“How about Perkins, Dick?” the mate added, deliberately attempting to goad the big man into a rage. “Perkins was your friend, wasn’t he, Dick? And now he’s on the bottom of Lake Erie, washed over the side in a storm we never should have been in! All because of a couple of dirty brats who haven’t shaved yet!”
The big man shook his head. He got to his feet and gazed down at the mate. He clenched and unclenched his hamlike hands and another deep growl rumbled from his chest.
“What are you going to do, Dick?” his friend Bogert asked. The little man was slightly nervous.
“I’m gonna pay ’em back,” the big man said slowly. He blinked his eyes stupidly. “I’ve been starvin’ and I lost my best friend and I almost got washed overboard myself and it’s all on account of them kids. I’m gonna pay ’em back, Bogert.” He turned to the mate and growled, “Where are they?”
But he needn’t have asked.
At that moment, Sandy Steele walked down the hall with a bucket. He needed more water to freshen his friend’s bandages.
“There he is!” the mate shouted. “There’s the wise one—the one that called me a liar!”
The big man whirled and pounced. Before Sandy knew what was happening, he had been grasped by the collar and spun around. There was not even time to struggle. The big man held him firmly in that left hand and drew back his big right fist for a smashing blow.
“Wise kid,” Dick muttered. “I’m gonna give you a good one from old Perkins.”
Sandy started to duck.
But the blow never landed.
Instead, it was Dick himself who was whirled around now, while an angry voice said, “Ay tank Ay give you goot wan.”
Then there was a sharp spat of bone meeting bone. An expression of amazement came over Dick’s face. Then his face went blank and his knees buckled and he sank gently to the deck.
Gunnar smiled and lifted his enormous right fist for the rest of the shocked sailors to see.
“Ay yust tell you maybe Ay hit real hard next time.”
Murmurs of admiration came from the lips of the onlookers, and at that moment, Mr. Briggs sought to steal from the room. But Sam, who had also been awakened, moved to head him off.
“What’s your hurry, mate?” he asked easily.
“Well, er, I was, er, just going to....” Mr. Briggs stammered, clearing his throat. He cast a nervous glance at the big Swede, who stood glaring at him while, behind him, the big man, Dick, slowly pushed himself up from the deck. “Well, you see—” the mate stuttered, but then his eyes lost their fear and his face grew spiteful and defiant again as Captain West came sloshing into the room.
“What’s going on here?” he bellowed.
Every head spun toward him and there was a babble of excited voices in reply. But, of course, it was Mr. Briggs who answered the skipper’s question.
“Oh, nothing at all, sir,” he said, giving Captain West a broad wink. “Just a bit of friendly horseplay, that’s all, sir.”
Captain West grunted and nodded. Then he said, “You, there, Sam and Gunnar. Get up above to the pilothouse. A wave swept everything but the deck away, but you can still steer by hand compass. Get one from one of the lifeboats. The rest of you,” he roared, whirling quickly, “the rest of you get back where you belong. The storm’s over! We’ll make Buffalo by tomorrow night.”
A weak cheer followed that news. The men shuffled down the passageway. Captain West waited until the sailors had gotten out of earshot, before he jerked a rude thumb at Sandy and growled, “He making trouble again?”
The mate nodded. “Just before you came below, he stirred up a fight between Dick and the Swede.”
Sandy Steele sucked his breath in sharply.
“That’s a lie!” he burst out sharply.
Captain West ignored his protest. He merely glared savagely at Sandy and said, “Shut up!” He seemed to be pondering something. Then, his forehead smoothed out and he spoke to his mate.
“Briggs, we’re only a few hours away from that Chadwick-Kennedy deal. I’m taking no chances on Buster, here. So, he’s yours until we dock tomorrow night. Take him into your cabin with you and batten down the door. Don’t come out until I send for you. You hear me?”
The mate nodded glumly. “Don’t I get nothin’ to eat?” he whined.
“Stop bleating about your blasted belly,” the captain snapped. “I’ll send Cookie in to you. Now, now, hold on! Whoa! What about the other brat? Where’s he?”
“In bed,” the mate said. “He sprained his ankle during the storm.”
“Bad?”
Mr. Briggs grinned evilly.
