The next morning Jack lost no time in making his way toward Hank Handcraft's tumble-down abode. He found its owner in, and likewise disposed to be quarrelsome.
"'Oh, here you are at last!" exclaimed the hairy and unkempt outcast, as the bully approached heavily through the yielding sand. "I'd about given you up, and was seriously contemplating making a visit to your home—"
"If you ever did," breathed Jack threateningly.
"Well," grinned Hank impudently, with his most malicious chuckle, "if I did, what then?"
"I'd have you thrown out of the house," calmly replied Jack, seating himself on a big log of driftwood, once the rib of a schooner that went ashore on the dangerous shoals off Hampton and pounded herself to pieces.
"Oh, no; you wouldn't have me thrown out!" chuckled Hank, resuming his task of scaling a mackerel. "Cause if you did, I'd go to the chief of police and tell him something about the robbery of the armory and the cracking of old man Hudgins' safe."
"You wouldn't dare to do that!" sneered Jack. "You are implicated in that as badly as we are."
"That's a matter of opinion," rejoined Hank, industriously scraping away at his fish, and showing no trace of any emotion in his pale eyes. "Anyhow, what I want right now is some cash. You agreed to pay me well for what I did the other night, and I haven't seen the money yet."
"Be a little patient, can't you?" irritably retorted the other. "Money doesn't grow on trees. Now listen, Hank. How would you like to get a nice little sum of money—more than I could give you—for camping out on Kidd's Island, in the Upper Inlet, for a few days?"
Hank's fishy eyes showed some trace of feeling at this.
"What do you mean?" he asked. "Is this a new joke you're putting up on me?"
"No, I am perfectly serious. You can make a good sum by following our directions, and I'll see that you get into no trouble over it."
"Well, if you can do that, I'll keep my mouth shut," chuckled Hank in his mirthless way; "but if I don't get some money pretty quick, I'm going to make trouble fer somebody, I tell you!"
"Haven't you got some place where we can talk that is less exposed than this?" said Jack, looking about him apprehensively.
"Sure, there's my mansion," grinned Hank, pointing over his shoulder with a fishy thumb.
"That's the place," said Jack, "although I wish you'd clean it out occasionally. Now listen, Hank, here's the plan—"
Still talking, the ill-assorted pair entered the ruinous shack.
Motor-boat engines were popping everywhere. The club house was dressed in bright-colored bunting from veranda rail to ridge pole. Ladies strolled about beneath their parasols with correctly dressed yachtsmen, asking all sorts of absurd questions about the various boats that lay ready to take part in the various events. It was the day of the Hampton Yacht Club's regatta.
Among the throng the Boy Scouts threaded their way, watching with interest the events as they were run off, one after the other. But their minds were centered on the race for the trophy which, although there were several other entries, had been practically conceded to Sam Redding's hydroplane.
"She's a wonder," said one of the onlookers, pointing from the porch to the float, where Jack Curtiss, Bill Bender and Sam were leaning over their speedy craft, stripping her of every bit of weight not absolutely necessary. On the opposite side of the float the crew of the Flying Fish, the Snark, the Bonita and the Albacore were equally busy over their craft.
"Douse the engine with oil," directed Rob, as Merritt gave the piece of machinery a final inspection; "and how about that extra set of batteries?"
"They're aboard," rejoined Tubby, who was perspiringly removing cushions and other surplus gear from the fleet boat.
"That's right; if it comes to an emergency, we may need them," said Rob. "Nothing like being prepared."
"Do you think we have any show?" asked Tubby, who was to be a sort of general utility man in the crew. Rob was to steer.
"I don't see why not," rejoined the other, wiping his oily hands on a bit of waste. "The race is a handicap one, and we get an allowance on account of our engine not being as powerful as the hydroplane's."
The course to be run was a sort of elongated, or isosceles triangle. The turning point was at the head of the inlet, a buoy with a big red ball on it being placed just inside the rough waters of the bar. It made a course of about five miles. The race for the Hampton Motor Boat Club's cup, for which the boys and the others were entered, was twice round.
The waters about the club house were so dotted with motor craft which darted about in every direction that Commodore Wingate of the club and the other regatta officials had a hard time keeping the course clear for the contestants. On the threat, however, that the races would be called off if a clear course was not kept, order was finally obtained.
The boys were too busy to pay much attention to the results of the other races, but a member of the club who had won the Blake trophy for the cabin cruiser boats, warned the boys to beware of the turn above the far buoy.
"It's choppy as the dickens there," he said, as he made his way to the club house, "and you want to take the turn easily. Don't 'bank' it, or you'll lose more than you gain."
The boys thanked him for his advice, and laid it to heart to be used when the race was on.
Sam's boat having been tuned up to the last notch of readiness, Jack Curtiss strolled consequentially about on the float, making bets freely on the hydroplane's chance of winning.
"I'll bet you twenty-five to any odds you like that the hydroplane wins the race," he said, addressing Colin Maxwell, the son of a well-to-do merchant from a neighboring town. Young Maxwell had heard nothing of Jack's mean trick in the aeroplane contest, and therefore didn't mind talking to him.
"I like the look of the Flying Fish pretty well," was the response, "and I'll take you up. You'll have to give me odds, though."
