That’s their fault, too! The skipper didn’t want to make for Buffalo so
soon. But he had to. With a couple of firebugs like them aboard, he said
he couldn’t take any chances!”
The big man named Dick let out a low growl.
“How about Perkins, Dick?” the mate added, deliberately attempting to
goad the big man into a rage. “Perkins was your friend, wasn’t he, Dick?
And now he’s on the bottom of Lake Erie, washed over the side in a storm
we never should have been in! All because of a couple of dirty brats who
haven’t shaved yet!”
The big man shook his head. He got to his feet and gazed down at the
mate. He clenched and unclenched his hamlike hands and another deep
growl rumbled from his chest.
“What are you going to do, Dick?” his friend Bogert asked. The little
man was slightly nervous.
“I’m gonna pay ’em back,” the big man said slowly. He blinked his eyes
stupidly. “I’ve been starvin’ and I lost my best friend and I almost got
washed overboard myself and it’s all on account of them kids. I’m gonna
pay ’em back, Bogert.” He turned to the mate and growled, “Where are
they?”
But he needn’t have asked.
At that moment, Sandy Steele walked down the hall with a bucket. He
needed more water to freshen his friend’s bandages.
“There he is!” the mate shouted. “There’s the wise one—the one that
called me a liar!”
The big man whirled and pounced. Before Sandy knew what was happening,
he had been grasped by the collar and spun around. There was not even
time to struggle. The big man held him firmly in that left hand and drew
back his big right fist for a smashing blow.
“Wise kid,” Dick muttered. “I’m gonna give you a good one from old
Perkins.”
Sandy started to duck.
But the blow never landed.
Instead, it was Dick himself who was whirled around now, while an angry
voice said, “Ay tank Ay give you goot wan.”
Then there was a sharp spat of bone meeting bone. An expression of
amazement came over Dick’s face. Then his face went blank and his knees
buckled and he sank gently to the deck.
Gunnar smiled and lifted his enormous right fist for the rest of the
shocked sailors to see.
“Ay yust tell you maybe Ay hit real hard next time.”
Murmurs of admiration came from the lips of the onlookers, and at that
moment, Mr. Briggs sought to steal from the room. But Sam, who had also
been awakened, moved to head him off.
“What’s your hurry, mate?” he asked easily.
“Well, er, I was, er, just going to....” Mr. Briggs stammered, clearing
his throat. He cast a nervous glance at the big Swede, who stood glaring
at him while, behind him, the big man, Dick, slowly pushed himself up
from the deck. “Well, you see—” the mate stuttered, but then his eyes
lost their fear and his face grew spiteful and defiant again as Captain
West came sloshing into the room.
“What’s going on here?” he bellowed.
Every head spun toward him and there was a babble of excited voices in
reply. But, of course, it was Mr. Briggs who answered the skipper’s
question.
“Oh, nothing at all, sir,” he said, giving Captain West a broad wink.
“Just a bit of friendly horseplay, that’s all, sir.”
Captain West grunted and nodded. Then he said, “You, there, Sam and
Gunnar. Get up above to the pilothouse. A wave swept everything but the
deck away, but you can still steer by hand compass. Get one from one of
the lifeboats. The rest of you,” he roared, whirling quickly, “the rest
of you get back where you belong. The storm’s over! We’ll make Buffalo
by tomorrow night.”
A weak cheer followed that news. The men shuffled down the passageway.
Captain West waited until the sailors had gotten out of earshot, before
he jerked a rude thumb at Sandy and growled, “He making trouble again?”
The mate nodded. “Just before you came below, he stirred up a fight
between Dick and the Swede.”
Sandy Steele sucked his breath in sharply.
“That’s a lie!” he burst out sharply.
Captain West ignored his protest. He merely glared savagely at Sandy and
said, “Shut up!” He seemed to be pondering something. Then, his forehead
smoothed out and he spoke to his mate.
“Briggs, we’re only a few hours away from that Chadwick-Kennedy deal.