“Bad enough to keep him in bed.”
“Good,” Captain West said. “Now, get out of here—and don’t let me see your ugly face until we dock in Buffalo. And as for him,” he went on, jerking his head toward Sandy, “I don’teverwant to seehisface again!”
Sadly assuring himself that the feeling was mutual, Sandy Steele preceded the mate down the passageway to his cabin.
Sandy Steele was not a quitter, yet it seemed to him that the game was over and he had lost.
He sat on the bunk in Mr. Briggs’s cabin, with the mate leering at him from a corner chair, and miserably considered his own plight. There didn’t seem to be any way out. Jerry James could not move from his bed for another day or two, so there was no help there. And herehewas, a prisoner!
There wasn’t any way in the world for him to reach Mr. Kennedy.
Sandy shook his blond head mournfully. Seeing his gesture, the mate read the feeling behind it and said, “If you had the brains you were born with, you’d forget about everything and go to sleep.”
Sandy’s face went cold. He pretended not to have heard, but the mate was not to be denied his favorite pleasure of gloating.
“Ma Kennedy’s little chick’s lost its tongue, eh?” he sneered. “Too bad you ain’t going to see Ma Kennedy before tomorrow night. And by that time, the skipper’ll be the chief captain of the Chadwick-Kennedy Line, and yours truly’ll be a full master.”
Oho, Sandy thought to himself, so that’s the mate’s reward for his treachery. He decided to remain quiet. The talkative Mr. Briggs might give away some more secrets.
“Don’t think you can outwait me,” Mr. Briggs went on. “You’re the one who needs the sleep—not me. While you heroes was battling the storm this afternoon, I was having myself a little rest. So I’m fresh as a daisy.”
Sandy still said nothing.
“And furthermore,” the mate snapped, plainly nettled, “even if I did doze off, it wouldn’t help you.” He tapped his breast pocket. “The key to that there door is tucked away in here. You’d have to kill me to get it.”
Sandy smiled, and the mate lost his temper.
“Why, you—” he began, but just then there was a knock on the door.
“Who’s there?” the mate called.
“It’s me. Cookie.”
Mr. Briggs relaxed. “Got some grub, hey, Cookie?”
“Yessirree. Got a little hot coffee, too.”
“Hot coffee!” the mate exclaimed, jumping to his feet and opening the door to let Cookie enter. “How on earth did you ever rustle that up?”
“Oh, just a little of Cookie’s magic,” the little bald-headed man chuckled as he slipped through the door carrying a tray.
Sure enough! He did have hot coffee! The aroma of it filled Sandy’s nostrils and his mouth watered.
He smiled fondly at Cookie, and then, to his shocked disbelief, the little man’s face went ugly with hatred.
“Don’t smirk at me, you Jonah, you!” Cookie shrilled. “I’ve had nothing but bad luck since you and your friend came aboard this ship!” Sandy recoiled from the little man as though he had been struck, and Cookie raged on, “Yes, I mean you, Sandy Steele! First, I nearly drown because of you. Then, you and your stupid friend burn my galley down. And now look at the mess everybody’s in because of your silly meddling!” Sandy shrank away from him, as insult after insult fell from the little man’s trembling lips—to the intense delight of Mr. Briggs.
But Cookie, who had set his tray on the table, moved closer and closer toward Sandy, until he had poked his wrinkled little face within a few inches of the youth’s nose.
Then he winked and grinned.
Sandy Steele’s heart leaped for joy, and he almost jumped up and kissed the little man. As it was, he knew his face must have given him away, for Cookie had quickly flashed him a warning look, before he began backing away, still mouthing insults.
Sandy felt better when he saw Mr. Briggs slap Cookie on the back and heard him say, “Cookie, I couldn’t have said it better myself. The only thing I can add to what you’ve said is that those brats are twice as bad as you say they are.”
Still sputtering angrily, Cookie bent to his tray and began pouring the mate a cup of steaming hot coffee.
Determined to play his part, Sandy put a pleading note into his voice and said, “Aw, Cookie—how about some coffee?”
“You?” Cookie burst out, enraged. “I wouldn’t give you a glass of lake water if you were dying of thirst!”
