"WE NEED THAT SLOOP AND WE'RE GOING TO HAVE HER!"
Dolph recovered, staggered to his feet, and entered the fray again. It was four to one against Jim; he fought manfully, but it was no use. Presently he lay flat on his back on the gravel, bruised and panting, one man kneeling on each arm, and a third on his chest.
"Take him up to the camp, boys!" puffed Brittler.
The doughty captain had not escaped unscathed. A swollen black eye and a bleeding nose bore eloquent testimony to the force and accuracy of Jim's blows. A guard on each side and another behind were soon propelling Spurling toward the open door. From within came the ceaseless click of a telegraph instrument. Throppy was still calling the cutter. Jim heard the quick patter of the continental code; Brittler heard it, too, and understood. He sprang forward with a shout of alarm.
"They've got a wireless! Smash it!"
A buffet on the side of the head knocked Stevens off his soap-box and sent him rolling on the floor. Five seconds later a crashing blow from a stick of firewood put the instrument out of commission. Brittler poised his club threateningly over the prostrate Stevens.
"Wish I knew if you've been able to get a message through to anybody! If I thought you had—"
He did not finish, but half-raised the stick, then dropped it again and turned away. One by one the remaining members of Spurling & Company were bundled unceremoniously into the cabin. Then the door was slammed shut and two men with automatics were stationed on guard outside.
"Don't shoot unless you have to," instructed Brittler's voice, purposely raised. "And remember a bullet in the leg'll stop a man just as quick as one through the body."
And then in a tone lower, but perfectly audible to those inside:
"But don't stand any fooling! Stop 'em anyway! You know as well as I do how much we've got at stake."
XXII
PERCY SCORES
Defeated and imprisoned in their own camp, the boys faced one another dazedly. Though none of the five had suffered serious injury in the scuffle, all were more or less bruised. Lane had a slight cut where the back of his head had come in contact with a sharp stone on the beach; and a swelling on Jim's right cheek told where the hard fist of one of his assailants had landed.
Outside, the two guards conversed in low tones; but for a few minutes no one spoke or moved in the cabin. The boys sat on the boxes or had thrown themselves into their bunks. Elbow on table, chin resting in palm, Jim was buried in thought. In a short time, he knew, Brittler and his gang would sail away in the Barracouta. They would land their human cargo and probably scuttle the sloop. Somehow they must be thwarted; but how?
The boys had no weapons to match those of their armed guard. Without ammunition, the shot-gun was but a bar of iron. How could they cope with the bullets in the automatics? Undoubtedly every smuggler carried a revolver, and would use it in a pinch; possibly some might not wait until the pinch came. It was a knotty problem. The drops oozed out on Jim's forehead as he wrestled for its solution.
A low whistle fell on his ear. He glanced toward Percy's bunk and saw the latter's hand raised in warning; he was taking off his shoes, quickly and noiselessly. Why? Jim and the others watched.
Soon Percy stood in his stocking feet. He pulled out his knife and opened the large blade. Stooping low, he stole toward the farther end of the cabin. The window there was open and covered with mosquito netting.
Steps grated on the pebbles outside. One of the guards was making a circuit of the camp. Percy flattened himself on the floor directly beneath the window. The others, hardly daring to breathe, looked away. The man paused for a moment; Jim knew that he was peering in. Apparently satisfied that all was well, he resumed his patrol.
Without delay Percy rose. He drew his knife along the netting near the sill, then cut it from top to bottom on each side, close to the frame. So skilfully did the keen blade do its work that the screen hung apparently undisturbed.
The guards began talking again. Placing one of the boxes silently under the window, and stepping upon it, Percy slipped through the opening. His light build enabled him to drop to the ground without making any noise. The netting fell back and hung as before.
Outside, it was thick fog; a slight drizzle was beginning. It was impossible to see further than a few feet. But the last two months had familiarized Percy with every square yard of the beach, and he could have found his way along it blindfold. Cat-footed, he stole down toward the water.
Steps approached, voices; he halted, ready for a hasty retreat. But the feet receded toward the cabin, and he had no difficulty in recognizing the tones of Dolph and Brittler. The latter was in a bad humor.
"Now," he growled, "we've got a long way to go, and none too much time. Every minute we waste here means just so much off the other end. Granted we reach the mainland all right, we'll have to hustle to slip those Chinks under cover before daylight. You'd better round 'em up in that fish-house, so none of 'em'll stray away and keep us from starting the second the sloop's ready. We've got to make sure there's plenty of gas aboard, as well as a compass and chart. I'll see if I can scare up a couple of lanterns."
The two separated, Dolph evidently going to look after the Chinese, while Brittler kept on toward the cabin. Percy stood stock-still, his heart thumping. Would the captain discover his absence?
"How's everything here, boys?" hailed Brittler.
"All quiet," replied one of the sentries.
"Come inside with me, Herb, so these fellows won't try any funny business."
The door opened. Percy felt a thrill of fear. How could they fail to notice there were only four prisoners in the camp?
But their captors evidently had not the least suspicion that he had escaped. Probably they thought he was lying in one of the bunks. He could hear the voices of Brittler and Jim, the one questioning, angry, and menacing, the other tantalizingly deliberate as he grudgingly gave the information demanded. Percy delayed no longer. He had his own work to do, and it demanded all his energy.
Down he stole to the water's edge, then followed it west until he reached a sloping rock. The Barracouta, he knew, was moored not fifty feet out in the black fog.