"Oh, certainly," responded the bully, with a confident grin; "twenty-five to thirty, say."
"Make it thirty-five."
"All right; done," said Jack. "You know me, of course; no necessity of putting up the money."
"Oh, not the least," rejoined the other politely, though had he known the state of Jack's finances he might have thought differently.
The bully went about making several bets at similar odds, until finally Bill Bender came up behind him and in a low voice warned him to be careful.
"What are you going to do if we lose?" he breathed. "You haven't got a cent to pay with."
"Oh, it's like taking gum from a busted slot machine," rejoined the bully, with a laugh. "They can't win. We know what their boat can do, and the race is practically conceded to us. Besides—" he placed his hand close to Bill's ear and whispered a few minutes. "I guess that's a bad scheme, eh?" he resumed in a louder tone, though his voice was still pitched too low for those about to hear him. "If it's done right, we'll ram them and it'll never be noticed."
"Hum, I'm not so sure," grunted Bill. "However, if we really perceive we are losing, I don't see what else we are to do. Are you going to steer?"
"Sure. Sam lost his nerve at the last moment—like him, eh? It's a good thing, though, I'm to be at the wheel, because I don't think Sam would have had the courage to carry out my plan."
"Not he," said Bill, with a shrug. "He's got the backbone of a snail."
More of this interesting conversation was cut short by the "bang" of the pistol which warned the contestants of the racing boats to get ready.
"The race for the Hampton Yacht Club's trophy will take place in five minutes!" cried the announcer.
The five contestants cast off from the float and slowly chugged out to a position in the rear of the starting line and behind the committee boat. Then came the nervous work of awaiting the starting gun. The boys had all donned slickers, and the crew of the hydroplane wore rubber coats which covered them completely. A sort of spray hood had been erected over the hydroplane's engines.
"That means she's going to do her best," remarked Rob, pointing to this indication that great speed was expected. "That's what we want to do, too, isn't it?"
At last came the gun that started off the Snark, the Bonita and the Albacore, which were all of about the same speed.
"Our turn next," said Rob, who had previously received his instructions from the committee.
"Well, I'm all ready," said Merritt, nervously twisting a grease cup.
"Bang!"
With a nervous twitch, Rob threw in the first speed clutch, for the engine had been kept running on her neutral speed, and was able to take up way as soon as the propeller began to "bite."
Rapidly the boy increased the speed up to the third "forward," and the Flying Fish darted through the water like a pickerel after a fat frog.
"Bang!" came behind them once more, as the sound of the cheers which greeted them as they shot across the line grew faint.
"Crouch low!" shouted Rob back to his crew. "We'll need every inch of advantage we can get."
The white spray shot in a perfect fountain from the sharp bow of the Flying Fish, and her every frame and plank quivered under the vibration of her powerful engine.
"She's doing better than she ever did!" shouted Merritt to Tubby, who crouched in the center of the boat, ready to take any part in an emergency.
The other nodded and kept his eyes ahead on the white wake of the other three craft.
Suddenly the Albacore began to fall back. As the Flying Fish roared by her, Rob heard a shout of something about "missing fire."
A steady downpour of spray was drenching the occupants of the racer, but they paid scant heed to it. Rob dived in his pockets and put on a pair of goggles. The spray was blinding him. He waved to Tubby to go further astern and keep the rear part of the boat well down when they made the sharp turn at the red buoy.
In an incredibly short time, it seemed, the turning buoy faced them. Rob set his wheel over and spun the Flying Fish through the rougher water at the mouth of the inlet at as sharp an angle as he dared. In a few seconds more they had passed the Snark and the Bonita, which were racing bow and bow. The crew of the Flying Fish, though, knew that both boats had a time allowance over them, so that the mere passing didn't mean much, unless they could increase the lead.
Faster and faster the boy's craft forged ahead. A thrill shot through Rob's frame. The Flying Fish was showing what she was made of.
But as he turned his head swiftly he saw that the hydroplane had rounded the stake and was coming down the straight stretch of water like an express train. A great wave of water shot out on either side of her bow. So low in the water had her powerful engines dragged her that she seemed to be barely on the surface, and yet, as the boys knew, she was actually "coasting" over the surface.
Try as he would, Rob could not get an ounce more speed out of the Flying Fish, and as the speedy hydroplane roared by them they heard a mocking shout from her crew.
Rob, more determined than ever to stick it out, sent the Flying Fish plunging at top speed through the wash of the speedy craft, hoping to keep up the distance between them at least equal. But as he saw the hydroplane gradually drawing away and heard the great roar that went up from the thrilled spectators as she shot by the club house, his heart sank.
It looked as if the Plying Fish was beaten. And now the club house loomed near once more.
"Go on, Plying Fish, go on!"
"You've got a time allowance on her!"
"Push along, Rob!"
"Kr-ee-ee-ee-ee!"
A tumult of other shouts roared in Rob's ears as they tore past the crowded porch.
"Kr-ee-ee-ee-ee!" screamed back Merritt and Tubby, with waves of the hand to the brown uniformed figures they could see perched on every point of vantage.
Suddenly the Flying Fish began to creep up on the hydroplane, which had slowed down for some reason.