“Heh, heh,” the mate laughed, evidently pleased that the little man shared his sentiments. “You’re in a rare mood tonight, Cookie. Why don’t you sit down and talk a bit.”
“I will,” Cookie said. He took a seat, carefully smoothing his stained white apron. He watched the mate take a sip. “How’s the coffee, mate?” he asked.
“Fine, Cookie—fine.”
“Ah, yes, hot coffee’s good after a storm. Especially with a shot of rum in it.”
“Rum? Did you say rum?”
With a sly wink, Cookie reached behind him and under his apron. He brought out a bottle and brandished it happily.
“Aye, rum, mate.” He cast a dark look at Sandy. “It’s all that could be salvaged from the fire. I’d been saving it to make mince meat.” He unscrewed the cap and tilted it to pour it into the mate’s cup. “Here, a little of this’ll warm your belly.”
“Oh, no, no, no!” the mate chattered, holding up a hand to block Cookie. “I’d like to, Cookie—I swear I would! But I’d better not.”
“Why not?” Cookie asked innocently. “A man’s got a right to a proper drink after a storm.”
“Well, er,” the mate stammered, “as a matter of fact, the skipper, er, suggested to me that I’d better not.”
“Of course,” Cookie agreed, raising the bottle again. “But that was before the storm. Now, you know Captain West would never begrudge a man a snort after coming through what we’ve been through.”
Cookie’s voice was so easy and coaxing that Sandy marveled to hear it. And the mate could not resist it.
“Well, Cookie, since you put it that way, I suppose you’re right. But, just a little, now. Whoa, whoa! That’s plenty!”
“Oh-oh,” Cookie said, with exaggerated concern, “I hadn’t really meant to put that much in.”
“No harm done,” Mr. Briggs said grandly. “No harm done, really.”
“Well, I’m certainly glad to hear that.”
“Perfectly okay, Cookie, perfectly okay. By the way, aren’t you going to have a spot yourself?”
“Well, I don’t mind if I do. Here, I’ll just try a little in this cup here.”
They gabbed on like that for a few minutes, their talk reaching Sandy’s ears against the background of the mate’s noisy sipping of his coffee. For a while, Sandy ignored their conversation. He was too busy trying to figure out what Cookie was up to.
Obviously, the little man was trying to get the mate drunk. But why? Cookie knew nothing of the forthcoming deal between Paul Chadwick and Mr. Kennedy. At least, so Sandy thought. So he could not understand Cookie’s actions. But he did see that the little man’s plan was working. As time wore on, and the heaving of theJames Kennedybecame less and less pronounced, Sandy noticed that the words of Mr. Briggs were also becoming less pronounced. His voice was thickening. He was not even aware that Cookie’s drinks had dwindled away to almost nothing, while his own had swelled in size.
“By the way, mate,” Cookie said, as Mr. Briggs’s head began to loll on his shoulders. “I’ve got a funny one to tell you.”
“Whash that, Cookie, ol’ pal?”
“It’s about that big Swede, Gunnar. He told me he was going to use the ship-to-shore telephone to call his girl-friend back in Duluth. I told him he was crazy because it’s against the ship’s rules to use the ship-to-shore.”
“Right, thash right. Phone’s locked up, anyway.”
“But you know what that big stupe said? He said he’d be able to make the call in spite of that, because he knew that if he gave you five dollars you’d give him the key.”
The mate’s brow darkened.
“He’sh a liar,” he mumbled. “Never take bribe.”
“He said you did,” Cookie rushed on eagerly. “In fact, he showed me the key.”
“Liar!” the mate repeated. “He’sh liar!” He leaned forward drunkenly and with a knowing leer on his face, he tapped Cookie on the knee. “I’ll prove it,” he mumbled. “Prove he’sh liar.” He fumbled in his side pocket. Then he drew out a bunch of keys on a ring. “Here’sh key!” he gloated, swaying as he attempted to thump his chest. “Gunnar’s big liar. Mr. Briggs don’t take bribes.”
“Well, well,” Cookie said, shaking his head as though grieved. “To think he’d tell me a big one like that. Here, mate, have another drink.”
But the mate did not answer.
His head had sagged forward on his chest. Raising his voice, Cookie repeated his request. But the mate still did not reply.
