NAT IN DIRE STRAITS.
Nat's returning senses did not come to him till some time later.
When they did they revealed his situation as one of the strangest,
surely, in which any lad was ever placed.
"Good gracious!" thought Nat, as his eyes opened. "What can have----"
Swash!
A mass of green water swept over him, choking the words back down his
throat and half drowning him. But the immersion in the not-over
chilly water revived him fully and a few seconds sufficed to show him
that he was lying half across the bobstay of the schooner's bowsprit,
just aft of the "dolphin striker"--as the sharp spar that sticks out
beneath the bowsprit is called.
There was a dull throbbing in Nat's head and he felt numb and stiff.
But another roller breaking over him at that instant, as the schooner
took a plunge, convinced him that he must muster all his strength to
get out of his perilous position or be miserably drowned.
A pallid, gray dawn lay over the waters and Nat, after he had, by a
supreme effort, worked his way up the bobstay to a higher position,
saw to his dismay that the schooner must be some distance out at sea.
She seemed to be rushing through the water at a speed which he
estimated at about ten knots an hour. Allowing then that the time
was about four-thirty, she must have made some forty miles or more
since midnight.
Nat placed his hand to his head, which ached cruelly. He found that
it was cut quite badly, but luckily the wound was only a flesh one
and his involuntary salt water bath had washed it clean.
"When the schooner struck the boat," he mused. "I remember jumping
upward and nothing after that. The dolphin striker must have hit me
but it seems I had wits enough left to cling on to the bobstay. A
good thing I had, too, or I'd be in Davy Jones' locker by this time.
I wonder what became of the rest of them. Thank goodness, Joe,
Ding-dong, and Cal can all swim, and if they were not knocked
insensible they are all right."
Nat looked about him once more. Above him the jibs of the schooner
were bellying whitely out under the fresh breeze. Beneath him the
water boiled under the smart craft's sharp prow. All about--the
rising sun gilding it--was the heaving waste of the broad Pacific.
Truly Nat was in a quandary. Remain where he was he could not. Even
had it not been for the impossibility of doing without food or water
he could momentarily feel himself growing weaker. Before the cut in
his head had stopped bleeding, he reasoned that he must have lost
considerable vital fluid.
"What am I to do?" thought Nat to himself. "I recognized Morello's
voice when he shouted that warning just before the boat was struck.
My life aboard this schooner will be worth just about what it would
be in a den of savage tigers. Even if it were not for the grudge
Morello owes me for betraying his fortress in the Sierras, he has
sufficient reason to wish me out of the way. What am I to do?" he
concluded, with the same question with which he had begun his gloomy
ruminations.
The question was unexpectedly answered for him. Swensen, in his
capacity as sailing master of the schooner, came forward at that
moment to look at the headsails. After peering aloft in sailor
fashion he squinted over the bow to see how the "Nettie Nelsen" was
cleaving the waters. Hardly had he poked his blond head over the bow
before he became aware of Nat clinging to his precarious perch, and
busy with his gloomy thoughts.
"Hul-lo!" he roared. "Dere bane boy on der bobstay, by Yiminy!"
His shout brought Morello and Dayton and half a dozen others--among
them the ill-favored Manuello--to the bow. They echoed the Swede's
shout, as in the wet-through, miserable figure clinging to the
bobstay and looking up at them they recognized the boy who had done
more than any one else to bring their rascally careers to a
termination.
For a breath absolute silence reigned. Nat, who had looked up at the
sudden shout of the Swede and seen the latter's shock head peering
down at him, kept still because he felt that it was useless to do
anything else. Morello and the others were tongue-tied temporarily
from sheer, crass, amazement.
They had confidently believed that when they sunk the boat they had
likewise sunk all on board her, or, failing that, had at least shaken
off all pursuit. But here, confronting them like a ghost, was the
form of the boy they most hated and detested. Morello's eyes fairly
snapped delight as he beheld Nat thus thrust into his power. The
evil glint of his black orbs found an answering expression of joy in
Dayton's. The rascals could hardly believe their luck. Morello was
the first to gain his voice.
"So," he snarled, with his sinister sneer more marked than ever, "we
meet again, Señor Motor Ranger. But the circumstances are rather
different to what they were in the cañon."
"Yes," rejoined Nat calmly, "there, if I recollect rightly, you all
were running for your lives."
