A CUNNING TRICK.
WALTER had still some seventy-five yards of his net in the water,
when Charley, having finished with the captain, ran the launch down
alongside of him. "Throw part of your fish in here and then just pull
the rest of your net aboard," he directed. "Don't stop to pick out the
fish. I'll do that on the way home. We've got to hustle and get those
fish over to Clearwater. It is getting late and it will only take a
short time longer to spoil them. Some have been out of water nearly all
night."
He and Walter changed places, and while Charley picked out the fish
with nimble, skilful fingers, his chum started up the engine and headed
the launch back for camp. The sun was well up when they reached it,
and pausing only to empty the fish from the skiffs into the launch,
the launch was headed across for Clearwater, leaving behind the three
skiffs, and the captain to help Chris pull out the nets.
"I wish I could let you stay behind and rest up," Charley told his
chum, "but I have to have someone to stay in the launch while I go
up to the fish house," and he told his experience of the day before
which up to now he had not had the opportunity to relate. Walter was
indignant over the underhanded trick and was frankly puzzled by the
account of Chris' ghost.
"It is certainly queer how we fall into difficulties in everything
we undertake," he said. "Now, we have only been here a few days and
already we are involved in a smuggling case, have had trouble with a
gang of fishermen, and are tangled up in a ghost mystery. It does beat
all how we always seem to get into trouble."
"We have always been lucky in getting out of it," Charley reminded him.
"Yes, but you know the old saying that 'the pitcher that goes often to
the well is sure to get broken.'"
"But the pitcher that does not go, gets no water," grinned Charley.
"The facts are that we all want to be making big money in a short time
and the big money lies in dangerous and unusual pursuits. If we stuck
to the slow, well-beaten pursuits, we would have no more troubles than
anyone else, I dare say."
"Well, I am beginning to get wearied with too many adventures," Walter
confessed. "If we pull out of this fishing business with a good sum
to our credit, I'm going to hunt for some quiet pursuit like raising
chickens or tending sheep."
"We've got two months of the fishing season yet," remarked his chum,
thoughtfully, "then comes the closed season when the law does not
permit anyone to fish. Well, if we have good luck, we may make a fair
bit in two months. Of course, we cannot expect many catches like last
night's but we ought to make something right along if we work hard."
Further conversation was ended by their arrival at the dock. Several
fishermen were lounging on the pier and they crawled to the edge
looking down with envious eyes at the launch's load. Among them,
Charley noted Hunter's sallow, sneering face. He paused only to make
the launch fast then hurried up for the fish house.
Walter lay back on a seat and rested while he waited the arrival of
the wagons. The fishermen, after a few idle questions as to where the
catch had been made, and which way the fish had been working, gradually
drifted away to their various duties, most of them heading for shore to
work upon their nets and boats, but Hunter and a couple of companions
disappeared in one of the shanties on the other side of the dock. "So
that's where the rat lives," Walter reflected. "He would have a good
chance to take a pot shot at me from there if he dared but he wouldn't
try anything so raw as that. I don't believe he would take such a risk
in broad daylight with so many around." The lad's meditations were
interrupted by the arrival of the first wagon from the fish house.
He helped to load it and as soon as it was gone settled back to his
resting. As he lay back with every muscle gratefully relaxed, his quick
ear caught a peculiar sound. On his guard from Charley's experience of
the day before, he raised up and looked carefully around. The sound
was easy to locate. It came from the shanty Hunter had entered. He
could see something dripping down in large drops from the slat-like
floor. "They have got a leaky water pail or something of the kind,"
he guessed, then, as a peculiar smell was wafted to his nostrils, he
lay back again with a grin. "Their gasoline can has sprung a leak,"
he decided. "The gas is all running out. If it was anyone else but
Hunter, I'd call and tell him about it, but as it is his, it can all
leak away for all I care," and he lay back and listened with a certain
satisfaction to the steady drip of the escaping fluid.
Half dozing he heard footsteps in the shack and a moment later the
scratch of a match. The next instant he was on his feet, his heart
beating wildly. It had happened like a flash of lightning. All around
the launch the water was aflame. Fool that he had been. He had been
caught by a trick simple but cunning. That film of oil on the water had
only needed a dropped match to set it aflame.
For a moment he stood helpless, bewildered by the sudden catastrophe.
The oil had drifted all around the launch and she was in the center of
a sheet of flame. Already he could smell the blistering paint on her
hull, and the heat smote him in the face like a fiery blast.