With a glance of utmost contempt, Cookie reached forward and grasped his shoulder and shook him gently.
“Have a drink, mate,” he said.
The mate’s mouth fell open and his head snapped back and a long, whistling snore broke from his throat.
With a grin of triumph, Cookie got to his feet. He walked over to Sandy and stuck out his hand.
“Shake, pal,” he whispered.
With eyes shining with gratitude, Sandy Steele clasped his little friend’s hand. He realized, now, that Cookie must know everything—else why all that nonsense to find out where the key to the radio shack was located. For that ship-to-shore telephone was Sandy Steele’s only hope!
“Wait ten more minutes,” Cookie whispered. “Wait until he’s so sound asleep we can get that key away from him without waking him.”
Sandy nodded. He sat on his bunk for a time, watching the first pale light of dawn growing steadily brighter outside, and as the day brightened, his spirits soared with it. At last, his chance had come!
Cookie arose and moved softly to the snoring mate. He put his mouth to his ear, and said in a loud voice, “Have another drink, mate.”
Mr. Briggs’s answer was a sputtering snore.
Cookie slapped him sharply on the cheek and cried, “Wake up, mate.” Mr. Briggs slept on as though made of stone.
With another cocky grin, the little man reached down into Mr. Briggs’s side pocket and pulled out his set of keys. He found the one he wanted, separated it from the rest, removed it—and then stuck the others back where they had come from.
“Let’s go,” he said to Sandy.
“Sure you have the right key, Cookie?” Sandy asked.
“Sure. I’d know it anywhere. Come on, follow me.”
As they went out, Cookie removed the key that the mate had left in the lock when he opened the door to admit him. When they had stepped out into the corridor, he closed the door softly behind him and locked it.
“Just in case,” he chirped, putting the key in his pocket.
Then the two made their way to the radio shack.
“Shhh!” Cookie said, as he quietly unlocked the door to the radio shack. “Don’t show a light either.” He glanced rapidly around him. “There,” he said, pointing to an object standing alongside a radio transmitter. “That’s it.”
A tingling thrill shot through Sandy Steele’s body as his eyes pierced the dim light that filtered through a porthole and fell on the ship-to-shore telephone.
“You use it just like any other telephone,” Cookie whispered, as he bent to lock the door. “Just give the operator the letters there at the bottom, and then give her the number you want.”
Sandy Steele groaned.
“I don’t know Mr. Kennedy’s number,” he said.
Cookie’s brow puckered. “Well, ask the operator to locate him for you. She might help.”
She did.
“You see,” Sandy explained, once the operator had let him know she was on the line, “all I know about Mr. Kennedy is that he lives in Buffalo and that he owns the Kennedy Shipping Lines. Is that enough to go on?”
His heart sang when a pert voice replied, “I think so. Would you hold on, please?”
“Yes,” Sandy said, and then his heart stopped singing as another voice, neither pert nor far away, roared from outside the door.
“Who’s in that radio shack?”
It was the voice of Captain West.
John Kennedy was an early riser. He had been so all his life. He had made no exception to his custom on this warm summer morning, rising with the first light of dawn.
But he was not happy to greet this day. It would mark the sale of the shipping line that had been in his family for close to a century. Though he hurried through his bath with his usual brisk, sure motions, Mr. Kennedy was a sorrowing man by the time he had walked out on the sundeck of his big stone house on Delaware Avenue.
Mechanically unwrapping his napkin and spreading it on his lap, he gazed without appetite at the breakfast laid out for him. His ears were deaf to the morning song of the birds, and his eyes were blind to the pleasant prospect of the gardens and green lawns that stretched away beneath him.
With a sigh, Mr. Kennedy picked up his knife and fork and began to eat.
There was the sound of footsteps and Mr. Kennedy glanced up to see his valet advancing timidly toward him.
“Well, Jenkins?”
“I, I’m sorry to disturb you, sir—but there’s a young gentleman on the telephone.”
“Jenkins,” Mr. Kennedy said gently, struggling to conceal his irritation, “must I repeat my very plain orders that I am not to be disturbed at breakfast?”
The valet’s face turned a deep red. He began to back away apologetically.
“I beg your pardon, sir. I will inform young Mr. Steele that he may call later.”