I’m taking no chances on Buster, here. So, he’s yours until we dock
tomorrow night. Take him into your cabin with you and batten down the
door. Don’t come out until I send for you. You hear me?”
The mate nodded glumly. “Don’t I get nothin’ to eat?” he whined.
“Stop bleating about your blasted belly,” the captain snapped. “I’ll
send Cookie in to you. Now, now, hold on! Whoa! What about the other
brat? Where’s he?”
“In bed,” the mate said. “He sprained his ankle during the storm.”
“Bad?”
Mr. Briggs grinned evilly.
“Bad enough to keep him in bed.”
“Good,” Captain West said. “Now, get out of here—and don’t let me see
your ugly face until we dock in Buffalo. And as for him,” he went on,
jerking his head toward Sandy, “I don’t _ever_ want to see _his_ face
again!”
Sadly assuring himself that the feeling was mutual, Sandy Steele
preceded the mate down the passageway to his cabin.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Cookie to the Rescue
Sandy Steele was not a quitter, yet it seemed to him that the game was
over and he had lost.
He sat on the bunk in Mr. Briggs’s cabin, with the mate leering at him
from a corner chair, and miserably considered his own plight. There
didn’t seem to be any way out. Jerry James could not move from his bed
for another day or two, so there was no help there. And here _he_ was, a
prisoner!
There wasn’t any way in the world for him to reach Mr. Kennedy.
Sandy shook his blond head mournfully. Seeing his gesture, the mate read
the feeling behind it and said, “If you had the brains you were born
with, you’d forget about everything and go to sleep.”
Sandy’s face went cold. He pretended not to have heard, but the mate was
not to be denied his favorite pleasure of gloating.
“Ma Kennedy’s little chick’s lost its tongue, eh?” he sneered. “Too bad
you ain’t going to see Ma Kennedy before tomorrow night. And by that
time, the skipper’ll be the chief captain of the Chadwick-Kennedy Line,
and yours truly’ll be a full master.”
Oho, Sandy thought to himself, so that’s the mate’s reward for his
treachery. He decided to remain quiet. The talkative Mr. Briggs might
give away some more secrets.
“Don’t think you can outwait me,” Mr. Briggs went on. “You’re the one
who needs the sleep—not me. While you heroes was battling the storm this
afternoon, I was having myself a little rest. So I’m fresh as a daisy.”
Sandy still said nothing.
“And furthermore,” the mate snapped, plainly nettled, “even if I did
doze off, it wouldn’t help you.” He tapped his breast pocket. “The key
to that there door is tucked away in here. You’d have to kill me to get
it.”
Sandy smiled, and the mate lost his temper.
“Why, you—” he began, but just then there was a knock on the door.
“Who’s there?” the mate called.
“It’s me. Cookie.”
Mr. Briggs relaxed. “Got some grub, hey, Cookie?”
“Yessirree. Got a little hot coffee, too.”
“Hot coffee!” the mate exclaimed, jumping to his feet and opening the
door to let Cookie enter. “How on earth did you ever rustle that up?”
“Oh, just a little of Cookie’s magic,” the little bald-headed man
chuckled as he slipped through the door carrying a tray.
Sure enough! He did have hot coffee! The aroma of it filled Sandy’s
nostrils and his mouth watered.
He smiled fondly at Cookie, and then, to his shocked disbelief, the
little man’s face went ugly with hatred.
“Don’t smirk at me, you Jonah, you!” Cookie shrilled. “I’ve had nothing
but bad luck since you and your friend came aboard this ship!” Sandy
recoiled from the little man as though he had been struck, and Cookie
raged on, “Yes, I mean you, Sandy Steele! First, I nearly drown because
of you. Then, you and your stupid friend burn my galley down. And now
look at the mess everybody’s in because of your silly meddling!” Sandy
shrank away from him, as insult after insult fell from the little man’s
trembling lips—to the intense delight of Mr. Briggs.
But Cookie, who had set his tray on the table, moved closer and closer
toward Sandy, until he had poked his wrinkled little face within a few
inches of the youth’s nose.
Then he winked and grinned.
