood as though thunderstruck. They felt as though their
world had suddenly caved in on them. Neither of them knew what to say,
but both felt the same weary, sinking feeling in their stomachs. For a
long second, Sandy Steele stared at his father. It had been on the tip
of his tongue to argue with him, to say that they could do the job as
well as any grown man. But Sandy knew better.
He knew that his father would be angered by any such suggestion. He
would remind Sandy that most of the men in the mines were family men
with responsibilities. No, Sandy thought, this is just another one of
those times where I’ve got to “take it on the chin,” as Dad says.
Taking it on the chin was sort of a Steele family motto. John Steele had
no use for whiners or whimperers, boys who complained that their coach
didn’t like them or their teacher was unfair. He had always taught his
son to be dogged. “It’s the dogged men who get things done, Sandy,” he
would say. “Even if most of the world’s applause often goes to the
flash-in-the-pan.”
Remembering this, Sandy lifted his chin and tried to grin. “What do we
do now, Dad,” he said, “punt?”
Mr. Steele smiled. “That’s the spirit, son,” he said. “Now, listen. The
sun will come up tomorrow just as it always does and by then you may be
over this little disappointment. So supposing you two walk around the
mines a bit while I finish my work, and then we can have dinner and talk
things over.”
“Okay, Dad,” Sandy said.
“Sure thing, Mr. Steele,” said Jerry.
Trying to hold their heads higher than they felt like holding them, the
two boys turned and strolled off toward the lake shore. As they walked,
they hardly heard the rattle-and-bang of the steam shovels digging ever
deeper into the hillsides. Nor were they very much aware of the railroad
cars that would receive the ore and then go clattering out on the ore
docks to fill the holds of the ships. They were too deeply plunged into
gloomy thoughts of the long, dull summer that lay ahead of them back
home in Valley View.
CHAPTER THREE
Bull’s-Eye
Suddenly, Sandy Steele stiffened. He grabbed his chum by the arm and
pointed in horror toward the lake.
There, not a hundred feet away, an elderly, white-haired, finely dressed
gentleman stood gazing at one of the loading boats. He was absolutely
unaware of the certain death that traveled toward him in the shape of a
wildly swinging ore bucket.
“Down!” Sandy shouted. “Down, sir!”
The old man did not hear him. There was too much clamor about him.
Sandy and Jerry both dug their toes into the hard surface of the ground
beneath them—like track sprinters ready to go off their mark. But the
man was too far away. They could not have covered twenty feet before
that horrible bucket would have done its awful work. With dreadful
speed, the huge bucket—weighing two tons or more—was swinging closer,
ever closer. And still the old man was unconscious of the fact that
perhaps only a few seconds lay between his life and his death.
With a cry of despair, Sandy Steele sought to tear his eyes away. But he
could not. Sandy was not that sort of youth. In anguish, his eyes roved
the surrounding area—hunting for some means to save the old man’s life.
Then they fell upon a chunk of ore. It was just a trifle bigger than a
baseball.
Without a second’s delay, Sandy Steele pounced upon the piece of ore. He
grasped it with his two-fingered, pitcher’s grip and whirled and threw
with all his might. Every ounce of strength in Sandy Steele’s lanky,
cablelike muscles went into that throw. The ore left his hand and
whizzed toward the big bucket with all the speed that had had the Poplar
City batters eating out of Sandy’s hand only a few weeks ago.
CLANG!
The ore struck the bucket with a resounding, echoing ring!
Instantly, the old man’s head turned.
He saw death but a few feet from his head.
In the next instant, he dropped to the ground and the bucket passed
harmlessly above him.
“Are you all right, sir?” Sandy Steele cried.
Both Sandy and Jerry had charged up to the old man’s assistance
immediately after Sandy had made his splendid throw. Now, they helped
him regain his feet.
“Why, I guess I _am_ all right, boys,” the man said, giving just the
smallest shudder as he dusted himself off. “But one more second, and I
guess I _wouldn’t_ be.” He looked sharply at Sandy.
“Was it you who threw that rock?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, son, it must have been a great throw. Worthy of old Christy
Mathewson himself. But better than that, boy, you saved my life. And I’m
much obliged.” He held out his hand. “What’s your name, son?”