Without hesitating a second Percy waded in, and soon was swimming quietly toward the sloop. He had not dared to take one of the boats, for fear the grating of her keel on the beach or the sound of her oars might betray him. He cleft the water noiselessly, and it was not long before he grasped the Barracouta's bobstay and hoisted himself aboard.
Dropping down the companionway, he groped forward through the cabin to the little door leading into the bow, and crept in on hands and knees. His fingers found what he wanted, an opening between two planks, where a leak had been freshly calked with oakum. He dug this out with his knife-point, and the water began spurting in.
Backing out and closing the door, he found a wrench in the tool-box and began fumbling about the engine. Soon the spark-plugs were unscrewed and in his pocket.
"And there's a good job done!" he thought, triumphantly. "Guess that gang of blacklegs won't get very far in the Barracouta to-night!"
Voices on the shore. Dolph and Brittler were coming with a lantern; a blur of light brightened through the fog.
"The compass and chart are aboard," came the captain's voice, "and this can of gas'll be enough to make us sure of striking the mainland. Launch that dory!"
The dip of oars and an increasing brightness told that the boat was approaching. It would not do for Percy to be detected. Lowering himself from the port bow into the water, he clung to the bobstay.
"They won't see me here!"
Bump! The dory struck the sloop and grated along her side. Dolph and Brittler clambered aboard and descended into the cabin.
"Here's the chart!" exclaimed the captain. "And the compass, too! He told the truth about them, at any rate."
"Lucky for him!" rejoined Dolph. "I don't like that big fellow worth a cent."
"Good reason!" was the captain's rather sarcastic comment.
"You haven't any license to joke me about that knockdown, Bart Brittler! I noticed you weren't in any hurry to mix it with him."
There was a moment of silence.
"What's that?" cried the captain, suddenly. "Sounds like water running in! Hope the old scow isn't leaking. Let's have that lantern!"
Through the thin planking Percy could hear him open the little door and crawl up into the bow. Then his faint, muffled voice reached the eagerly listening boy.
"There's a bad leak here! Come in a minute!"
Into Percy's brain flashed a sudden idea that left him trembling with excitement. Could he do it? If he tried, he must not fail. An instant resolution set him dragging himself toward the stern.
Clutching the rim of the wash-board, he flung up one leg, caught his toe, and raised himself, dripping. A moment later he was in the standing-room.
He looked down into the cabin. The light of the lantern, shining round a body that almost filled the little door to the bow, showed a pair of legs backing out.
The die was cast. It was too late now for Percy to withdraw. His only safety lay in action.
Like lightning he slammed and hooked the double doors of the companionway, pulled the slide over, and snapped the padlock. Dolph and Brittler were prisoners on board the Barracouta!
There was a moment of surprised silence. Then bedlam broke out below, a confused, smothered shouting, a violent thumping on the closed doors and slide. But Percy gave it no heed. Thus far his plan had succeeded, even beyond his expectations. But his work was only begun. Before it should be finished, four men on shore must be overcome.
Aquiver with excitement, he sprang into the dory and quickly rowed to the beach, some distance from the camp. Then he leaped out with the oars and carried them well up on the shingle.
The other dory of the smugglers was, he remembered, almost exactly in front of the cabin. Skirting the water, he soon came plump upon the boat. He felt inside, found the oars, and gave one after the other a shove out into the cove. Barely had he done this when hurrying steps approached. One of the guards from the camp was coming to investigate the tumult on the Barracouta.
He passed so close to the dory beside which Percy was crouching that the boy could almost have touched him. Luckily he had no lantern. Percy hardly dared to breathe until the man was twenty feet past.
"What's the trouble out there?" he shouted.
If the two on the sloop heard him at all, they made no intelligible reply. The tumult and thumping kept on. Not waiting to see whether or not the sentinel would succeed in establishing communication with his marooned companions, Percy ran silently up the beach. Making a broad circuit, he approached the cabin from behind.
Through the open window he could see his mates, listening with parted lips to the hubbub outside. He attracted Jim's attention by tossing in a pebble. Spurling sauntered leisurely toward the rear of the cabin. His precautions were needless; the remaining sentry had concentrated his whole attention on the uproar in the cove.
"Jim," whispered Percy, hurriedly, "I'm going to jump that guard. You and Budge stand close to the door. The second you hear any fracas rush out and take hold with me. Stop him from shouting, if you can."
Jim nodded and stepped back from the window. Percy crept stealthily round the camp toward the fish-house. He rightly inferred that the smuggler would be gazing down the beach toward the invisible sloop.
A well-oiled clock could not have worked more smoothly. The sentry's thoughts were focused on what was taking place out there in the fog, and he was all unconscious of the peril that menaced him in the rear.
Suddenly out of the blackness behind him a lithe figure shot like a wildcat. One arm encircled the neck of the astounded guard, the hand pressing tightly over his mouth. The other hand caught his right wrist and twisted it backward, causing him to drop his revolver. The force of the attack flung him flat on his face.
Before he could even struggle the door was wrenched open and two figures darted out and joined in the mêlée. It was soon over. Three to one are heavy odds. The sentry, gagged and securely bound, was hustled inside the cabin. His hat, overcoat, and automatic were appropriated for Jim Spurling, who took his place. So skilfully had the coup been conducted under cover of the disturbance in the cove that none of the other smugglers had taken the slightest alarm.
Spurling assumed his post none too soon. Hardly had the door been closed, with Lane, Stevens, and Percy on the alert just inside, when the other guard came hurrying anxiously back. He had been unable to fathom the meaning of the tumult on the Barracouta.