Sandy Steele’s heart leaped for joy, and he almost jumped up and kissed
the little man. As it was, he knew his face must have given him away,
for Cookie had quickly flashed him a warning look, before he began
backing away, still mouthing insults.
Sandy felt better when he saw Mr. Briggs slap Cookie on the back and
heard him say, “Cookie, I couldn’t have said it better myself. The only
thing I can add to what you’ve said is that those brats are twice as bad
as you say they are.”
Still sputtering angrily, Cookie bent to his tray and began pouring the
mate a cup of steaming hot coffee.
Determined to play his part, Sandy put a pleading note into his voice
and said, “Aw, Cookie—how about some coffee?”
“You?” Cookie burst out, enraged. “I wouldn’t give you a glass of lake
water if you were dying of thirst!”
“Heh, heh,” the mate laughed, evidently pleased that the little man
shared his sentiments. “You’re in a rare mood tonight, Cookie. Why don’t
you sit down and talk a bit.”
“I will,” Cookie said. He took a seat, carefully smoothing his stained
white apron. He watched the mate take a sip. “How’s the coffee, mate?”
he asked.
“Fine, Cookie—fine.”
“Ah, yes, hot coffee’s good after a storm. Especially with a shot of rum
in it.”
“Rum? Did you say rum?”
With a sly wink, Cookie reached behind him and under his apron. He
brought out a bottle and brandished it happily.
“Aye, rum, mate.” He cast a dark look at Sandy. “It’s all that could be
salvaged from the fire. I’d been saving it to make mince meat.” He
unscrewed the cap and tilted it to pour it into the mate’s cup. “Here, a
little of this’ll warm your belly.”
“Oh, no, no, no!” the mate chattered, holding up a hand to block Cookie.
“I’d like to, Cookie—I swear I would! But I’d better not.”
“Why not?” Cookie asked innocently. “A man’s got a right to a proper
drink after a storm.”
“Well, er,” the mate stammered, “as a matter of fact, the skipper, er,
suggested to me that I’d better not.”
“Of course,” Cookie agreed, raising the bottle again. “But that was
before the storm. Now, you know Captain West would never begrudge a man
a snort after coming through what we’ve been through.”
Cookie’s voice was so easy and coaxing that Sandy marveled to hear it.
And the mate could not resist it.
“Well, Cookie, since you put it that way, I suppose you’re right. But,
just a little, now. Whoa, whoa! That’s plenty!”
“Oh-oh,” Cookie said, with exaggerated concern, “I hadn’t really meant
to put that much in.”
“No harm done,” Mr. Briggs said grandly. “No harm done, really.”
“Well, I’m certainly glad to hear that.”
“Perfectly okay, Cookie, perfectly okay. By the way, aren’t you going to
have a spot yourself?”
“Well, I don’t mind if I do. Here, I’ll just try a little in this cup
here.”
They gabbed on like that for a few minutes, their talk reaching Sandy’s
ears against the background of the mate’s noisy sipping of his coffee.
For a while, Sandy ignored their conversation. He was too busy trying to
figure out what Cookie was up to.
Obviously, the little man was trying to get the mate drunk. But why?
Cookie knew nothing of the forthcoming deal between Paul Chadwick and
Mr. Kennedy. At least, so Sandy thought. So he could not understand
Cookie’s actions. But he did see that the little man’s plan was working.
As time wore on, and the heaving of the _James Kennedy_ became less and
less pronounced, Sandy noticed that the words of Mr. Briggs were also
becoming less pronounced. His voice was thickening. He was not even
aware that Cookie’s drinks had dwindled away to almost nothing, while
his own had swelled in size.
“By the way, mate,” Cookie said, as Mr. Briggs’s head began to loll on
his shoulders. “I’ve got a funny one to tell you.”
“Whash that, Cookie, ol’ pal?”
“It’s about that big Swede, Gunnar. He told me he was going to use the
ship-to-shore telephone to call his girl-friend back in Duluth. I told
him he was crazy because it’s against the ship’s rules to use the
ship-to-shore.”