“Steele, sir. Sandy Steele. This is my friend Jerry James.”
“Pleased to meet you, boys. My name is John Kennedy.” He adjusted his
coat lapels and turned to look out at the loading docks again. “See that
boat out there? That’s one of mine. The _James Kennedy_. Named after my
father, boys. He founded the family shipping line.” A shadow passed over
the man’s normally ruddy and pleasant features. “I guess I was too busy
watching the _James Kennedy_ loading to notice that confounded bucket
was getting set to whack my head off.” Mr. Kennedy shot them a sly look.
“Like to go aboard her?”
“Would we!”
“I’ll say!”
Smiling, Mr. Kennedy led the way toward the long narrow ore freighter.
Loading operations had been completed by the time they reached the dock,
so they were allowed to proceed with little danger. They walked in awe
beneath the now silent ore chutes, conscious as never before of their
great size. Then, when they had come abreast of the _James Kennedy_’s
wheelhouse and superstructure in the after part of the ship, their host
said genially, “All right now, boys—hop to it. Down the ramp there and
wait for me.”
As Sandy’s feet struck the slightly grimy steel deck, he noticed that
the crewmen were busily covering up the load of ore that had just been
deposited in the vessel’s holds. For a moment, he watched them. Then he
gave a start.
The man who was directing them was the same short, powerfully built man
that they had seen coming out of John Steele’s field-testing shack a
little earlier.
“Oh, ho,” said Mr. Kennedy, observing Sandy’s gesture. “So you know
Captain West, eh?”
“Not exactly, sir. But I do remember seeing him coming out of my
father’s field station only a few minutes ago.”
“Your father’s field sta—” Mr. Kennedy struck his hands together
sharply. “Why, of course! How could I have missed the resemblance!
You’re John Steele’s son, aren’t you?” Sandy nodded proudly, and Mr.
Kennedy rambled on, beaming: “Nothing like having your life saved by
your friend’s son. Sort of keeps it in the family. And I certainly must
tell John Steele what a fine boy he has! Ah, that’s it—down that ladder
there. Smells like we’re just in time, boys.”
Still chuckling, Mr. Kennedy gingerly followed Sandy and Jerry as they
clambered down a narrow, steep, iron stairway that led into a cabin
fitted with a long table having benches on either side. A few of the
crewmen in faded blue shirts and dungarees were already seated, eating.
They smiled at the two youths.
“This is the galley, boys,” Mr. Kennedy said. “Ah, here’s Cookie.”
Sandy and Jerry burst out laughing as the little man shuffled into the
galley, and then, seeing them, threw up his hands in mock horror and
made a dive as though to save the platters of food on the table from
destruction.
“S.O.S.,” he wailed, “S.O.S. Save Our Suppers!”
“All right, Cookie,” Mr. Kennedy chuckled. “That’ll be enough. How about
rustling up a feed for my two young friends? This lad here,” he started
to say, looking at Sandy. But then, seeing Sandy blush, he went on:
“This lad here has just done the Kennedy Shipping Line a great favor.
Show him how we treat our friends, Cookie.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Cookie said, bobbing his bald head and grinning. He
shuffled off, and when he returned, he almost staggered under the burden
of the platter he held. Boy, Sandy and Jerry thought, eying the platter
hungrily, Mr. Kennedy sure does treat his friends well!
There were thick, juicy steaks and plates of French fried potatoes,
pitchers of cold milk and plates of hot rolls and hard, cold butter—and,
after dinner, two kinds of pie and plenty of ice cream.
“Boy, oh, boy,” Jerry James said weakly, after he had at last put down
his fork. “I’d say that meal was worth the drive from California—even if
we didn’t get jobs in the mines.”
“Jobs?” Mr. Kennedy said. “Mines?”
“Yes, sir,” Sandy put in. “You see, Dad thought that he’d be able to
land us summer jobs. That’s why Jerry and I drove all the way from
Valley View, where we live. But when we got here, Dad told us that work
was so slow in the mines there just weren’t any jobs.”