"I don't like this at all, Herb," growled he as he drew near Jim. "Dolph and the skipper have gotten into some kind of a scrape, but what the trouble is I can't figure. I'd have gone out to them in the other dory, but I couldn't find any oars. We'd better call Shane and Parsons away from guarding those Chinks and decide what it's best to do. We don't know the lay of the land here, and any mistake's liable to be expensive."
By the time he had finished his remarks he was close to Spurling. The latter's silence apparently roused his suspicions. He stopped short.
"What—"
He got no further. Jim's left hand was over his mouth and Jim's right grasped his right wrist. Out burst reinforcements from the camp. It was a repetition of the case of the first sentinel, only more so. Presently Number Two lay on the cabin floor beside his comrade, unable to speak or move. Jim was a good hand at tying knots.
The five boys gathered in a corner and took account of stock. Two of the six white men prisoners; two others marooned on the sloop and hors du combat, at least temporarily; two still at large and in a condition to do mischief, but at present entirely ignorant of the plight of their comrades. Two automatics captured, and the dories of the foe useless from lack of oars. Best of all, the boys themselves free and practically masters of the situation. Matters showed a decided improvement over what they had been a half-hour before.
But the victory was as yet incomplete and Jim was too good a general to lose the battle from over-confidence. At any minute Dolph and Brittler might burst their way out through the double doors of the Barracouta and establish communication with the two men guarding the Chinese. So once more the trap was set and baited. Roger put on the hat and coat of the second sentry and joined Jim on guard.
Crash! Crash! Crash! A succession of heavy, splintering blows, echoing over the cove, announced that the pair imprisoned on the sloop had at last discovered some means of battering their way to freedom.
Crash-sh!
Speech, low but intense, came floating over the water. The smugglers were out and evidently looking for their dory. Baffled in their search, they began shouting.
"Hilloo-oo! On shore! Shane! Parsons! Herb! Terry! Are you all dead? Come out and take us off! Somebody's scuttled the sloop and locked us down in the cabin! Just wait till we get ashore! We'll fix those boys! Ahoy there! Our boat's gone! Come and get us!"
Jim pressed Roger's arm.
"Ready! Here comes one of 'em!"
Somebody was running toward them from the fish-house. A black figure suddenly loomed up, close at hand.
"What's the trouble out there, Herb? Dolph and the cap are yelling like stuck pigs! Hear 'em! Guess I'd better go out to 'em in the other dory, don't you think? Shane can handle the Chinos—"
His voice shut off in a terrified gurgle. A strong hand forcibly sealed his lips and two pairs of muscular arms held him powerless, while Percy, darting from the cabin with a coil of rope, relieved him of his automatic and tied him firmly under Jim's whispered directions. Soon he, too, lay beside his comrades.
"Shut the door a minute, Filippo!" ordered Jim. "Now," he continued, briskly, "I guess we've got 'em coppered. We'll do up that man in the fish-house in short order. By the way, Throppy, did you raise the cutter before the captain smashed your instrument?"
"Don't know," answered Stevens. "I was so busy calling for help that I didn't wait for any reply."
"We'll know before midnight," said Jim. "Take Parsons's automatic, Perce, and come along with Budge and myself. Throppy, you stay here with Filippo and help guard these fellows."
He glanced at the sullen three lying bound on the floor.
"Don't look as if they could make much trouble. Still, it's better for somebody to keep an eye on 'em."
Jim, Budge, and Percy stepped out and closed the door. The shouting from the Barracouta kept on with undiminished vigor. Appeals and threats jostled one another in the verbal torrent.
"Let 'em yell themselves hoarse," whispered Jim. "It won't do 'em any good."
The fish-house was near. A lighted lantern hung just inside the open door. Near it stood the fourth smuggler, peering anxiously out; behind him huddled the Chinamen. He gave an exclamation of relief as he saw Jim's figure approaching through the fog.
"I'm glad—"
He stopped short, frozen with surprise, at the sight of the three boys. Swiftly his hand darted toward his left coat pocket.
"None of that, Shane!" commanded Jim, sharply. "Put 'em up!"
The three automatics in the boys' hands showed the guard that resistance was useless. He obeyed sulkily.
"Feel in his pocket, Perce, and take his revolver! No, the other side! He's left-handed."
Percy secured the weapon. Escorting Shane to the camp, they soon had him safely trussed. Brittler was bellowing like a mad bull.
"Now for Dolph and the skipper! Guess the three of us are good for 'em!"
Leaving the four smugglers in the custody of Throppy and Filippo, the other boys proceeded down to the water. The shouting suddenly ceased. A rope splashed.
"They've cast off the mooring!" exclaimed Jim.
Another unmistakable sound.
"Now they're rocking the wheel to start her!"
Percy felt for the spark-plugs in his pocket.
"They'll rock it some time!"
They did. At last they stopped. There was a muttered consultation, inaudible to the listening ears on shore.
"Might as well wind the thing up now!" observed Jim in an undertone.
"On board the sloop!" he hailed. "It's all off, Captain! We've got your four men tied up, and we've got their revolvers. You and Dolph might as well give it up. Throw your guns in on the beach, and we'll come out and get you, one at a time!"
A tremendous surprise was voiced by the absolute silence that followed. It was broken by Brittler's sneering voice:
"So we might as well give up, had we, eh? Guess you don't know Bart Brittler, sonny! Let 'em have it, Dolph!"
Spang—spang—spang—spang!
A fusillade of revolver-shots woke the echoes. The bullets spattered in the water and thudded on the beach. Fortunately no one was hit.
"Scatter, fellows!" shouted Jim. And in a lower voice he added, "Don't fire back!"