“Right, thash right. Phone’s locked up, anyway.”
“But you know what that big stupe said? He said he’d be able to make the
call in spite of that, because he knew that if he gave you five dollars
you’d give him the key.”
The mate’s brow darkened.
“He’sh a liar,” he mumbled. “Never take bribe.”
“He said you did,” Cookie rushed on eagerly. “In fact, he showed me the
key.”
“Liar!” the mate repeated. “He’sh liar!” He leaned forward drunkenly and
with a knowing leer on his face, he tapped Cookie on the knee. “I’ll
prove it,” he mumbled. “Prove he’sh liar.” He fumbled in his side
pocket. Then he drew out a bunch of keys on a ring. “Here’sh key!” he
gloated, swaying as he attempted to thump his chest. “Gunnar’s big liar.
Mr. Briggs don’t take bribes.”
“Well, well,” Cookie said, shaking his head as though grieved. “To think
he’d tell me a big one like that. Here, mate, have another drink.”
But the mate did not answer.
His head had sagged forward on his chest. Raising his voice, Cookie
repeated his request. But the mate still did not reply.
With a glance of utmost contempt, Cookie reached forward and grasped his
shoulder and shook him gently.
“Have a drink, mate,” he said.
The mate’s mouth fell open and his head snapped back and a long,
whistling snore broke from his throat.
With a grin of triumph, Cookie got to his feet. He walked over to Sandy
and stuck out his hand.
“Shake, pal,” he whispered.
With eyes shining with gratitude, Sandy Steele clasped his little
friend’s hand. He realized, now, that Cookie must know everything—else
why all that nonsense to find out where the key to the radio shack was
located. For that ship-to-shore telephone was Sandy Steele’s only hope!
“Wait ten more minutes,” Cookie whispered. “Wait until he’s so sound
asleep we can get that key away from him without waking him.”
Sandy nodded. He sat on his bunk for a time, watching the first pale
light of dawn growing steadily brighter outside, and as the day
brightened, his spirits soared with it. At last, his chance had come!
Cookie arose and moved softly to the snoring mate. He put his mouth to
his ear, and said in a loud voice, “Have another drink, mate.”
Mr. Briggs’s answer was a sputtering snore.
Cookie slapped him sharply on the cheek and cried, “Wake up, mate.” Mr.
Briggs slept on as though made of stone.
With another cocky grin, the little man reached down into Mr. Briggs’s
side pocket and pulled out his set of keys. He found the one he wanted,
separated it from the rest, removed it—and then stuck the others back
where they had come from.
“Let’s go,” he said to Sandy.
“Sure you have the right key, Cookie?” Sandy asked.
“Sure. I’d know it anywhere. Come on, follow me.”
As they went out, Cookie removed the key that the mate had left in the
lock when he opened the door to admit him. When they had stepped out
into the corridor, he closed the door softly behind him and locked it.
“Just in case,” he chirped, putting the key in his pocket.
Then the two made their way to the radio shack.
“Shhh!” Cookie said, as he quietly unlocked the door to the radio shack.
“Don’t show a light either.” He glanced rapidly around him. “There,” he
said, pointing to an object standing alongside a radio transmitter.
“That’s it.”
A tingling thrill shot through Sandy Steele’s body as his eyes pierced
the dim light that filtered through a porthole and fell on the
ship-to-shore telephone.
“You use it just like any other telephone,” Cookie whispered, as he bent
to lock the door. “Just give the operator the letters there at the
bottom, and then give her the number you want.”
Sandy Steele groaned.
“I don’t know Mr. Kennedy’s number,” he said.
Cookie’s brow puckered. “Well, ask the operator to locate him for you.
She might help.”
She did.
“You see,” Sandy explained, once the operator had let him know she was
on the line, “all I know about Mr. Kennedy is that he lives in Buffalo
and that he owns the Kennedy Shipping Lines. Is that enough to go on?”
His heart sang when a pert voice replied, “I think so. Would you hold
on, please?”