As he spoke, Sandy’s good spirits began to drop a little. So did
Jerry’s. For the moment, in the excitement of the events following the
incident with the ore bucket, they had forgotten all about their
disappointment. But now they realized once more that they were stranded
2,000 miles from home, without a job and just enough money to take them
right back where they’d started from.
Mr. Kennedy looked at them soberly. “That _is_ too bad,” he said. “But
what your father says about the mines is true, Sandy.” He frowned. “How
I wish it were not! Listen, boys, and I’ll let you in on a little
business secret.” They leaned toward him, and Mr. Kennedy went on. “This
boat, the _James Kennedy_, is making one of my firm’s last runs down the
lakes to Buffalo.” He shook his head. “There’s just nothing to be done
about this low-grade-ore situation, and I’ve decided to sell the
shipping line.” He grimaced. “In fact, I’m selling out to my worst
competitor, not the sort of fellow I’d like to sit down to dinner with,
boys. But he’s made me an offer, and I’m taking it.
“That’s business, boys. So, you young fellows have the rather doubtful
honor of sitting in the galley of the last of the Kennedy boats to—”
Mr. Kennedy’s mouth came open and he brought his clenched hand down on
the table with a crash that startled Sandy and Jerry.
“Why not?” he said, smiling at them.
“Why not what, sir?” Sandy asked in polite puzzlement.
“Why not sign on a pair of young huskies from California as a sort of
small reward for saving this leathery old skin of mine—that’s what!”
Sandy Steele drew a sharp breath of joy and Jerry James had to keep from
jumping on the mess table to dance a jig.
“You don’t mean it, sir!” Sandy gasped.
“Certainly, I mean it. Why, wouldn’t you boys rather see the Great Lakes
from the decks of a long boat than from the bottom of some dusty old ore
digging?”
“Would we!” Jerry shouted. “Just ask us, that’s all—just ask us!”
“I already have,” Mr. Kennedy said, chuckling. He was obviously enjoying
the sensation his offer had created.
“Well, then, we accept,” Sandy Steele said quickly. “When do we start?”
“You can come aboard tonight, if you like. In fact, you probably should.
The _James Kennedy_ is shoving off in the morning. You’d better not take
any chances on missing her.”
“Right,” Sandy said, grinning in delight at his friend Jerry. Then, his
face fell and he exclaimed, “Dad! We promised Dad we’d have dinner with
him!”
Mr. Kennedy glanced at his watch. “Why, it’s only six o’clock,” he said.
“If I know John Steele, he’ll be working well past that.” Looking up, he
said, “Don’t tell me two deck hands like yourselves are going to object
to eating a second dinner?”
Jerry James grinned sheepishly. “Well, sir, if you put it that way—I
guess not. In fact,” he said, rubbing his stomach gently, “I’m not quite
as full as I thought I was.”
“I thought so,” Mr. Kennedy said, getting to his feet and leading the
way out of the galley. “Now,” he continued, puffing at the exertion of
climbing the ladder topside, “you boys had better get your things
together and report back here to Captain West. He’ll be notified that
you’re shipping aboard. Captain West’s one of the finest skippers on the
Kennedy Line.”
They walked together to the lake shore. At the end of the dock, Sandy
could see a handsome, well-kept limousine—not flashy and loaded with
chrome, like Pepper March’s.
“I’m driving back to Buffalo, boys,” Mr. Kennedy told them. “Getting too
old to weather those Great Lakes storms, I guess. I’ve sailed the
Kennedy boats since I was fifteen, but now....” His voice trailed off
and his kindly face saddened. “Well, now, I guess things are changing.
The Kennedy boats will soon be the Chadwick boats. By the time I get
home, I suppose Paul Chadwick will have the whole deal drawn up and
waiting for my signature.”
He held out his hand. “Goodbye, boys. Have a happy voyage—and remember
to give your father my best, Sandy.” He turned and walked slowly to the
car and the chauffeur who held a rear door open for him. He was a
mournful figure as he got in the back and drove off in silence.
Sandy and Jerry waved as the car departed, and then Sandy said through
clenched teeth, “Oh, how I hope Dad can locate some high-grade ore
deposits!”