Silence again. The two on the sloop were evidently reloading. Then came a regular splashing. The men on the Barracouta were paddling her ashore. Armed and desperate, now fully aware that the only things between themselves and a term in a Federal prison were the bullets in their automatics, they would go to almost any length to escape, even to the taking of life itself. Plainly there was trouble ahead.
The boys came together again at the foot of the sea-wall. Should they fight or run? It was one or the other. Whatever else they might be, Dolph and Brittler clearly were not cowards. If there was a fight, it was certain somebody would be shot, very likely killed. Was the risk worth taking? Would it not be better to hurry back to the cabin, warn Filippo and Throppy, and escape up the bank into the woods? The smugglers, with but two automatics against four, would hardly dare to follow them.
"Way enough, Dolph!" growled Brittler's voice.
The sloop had grounded. Splash! Splash! Her two passengers had leaped out into the water and were making their way to the beach.
Jim came to an instant decision. He opened his lips, but the words he had planned to speak were never uttered. The strong, rhythmical dip of oars suddenly beat through the fog.
"What's the trouble here?" demanded a stern voice.
A great surge of thankfulness almost took away Jim's power of speech.
"It's the cutter!" he ejaculated, chokingly. "Throppy got her, after all!"
XXIII
WHITTINGTON GRIT
So far as the smugglers were concerned the game was up. It was one thing to attempt to overpower a group of boys and appropriate their sloop, but it was quite another to offer armed resistance to the officers of the United States revenue service.
Dolph and Brittler realized that; they realized, too, that they had absolutely no chance of escaping from the island, so they stood sullenly by while Jim told his story to the lieutenant commanding the boat. At the close of his recital the officer turned to them.
"You hear the statements of this young man. What have you to say for yourselves?"
"Nothing now," replied Brittler.
"You may hand over your guns."
The two surrendered their automatics and were placed under arrest. Following Jim's guidance, the lieutenant inspected the captured smugglers in Camp Spurling and the Chinese in the fish-house. Leaving a guard on shore and taking Jim with him, he went off to make his report to the captain.
"It's a case for the United States commissioner at Portland," decided the latter. "We'll have to take the whole party there. Guess you boys had better come along as witnesses. The Pollux was bound east when we picked up your wireless; but this matter is so important that I'm going to postpone that trip for a couple of days. I can bring you and the rest of your party back here early day after to-morrow."
It meant to the boys a loss of only two days at the outside. That was a little thing in comparison with what might have happened if the cutter had not come.
"We'll start without waste of time," resumed the captain. "Lieutenant Stevenson, you may bring the prisoners aboard."
Jim went ashore with the officer to notify his companions and prepare for this unforeseen journey. Eleven o'clock found the Pollux steaming west with her thirty-one additional passengers. The passage was uneventful and they were alongside the wharf in Portland early the next forenoon.
Promptly at two came the hearing before the commissioner. It did not take long. Brittler and his accomplices were held for trial at the next term of court, and the Chinese were taken in charge by the immigration inspector. Before six that night the boys were passing out by Portland Head in the Pollux, bound east. The next morning they landed once more in Sprowl's Cove, and a few hours later they had fallen back into their customary routine, as if smugglers were a thing unknown. The leak in the Barracouta's bow was calked, making her as tight as before.
The following day dawned fiery red and it was evident that a fall storm was brewing. Jim and Percy had to battle with a high sea when they set and pulled their trawl; and they were glad enough to get back to Tarpaulin with their catch. By noon a heavy surf was bombarding the southern shore.
Five o'clock found the gale in full blast. A terrific wind whipped the rain in level sheets over cove and beach and against the low cabin squat on the sea-wall. Great, white-maned surges came rolling in from the ocean to boom thunderously on the ledges round Brimstone. The flying scud made it impossible to see far to windward. It was the worst storm the boys had experienced since they came to the island.
At half past five, after everything had been made snug for the night, they assembled for supper. On the table smoked a heaping platter of fresh tongues and cheeks, rolled in meal and fried brown with slices of salt pork. Another spiderful of the same viands sputtered on the stove. Hot biscuits and canned peaches crowned the repast. Filippo had done himself proud.
A long-drawn blast howled about the cabin.
"Gee!" exclaimed Percy, "but wasn't that a screamer! This is one of the nights you read about. 'The midnight tempest was shrieking furiously round the battlements of the old baronial castle!'"
"Cut it out, Perce, cut it out!" remonstrated Lane. "You make me feel ashamed of myself. It's really unkind in you to air your knowledge of the English classics before such dubs as the rest of us."
"Well, at any rate, I'm glad we're under cover. Wonder if the men who used to go to sea in this cabin enjoyed it anywhere near as much as we have!"
"Not half bad, is it?" said Jim. "Remember how delighted you were when you got your first sight of it, three months ago?"
Percy grinned.
"I've changed some since then," he admitted. "Forget that, Jim! It's ancient history now."
As he drew up his soap-box his eye dwelt appreciatively on the delicacies in the platter.
"Aren't you other fellows going to eat anything?" he inquired, with mock concern. "I don't see any more than enough for myself on that platter. Don't be so narrow about the food, Filippo!"
The Italian pointed to a pan rounded up with uncooked titbits.
"Plenty more!"
"Good!" said Percy. "I was afraid somebody else might have to go hungry."
All devoted themselves to the contents of their plates. They kept Filippo busy frying until their appetites were satisfied.
Supper was over at last, and the dishes washed and put away. Outside, the storm raged worse than ever. Stevens sat down to his instrument, repaired after its damage by Brittler, and put the receivers over his ears.