"You forget the old proverb, Señor Trevor: 'He who fights and runs
away will live to fight some other day.' However, you see now that
it is verified. Here are we with a fine schooner under our feet,
your sapphires in our possession, and the world before us. While
you---- Well, I would not be in your shoes for a good deal."
He chuckled in an ominous manner as he spoke. Nat said nothing. He
felt it would be utterly useless to reply to the man. Wholly in the
power of the merciless ruffians, as he knew himself to be, he felt
that his best policy lay in not irritating them any further than
possible.
"Are you coming on deck, or would you prefer to be thrown into the
sea?" sneered Ed. Dayton savagely, casting a look of hatred on Nat.
"I'd prefer to come on deck," responded Nat, determined not to show a
trace of the real fear that he felt. "If you'll throw me a rope, I
can scramble up."
"Oh, we'll throw you a rope fast enough," grinned Morello
maliciously. "Maybe it will be a rope to hang yourself with."
Nevertheless, in a few seconds a rope with a noose in the end of it
came snaking down, and Nat, fastening the noose under his armpits,
was drawn up over the bow and an instant later he stood on the
swaying foredeck of the "Nettie Nelsen" in the midst of his enemies.
The group gathered there scowled at the lad with malevolent
expressions, but none of them made a move to touch him. Perhaps they
felt that he was so completely in their power now that it was no use
hastening their revenge. Morello fairly gloated as he regarded the
boy.
"Oh, this is luck," he exclaimed; "a bit of unheard-of good fortune.
Here we are fleeing from the place from which you and your brats of
companions drove us, and we actually pick you up off our bowsprit
forty miles out at sea."
"The question is what are you going to do with me?" spoke up Nat
boldly enough, though his heart sank direfully.
"Ah, that we have not yet decided," chuckled Morello, rubbing his
hands; "but you must know that I am notable for avenging myself on
those who have wronged me."
"Wronged you," burst out Nat. "I should think that having been
driven from the Sierras, and your lawless ways terminated, that you
would have decided that an honest life would be best, and----"
He stopped short as Ed. Dayton, unable to control himself any longer,
made two swift steps toward the boy he hated, and, raising his hand,
struck Nat a blow across the face before the lad had time to defend
himself. But while the malicious grin still hovered on Dayton's face
and he was still exclaiming:
"That's for the blow you gave me at Santa Barbara," Nat was upon him.
The cowardly bully was no match for the wiry, muscular lad, weakened
by exposure and his wound, though the latter might be. Dayton came
crashing down to the deck with Nat on the top of him before any of
the others, who had been completely taken by surprise, could
interfere.
The instant they recovered their senses the rascally crew hurled
themselves upon Nat, beating and cuffing him. Kicks were not spared,
either. It would have gone hard with the lad if Colonel Morello's
voice had not suddenly struck in.
"Stop! Stop that instantly! Manuello! You, Larson; you, Britt and
Hicks! Let that boy up!"
Grumblingly they arose, leaving Nat lying half unconscious on the
deck. Casting the lad's limp form to one side, Dayton, too, got on
his feet, pouring forth a torrent of foul language.
"It served you right, Dayton," was all the comfort he obtained from
Colonel Morello. "The boy is absolutely in our power. There is no
need for haste in taking our revenge."
"I'd like to make the cub walk the plank," bellowed Dayton, feeling
his eye, which was rapidly swelling where Nat's fist had struck it.
"We will think of something better than that--something more
original," purred the colonel, in his silkiest tones. "In the
meantime, you, Hicks, and you, Britt, take this young whelp down to
the forehold. Tie him to a stanchion down there till I get ready to
deal with him."
Nat, who had by this time staggered painfully to his feet, could not
repress a shudder at the words and at the tone in which they were
spoken. To his chagrin, his temporary accession of weakness was
swiftly noted by Morello, who grinned delightedly.
"Ah, you may well shudder," he exclaimed. "Bolder people than you
have shuddered and turned pale before when they faced Colonel
Morello."
Nat did not reply. For one thing he felt weak and dizzy. His head
had started bleeding again, following his struggle with Dayton and
his subsequent suppression. Moreover, he was in need of food and
water. To his surprise, as he was led away by Britt and Hicks,
Colonel Morello gave the men orders to feed the boy as soon as
possible.
"We don't want him to die before we are through with him," he
explained to Dayton, who was inclined to protest against this seeming
humanity.
The young Motor Ranger did not hear this remark. It was as well that
he did not. His spirits were quite low enough already.