“Yes,” Sandy said, and then his heart stopped singing as another voice,
neither pert nor far away, roared from outside the door.
“Who’s in that radio shack?”
It was the voice of Captain West.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Checkmated
John Kennedy was an early riser. He had been so all his life. He had
made no exception to his custom on this warm summer morning, rising with
the first light of dawn.
But he was not happy to greet this day. It would mark the sale of the
shipping line that had been in his family for close to a century. Though
he hurried through his bath with his usual brisk, sure motions, Mr.
Kennedy was a sorrowing man by the time he had walked out on the sundeck
of his big stone house on Delaware Avenue.
Mechanically unwrapping his napkin and spreading it on his lap, he gazed
without appetite at the breakfast laid out for him. His ears were deaf
to the morning song of the birds, and his eyes were blind to the
pleasant prospect of the gardens and green lawns that stretched away
beneath him.
With a sigh, Mr. Kennedy picked up his knife and fork and began to eat.
There was the sound of footsteps and Mr. Kennedy glanced up to see his
valet advancing timidly toward him.
“Well, Jenkins?”
“I, I’m sorry to disturb you, sir—but there’s a young gentleman on the
telephone.”
“Jenkins,” Mr. Kennedy said gently, struggling to conceal his
irritation, “must I repeat my very plain orders that I am not to be
disturbed at breakfast?”
The valet’s face turned a deep red. He began to back away
apologetically.
“I beg your pardon, sir. I will inform young Mr. Steele that he may call
later.”
Mr. Kennedy’s eyebrows rose. “Steele? Did he say his name was Steele?”
“Yes, sir. He was quite excited, sir. Something to do with a discovery
of ore, I gathered.” The butler shrugged with an apologetic air.
“However, I will do as you say, sir.” He turned to go, and was all but
knocked off his feet by the elderly, white-haired tornado that had shot
past him.
Upon hearing those two words—“Steele” and “ore”—Mr. Kennedy had not
hesitated. He had thrown down his fork, torn his napkin from his knees
and leaped from his chair to bound into his bedroom and the telephone on
his bedside table. Jenkins was shocked. He had never seen Mr. Kennedy
run before—and never, never heard him shout over the telephone.
“Wha-a-at? What’s that, boy? Speak up, Sandy, I can’t hear you. What
_is_ that dreadful hammering noise?”
Wham! Wham! Wham!
That dreadful, hammering noise which Mr. Kennedy heard was the sound of
a sledge hammer striking the door of the radio shack. Captain West was
trying to batter it down.
He had run for a sledge hammer the moment he realized that his shouted
commands to open the door were being ignored. Cookie stood a little
aside, staring out of frightened eyes as the door jumped under the
captain’s powerful, bludgeoning blows.
“Hurry, Sandy,” he whispered feverishly. “Oh, hurry! The lock’s going to
give in another minute.”
Sandy had nodded. His own eyes were fastened on the door; his heart
seemed to thump in time to Captain West’s hammering; he cradled the
telephone as he waited for Mr. Kennedy in an agony of desperation.
It was at this point that Sandy Steele at last heard the familiar voice
of Mr. Kennedy come over the line.
Now, Sandy Steele did not care whether Captain West heard him or not. He
began to shout to make himself heard.
“Mr. Kennedy, don’t sell your boats!”
“What? What’s that, boy?”
“I said, don’t sell your boats. The ore! My father has discovered big
deposits of high-grade ore!”
There was a long silence at the other end. Then Sandy heard Mr. Kennedy
say: “Boy, I hope you know what you’re talking about. That’s mighty
important news.”
“Oh, I do, sir! My father told me all about it just before we left Two
Harbors.”
There was another pause, during which the hammering outside the door
became more insistent. Sandy could hear the lock beginning to give.
“That’s very strange, Sandy,” Mr. Kennedy said doubtfully. “I should
think I would have heard of it before now.”
“You were supposed to, you were supposed to, sir!” Sandy shouted.
“That’s what all that hammering’s about, sir. It’s Captain West trying
to break into the radio shack. He doesn’t want you to know!” Sandy
caught his breath and went on, “I hate to tell you this, sir, but I’m
afraid Captain West has been working for Mr. Chadwick and against you.”