"Hurrah! We've got'em now!" shouted Merritt, as he saw, far ahead, Jack and the other two occupants of the seeming winner leaning over the craft's engine, the hood having been raised.
Rob said nothing, but with burning eyes clung to the wheel and shot the Flying Fish straight ahead on her course.
As they thundered past the hydroplane, the slender craft lay almost motionless on the water, with a great cloud of blue smoke tumbling out of her exhausts.
"Looks like they've flooded her cylinder," said Merritt, observing these signs.
"Kr-ee-ee-ee-ee!"
It was Tubby giving utterance triumphantly to the Eagle scream.
Jack Curtiss straightened up angrily as he heard, his face black and greasy from his researches into the engine. He shook a menacing fist at the others as they tore by. The next minute, however, a quick look back by Rob showed that the hydroplane was coming ahead again, and that the engine trouble, whatever it was, had been adjusted.
As they neared the turning point, Rob saw, to his dismay, that the hydroplane was creeping up faster and faster. It was the last lap, and if Sam Redding's boat passed them at the stake the race was as good as over.
"Come on, Flying Fish! Come on!" shouted Rob, as the hydroplane crept ever nearer and nearer to his boat's stern.
Rob noticed, as he swung a trifle wide of the stake raft, that it seemed to be the intention of Jack Curtiss, who was at the wheel, to swing the hydroplane round the sharp angle of the course inside of the Flying Fish. Guessing that this would mean disaster to her ill-advised occupants, he waved his hand at them to keep out.
"When we need your advice we'll send for it. This is the time we've got you!" yelled Jack Curtiss, bending low over his wheel, as he grazed by the Flying Fish's stern to take the inside course.
At the same instant, so quickly that the boys did not even get a mental picture of it, the hydroplane overturned.
Taking the curve at such a speed and at such a sharp angle had, as Jack had surmised, proved too much for her stability. Her occupants were pitched struggling into the water.
"Shall we pick them up?" yelled Merritt.
"No," shouted Rob; "they've all got life belts on. A launch from the club will get them."
Indeed, as he spoke a launch was seen putting off to the rescue. The accident had been witnessed from the club, and as the water was warm, the boys were satisfied that no harm would come to the three from their immersion.
But the delay almost proved fatal to the Flying Fish's chance of winning. Close behind her now came creeping up the speedy Albacore.
But a few hundred feet before the finish the Flying Fish darted ahead once more, and shook off her opponent amid a great roar of yells and whoops and cheers. An instant later she shot across the line—a winner.
"Bang!" went the gun, in token that the race was finished.
"I congratulate you," said Commodore Wingate, as the boys brought their craft up to the float. "It was a well-fought race."
And now came the captains of the Albacore, Snark and Bonita.
"You won the race fairly and squarely," said the former, shaking Rob's hand. "I presume, commodore, the time was taken?"
"It has been," replied that official. "The Flying Fish wins by one minute and four and seven hundredths seconds."
More cheers greeted this announcement, mingled with laughter and some sympathy, as the club launch, towing the capsized hydroplane, puffed up to the float. From the launch emerged three crestfallen figures with dripping garments. But wet as he was, Jack Curtiss was not going to surrender the race without a protest.
"A foul! We claim a foul! The Flying Fish fouled us!" he shouted.
"My dear young man," calmly replied the commodore, "I was watching you every foot of the way through binoculars, and I should rather say that you fouled the Flying Fish. Anyhow, you should have better sense than to try to shave round that turn so closely."
More mortified, and angrier than ever, Jack strode off to put on dry clothes, followed by his equally chagrined companions, who, however, had sense enough now not to make any protests. They knew well enough that Jack, in his hurry to grab the prize, had attempted a foolish and dangerous thing which had cost them the race.
"A great race, a great race," said Mr. Blake, as the boys, followed by the crowd, entered the club house, where the awards were to be distributed. "You boys certainly covered yourselves with glory," he went on.
"Yes, and here is your reward. I hope it will stimulate you to put up a fine defense for it next year," said Commodore Wingate, handing to the elated boys a fine engraved silver cup, the trophy of the Hampton Yacht Club.
"Get up and make a speech!" shouted some one.
The boys felt inclined to run for it.
"Go ahead! Make some sort of a talk," urged Rob, helping Tubby on to the platform from which the prizes had been handed out.
"Ladies and gentlemen," puffed the stout youth, "we want to thank you for your congratulations and thank the club for the fine cup. Er—er—er—we thank you."
And having made what was perhaps quite as good a speech as some of his elders', Tubby stepped down amid loud and prolonged cheering.
Up in the dressing room Jack and his cronies, changing into other, garments, heard the sounds of applause.
"It's high time something was done," said Bill, as he gazed from a window at several of the yacht club attendants bailing out the unlucky hydroplane. "Those young beggars will be owning the town next."
The next few days were full of excitement and preparation for the Boy Scouts. Their headquarters resounded all day to the tramp of feet, and the Manual of Instructions was consulted day and night. The official tents had arrived, and every boy in the Patrol was eager for the time to arrive to put them up. So much so that two or three confessed that they could hardly sleep at night in their impatience for the hour when the embarkation for Topsail Island was to take place.
