“STEAMER, AHOY!”
“Well, Tom, all I can say is—we must keep on hoping for the best.”
It was Mr. Chillingworth who spoke, the morning after the casting away
of the sloop.
He and Tom Dacre were standing against the lee rail of the schooner
amidships, watching with gloomy faces the white spume as it sped by.
Above them the canvas was bellied out, heeling the schooner smartly and
putting her on her sailing lines. On the other hand, could be dimly seen
the blue shores of the Strait of San Juan de Fuca. Bully Banjo’s
schooner was making for the open Pacific, but what was her destination
they had not the slightest idea.
The events of the night before seemed like a nightmare viewed in the
crisp, sparkling, early daylight, with the white deck of a fast schooner
under their feet. Somewhat to their surprise, Simon Lake had offered
them no violence, and had even accommodated them with a berth in the
cabin, turning out one of his own men for the purpose. If Mr.
Chillingworth was as good a judge of human emotions as he deemed himself
to be, it appeared to him that the Chinese runner was glad rather than
otherwise at the way things had fallen out, and, so far at least, not
disposed to offer them any active harm. At breakfast, which was just
over, Simon Lake, who, with Zeb Hunt, had shared the meal with the
castaways, had seemed particularly inclined to be amiable. One thing,
though, was noticeable: he did not refer in any way to the occurrences
of the night before, nor to the events which had preceded them. For all
that appeared to the contrary, any listener to the conversation might
have imagined that Tom Dacre and the rancher were honored guests of the
sea ranger.
But, of course, all this show of friendliness had not for an instant
deceived either of the castaways. Tom’s experience in Simon Lake’s camp
had taught him just what the man was, and what he would dare to do. As
for Mr. Chillingworth, he had long ago made up his mind that their
present host was the most dangerous man on the Pacific Slope. Doubtless
he was even now discussing a course of action with Zeb Hunt, down in the
cabin, where both had been closeted since breakfast. Taking advantage of
this, Tom and Mr. Chillingworth had slipped on deck to try to get an
opportunity to talk the situation over.
But, not so very greatly to their surprise, this proved to be a hard
thing to do. As soon as they stopped at any one spot and began to talk,
some member of the crew—many of whom Tom recognized as having occupied
the camp in the canyon—happened along on some errand or other,
apparently accidental. Of course, there was little doubt that they had
been told to overhear all they could and report it to their leader.
“Have you any idea where we are bound?” inquired Tom, not caring much
whether a man who had just come up ostensibly to coil a rope heard him
or not.
“Not the slightest,” rejoined Mr. Chillingworth, “unless it can be to
that island of Simon Lake’s—or rather of the syndicate engaged in this
rascally business.”
Tom’s face fell.
“Once they get us there,” he said disconsolately, “we won’t stand much
chance of getting away again till they wish it.”
“That is so,” agreed Mr. Chillingworth, in an equally gloomy tone; “yet
what are we to do?”
He sank his voice.
“I have thought over a dozen plans of escape, but none of them will bear
analysis. It looks as if we are absolutely in this rascal’s power.”
“Why not hail a passing vessel—provided one comes near enough?”
suggested Tom. “Surely our signals would attract attention.”
“If we could make them—yes,” rejoined Mr. Chillingworth, “but you don’t
suppose, do you, that they would give us such an opportunity? Why the
minute one of us sprang on that rail to wave for help we would be
knocked down and perhaps badly injured.”
“Just the same I’m going to make a try for it,” thought Tom to himself,
“if any opportunity offers.”
Simon Lake himself, and his scrubby-haired first mate, had now emerged
from the cabin companionway, and were pacing the inclined stern deck.
Every now and again, Lake crossed to the side of the man at the wheel
and peered into the compass. From time to time he cast an eye aloft at
the canvas. The schooner was carrying every bit of plainsail, despite
the smart wind that was humming through her rigging. Evidently, Lake did
not believe in allowing his ship to loaf along. He carried an amount of
canvas which would have given an old-fashioned skipper heart disease.
The schooner showed the strain, too. Every now and again, she would give
a heel that sent her lee rail under and the yeasty foam boiling and
swirling along the scuppers.
At last, shortly before noon, the opportunity for which Tom had been
waiting presented itself. Dead ahead, across the tumbling blue water,
could be seen the heeling, rolling form of a steamer. She was coming
toward them and if she held her present course, would be bound to pass
them a short distance to lee. When she did so, Tom made up his mind that
he was going to try to attract her attention.