"Come on, Throppy!" exhorted Lane. "Don't go calling to-night! Get out of the ether and give some other wireless sharps a look-in! Pull off that harness and take down your violin. Let's make an evening of it! We sha'n't have many more."
Stevens lifted his hands to remove the headpiece. Suddenly a change came over his face and his arms dropped slowly. He gave his mates a warning look. There fell a silence in the cabin. Anxiously the others watched the operator's tense features. Minutes passed.
On a sudden he sprang up and tore off the receivers.
"There's a steamer in trouble outside. Name sounded like Barona. Her engine's disabled and she's drifting. Can't be very far off!"
The boys felt sober.
"It's a hard night for a craft without steerage-way," said Jim. "What's that? Thunder?"
A long, low rumble made itself heard above the storm. It came again, and yet again. The gloom was lighted for a second by a sudden blaze.
"What's that!" exclaimed Jim once more.
Between the thunder-peals his ears had caught a single whip-like crack. A stunning crash followed a lurid glare, lighting up sky and sea. Again came the sharp detonation, but little louder than a fire-cracker. This time all heard it.
"A signal-gun!"
Lane's voice was full of excitement. He sprang to the door and the others followed. The gale was blowing squarely against the end of the cabin. So great was its force that Roger had all he could do to push the door open. Presently the five stood outside, exposed to the full fury of the blast. For a few seconds all was black.
"Look! A rocket!"
Up from the pitchy sea southwest of Brimstone shot a line of fire, curving into an arc and bursting aloft in a shower of many-colored balls. At its base were dimly visible two slender masts and a white hull. Almost instantly they vanished; but the boys had seen enough.
"A steam-yacht!" cried Jim. "Not more than a half-mile off Brimstone and drifting straight on the ledges. Looks as if she was a goner!"
"Can't we help her somehow?" asked Percy.
"I'm afraid not. We couldn't drive the sloop against this gale and sea; besides, those rollers would swamp a life-boat. All we can do is to get out on the point and try to save anybody who comes ashore. Put on your oil-clothes, fellows! Light both the lanterns, Percy! Budge, you and Throppy each take one of those spare coils of rope! I'll carry another and the Coston lights. Now I can see why Uncle Tom always insisted on having a couple of 'em in the cabin. Filippo, you'd better stay here, keep up a good fire, and make plenty of coffee. There goes another rocket! The gun, too! I don't blame 'em. Men couldn't be in a worse fix!"
Leaning sidewise against the gale, the little lantern-guided procession trudged along the sea-wall and stumblingly ascended the slippery path to the beacon on Brimstone. Sheltering the oil-soaked kindlings with his body, Jim scratched a match; and in a twinkling long tongues of smoky flame were streaming wildly to leeward.
"Ah! They see us!"
Three rockets in quick succession rose from the yacht, now barely a quarter-mile away. The thunder and lightning were almost continuous. Every flash told that the imperiled craft was steadily drifting nearer the dangerous promontory.
"She'll strike the Grumblers!" muttered Jim. "And that means she's done for! If only she was a thousand feet farther east she'd float by into the cove. Hard luck!"
The Grumblers were a collection of jagged rocks, exposed at low tide. Under the incessant flashes their black heads appeared and disappeared in a welter of frothy white. It was an ominous spectacle for the men on the yacht.
Taking one of the Coston lights, Jim clambered down on the ledges. Soon the warning red glare of the torch, held high above his head, was illumining the rocks and breakers. He held the light aloft until it went out, then rejoined the others.
"They're getting a boat over!" cried Stevens.
Half a dozen men, working with frantic haste, were swinging a tender out to leeward.
"No use!" said Jim, despondently. "She won't live a minute in this sea."
Ten seconds confirmed his prediction. The yacht rolled. As the boat struck the water a giant sea filled her. Then came darkness. The next flash showed the boat drifting bottom up beside the larger craft. Another tender was launched; it survived one sea, but the next overturned it. Still a third boat met with the same fate.
Every surge was heaving the yacht nearer the breakers with dismaying speed. A group of figures gathered amidships. Silently, with pale faces, the boys watched the progress of the doomed craft. She was going to her death. How could any of those on board escape?
Jim threw off his despondency.
"Now, fellows," he cried, "the minute she strikes she'll begin to pound to pieces! Their only chance'll be to run a line ashore. We must get out as far as we can to catch it."
Every billow buried the base of the point in snowy foam and sent the spray flying far up its rugged front. Using the utmost caution, the boys descended to the limit of safety. At the next flash they peered eagerly seaward.
The yacht was almost on the Grumblers! Up she heaved on a high surge, dropped. They caught their breaths. No! Not that time. She rose again.
Down ... down ...
Suddenly she stopped. A grinding crash reached their ears.
"She's struck!" screamed Lane.
A blaze of sheet lightning showed her, careened landward, lying broadside toward them about one hundred feet distant. It was the beginning of the end. Jim, clinging to a boulder far out on the streaming ledges, now showered with spray, now buried waist-deep, was watching every movement of the crew.
"They've made a line fast round the foremast!" he shouted back. "They're going to send its end ashore on a barrel! Watch out!"
Presently the tossing cask was visible, drifting rapidly landward. For the first twenty-five yards its progress was unhindered; then a half-tide ledge barred its way. It hung on this in the trough of a sea; but the next billow swept it over. Before long it was bumping on the rocks almost within Jim's reach.