Besides the tents, there was much other equipment to be overhauled and set in order, for, before their departure, the boys were to be reviewed by their scout master and a field secretary from New York. There were haversack straps to be replaced, laces mended, axes sharpened, "Billys" polished and made to shine like new tin, and a hundred and one things to be done. At last, however—although it seemed that it would never come—the eventful Monday arrived, as eventful days of all kinds have a habit of doing; and the Eagle Patrol, spick and span and shining from tan boots to campaign hats, fell in line behind the band. Proudly they paraded up the street, with their green and black Eagle Patrol sign fluttering gallantly in the van.
The "reviewing stand" was the post-office steps, around which most of the citizens of Hampton and the proud parents and relatives of the young scouts were assembled.
Plenty of applause greeted them, as, in response to Rob's orders, given in the sharp, military manner, they drew up in line and gave the Boy Scout's salute. This done, the young scouts went through a smart drill with the staffs they carried. Then, after saluting once more, and being warmly complimented on their appearance by the field secretary, they marched off to the wharf where they were to embark for their camp.
The day before Merritt, Hiram Nelson, Paul Perkins and the three "tender feet"—Martin Green, Walter Lonsdale and Joe Digby—had been told off by Rob as on "pioneer service"; that is to say, that they had gone down to the island in the Flying Fish. Arrived there, they selected a good spot for the camp, aided by Commodore Wingate's and Captain Hudgins' suggestions, and set up the tents and made the other necessary preparations. The camp was therefore practically ready, for the "army" to move into.
At Tubby's special request, a list of the rations for the week's camp had been made out by Rob and affixed to the bulletin board in the headquarters of the Eagles. As perhaps some of my young readers may care to know what to take on a similar expedition, is the list, exclusive of meat, which was to be brought from the mainland, and fish, which they expected to catch themselves:
Oatmeal, 8 lbs.;rice, 4 lbs.;crackers, 35 lbs.;chocolate, 1 1-2 lbs.;tea, 3 lbs;coffee, 1 lb.;lard, 6 lbs.;sugar, 8 lbs.;condensed milk, 10 cans;butter, 4 lbs.;eggs, 12 dozen;bacon, 20 lbs.;preserves, 14 jars;prunes, 8 lbs.;maple syrup and molasses, 4 quarts;potatoes, 1 bushel;white beans, 6 quarts;canned corn, 6 tins;canned tomatoes, 6 tins;flour, 35 lbs.;baking powder, 2 lbs.;salt, 4 lbs.;pepper, 2 ounces.
"Well," Tubby had remarked, as he gazed attentively at the list, "we won't starve, anyhow."
"I should say not," laughed Rob; "and besides all that, I've got lots of lines and squids, and the blues and mackerel are running good."
"Can't I take along my twenty-two rifle—that island's just swarming with rabbits, and I think I heard some quail when we were there the other day," pleaded Merritt.
"Not in season," answered Rob laconically. "Laws not up on them till November."
"Oh, bother the law!" blurted out Merritt. "However, I suppose if there wasn't one there wouldn't be any rabbits left."
"I guess you're right," agreed Tubby. "Still, it does seem hard to have to look at them skip about and not be able to take a shot at them."
"Maybe we can set a springle and snare some," hopefully suggested Tubby, as a way out of the difficulty; "that wouldn't be as bad as shooting them, you know, and I can build a springle that will strangle them instantaneously."
"No fair, Tubby," laughed Rob. "You know, a boy scout promises to obey the law, and the game law is as much a law as any other."
Arrived at the L wharf, the boys found the Flying Fish and Captain Hudgins' Barracuda waiting for them. With much laughter they piled in—their light-heartedness and constant joking reminding such onlookers, as had ever seen the spectacle, of a band of real soldiers going to the front or embarking for foreign stations.
With three ear-splitting cheers and a final yell of, "Kr-ee-ee-ee-ee!" the little flotilla got under way.
They arrived at the camping ground at the northeast end of the island before noon, and found that the "pioneers" appointed by Rob had done their work well. Each tent was placed securely on a level patch of sandy ground, cleared from brush and stamped flat. The pegs were driven extra deep in anticipation of a gale, and an open cook tent, with flaps that could be fastened down in bad weather, stood to one side.
A small spring had been excavated by the pioneers, and an old barrel sunk in place, which had filled in the night and now presented sparkling depths of cool, clear water.
"I suppose that water is all right, captain?" inquired Leader Rob, with a true officer's regard for his troops.
"Sweet as a butternut, son," rejoined the old man. "Makes the sick strong and the strong stronger, as the medicine advertisements say."
For the present, the cooking was to be done on a regular camp fire which was built between two green logs laid lengthwise and converging toward the end. The tops of these had, under Commodore Wingate's directions, been slightly flattened with an axe. At each end a forked branch had been set upright in the ground, with a green limb laid between them. From this limb hung "cooking hooks," consisting of green branches with hooked ends at one extremity to hang over the long timber, and a nail driven in the other from which to hang the pots.
"That's the best form of camp fire, boys," said Commodore—or perhaps we would better call him scout master now—Wingate, who had accompanied the boys to see them settled. "Now, then, the next thing to do is to run up the Stars and Stripes and plant the Eagle flag. Then you'll be all O.K."