This time, the silence at the other end was so prolonged that Sandy
feared he had been disconnected. At last, Mr. Kennedy spoke again,
sadly.
“Sandy, a moment ago, you lifted my spirits as they have seldom been
lifted. But, just now, you drove them down again with about the worst
piece of news I’ve ever heard. Let me speak to Captain West.”
Wham! Crrrash! Snap!
At that moment, with a blow of demonic strength, the enraged Captain
West burst the last shred of the barrier separating him from Sandy
Steele.
He charged into the room shouting threats and with his eyes shooting
sparks of hatred. As he did, Sandy held out the telephone to him, and
said, “Mr. Kennedy would like to speak to you.”
All of Captain West’s bluster and bravado seemed to vanish at the sight
of that tall, blond boy who had stood so unflinchingly in his path and
now extended the telephone toward him with that calm announcement. The
fight went out of his eyes. The color drained from his face. His
powerful shoulders sagged and his whole body seemed to slump.
Without a word, Captain West turned and dragged himself from the room.
“He doesn’t want to speak to you, sir.”
“So it’s true, then! Well, get me someone else in authority, Sandy. Put
Mr. Briggs on.”
Sandy paused, awkwardly.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Kennedy, but I think the mate was working against you,
too.”
“Oh, Lord, Lord! Am I surrounded by unfaithful employees? Goodness, is
there no one on the _James Kennedy_ that I can trust except you, boy?
Who else is there in authority?”
“There’s Mr. Davis, sir—the next officer. But he’s lost his glasses and
can’t see. We’ve just been through a terrible storm, sir.”
“Yes, yes, I read about it in the newspapers. But I thought you would be
in port at Detroit. Is there no one else?”
Sandy pondered. Then his face brightened. “There’s Sam and Gunnar.”
“Sam! Who on earth is Sam? Oh, no, no—never mind, Sandy. Forget that
question. Goodness knows I have good reason to trust your judgment. Put
Sam on, whoever he is!”
Sandy grinned.
“Get Sam up here, Cookie,” he shouted. Then, returning to Mr. Kennedy,
he asked, “Anything else, sir?”
“Anything else! My goodness, boy—what else is there? For the second time
within a week, I find myself in your debt.”
Sandy was too embarrassed to make any comment, and Mr. Kennedy rushed
on, “I don’t know how to thank you, boy—but I’ll think of something.
Remember, you’re to call me the moment you arrive in Buffalo. Both you
and your friend. By the way, how is he?”
“Jerry? Oh, he’s all right, sir—just a sprained ankle from the storm.”
“My goodness! You have had a stormy voyage, haven’t you?”
Sandy grinned again, remembering the plunge into Lake Superior to save
Cookie, the fire in the galley as the _James Kennedy_ steamed into Lake
Huron, that spanking storm on Lake Erie—to say nothing of the combined
badgering of Mr. Briggs and Captain West. But Sandy saw no reason to
tell Mr. Kennedy exactly how right he was. He just felt good, that was
all—so he grinned again and said: “Yes, sir, I guess you could call it a
stormy voyage. Here’s Sam.”
Sam stepped up and took the telephone from Sandy’s outstretched hand.
His manner was hesitant, for he had never spoken to the owner of the
line before. His face was grave, but as he listened, his eyes grew wider
and wider. Finally, with an expression of amazement and a snappy, “Yes,
sir!” he hung up and turned to Sandy and Cookie.
“Well, what do you know?” he murmured.
“Well, what?”
“I’m in charge!”
Cookie’s mouth popped open. He began to dance in excitement, flipping
his apron in the air. “Hooray for Sam!” he shouted. “Yippee! Yip,
yip—yippeee!”
“All right, Cookie,” Sam cautioned, laughing. “Take it easy, now. It’s
only until we get to Buffalo.”
“Who cares?” Cookie yelled. “Let’s celebrate, anyway. I’ll bake a cake!”