CHAPTER XXII
PORT OF THE HAIR
“Where is Sam?”
Such was the question which came from Mark, after the worst of the blow was over.
“Samuel?” queried Professor Strong, quickly. “Isn’t he at the bow?”
“No, sir.”
“He must have gone overboard!” ejaculated Darry. “Sam! Sam! where are you?”
“He did go overboard,” panted Hockley, who had just been clearing his mouth of lake water. “I saw him go.”
“Then why didn’t you give the alarm?” demanded the professor indignantly. “How long ago was this?”
“Only half a minute, sir. I would have spoken before, but that last wave almost drowned me.”
“Sam! Sam!” called the others in concert, and listened attentively for an answer. When none came they looked at each other in increasing alarm.
“Did you see the boy go overboard?” asked the professor of the native boatman.
Salvador shook his head. “See noddings,” he said. “I do best to keep boat from turning up, señor.”
“We must turn back for him,” went on Professor Strong.
“Turn back, señor? Dat is dangerous,” and the native shook his head.
“Perhaps, but we must go back, nevertheless. Here, I will help you bring her around. Boys, watch for him, two to the right and two to the left. We must find and save him.”
“Yes! yes!” said Frank. “Poor Sam! What would his mother say if he was drowned!”
The sloop came around with difficulty and for the moment threatened to swamp herself. As the water rolled up, Hockley gave a groan of terror.
“Don’t, please don’t!” he whined. “We’ll all go to the bottom next. Head her for land!”
“Cling fast and you will be safe,” answered Professor Strong, who was as cool as ever, although deeply concerned over Sam’s welfare.
“But we’ll go down—I know we will,” pleaded the lank youth.
“We are bound to save Sam, so shut up,” cried Mark, getting angry. “Sam may be nothing to you but he is a good deal to us,” and thereupon Hockley became silent, although he shivered with fear every time the sloop made an extra heavy lurch.
In the midst of the wind and rain it was hard to follow the back course correctly and without knowing it they passed far to the westward of where Sam had gone overboard.
“I can’t see a thing,” remarked Mark, after a painful silence lasting nearly quarter of an hour.
“Nor I,” returned Frank.
“It’s raining too hard to see much,” came from Darry.
“It is gradually letting up,” said the professor. “And he must be somewhere in this neighborhood.”
They continued to cruise around until the sun went down, much to Hockley’s disgust.
“It’s no use,” said the lank youth. “He’s gone to the bottom and that’s all there is to it.”
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself to speak so, Jake Hockley!” retorted Mark. “Haven’t you any heart?”
“Of course I have, Mark Robertson, but I know a thing or two. If he was afloat we’d have found him long ago.”
“We will continue the search if it takes all night,” came from the professor. “I cannot believe that poor Winthrop is drowned.”
“Poor Beans” murmured Darry, and the tears started to his eyes. “Such a good chap as he was!” And he felt almost like hurling Hockley overboard because of his heartlessness.
Upon questioning Salvador, the professor learned that there was a long stretch of marshland not a great way off and that it was possible that Sam had found his way in that direction.
“It is a mile, señor. He would have to be a very good swimmer to reach it,” said the boatman.
“We’ll sail over to it anyway,” answered Professor Strong. “We must do something.”
The course of the sloop was changed and they moved slowly for the marshland, beating against the wind. Darry was at the bow watching eagerly for any sign of life which might appear.
“I see something in the water, dead ahead,” he sang out presently and all rushed forward to investigate. At first they felt sure it must be Sam’s body but as they drew closer found it was nothing but a mass of seaweed with some rubbish on top.
“Too bad!” came from Hockley. “I thought the search was ended.”
“I’m glad we didn’t find him drowned,” answered Frank.
They were interrupted by a cry from the professor. “I see a light ahead, low down as if on the water’s edge. It looks like a signal.”
“It must be a signal,” said the native boatman. “No house dare—no people live dare. All wet ground and mud, señor.”
As they drew closer to the fire the professor let out a long and loud cry:
“Winthrop! Sam Winthrop! Is that you?”
No answer came back and once again the boys felt a keen disappointment. But the course of the sloop was not changed and soon they were so close to the fire that they could see around it quite plainly.