“Me, too!” Jerry James exclaimed. “I’d hate to see a fine old gentleman
like Mr. Kennedy forced to sell his shipping line.”
“And to someone he doesn’t trust!” Sandy added, his face serious and his
voice grim. “Come on, Jerry, we’d better hurry if we want to get to
Dad’s place before dark.”
CHAPTER FOUR
A Plot Discovered
“Now, supposing I tell you my good news?”
The speaker was John Steele. He asked his question as he and Sandy and
Jerry carried their loaded trays from the cafeteria-style mess hall to
their table on a terrace outdoors overlooking the lake.
Ever since the two youths had rejoined Sandy’s father—almost bumping
into Captain West as he came out of the field shack for the second time
that day—they had been eagerly recounting their good fortune. Sandy’s
father had been delighted to hear that his old friend John Kennedy had
signed on his son and Jerry for the Duluth-to-Buffalo run. At one point,
when he asked Sandy how they had met Mr. Kennedy, Sandy flushed and
looked away.
Jerry James had proudly jumped into the breach. “Sandy saved Mr.
Kennedy’s life, Mr. Steele,” Jerry had said.
Then, of course, nothing would do but that Jerry should relate the
entire episode while John Steele listened with shining eyes. At last,
Mr. Steele had proposed dinner. Now, as he said, “Supposing I tell you
my good news?” Sandy was glad to have someone change the subject.
“Sure, Dad,” he said. “Fire away.”
John Steele drew a deep breath. “I’ve discovered some high-grade ore
deposits,” he said.
For the second time that day, Sandy and Jerry felt a wild thrill of joy.
For a day that had started out so badly, things were indeed looking up!
“Wonderful, Dad, wonderful! Where?”
“Not too far from Lake Superior. Of course, they’ll have to run the
railroad spur a bit farther inland, but that’s really no problem.” John
Steele’s voice took on a note of pride. “Matter of fact, these deposits
are rather rich. Sixty per cent iron content, I’d say—maybe even more.”
“What a day, huh, Jerry? Just think, this means that Mr. Kennedy may not
have to sell his lake boats, after all.”
“That’s right, son. If this vein is as rich as I think it is, he may
even have to build a few more boats—to take care of the load.”
Sandy Steele’s eyes sparkled with excitement. “Dad,” he burst out, “I’ve
got a great idea!”
“What’s that, Sandy?”
“Where can I get in touch with Mr. Kennedy? He was leaving for Buffalo.”
“Why, I would say he’s heading for Minneapolis first. He won’t be there
until quite late. Why, Sandy—what do you have in mind?”
“I’m going to put in a long-distance call and tell him the good news!
After all, he’s been pretty good to Jerry and me. This is the least we
can do for him.”
“I’d say you’ve been pretty helpful already, Sandy,” Mr. Steele drawled.
Then, smiling, he went on, “But you don’t need to worry. That’s all been
taken care of. Captain West has been informed, and he will tell Mr.
Kennedy.”
“Oh,” Sandy said, a note of doubt mingling with the disappointment in
his voice.
“Sandy!” John Steele’s voice was sharp. “What did you mean by that ‘Oh’?
You make it sound as though Captain West is not to be trusted.”
“Oh, no, sir,” Sandy rushed on, embarrassed. “Nothing of the kind. I
don’t even know him, Dad—except by sight. And I’ve heard Mr. Kennedy
himself say that Captain West was a very fine skipper.”
“He is that,” Sandy’s father said, relaxing. “I guess I misunderstood
you, son.”
“Anyway,” Jerry James put in, “it will all be in the newspapers, won’t
it, Mr. Steele?”
“Not exactly, Jerry. You see, these things take weeks, even after you’ve
made your initial discovery. Not that I’m not certain of these deposits.
Far from it! I’ve never been more so. But there is always a certain
amount of time before a report is properly nailed down—firmly enough for
the newspapers to print it, that is.”
“But what you’ve discovered today, Dad—that’s enough to make Mr. Kennedy
change his mind about selling?”
“It certainly is!”
“Good,” Sandy said. Then, laying down his knife and fork, he leaned back
in his chair with a sigh. He brushed back his cowlick and looked
sorrowfully at the slice of roast beef remaining on his plate.