Mr. Kennedy’s eyebrows rose. “Steele? Did he say his name was Steele?”
“Yes, sir. He was quite excited, sir. Something to do with a discovery of ore, I gathered.” The butler shrugged with an apologetic air. “However, I will do as you say, sir.” He turned to go, and was all but knocked off his feet by the elderly, white-haired tornado that had shot past him.
Upon hearing those two words—“Steele” and “ore”—Mr. Kennedy had not hesitated. He had thrown down his fork, torn his napkin from his knees and leaped from his chair to bound into his bedroom and the telephone on his bedside table. Jenkins was shocked. He had never seen Mr. Kennedy run before—and never, never heard him shout over the telephone.
“Wha-a-at? What’s that, boy? Speak up, Sandy, I can’t hear you. Whatisthat dreadful hammering noise?”
Wham! Wham! Wham!
That dreadful, hammering noise which Mr. Kennedy heard was the sound of a sledge hammer striking the door of the radio shack. Captain West was trying to batter it down.
He had run for a sledge hammer the moment he realized that his shouted commands to open the door were being ignored. Cookie stood a little aside, staring out of frightened eyes as the door jumped under the captain’s powerful, bludgeoning blows.
“Hurry, Sandy,” he whispered feverishly. “Oh, hurry! The lock’s going to give in another minute.”
Sandy had nodded. His own eyes were fastened on the door; his heart seemed to thump in time to Captain West’s hammering; he cradled the telephone as he waited for Mr. Kennedy in an agony of desperation.
It was at this point that Sandy Steele at last heard the familiar voice of Mr. Kennedy come over the line.
Now, Sandy Steele did not care whether Captain West heard him or not. He began to shout to make himself heard.
“Mr. Kennedy, don’t sell your boats!”
“What? What’s that, boy?”
“I said, don’t sell your boats. The ore! My father has discovered big deposits of high-grade ore!”
There was a long silence at the other end. Then Sandy heard Mr. Kennedy say: “Boy, I hope you know what you’re talking about. That’s mighty important news.”
“Oh, I do, sir! My father told me all about it just before we left Two Harbors.”
There was another pause, during which the hammering outside the door became more insistent. Sandy could hear the lock beginning to give.
“That’s very strange, Sandy,” Mr. Kennedy said doubtfully. “I should think I would have heard of it before now.”
“You were supposed to, you were supposed to, sir!” Sandy shouted. “That’s what all that hammering’s about, sir. It’s Captain West trying to break into the radio shack. He doesn’t want you to know!” Sandy caught his breath and went on, “I hate to tell you this, sir, but I’m afraid Captain West has been working for Mr. Chadwick and against you.”
This time, the silence at the other end was so prolonged that Sandy feared he had been disconnected. At last, Mr. Kennedy spoke again, sadly.
“Sandy, a moment ago, you lifted my spirits as they have seldom been lifted. But, just now, you drove them down again with about the worst piece of news I’ve ever heard. Let me speak to Captain West.”
Wham! Crrrash! Snap!
At that moment, with a blow of demonic strength, the enraged Captain West burst the last shred of the barrier separating him from Sandy Steele.
He charged into the room shouting threats and with his eyes shooting sparks of hatred. As he did, Sandy held out the telephone to him, and said, “Mr. Kennedy would like to speak to you.”
All of Captain West’s bluster and bravado seemed to vanish at the sight of that tall, blond boy who had stood so unflinchingly in his path and now extended the telephone toward him with that calm announcement. The fight went out of his eyes. The color drained from his face. His powerful shoulders sagged and his whole body seemed to slump.
Without a word, Captain West turned and dragged himself from the room.
“He doesn’t want to speak to you, sir.”
“So it’s true, then! Well, get me someone else in authority, Sandy. Put Mr. Briggs on.”
Sandy paused, awkwardly.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Kennedy, but I think the mate was working against you, too.”
“Oh, Lord, Lord! Am I surrounded by unfaithful employees? Goodness, is there no one on theJames Kennedythat I can trust except you, boy? Who else is there in authority?”
“There’s Mr. Davis, sir—the next officer. But he’s lost his glasses and can’t see. We’ve just been through a terrible storm, sir.”