Little Andy Bowles made the woods behind them echo with the stirring call of "assembly," and halliards were reeved on a previously cut pole, about fifteen feet in height. The Stars and Stripes were attached, and while the whole company stood at attention and gave the scout salute, Scout Master Wingate raised the colors. Three loud, shrill cheers greeted Old Glory as it blew bravely out against the cloudless blue.
"That's a pretty sight now, shiver my timbers if it ain't," observed old Captain Hudgins, who had stood, hat in hand, during the ceremony. "I've seen Old Glory in many a foreign port, and felt like takin' off my hat and givin' three cheers fer the old flag; but I never seen her look better or finer than she does a-streakin' out from that there bit of timber."
"Now, Patrol cooks," was Scout Master Wingate's next command, "it's only an hour to dinner time, and we want the first mess to be right. Come on, and we'll get the pot boiling."
Cook duty fell that day to Hiram Nelson and Walter Lonsdale, and under the scout master's directions they soon had potatoes peeled, beans in water, and a big piece of stew meat chopped up with vegetables in a capacious pot.
After every errand to the store tent, Walter was anxious to know if it was not yet time to light the fire.
"Never be in a hurry to light your fire when you are in the woods," rejoined the scout master; "otherwise you will be so busy tending the fire you won't be able to prepare your food for cooking. Now we're all ready for the fire, though, and you can bring me some dry bark and small sticks from that pile of wood the pioneers laid in yesterday."
This was promptly done, and the lads watched the next step with interest. They saw the scout master take a tiny pile of the sticks and then light a roll of bark and thrust it into them.
"I thought you piled them up all criss-cross," remarked Hiram.
"No woodsman does that, my boy," was the rejoinder. "Now get me some larger timber from that pile, and I'll show you how to go about it like regular trappers."
The fire builder shoved the ends of the sticks into the blaze and then the bean pot was hung in place.
"We won't put the potatoes on now, as they take less time," he remarked; "those beans will take the longest."
Soon the heat was leaping up about the pots, and the cheerful crackle and incense of the camp fire filled the air. As the sticks burned down the scout master shoved the ends farther into the blaze, instead of throwing them on top of it.
"Now, then, boys, you've had your first lesson in camp fire making and cooking," he announced. "Now go ahead, and let's see what kind of a dinner you can produce. I'm going for a tour of exploration of the island."
Among the other things the pioneers had accomplished was the building of a table large enough to seat the entire Patrol, with planks set on logs as seats. Hiram put Walter to setting this, while he burned his fingers and smudged his face over his cookery. Long before the beans seemed any nearer to what experience taught the young cook they ought to be, Walter announced that the table was all set, with its tin cups and dishes and steel knives and forks.
Suddenly, while Hiram was considering putting the potatoes on their hook, there came from the rear of the store tent the most appalling succession of squeals and screams the boy had ever heard. Springing to his feet, he dashed to the scene of the conflict—for such it seemed to be though not without a heart that beat rather faster than usual. He bad no idea what the creatures could be that were producing all the uproar, and for all he knew they might have been bears.
Behind him came Walter, rather pale, but determined to do his best as a Boy Scout to fight off any wild beasts that might be attacking the camp. As he dashed behind the tent, however, Hiram was impelled to give a loud laugh. The contestants—for he had rightly judged they were in high dispute—were two small black pigs which had looted a bag of oatmeal from under the flap of the store tent and were busily engaged in fighting over their spoils.
"Get out, you brutes! Scat!" shouted the boy, bringing down a long-handled spoon he carried over the backs of the disputants.
The spoon, being almost red-hot, the clamor of the porkers redoubled, and with indignant squeals and grumblings they dashed off into the dense growth of scrub oak and pine that covered the island in its interior. At the same moment the captain, who had been taking a snooze under some small bushes, awoke with a start.
"Eh—eh—eh! What's all that?" he exclaimed, hearing the yells. "Why, it's that plagued Betsy and Jane, my two young sows," he cried the next moment. "Consarn and keelhaul the critters, they're breakin' out all the time. I reckon they're headed fer home now," he added, when Hiram related how he had scared them.
"I'm glad that they were nothing but pigs, captain," said Hiram, going back with flushed cheeks to his cookery. "I was afraid for a minute they were I hardly know what. We'll have to fix that store tent more snugly in future."
"And I'll have ter take a double reef in my pig Pen," chuckled the captain.
Even the epicurean Tubby Hopkins voted dinner that day a great success, and Hiram, with becoming modesty, took his congratulations blushingly. In mid-afternoon, after seeing that the camp was in good working order, the scout masters started for the home shore in Captain Hudgins's boat, which was also to bring back some additional supplies for the next day.
After dinner Rob had assigned Merritt and Tubby to form a "fishing squad," to range seaward in the Flying Fish and "halt and detain" all the bluefish they could apprehend. The others were given the afternoon to range the island and practice up their woodcraft and landmark work, while Rob busied himself in his tent, which was equipped with a small folding camp table, in filling out his pink blank reports which were to be forwarded to Commodore Wingate and dispatched by him to the headquarters of the Boy Scouts in New York.
Merritt and Tubby were both ardent fishermen, and in response to Hiram's pleadings, they allowed him to accompany them on their expedition. The fish were running well, and the boys cast and pulled in some time without particularly noticing how far out to sea they had gone.