Watching his chance, he lunged forward and caught it. A crashing surge flung him down heavily and rolled him over and over; but he stuck stoutly to his prize. When the water ran back he came crawling up on his hands and knees, sliding the cask before him.
"Can't stand!" he explained, briefly. "Ankle hurt! Now muckle onto this line, everybody, and haul in! They've got a hawser bent on the other end."
A glance toward the yacht told that he was right. It also told that the peril of her human freight was greater than ever. Each sea, raising her slightly, dropped her back with her decks at a sharper angle toward the land. The grinding of the rocks through her steel side could be distinctly heard.
"All together! In she comes! Now ... heave! Now ... heave! Now ... heave!"
Their strength doubled by the realization that life hung on their efforts, the boys swayed at the line until at last they grasped the end of the hawser. To it was attached another smaller rope for pulling in a boatswain's chair.
Working rapidly, they made the hawser fast round an upright boulder. The lightning flashes were now less frequent, but lanterns on the ship and ashore enabled each group to note the other's progress. At last the slender cableway was rigged. Jim swung a lantern. Another lantern on the yacht answered.
"The smaller line, boys! Pull in! Careful!"
As the boys hauled, a figure dangled away from the vessel's side. Shoreward it swayed, now high above the wave-troughs, now dipping through a lofty crest. It dragged safely over the inside ledge, while the boys held their breaths; and presently they were unlashing a man from the boatswain's chair.
"Yes," he said in response to Jim's question, "she's the steam-yacht Barona. Belongs to Churchill Sadler of New York. One of his millionaire friends chartered her for a short trip to the Maine coast. Fifteen men aboard. I'm the mate. Came ashore first to see if this rig would work all right."
The chair was already half-way back to the vessel.
"They'll send Mr. Whittington next," continued the mate.
Percy started with surprise.
"What's that? Whittington?"
"Yes. John P., the millionaire! He's the man who hired the yacht."
"He's my father!" gasped Percy.
The mate gave an exclamation of astonishment.
"Lucky we got this chair to working or soon you wouldn't have had any father!"
The swinging seat had now reached the yacht. Two men lashed into it a stout, squarely built figure. The lantern signaled that all was ready and the shoreward journey began. Percy was shaking so violently that he could hardly pull. The mate reassured him.
"Don't be frightened, young fellow! We'll land him all right!"
He added his strength to that of the others, and John P. Whittington came in faster. He reached the ledge, only twenty-five feet from shore. Then came disaster!
Something gave way on the yacht, and the hawser suddenly slackened, letting the boatswain's chair drag on the ledge. The end of a swinging rope caught in a crack. The millionaire stopped short!
"Harder!" shouted the mate, setting the example.
The boys surged on the rope, but to no avail; they could not budge the chair. Percy stood motionless with horror.
Up curled a huge wave, high over the struggling figure. A thundering deluge hid him from view. It looked bad for John P. Whittington. Two or three seas more and it would matter little to him whether he was pulled in or not.
Guttering and rumbling, the water flowed back. Down over the ledges after it leaped a slim, wiry figure. It was Percy Whittington!
He had thrown off his oil-clothes to give his limbs greater freedom. His head was bare and his light hair stood straight up from his forehead. Grasping the hawser, he plunged into the sea and dragged himself toward the rock to which his father was fastened.
The group on the point stood silent, watching him struggle yard by yard through the black water until he gained the ridge. On it lay the figure in the boatswain's chair, struggling feebly. Percy planted his feet on the slippery rock. But before he could reach his father another liquid avalanche buried them both.
It seemed to the anxious watchers as if it would never run back. When it did, the older man sagged from the chair, motionless; the lad still clung to the hawser. The future of the house of Whittington hung trembling in the balance.
The mate gave a groan.
"He can't do it!"
At that very instant Percy roused to activity. Even before the ledge was entirely clear he was leaning over his father, knife in hand. It was useless to attempt to extricate the rope-end from the crack in which it was caught; the only thing to do was to cut it. Percy stooped quickly. Already the next sea was curling over his head. He made a savage assault upon the rope.
Slash! Slash! Twice his arm rose and fell. The billow was breaking down over him when he leaped erect and flung up his hand.
"Pull!" yelled Jim.
Just as the flood boiled over the ledge the chair and its senseless burden jerked away. Percy grasped the lashings and was towed along behind his father. Dread overcame him as he felt the limpness of the older man's body.
Through the eddying tide ... up over the slippery rocks ... and presently Jim and the mate were unfastening the bonds that held the insensible millionaire in the boatswain's chair. They carried him up near the beacon and laid him down on Percy's oil-clothes.
"He's breathing!" said the mate. "He'll come round all right. You'll know what to do for him. I'll go back and help get the other men off. Their lives mean just as much to their people as his does to you."
Working with Budge and Throppy, he took in the slack of the hawser, and soon the chair was dancing back to the yacht. Meanwhile Jim and Percy were working over Mr. Whittington, and before long he recovered his senses. With a groan he half raised himself.
"Where am I?"
"You're all right, Dad!"
"Percy!"
Both father and son showed a depth of feeling Jim would hardly have credited them with possessing.
"You don't need me here any longer," he said. "I'll go down and help pull the others ashore. Throw these oil-clothes of mine over your father, Percy, and make him comfortable, and as soon as the rest are safe we'll carry him to camp."
"What's that?" growled the millionaire. "Carry me? I guess you don't know the Whittingtons, young man!"
His jaw set and he rose somewhat unsteadily to his feet.
"Come on, Percy! Where's that camp?"