Only for a moment he stood thus paralyzed. Then his wits, accustomed
to work quickly in emergencies, swept back. With a leap, he gained the
bow and with his sheath-knife severed the rope which held the launch
to the dock. Springing back to the engine, he shoved on the switch and
flung the fly wheel over. Instantly the motor began to throb and the
threatened launch backed slowly out of the sheet of flame. Safe outside
the danger zone, Walter shut off the engine and with his cap beat out
the patches of flame that clung to the launch's sides. Then he leaned
over and grimly inspected his craft. Ten minutes before she had been
a dainty thing in her coat of white, now she looked like an ancient
wreck with her scorched and smoke-grimed sides on which the melted
paint hung in ugly, dropsical blisters. The worst of it was there was
no redress for the damages done her. So cunning was the scheme that it
bore all the semblance of an accident, though the wrathful lad knew
it was anything but that. He could imagine scoundrels chuckling to
themselves in the closed shack and his blood boiled in his veins. How
we would like to repay them for the fright and damage. He sat down for
a moment and strove to gain control of his temper for he realized that
an outburst on his part would do no good and might make more trouble.
As soon as he calmed down a bit, he started up the engine and worked
the launch back to the dock.
A wagon was waiting and its driver looked down in amazement at the
sadly-altered launch. "What happened to you?" he questioned.
"Some gasoline and a match," Walter replied, carelessly. "No damage
done beyond some scorched paint. Please report it to Mr. Daniels and
tell him we will repaint her as soon as there comes a spell of bad
weather when we cannot fish."
The driver departed with his load satisfied with the explanation for
accidents were common amongst the fishing fleet.
In half an hour longer the last of the fish had been carted away and
Charley came hustling down with a beaming face, which fell as he caught
sight of the launch. He asked no questions, however, but jumped aboard
and shoved off. Once under way Walter enlightened him.
"Those fellows are clever in their meanness," said Charley, with
grudging admiration. "One would not think from Hunter's looks that he
had much brains. We have certainly got to be on our guard every minute.
That's twice in two days he has nearly put us out of business without
exposing himself."
"I wish we could get even with him," declared Walter, wrathfully.
Charley grinned. "In a way we are even with him already. There must be
five hundred dollars' worth of liquor in that cache and he dare not
touch a bottle of it as long as we are on the island. Seriously though,
I would give a good deal to catch him in such a way that we could have
the law on him. Until we do, we will have to be watchful and avoid
open trouble. He is pretty sure to make a slip sooner or later. The
cleverest of rascals do, and then will be our chance if he does not get
us first. I am beginning to understand why the rest of the fishermen
stand in such fear of incurring his enmity. There is the captain and
Chris waiting for us on the dock. I wonder what's the matter. They
ought to have been through their work and the captain asleep long ago."
By this time, they had drawn near to the little pier and could plainly
see the little negro and the old sailor pacing about in evident
excitement. In a few more minutes, the launch glided in alongside the
dock and the cause of the excitement became apparent. The two were
standing by a heap of broken splintered planks that had once been their
extra skiff.
"What does this mean?" demanded Charley, in deepest discouragement.
"I dunno, Massa Chas," replied the grieved little negro, "but I s'pect
hit's some ob dat white trash's doings. Late last night I hears a boat
acoming. First off I thought hit was you-alls, but pretty soon I 'lowed
it wasn't 'cause de engine didn't sound like yourn. Hit stopped at de
dock an' I gets to a crack an' peeps out. Pretty soon hyar comes four
fellows astealing up de path. I up an' hails 'em an' dey stops short.
I guess dey had reckoned dat dar was no one hyar 'cause ob de launch
being gone. I shoots off de rifle an' dey took to der heels. Pretty
soon I hears a breaking noise down by de dock an' den de put-put ob der
boat, as dey puts off. An' dis mornin' I finds de skiff jes' disaway."
"And that ain't all," broke in Captain Westfield, pointing over to
where their extra net lay on its rack of poles.
The boys gave a gasp of dismay. The new unused net was a mass of
hanging strips. It had been literally cut and hacked to pieces.
"This sort of thing has got to stop," declared Charley, white with
rage. "Our catch last night came to a hundred and fifty dollars but it
will cost forty-five dollars to replace that skiff, fifty dollars to
replace that net, and at least twenty dollars to repair the launch, and
all that damage has been done in a few hours. Goodness knows what they
will do to us next. Things cannot go on this way any longer."
His companions looked at him questioningly but he shook his head
disparagingly. "I haven't a ghost of an idea what to do," he admitted,
gloomily. "Maybe a little sleep will clear my head and bring some plan.
I'm going up and turn in."
He staggered drunkenly as he made his way up to the cabin. He was
utterly exhausted, nerve and body. Once inside, he flung himself upon
his couch and was instantly asleep.
Chris tried to arouse him for dinner but it was like trying to awaken
one, dead. Nature was claiming her due.