“Yes, yes, I read about it in the newspapers. But I thought you would be in port at Detroit. Is there no one else?”
Sandy pondered. Then his face brightened. “There’s Sam and Gunnar.”
“Sam! Who on earth is Sam? Oh, no, no—never mind, Sandy. Forget that question. Goodness knows I have good reason to trust your judgment. Put Sam on, whoever he is!”
Sandy grinned.
“Get Sam up here, Cookie,” he shouted. Then, returning to Mr. Kennedy, he asked, “Anything else, sir?”
“Anything else! My goodness, boy—what else is there? For the second time within a week, I find myself in your debt.”
Sandy was too embarrassed to make any comment, and Mr. Kennedy rushed on, “I don’t know how to thank you, boy—but I’ll think of something. Remember, you’re to call me the moment you arrive in Buffalo. Both you and your friend. By the way, how is he?”
“Jerry? Oh, he’s all right, sir—just a sprained ankle from the storm.”
“My goodness! You have had a stormy voyage, haven’t you?”
Sandy grinned again, remembering the plunge into Lake Superior to save Cookie, the fire in the galley as theJames Kennedysteamed into Lake Huron, that spanking storm on Lake Erie—to say nothing of the combined badgering of Mr. Briggs and Captain West. But Sandy saw no reason to tell Mr. Kennedy exactly how right he was. He just felt good, that was all—so he grinned again and said: “Yes, sir, I guess you could call it a stormy voyage. Here’s Sam.”
Sam stepped up and took the telephone from Sandy’s outstretched hand. His manner was hesitant, for he had never spoken to the owner of the line before. His face was grave, but as he listened, his eyes grew wider and wider. Finally, with an expression of amazement and a snappy, “Yes, sir!” he hung up and turned to Sandy and Cookie.
“Well, what do you know?” he murmured.
“Well, what?”
“I’m in charge!”
Cookie’s mouth popped open. He began to dance in excitement, flipping his apron in the air. “Hooray for Sam!” he shouted. “Yippee! Yip, yip—yippeee!”
“All right, Cookie,” Sam cautioned, laughing. “Take it easy, now. It’s only until we get to Buffalo.”
“Who cares?” Cookie yelled. “Let’s celebrate, anyway. I’ll bake a cake!”
Both Sandy and Sam had to laugh again at the capering little man. His eyes shone when he promised to bake a cake, but when Sandy reminded him that he would have to do it with burned flour, a sly look came over his face and he pointed an accusing finger at the blond youth and shouted, “It’s all his fault, Skipper! There’s the culprit! That’s the landlubber who burned down my nice, new galley!”
Sandy grinned happily. “Honestly, Cookie, you should have been an actor. Why, I almost believed those things you said about me, myself.” His face turned serious. “How did you know about Mr. Briggs and Captain West, anyway?”
“I heard ’em talking,” Cookie said simply. “The night of the fire, you put me in the mate’s cabin, remember? Well, it was after they called you in that I overheard them talking about Mr. Kennedy selling out to Chadwick.” Cookie struck his fist into his palm savagely. “Chadwick!” he said. “Me sail on another Chadwicker? I’d sooner die on land! No, sir, Sandy, when I heard that, I knew I had to help you. I told myself I’d swim all the way to Buffalo with you on my back, if it meant blocking that deal.”
“But you can’t swim, Cookie.”
“No matter,” the little man said grimly. “I’d’ve done it. I’d do anything, before I’d sail a Chadwicker again.”
Of course, that unhappy notion was no longer a possibility—not after the scene which took place in Mr. Kennedy’s office several hours after Sandy and Cookie and Sam had gone below to break the news to Jerry James.
Mr. Paul Chadwick had arrived and been ushered into Mr. Kennedy’s conference room, where the lawyers of both firms had assembled to handle the details of the sale. Mr. Chadwick came striding in. He was a fat, pompous man with pouches beneath his pale eyes. He had a sharp way of speaking and he ordered his employees around as if he thought they belonged to him, body and soul.
“Well, Kennedy,” he shot out as he took a seat at the table, “I presume everything is in readiness?”
“Yes, Paul,” Mr. Kennedy said softly. “Everything is set.”