“Honestly,” he said, “I don’t think I’ve got room for another single
ounce.”
“Well, well,” Jerry James said, apologetically, as he reached over and
speared the morsel with his fork. “I think that I just might be able to
handle it.”
The unbelievably long silhouette of the _James Kennedy_ lay long and
dark like a great sea serpent against the looming bulk of the ore dock
as Sandy Steele and Jerry James returned to the lake shore. They carried
suitcases in which they had hurriedly stuffed the few things they’d be
needing for shipboard life. Each had put in soap and comb and toothpaste
and toothbrushes and two sets of dungarees for working hours, plus a
good pair of slacks and a sport shirt for those days when they hoped to
go ashore in Great Lakes ports like Detroit or Cleveland.
They had disposed of Old Faithful easily enough. Sandy’s father had been
pleased to take charge of Jerry’s jalopy while they were gone. It was
just what he needed for the short trips between his field shack and the
ore borings.
As the two friends walked up the _James Kennedy_’s ramp, their feet were
dragging just a trifle. They had had a long and eventful day, and they
were tired. When they stepped on deck, Jerry lost his balance and
stumbled. Sandy had to shoot out an arm to keep him from falling.
Suddenly, out of the dark, a voice growled, “Late, ain’cha?”
Sandy stopped dead, his hand still grasping Jerry’s arm. He heard a low
snicker, and then the voice said, “Jumpy, too, ain’cha?”
“Well, no,” Sandy Steele said slowly, his eyes searching the darkness.
“Where are you?”
“Over here.”
As their eyes became accustomed to the darkness, the two youths made out
the figure of a tall man seated on a canvas chair. He leaned back
against the bulkhead and stared at them from unfriendly eyes.
“I guess you two are Ma Kennedy’s little chicks,” he sneered. “That
right?”
Sandy Steele felt a quick rush of anger. But he controlled himself and
said, “We’re the men Mr. Kennedy signed on, if that’s what you mean.”
“Men!” The tall man slapped his feet on the deck and cackled. “‘Men,’ he
says! Ain’t that a hot one?” He glared at them. “Which one of you’s
named Steele?”
“I am,” Sandy said.
“Go down below and report to the skipper. He’s waiting for you. First
deck down, first cabin to starboard.”
“To starboard?” Sandy repeated, and then, remembering that he was aboard
ship, he blushed in the dark. The tall man’s cackle of derision didn’t
help his self-control any. But Sandy resolved to ignore the man. With a
reassuring squeeze of Jerry’s arm, he left his friend and clambered
below.
Going down the ladder, Sandy Steele hoped the unfriendly tall man would
not make Jerry a target for his ridicule. Jerry James was good-natured
enough, but he did have a hair-trigger temper.
When Sandy reached Captain West’s cabin, he stopped and knocked.
“Come in,” a gruff voice called, and Sandy pulled the heavy bulkhead
open and stepped inside a small, dimly lighted room. Captain West was
seated at a desk. He had his back to the door, but he swung around when
Sandy entered. Sandy noticed that he still hadn’t shaved. Apparently he
had been writing a letter, for he laid down a fountain pen with the air
of a man who has been interrupted.
“Who are you?” Captain West growled, even though Sandy was sure that he
had recognized him.
“Sandy Steele is my name, sir.”
“Oh, you’re one of the two kids old man Kennedy—” Captain West stopped
and ran a thick stubby hand across his lips. “How well do you know
Kennedy?” he snapped.
Sandy was taken aback. “I don’t understand you, sir.”
“Don’t play dumb with me, Steele. You know what I mean. Are you a
relative of his, or something? A nephew, maybe?”
“No, sir. I met him today for the first time.”
Captain West showed his disbelief. His thin lips parted and he started
to laugh. It wasn’t a friendly laugh. Listening to it made Sandy feel
anything but good-humored.
“C’mon, kid.” Captain West stared. “Let’s have the truth. What’s your
connection with Old Man Kennedy?”
Sandy Steele was furious inwardly. He hadn’t liked the way the tall man
topside had referred to Mr. Kennedy, but to hear Captain West—the valued
skipper of the Kennedy Shipping Line—going on in the same disrespectful
tone, well, that was going too far.