On came the vessel, black smoke pouring from her funnel and her masts
cutting crazy arcs against the sky. Now and then the sun flashed on her
wet plates as she rolled. She was a black craft with towering white
upper decks, which showed her to be a passenger craft. On board her was
safety, law, and order. Tom’s heart fairly ached to attract her
attention. The case was no different with the rancher, but what with
anxiety over the worry his wife would be feeling, and general trouble
over their position, Mr. Chillingworth had had little to say for the
last hour or two. He had sat silently at the foot of the foremast, his
head in his hands and lost in the dismal trend of his thoughts.
The steamer was now almost abeam of them. So close was she that Tom
could catch the glint of brass buttons on her bridge and the gay colors
of the ladies’ dresses as they walked along the promenade decks, and no
doubt remarked to their escorts on the beauty of the little schooner
heading out to the open sea.
As the two ships drew abeam, Tom leaped into the lee rigging, hanging on
by one of the fore shrouds. His cap—an old sea affair, given him by
Bully Banjo—was in his hand, and he was raising his arm to wave it.
“Ahoy! Steamer, ahoy!” he yelled.
The wind bore his cries down toward the other vessel and a commotion
could be seen on her bridge. Presently there came a gush of white steam
from her whistle and her way decreased noticeably. But Tom had hardly
had time to take in these details before a heavy hand fell on his
shoulder and the next instant Zeb Hunt’s rough fist had felled him to
the deck.
“You young shark!” snarled the mate, “this is the worst day’s work
you’ve ever done. You keep off there, Chillingworth,” he went on
truculently, as the rancher came forward protesting. “This is our
affair.”
The rancher glanced helplessly about him. The entire crew had gathered
about the prostrate boy. It would have been worse than madness to have
resisted any of Hunt’s mandates just then. Suddenly a voice hailed from
the stern.
“Good work thar, Mister Hunt. Jes’ keep that young catamount down thar
while I untangle this yar mess.”
It was Simon Lake. As he spoke, he took a megaphone from its rack just
inside the companionway.
“Schooner, ahoy! What’s the trouble on board you?” came a hail from the
steamer.
“Ain’t nawthin’ wrong here as I’m awares on,” hailed back Simon, his
downeast drawl more pronounced than ever.
“Nothing wrong, you deep sea vagabond, then what in the name of Neptune
do you mean by stopping us this way? Don’t you know we carry the mails?”
“Sorry,” shouted Simon apologetically, “but, yer see, we’ve got a kind
uv a poor looney bye aboard. He thought, poor critter, it ’ud be er joke
ter hail yer.”
“Oh, he did, did he?” shouted back the commander of the steamer. “Well,
you’d better keep your looney under lock and key when mail boats are
passing. Come ahead there.”
Deep down in the engine room of the steamer the bells jangled and she
raced off once more, bound Seattleward. But as it so happened the
vessel, which was the “Islander” of the Seattle-Hawaii Line, had a
record for punctuality, and her slight delay following Tom’s hail was
used by the captain as an excuse for some hours he had lost at sea in
bad weather. It, therefore, received more space in the Seattle papers
than it would have done otherwise. In fact, quite an item appeared about
the “crazy boy” on board the outward-bound schooner, who had delayed the
“Islander” by his antics. In course of events the paper with this news
in it reached Sam Hartley.
This was two days after the “Islander” had docked. But, nothing daunted,
Sam set out for Seattle that same night with the bottle-nosed man as a
companion.
He was anxious to find the captain of the “Islander,” and get from him a
description of that schooner. If she was the Chinese runner’s vessel,
the bottle-nosed man would recognize her from the steamer skipper’s
description. At least, Sam hoped so.
At any rate, it looked like the only likely clew to the fate of Mr.
Chillingworth and Tom, and was, therefore, worth looking into, for after
an examination of the sloop Sam had soon come to the conclusion that
there were unusual circumstances connected with her abandonment.
For one thing, he had found that the rope attached to her bow had been
cut—and with a keen knife, too. This was the rope, it will be recalled,
that was thrown to the capsized mariners from the deck of the schooner,
and had been cut when the sloop was set adrift.
But in the meantime Mr. Chillingworth and Tom were encountering a series
of adventures stranger than any that had yet befallen the Bungalow Boy,
and we must leave Sam and follow their fortunes in the hands of Bully
Banjo and his men.