Walking slowly, the father leaning on his son's shoulder, the two disappeared in the darkness. Jim watched them for a few seconds, then started down over the ledges. The last half-hour had raised his estimation of the Whittington stock considerably above par.
Then for a time, engrossed in life-saving, he forgot everything else. At last all the men were landed safely. It was none too soon, for the yacht was now almost down on her side; and it was plain she would pound to pieces before very long.
Rescuers and rescued sought the cabin, where a good fire and hot coffee awaited them. Whittington, senior, clad in dry clothing, lay in Percy's bunk. Filippo was bustling to and fro to supply the wants of his numerous guests. His eyes fell upon a dark-haired, olive-skinned young man in the rear of the shipwrecked group, and the cup he was carrying clattered on the floor.
"Frank!" he cried. "Fratello mio!"
The brothers flung themselves into each other's arms. The Whittington family was not the only happy one in Camp Spurling that night.
XXIV
CROSSING THE TAPE
There was little sleep on Tarpaulin, either for rescuers or rescued, until the small hours of the morning. The cabin was crowded to its utmost capacity, as the fish-house was too cold for the drenched, wearied men. Filippo kept a hot fire going until long after midnight, and served out coffee galore. During his intervals of leisure he and Frank conversed in liquid Sicilian.
Outside, the storm roared and the surf boomed on the ledges about Brimstone; beyond in the blackness lay the wrecked Barona, hammering to pieces.
Gradually conversation ceased and the camp grew quiet. The boys and their unexpected guests, sandwiched closely together on the floor and in the bunks, drifted off into fitful slumber. But John P. Whittington's eyes remained wide open.
He was outstretched in Percy's bunk. His clothes hung drying before the stove, and he had on an old suit of Jim's, as nothing that Percy wore was large enough to fit his father's square, bulky figure. Beside him lay his son, sound asleep. John P. marveled at his regular breathing. Occasionally he touched the lad with his hand.
All his thoughts centered about Percy. He could not but feel that this brown, wiry fellow who had saved his life was a stranger to him. He could see with half an eye that a great change had come over the boy during the summer; he had grown quieter, stronger, far more manly.
Yes, Percy had stuck. John Whittington had only half believed that he could or would; and he had spent a good many valuable hours worrying over what he should do with his son if he didn't stick. The result showed that all those hours had been thrown away; but somehow the millionaire couldn't feel very bad about the waste.
He began to wonder if Percy might not have done better in the past if his father had put in a little more time with him personally and spent less in mere money-making. He had tried to shift his responsibility off on somebody else, had hired others to do what he should have taken pains to do himself. That was a big mistake; John P. Whittington could see it plainly now. And it had come near being a pretty costly error for him, for Percy. Well, those days were over. Percy had turned squarely about and was doing better. Whittington, senior, determined to do better, too.
Little by little the gale blew itself out. By daybreak the sky was clear and the wind had gone down, but the high rollers still wreaked their wrath on the shattered yacht and thundered on the point. A fiery sun shot its red rays over the slumberers in the crowded cabin. Filippo roused yawningly, built the fire, and busied himself about breakfast.
Soon everybody was astir. The millionaire's clothes were now dry, and he dressed with the others. Save for a slight stiffness and a few bruises, he was all right.
After breakfast he went up on Brimstone with Percy and the others to take a look at the Barona. The steel hull lay on its side on the foaming reef, a battered, crumpled shape, sadly different from the trim yacht that had left New York so short a time before. A miscellaneous lot of wreckage was swashing in the surf at the base of the point, and Jim and some of the crew were salvaging what they could; but it was not very much.
Standing in safety on the promontory in the sunlight of the pleasant morning, John P. Whittington gazed long at the wreck.
"Well," he remarked at last to the captain, who stood beside him, "I guess I see where I'm out fifty or seventy-five thousand dollars. Might as well take my medicine without a whimper. It was all my fault. You wanted to run into Portland when the storm was making up, but I thought we'd better try for some port nearer the island. I've gotten so into the habit of having men do as I want them to that I thought the wind and sea would do the same. But I've learned they won't. It's been an expensive mistake, and it came altogether too near being more expensive still. It's up to me to foot the bills. I'll make it all right with you and the crew and Sadler."
The sea was going down rapidly. A council was held. The Rockland boat would leave Matinicus at half past one, and, as Jim felt that the Barracouta could easily make the run to the island, it was decided to send the crew back to New York that very day. The captain and the mate arranged to remain on Tarpaulin until a wrecking-tug from Boston should arrive.
Mr. Whittington, yielding to the persuasions of Percy and the invitation of the other boys, consented to take the first vacation of his life and stop with them a week or ten days, when their season on the island would close.
While the crew were preparing to embark, Filippo approached Jim with his newly found brother.
"I like to go with Frank," he said.
"Sorry to have you leave, Filippo," returned Jim. "But I know just how you feel, and I don't blame you a bit."
He called Stevens and Lane aside. Presently the latter went into the cabin and reappeared with a roll of bills. Jim handed them to the Italian.
"Here's one hundred dollars, Filippo, your share for your summer's work. You've earned it fairly. If there's anything more coming to you, after we figure up, I'll send it on. What will your address be? We hope to see you again some time."
Filippo was overcome. Tears of gratitude filled his eyes as he stammered his thanks. It was arranged that letters in the care of the Italian consul at Boston would always be forwarded to him.
Jim and Throppy took the departing party over to Matinicus on the Barracouta, getting them there in ample time for the Rockland steamer. The sloop was back at Tarpaulin by four o'clock.