Suddenly the stout youth, who was fishing with an unusually heavy line and hook, felt a hard tug on his apparatus, so powerful a tweak, in fact, that it almost pulled him overboard. He tried to haul in, but the resistance on the other end of his line was so great that he was compelled to twist it about a cleat in order to avoid either letting go or being dragged into the sea.
"What in the name of Sam Hill have you hooked?" gasped Merritt, as the Flying Fish began to move through the water faster than even her engine could propel her.
"I've not the least idea," remarked Tubby placidly, "but I rather think it must be a whale."
"Whale nothing!" exclaimed Merritt scornfully and with superior wisdom. "Whales sound, don't they?"
"Well, there's not been a sound out of this one so far," truthfully observed Hiram.
"What kind of a sound do they make, corporal?"
"Oh, you chump," responded Merritt good-naturedly, "you've lived by the sea all your life, and you don't know how a whale sounds. Sound means when a whale blows, spouts, sends up a big fountain of water."
"Oh, I see," responded Hiram, much enlightened. "But see here, Merritt, whatever we are fast to is beginning to pick up speed pretty rapidly. Don't you think we'd better cut the line or try to haul in?"
"Haul in! Not much!" exclaimed Tubby indignantly. "We'll just hang on till we tire him out, that's what we'll do, and then haul in."
"But we're getting a good way out from shore," objected Hiram, who, however much at home he was at the key of a wireless apparatus, had no great relish for blue water in a small motor boat.
"Don't you worry, sonny," put in Merritt patronizingly. "We'll be all right. My, that was a plunge!"
As he spoke the bow of the Flying Fish dipped till she shipped a few gallons of green water.
"I'll pay out some more line," said the unperturbed Tubby. "I guess whatever we're onto begins to believe that he has swallowed something pretty indigestible."
Faster and faster the Flying Fish began to cut through the sea. The water sprayed out from both sides of her cutwater in a steady stream.
"She's doing as well as she did the day of the race," said Merritt, with a laugh, gazing at Hiram's rather pale face. The wireless youth was casting longing glances at the shore.
"Well, I wish Mr. Whale, or whatever he is, would come up and let us have a look at him!" exclaimed Tubby suddenly. "This is getting pretty monotonous."
As he spoke the boy paid nut a little more line. He had only just time to belay it round the cleat to avoid its being jerked out of his hand, so fast was the creature they had hooked now traveling.
"Say, Tubby," spoke Merritt at length, "I'm beginning to think myself that it might not be a bad idea to put back. Those clouds over there on the horizon look as if they meant trouble."
"Oh, let's keep it on a little while longer pleaded Tubby; cutting through the water like this, without any expenditure of gasoline or power, is the real luxurious way of ocean traveling. It beats the Mauretania. Just think if liners could hitch a whole team of things like whatever has got hold of us to their bows! Why, the Atlantic would be crossed in four days."
For some time longer the boat shot along over the waves, towed by its invisible force. The boys, with the exception of Tubby, began to get anxious. The shores of the mainland were dim in the distance behind them, and Topsail Island itself only showed as a dark blue dot.
Suddenly the motion ceased.
"He's free of the line!" shouted Hiram, inwardly much relieved to think they had got rid of what to him was an alarming situation.
"No, he's not," replied Tubby, bending over the line. "He's still fast to us. The line's as tight as a fiddle string."
He was standing up as he spoke, and as the Flying Fish gave a sudden, crazy jerk forward, he was almost thrown overboard. In fact, he would have toppled into the sea if Merritt had not bounded forward and grabbed the fleshy lad just as he was losing his balance.
"We're off again!" exclaimed Hiram, as the Flying Fish once more began to move through the water.
But now the creature that had seized Tubby's big hook started to move in circles. Round and round the Flying Fish was towed in dizzy swings that made the heads of her young occupants swim.
"Start the engine on the reverse, and see if that will do any good," said Tubby, bending anxiously over his line.
Merritt brought the reverse gear to "neutral," and then started it up, gradually bringing back the lever governing the reversing wheel till the Flying Fish was going second speed astern, and finally at her full gait backward.
The tug thus exercised seemed to have no effect on the monster that had caught Tubby's bait, however. With the exception that the speed was diminished a trifle, the Flying Fish was still powerless to shake off her opponent.
Suddenly, and without the slightest warning, a huge, shiny, wet body shot out of the water almost directly in front of the amazed and startled boys, and settled back with a mighty splash that sent the spray flying in a salt-water shower bath over their heads.
"Whatever was it?" gasped Hiram in awed tones.
"A shark," replied Merritt, "and a whopper, too. What are we going to do, Tubby—keep on or cut loose?"
"Just a little longer," pleaded the other. "He must be tiring by this time. If we can only wear him out, we can tow him ashore and make a little money out of him. You know shark skin is valuable."
"I'd rather have a whole skin of my own," quavered Hiram, who had been considerably alarmed by the momentary glimpse he had had of Tubby's quarry.
"He's off again!" shouted Merritt, as the sea tiger started straight ahead once more.
Suddenly the line slackened again.
"Look out!" Tubby had just time to shriek the warning before a mighty shock threw them all off their feet in a heap on the bottom of the boat.
"Zan-g-g-g!"