“Somebody is there,” ejaculated Mark.
“Yes, and it’s either Sam or his ghost,” added Frank. “Hullo, Beans!” he yelled, at the top of his lungs.
The figure at the fire, which had been watching landward, with club upraised, turned suddenly and peered into the darkness of the lake.
“Who calls?”
“Beans, true enough!” came from Mark.
“Are you safe, Winthrop?” asked the professor, and then the sloop came up, ramming her bow deeply in the mud of the bank. In another moment the crowd was surrounding Sam and the boys were hugging him warmly.
“Yes, I’m safe,” answered Sam, when he felt able to speak. “I—I went to sleep and woke up thinking some wild animal was going to attack me. I’ve had a pretty hard time of it, I can tell you.”
“We’ve all had a hard time,” grumbled Hockley. “We’ve been looking for you for hours.”
“When I went overboard I thought I’d be drowned sure,” went on Sam, and then he related his story from beginning to end. “I can tell you, I want no more Lake Maracaibo squalls.”
“Nor do we,” came from Mark. “It was worse than the one I once experienced on Lake George,—when our yacht, the Firefly, was dashed on the rocks and ruined.”
“Let us all be truly thankful for Winthrop’s escape,” put in the professor. “It was the act of an all-wise and all-powerful Providence that has spared him.”
The little party remained around the fire for quite a while, talking of the storm and drying their clothing. Then the blaze was kicked into the water and they boarded the sloop once more.
“Are you quite sure we won’t have any more squalls?” asked Sam, of the native boatman.
“Storm gone now—no come back to-night,” answered Salvador.
Once aboard of the sloop the course was straight for Maracaibo. But the wind had gone down and it was not until after sunrise that they ran into the harbor and landed.
“Well, I guess you won’t forget Lake Maracaibo in a hurry,” said Mark to Sam, as they walked to their hotel.
“You’re right I won’t,” was the reply. “One such adventure is enough in a lifetime.”
They were just in time for breakfast and never did a meal taste better for, as Darry expressed it, “they were all as hungry as Tomcats locked out for the summer.” An hour was spent at the hotel and then they hurried away to catch the steamer back to La Guayra.
“I’m going to take a nap when I get on board,” said Mark, and this he did, and the others followed his example. They slept for several hours and did not stir until the steamer ran into the harbor of Puerto Cabello, situated directly north of Valencia, and thirty miles by railroad from that city.
“Puerto Cabello means the Port of the Hair,” explained Professor Strong. “The harbor is so safe that it was said in olden times that a ship could be anchored here by a single hair. This used to be a terrible spot for yellow fever, and Sir Francis Drake died here of the scourge, after capturing and looting Caracas and other cities in Queen Elizabeth’s time.”
Puerto Cabello is one of the most important seaports of Venezuela. Vessels from many countries stop there, bringing in goods of all sorts and taking away cargoes of coffee and cocoa in exchange. The long warehouses of importers and exporters line the docks and not far away is the railroad running to Valencia and other points of more or less importance. The public buildings are numerous and the usual statues of Bolivar and other public characters are not lacking. From Puerto Cabello to Valencia there is a well-built wagon road and this is used constantly by traders who are too old-fashioned to use the railroad.
“You cannot hire some of the natives to get on a train,” said the professor, while they were looking around the town. “They look upon the railroad as the invention of the Evil One. They are the ones who have retarded the progress of South America for centuries.”
At Puerto Cabello the boys witnessed some trading which was as interesting as it was amusing. An old native had brought in some pineapples which he wished to exchange in trade for some clothing. Instead of lumping the value of his stock in trade, he valued each pineapple separately and wanted to know what it would bring in exchange. Thus he gave two pineapples for a hat, three for a pair of slippers, one for a flaming red neckerchief, one for a big brass pin holding a polished bit of glass, and ten for a pair of trousers. The latter bargain was made with difficulty, the clothier taking the trousers and laying them on his counter and the native placing one pineapple after another alongside until the clothier nodded his head to show that he was satisfied. Then the native, having two pineapples left, traded them for a small bottle of cologne.