“I _am_ telling the truth, Captain,” Sandy said coldly. “I only met
_Mr._ Kennedy today, and that was by accident.” Captain West raised his
thick, dark eyebrows quizzically, and Sandy, with great reluctance,
launched into the tale of the ore bucket.
When he had finished, he found, to his amazement, that Captain West was
regarding him with what could only be disgust!
“So _that’s_ the answer,” Captain West muttered. With a sort of
displeasure, he swung around and began writing again.
“All right, Steele,” he said over his shoulder. “Mr. Briggs will show
you and the other boy to your quarters. And you can report to Cookie in
the morning.”
“Cookie!”
Sandy Steele couldn’t believe his ears. Before he could stop himself, he
had taken two quick steps around to the side of Captain West’s desk.
With swift, reddening anger, Captain West threw down his fountain pen
and slapped two hairy paws over the letter he’d been writing.
“Are you insubordinate already?” he shouted. “Who do you think you are,
questioning a skipper’s orders like that? D’ya think I’m going to let a
pair of punk kids the likes of you work topside where the men are? Not
on your life! You’ll report to the galley where you belong, and leave
the men’s work to the men. Now, get out of my sight!”
Sandy Steele felt himself going hot and cold by turns. He clenched and
unclenched his fists as he stood there, looking down into the little
piggish eyes of Captain West. They seemed to gleam wickedly in the
reflected light of the desk lamp. Finally, with a low, mumbled “Aye,
aye, sir,” Sandy Steele turned slowly around and left.
Abovedeck, he found Mr. Briggs. Apparently, he had not bothered to make
game of Jerry, for the two of them stood against the rail gazing out at
the moon that had just begun to rise over Lake Superior. In the light of
the moonlight shimmering on the water, Mr. Briggs got a look at Sandy’s
whitened face.
“Ho, ho,” he cackled. “Skipper gave you the rough side of his tongue,
eh? Well, you’ll get used to it. Here, let me show you two below.”
They went down, down and down, to the lowest hold, and as they descended
the ladder, Sandy Steele wondered to himself if he could ever possibly
get used to an insulting man like Captain West. He was thinking the same
thing as he and Jerry tumbled wearily into the bunks which occupied
almost all the space in their tiny cabin. Jerry slept below, and Sandy
above.
The more Sandy thought of Captain West, the more convinced he became
that he and Jerry should leave the ship before the _James Kennedy_ cast
off her moorings and got under way. But, no, he thought again, that
would be too much like quitting. Still, what were they to do? For some
unexplained reason, Captain West despised them and was determined to
make their voyage as unpleasant as he could. But why? Sandy could not
understand it. He forced his tired brain to go over all the events of
the day. He could recall seeing Captain West twice at his father’s field
station. Then, he had seen him again when Mr. Kennedy brought them
aboard ship. Apart from that, he had never seen the man before.
Suddenly, in a tiny corner of Sandy Steele’s brain, a light flashed.
Astounded, unable to believe what he remembered seeing, Sandy shot
erect. His head struck the overhead a painful blow, and below him Jerry
James sputtered out of a sound sleep.
“Sandy! Sandy, what happened?”
“I just hit my head, but never mind that, Jerry,” Sandy whispered.
“Listen, remember when Mr. Kennedy was saying so sadly that the Kennedy
boats would have another name soon?”
“Yes?”
“Can you remember the other name?”
“Sure. It was Chadwick. He said he was completing a deal with Paul
Chadwick.”
Jerry James heard a sharp hiss above him, and then the rustling of
bedclothes. Then, to his surprise, a pair of long, lean-muscled legs
dropped down in front of his eyes. In the next instant, Sandy Steele was
crouching in his underwear alongside Jerry’s bunk, whispering excitedly.
“Chadwick! That’s it! Listen, Jerry, when I came in to Captain West’s
cabin tonight, I interrupted him as he was writing a letter. I didn’t
mean to see who it was addressed to, but I did.” Sandy paused
dramatically. “It was addressed to Mr. Paul Chadwick!”