The line twanged and snapped under the sudden strain, and a great rush seaward showed the boys, as soon as they recovered their senses, that they had lost their shark.
"And a good line," moaned Tubby.
"What are you kicking about?" demanded Merritt. "It's a lucky thing the beast didn't start some plank of the boat when it charged; but as far as I can see, the Flying Fish stood the shock all right."
"It felt like an earthquake," murmured Hiram, whose face was white and eyes frightened.
"Well, I suppose we'd better head for home," said Tubby at length. "Those bluefish will go fine for supper."
"Spoken like a Tubby," laughed Merritt. "All right, I'll start up. Hullo—" he looked up with a puzzled face from the reverse lever. "I can't get her on the forward speed."
"What's the matter?" gasped Hiram.
"I don't know. Something's stuck. Shut off that engine, will you, Tubby, while I see?"
Tubby promptly shut down the motor, and Merritt struggled with the refractory lever. It was all in vain, however; he could not get it on the forward speed.
"I've got to investigate," puffed the perspiring corporal; "something must be wrong with the reversible propeller."
"Well, whatever you are going to do, hurry up about it," spoke Tubby, with unwonted sharpness in his tones.
"Why, what's the—" began Merritt.
Tubby checked him with a finger on his lips.
"Don't scare the kid," he whispered, leaning forward, "but we're in for a storm."
He pointed seaward.
Rolling toward them was a spreading wall of heavy clouds traveling at seemingly great speed, while below the wrack the water darkened ominously and became flecked with "white horses."
"The trouble's in the reversible propeller. I always told Rob he was foolish not to have a regular reverse gear on the shaft itself and a solid wheel," said Merritt.
"Well, never mind that now," urged Tubby anxiously. "I'll shift all the cushions and stuff up in the bow, and Hiram and I will get as far forward as we can. That will raise the stern and you can hang over and reach the wheel."
When the stout lad had done as he suggested there was quite a perceptible tilt forward to the Flying Fish, and Merritt, hanging over the stern, could feel about the propeller better.
"Just as I thought," he shouted presently. "That shark when he came astern fouled that heavy line on the propeller."
He got out his knife, and in a few minutes succeeded in cutting the entangling line free.
It was not any too soon. From far off there came a low sound, something like the moaning of a large animal in pain. It grew louder and closer, and with it came an advancing wall of water crested with white foam. The sky, too, grew black, and air filled with a sort of sulphurous smell.
"It's a thunder squall," shouted Tubby, as Merritt shoved over the lever and started the engine.
As he spoke there came a low growl of thunder and the sky was illumined with a livid glare.
"Here she comes!" yelled Merritt; "better get out those slickers or we'll be soaked."
Tubby opened a locker and produced the yellow waterproof coats. The boys had hardly thrust their arms into them before the big sea struck them. Thanks to Tubby's steering, however, the Flying Fish met it without shipping more than a few cupfuls of water.
The next minute the full fury of the storm enveloped the Boy Scouts and the Flying Fish was laboring in a heaving wilderness of lashed and tumbling water.
"Keep her head up!" roared Merritt, above the screaming of the wind and the now almost continuous roar and rattle of the thunder. It grew almost dark, so overcast was the sky, and under the somber, driving cloud wrack the white wave crests gleamed like savage teeth.
Hiram crouched on the bottom of the boat, too terrified to speak, while Tubby and Merritt strove desperately to keep the little craft from "broaching to," in which case she would have shipped more water than would have been at all convenient, not to say safe.
As if it were some vindictive live thing, seized with a sudden spite against the boat and its occupants, the storm roared about the dazed boys.
The Flying Fish, however, rode the sweeping seas gallantly, breasting even the biggest combers bravely and buoyantly.
"It's getting worse," shouted Tubby, gazing back at Merritt, who was bending over the laboring motor.
"Yes, you bet it is!" roared back the engineer; "and I'm afraid of a short circuit if this rain keeps up."
"Cover up the engine with that spare slicker," suggested Tubby.
"That's a good idea," responded the other, rummaging in a stern locker and producing the garment in question. In another moment he had it over the engine, protecting the spark plugs and the high-tension wires from the rain and spray. But the wind was too high to permit of the covering remaining unfastened, and with a ball of marlin the young engineer lashed the improvised motor cover firmly in place.
Hiram, with a white face, now crawled up from the bottom of the boat. In addition to being scared, he was seasick from the eccentric motions of the storm-tossed craft.
"Do you think we'll ever get ashore again?" he asked, crawling to Merritt's side.
"Sure," responded the corporal confidently. "'Come on, buck up, Hiram! You know, a Boy Scout never says die. We'll be back in camp in three hours' time, when this squall blows itself out."
"I—I don't want you to think me a coward, Merritt," quavered Hiram, "but—but you know this is enough to scare any fellow."
Indeed, he seemed right. The Flying Fish appeared no more than a tiny chip on the immense rollers the storm had blown up. Time and again it looked as if she would never be able to climb the huge walls of green water that towered above her; but every time she did, and, as the storm raged on, the confidence of the boys began to grow.
"She'll ride it out, Tubby!" yelled Merritt, dousing the engine with more oil.
"Sure she will!" yelled back Tubby, with a confidence that was, however, largely assumed. The stout youth had just been assailed by an alarming thought that flashed across his mind.