“Good. All right, Cogswell,” he snapped, turning to one of his lawyers. “Let’s have the papers. Quick, man! The papers. Don’t dawdle like a kindergarten child; give me the papers!”
Red-faced, the lawyer pulled a legal-looking document from his brief case and passed it to Mr. Chadwick. In the embarrassed silence that followed, the only sound that could be heard was the scratching of Mr. Chadwick’s pen as he hurriedly signed his name.
“Here, John,” he said grandly, passing the document across the table. “Now, you sign right there. And, then, the Kennedy boats will belong to me.”
“I think not, Paul,” Mr. Kennedy said easily as he accepted the papers and tore them swiftly in two. “I think they’ll still belong to me.”
He handed the torn contract back to his astounded shipping rival. Mr. Chadwick stared at the pieces in disbelief.
“But this is preposterous!” he shouted. “You can’t do this to me! You agreed to sell, Kennedy. Why, why,” he spluttered, his cheeks puffing out like a frog’s, “why, I’ll sue!”
“Go ahead, Paul,” Mr. Kennedy said, getting to his feet. “And, by the way, you may be getting busy soon, shipping all that new, high-grade ore down from the Mesabi—as I expect to—and you may find yourself in need of a skipper or a mate.” He smiled. “I know just the men for you, Paul. Fine, dependable men—men like Captain West or Mr. Briggs.”
A shadow of dismay passed over Mr. Chadwick’s pale eyes. Without a word, he jumped to his feet and hurried from the room.
That night, under a star-dusted sky, with the lights of Buffalo to guide her and beckon her on, the batteredJames Kennedylimped into port.
And waiting to greet her, in addition to her owner and his personal physician, was a throng of chattering newspaper reporters and photographers. The tale of theJames Kennedy’s ordeal at sea had preceded her. Even as the vessel was slowly warped into her berth, photographers raced alongside her in excitement-eagerly snapping pictures of her damaged superstructure with its wrecked pilothouse. The flashing of their light bulbs added to the general air of excitement.
The moment the ship was securely in port, the newspapermen came hurrying up the gangplank.
“Where’s the skipper?” they shouted. “Where’s Captain West?”
“There he is!” one of them shouted in dismay. “He’s gone ashore already.”
True enough. The moment the newshawks had come aboard theJames Kennedyand spilled over her decks, Captain West had seized the chance to slip down the gangplank. Now he was hastening out of sight. He all but broke into a run when he heard the yell of the newsman who had identified him. But he slowed again when he saw that his path would take him past Mr. John Kennedy, the employer he had attempted to betray. His step faltered. He tried to lift his eyes to the level of Mr. Kennedy’s, to brazen it out. But he could not. His gaze fell.
He slunk by and disappeared in the darkness.
With a heavy sigh, Mr. Kennedy turned to the man beside him and said, “Come, Doctor—we’d better have a look at that James boy.”
The two men made their way up the gangplank.
“Sandy!” Mr. Kennedy exclaimed, when he caught sight of the tall, blond youth standing at the head of the ramp. “Goodness, boy, I’m certainly glad to see you.” His face took on a worried look and his eyes searched Sandy Steele’s lanky frame. “You’re all right, aren’t you, boy? I mean, I certainly wouldn’t want John Steele holding me responsible for—”
“Oh, I’m fine, sir,” Sandy said, smiling. “Just a bit hungry, that’s all.”
“We’ll fix that soon enough,” Mr. Kennedy vowed. “But let’s have a look at your friend first. Where is he?”
“Down below, sir. Here, I’ll lead the way.”
Sandy and Mr. Kennedy and the physician, whose name was Dr. Hilliard, disappeared down the hatch. As they did, a tall, thin, furtive figure crept around the cabin. It glanced around fearfully, before sneaking down the gangplank and running up the wharf.
It was Mr. Briggs.
Below, meanwhile, Dr. Hilliard had gently unwrapped the torn sheets bound around Jerry James’s ankle. He studied the injured member with professional concern. Both Jerry and Sandy watched his face anxiously, for both of them were thinking of the football season that lay ahead.
“John,” Dr. Hilliard said, with mock gravity, “if they had more people like this young oak stump around, I’d be out of business.”