Meanwhile John P. Whittington had started on his vacation. Though his time ran into thousands of dollars a week, he felt he could profitably spend a little of it in getting acquainted with his boy. One of the first things his keen eyes noted was the absence of the cigarettes.
"Knocked off, eh, Percy? For how long?"
"For good, Dad!"
The millionaire suppressed a whistle; something had certainly struck Percy.
The next morning, his sturdy figure garbed in oilskins, he started out with his son and Jim for Clay Bank. He had to acknowledge that rising at midnight was a little early, even for a man accustomed to work as hard as he had always done.
Out on the shoal he was a silent but interested spectator while the trawl was being pulled and the fish taken aboard. An old swell was running, and he speedily discovered that seasickness was another thing his will could not master. That afternoon he watched Percy skilfully handle the splitting-knife and later do his part in baiting the trawl.
On the morning following he went out lobstering, and found as much to interest him as on the day before. Everything was new to him. He discovered that even a man experienced in big business can learn some things from boys. Soon his sleep at night was as sound as his son's.
He made a trip to Matinicus in the Barracouta, and talked prices with the superintendent of the fish-wharf and the proprietor of the general store.
"Have a bottle of lemon, Dad?" invited Percy.
Mr. Whittington was on the point of refusing; he did not care for soda. On second thought, however, he drank it soberly.
Percy appreciated his father's acceptance of the proffered courtesy.
"It's the first time my money ever bought anything for you."
The experience was a novel one for them both.
Just after light one morning the wrecking-tug from Boston appeared. A brief examination of the Barona's hull by a diver showed that the havoc wrought by the sea and rocks had been so great that but little of value could be saved. So the tug started back that very afternoon, and the captain and the mate of the yacht went with her.
The weather was now much cooler, and the boys were glad that their stay was to be short. Wild geese were honking overhead in V-shaped lines on their way south. Mr. Whittington accompanied the others on a gunning trip to Window Ledge, and came back with a dozen coots. He smacked his lips over the coot stew and dumplings prepared by Jim. Throppy dismantled his wireless and packed up his outfit to send away.
On their last Thursday at Tarpaulin Uncle Tom Sprowl came in on the smack with Captain Higgins. He had boarded the Calista at York Island. Everybody, including Nemo and Oso, was glad to see Uncle Tom. His rheumatism was fully cured and he was spry and chipper. He was more than satisfied with what the boys had accomplished during the summer, and he planned to continue lobstering after their departure.
He noted the change in Percy.
"Told Jim your son needed salting," he confided to Mr. Whittington. "He's all right now."
The afternoon before they were to leave the island Roger reckoned up his accounts. They showed that after Uncle Tom's share had been deducted, Spurling & Company had a thousand dollars to divide. Of this, one hundred dollars had already been paid to Filippo.
Lane handed Percy one hundred and fifty dollars.
"I don't want him to take that," objected Mr. Whittington.
"We shouldn't feel right if he didn't," said Jim.
"Dad," spoke up Percy, "I want it. I've earned it. Look at those hands and arms. It's the first money I ever had that you didn't give to me. I'm going to have one of the bills framed behind glass."
"He's earned it, fast enough," corroborated Jim. "Let him take it, Mr. Whittington. We'll all feel better about it if you will."
So the millionaire gave his consent, with the mental reservation that in some way he would make it up to the others later.
"What are you going to do with all that wealth, Percy?" he asked. "It won't keep you very long in gasolene."
"Send half of it to Filippo for his brother Frank," replied Percy, promptly. "He lost about all he had when the Barona was wrecked."
Later that afternoon Mr. Whittington took Jim aside out of Percy's hearing.
"Honestly, between us, how has the boy done this summer?"
"I wouldn't ask to have anybody take hold any better than he has since the middle of July."
The millionaire looked gratified.
"I'm more than pleased at the way things have turned out, and I don't know how I can ever repay you. Can't I help you somehow in money matters?"
Jim shook his head decidedly.
"No, thank you, Mr. Whittington. As I told you at the beginning of the summer, we're making our own way. Percy is entitled to every cent we've paid him, and I can honestly say we're glad he's been with us."
A half-hour afterward Mr. Whittington found his son alone.
"How about those college conditions, Percy?" he asked.
"Just finished my work on 'em before the wreck, Dad. I'm ready to take my exams the minute I strike college. It's been a hard pull, harder even than the fishing and lobstering, and it's kept me hustling; but I believe I've won out. Studying isn't so bad. All you've got to do is to make up your mind to get your lessons, and then get 'em."
"That's so in other things besides studying, Percy. You'll find it out later on."
"I guess I don't need to tell you," continued his son, "how much I owe to Jim Spurling and the others. They're the whitest bunch I ever ran with, and I wouldn't have missed my summer with them for anything."
"Something different from what you felt three months ago, eh, Percy? Remember our talk at Graffam Academy, Commencement night?"
"Rather guess I do! And, believe me, I sha'n't forget it in a hurry. By the way, there's one fellow I owe a good deal to that I haven't told you about yet."
He related to his father the story of his two encounters with Jabe. The older man listened with grim but satisfied attention.
"Licked him at last, did you? If you hadn't, I should want you to look him up and do it now. It's a Whittington habit to carry through what you begin. Well, Percy, you've certainly made good."
A glimmer of pride, the first he had ever shown in his son, crossed his face.
"I blamed you for junking your auto. Now I've gone and junked a yacht that'll cost me more than fifty times as much. Well, there's no fool like the old fool! But it's been worth it."
He gave his son a look in which affection mingled with pride.
"It was quicksilver, kill or cure; and I'm mighty glad it's been cure."