"Would the gasoline hold out?"
There was no opportunity on the plunging, bucking craft to examine the tank, and all the boy could do was to make a rapid mental calculation, based on what he knew of the consumption of the engine. The tank, he knew, had been half full when they came out, and that, under ordinary conditions, would have sufficed to drive the Flying Fish for five or six hours.
But they were not ordinary conditions under which she was now laboring. Tubby knew that Merritt was piling in every ounce of gasoline the carburetor could take care of.
Suddenly, while the stout youth's mind was busied with these thoughts, and without the slightest warning, there came a sort of wheezing gasp from the motor.
Merritt leaned over it in alarm. He seized the timing lever and shoved it over and opened the gasoline cock full tilt.
But there was no response from the motor.
It gasped out a cough a couple of times and turned over in a dying fashion for a few revolutions and then stopped dead.
The boys were adrift in the teeth of the storm in a crippled boat.
"What's the matter?" roared back Tubby from the wheel. "She's lost steerage way!"
"Motor's gone dead," howled back Merritt laconically.
"Great Scott, we are in for it now! What's the matter?"
"No gasolene," yelled Merritt.
"Sosh-osh-soh!"
A huge green wave climbed on to the Flying Fish's bow, shaking her from stem to stern like a terrier shakes a rat.
"We've got to do something quick, or we'll be swamped!" roared Merritt.
"The cockpit cover, quick!" shouted Tubby, steadying himself in the bucking craft by a tight grasp on the bulwarks.
"That's it. Now the oars. Hurry up. Here, you Hiram, grab that can and bail for all you're worth!"
The fat youth seemed transformed by the sudden emergency into the most active of beings.
"What are you going to do?" yelled Merritt, framing his mouth with his hands.
"Make a spray hood. Come forward here and give me a hand."
With the oars the two boys made a sort of arched framework, secured with ropes, and over it spread the canvas cockpit cover, lashing it down to the forward and side cleats. This work was not unattended with danger and difficulty. Time and again as they worked the boys had to lie flat on their stomachs and hang on while the Flying Fish leaped a wave like a horse taking a barrier. At last, however, their task was completed, and the improvised spray hood served to some extent to break the waves that now threatened momentarily to engulf the laboring craft.
"Now to get out a sea anchor!" shouted the indefatigable Tubby.
He seized up an old bait tub, a boat hook and a "swabbing-out" broom, and lashed them all together in a sort of bridle. Then he attached the Flying Fish's mooring cable to the contrivance and paid it out for a hundred feet or more, while the storm-battered craft drifted steadily backward. Instead, however, of lying beam on to the big sea, she now headed up into them, the "drag," as it is sometimes called, serving to keep her bow swung up to the threatening combers.
"There, she'll ride for a while, anyhow," breathed Tubby, when this was done.
"What's to be done now?" shouted Merritt in his car.
"Nothing," was the response; "we've got to lie here till this thing blows over."
"It's breaking a little to the south now," exclaimed Merritt, pointing to where a rift began to appear in the solid cloud curtain.
This was cheering news, and even the seasick but plucky Hiram, who had been bailing for all he was worth, despite his misery, began to cheer up.
"Hurrah! I guess the worst of our troubles are over," cried Tubby. "It certainly looks as if the sea was beginning to go down, and the wind has dropped, I'm sure."
That this was the case became apparent shortly. There was a noticeable decrease in the size and height of the waves and the wind abated in proportion. In half an hour after the rift had been first noticed by Merritt, the black squall had passed, and the late afternoon sun began to shine in a pallid way through the driving cloud masses.
The lads, however, were still in a serious fix. They had been driven so far out to sea that the land was blotted out altogether. All about them was only the still heaving Atlantic. The sun, too, was westering fast, and it would not be long before darkness fell.
Without gasoline and with no sail, they had no means of making land. Worse still, they were in the track of the in and out-bound steamers to and from New York—according to Tubby's reckoning—and they had no lights.
"Well, we seem to have got out of the frying pan into the fire," said Merritt in a troubled voice. "It's the last time I'll ever come out without lights and a mast and sail."
"That's what they all say," observed Tubby grimly. "The thing to do now is to get back to shore somehow. Maybe we can rig up a sail with the cockpit cover and the oars. We've got to try it, anyhow."
After hauling in the sea anchor, the lads set to work to rig up and lash the oars into an A shape. The canvas was lashed to each of the arms of the A, and the contrivance then set up and secured to the fore and aft cleats by the mooring line they had utilized for the sea anchor.
"Well," remarked Tubby, as he surveyed his handiwork with some satisfaction and pride, "we can go before the wind now, anyhow—even if we do look like a lost, strayed or stolen Chinese junk."
"Say, I'm so hungry I could eat one of those fish raw!" exclaimed Hiram, now quite recovered, as the Flying Fish, under her clumsy sail, began to stagger along in the direction in which Tubby believed the land lay, the wind fortunately being dead aft.
"Great Scott, the kid's right!" exclaimed Merritt. "We forgot all about eating in the gloom but now I believe I could almost follow Hiram's lead and eat some of those fellows as they are."
"Well, that's about all you'll get to eat for a long time," remarked Tubby, grimly casting an anxious eye aloft at the filling "sail."