“Hooray!” Sandy cried, and Jerry James grinned with delight.
“Of course,” the doctor hurried on, “you’ll need a cane for a week or two, young man. But otherwise I’d say you’re none the worse for wear.”
At that remark, Jerry winked at his friend. He rubbed his stomach sorrowfully. “Outside of being hungry, Doctor, I’d say—”
Mr. Kennedy broke in.
“Boys,” he said, glancing at his watch, “I promise you that in fifteen minutes you will be in my dining room sitting down to the best meal that was ever served up in Buffalo.”
And they were.
Less than a week later, the two friends were back on the Great Lakes again—bound for Minnesota once more, this time to ship aboard a load of grain.
They had had a wonderful time as the guests of Mr. Kennedy. They saw all the sights of Buffalo, including Niagara Falls, that great escarpment over which Lake Erie plunges, and they had crossed the Peace Bridge into Canada to have one of those famous beefsteaks at the Chinaman’s in Fort Erie. Then, after Dr. Hilliard had pronounced Jerry James fit to walk again without the use of his cane, they had taken ship again.
Their vessel was now theCecil Rogers(almost all Great Lakes boats are named for shipping leaders), for the beloved oldJames Kennedywas in drydock undergoing extensive repairs.
And their new skipper was?
“Sam!” the two youths cried as they came aboard.
Sure enough, it was their old friend, and there was Cookie, too, grinning at them from over the rail. And there was Gunnar towering behind him!
“Boys,” Sam said, chuckling, “meet my mate.”
There were shouts of jubilation and hand-shaking all around as Sandy and Jerry got their gear aboard ship and into their quarters. This time, they had a room twice as large as the rathole they had shared on theJames Kennedy. And this time, aboard theCecil Rogers, they shipped as deck hands.
“No more galley slavery for us,” Jerry exclaimed, and Sandy nodded in agreement.
That was how the two lads from Valley View passed the remainder of that summer. They sailed up and down the Lakes, as theCecil Rogershauled its cargoes of ore, grain and coal. Sometimes they made Canadian ports, and once they passed through the Welland Ship Canal into Lake Ontario, the lake that lies the farthest east.
At last came the sad day when they had to reclaim Old Faithful from the hands of Sandy’s dad and say goodbye to their friends. School would reopen in another week, and they had to be heading west.
“Gootpy, poys,” Gunnar called from the rail, as Jerry’s jalopy began to chug away from the loading dock where theCecil Rogerslay. “Haf goot trip.”
“Send us a picture of your football team,” Cookie yelled, and Sam shouted, “Keep your chin up, boys. Maybe we’ll see you next summer.”
“Goodbye, goodbye,” Sandy Steele and Jerry James cried, and then they were out of sight.
There was a hint of autumn in the air as Jerry James swung Old Faithful off the highway and up the ramp leading to Valley View. Both boys felt a deep surge of pleasure run through them as they picked out the familiar landmarks that told them they had come home again.
The dusty old jalopy rolled along Ridge Road and past the March mansion.
“Doesn’t look like anybody’s home,” Sandy said.
“That’s what I thought,” said Jerry. “I wonder what happened to our friend Pepper.”
Sandy shrugged. “I don’t know. But it sure was good spending all those weeks without him. Jerry!” he yelled. “Did you hear that?”
Jerry James had, and his eyes sparkled with delight.
What the two boys had heard was the unmistakable thud of a foot meeting pigskin!
“Boy!” Sandy said. “I can hardly wait for school to open. Sounds funny, I know, but if the fall means school, it means football, too!”
“You bet, Sandy. The only thing I missed on the Great Lakes was not having a chance to practice.”
“Oh, we’ll be all right. At least, we stayed in shape.”
They had. They were as hard as the decks of theJames Kennedyand their bodies were burned the color of walnut.
“Well, here we are,” Sandy said, as Old Faithful swung into his street. Jerry nodded. In another instant, he had mechanically lifted his foot from the gas pedal, as he always did when he approached Sandy’s house, and the jalopy had begun to slow down. Grasping his jam-packed suitcase in one hand, Sandy Steele vaulted lightly to the pavement. “See you tonight at the drugstore, Jerry,” he called, and then he turned and ran into the house.