Each member of the party regarded the other blankly.
The captain was right. The deserted camp was only a blind trail and they had all their work to do over again.
"The first people to communicate with are Joe's parents," mused Rob. "That note will be delivered very shortly, as the longer they delay the more dangerous it will be for them."
"That's right," agreed Merritt, "Jack and his gang will not let the grass grow under their feet now that they know the chase must be on. What can they have done with Joe?"
Rob had been looking about him with the instinct of the Boy Scout. He was anxious to ascertain if there were not something tangible, some clue on which they could base a search for the missing member of the Patrol. Suddenly something remarkable struck him about the tracks that lay about the tent.
They were all four those, of persons of larger growth than Joe Digby and mingling with them unmistakably was the broken-shoed track of Hank, the beach-comber.
"Boys," announced Rob suddenly, "Joe has not been here at all."
"Not been here at all," echoed Merritt, amazedly.
"I mean what I say. Look at these tracks. There is not a footmark here that could by any chance be his."
The others scrutinized the maze of foot-prints with the same care as had Rob and were forced to come to the same conclusion. There was no question about it—they would have to seek elsewhere for a trace of the lad.
But where?
They gazed about them at the stretch of lone bay or inlet, the sparse scrub grass and vegetation fringing it on the shore side and wheeling sea-gulls swooping and soaring above the shoal waters.
Then Rob's gaze rested carelessly on a closed and seemingly deserted bungalow, occupying the island above them. As his eyes fell on it they suddenly became riveted and then grew wide with surprise.
A stream of smoke was issuing from the fieldstone chimney roughly constructed at one end of the apparently deserted dwelling.
"There's some one living in that bungalow," he exclaimed, as he made the discovery, "maybe whoever it is can give us some clue to where Joe Digby is."
They all gazed intently at the weather-beaten old house from which the paint was scaling, adding to the note of desertion sounded by its closed shutters and forlorn-looking yard.
As they looked, astonished at the idea that the barren structure should actually house a human being, a sudden thought struck Merritt.
"Suppose Jack Curtiss and his gang are there?" he said.
"Hardly likely," rejoined Rob, "however, we'll get over there and find out just who is making that smoke."
Suddenly the old captain, who had been watching the smoke closely, gave an astonished snort.
"What's the matter, captain?" asked Rob, who was about to walk to the water's edge and get ready to shove off the dinghy.
"Why, there's somethin' queer about that thar smoke," responded the old salt.
"Queer—how do you mean?"
"Well, watch it a minute—there—see! now stops—now it starts ag'in—then it stops—wha, do yer suppose is happenin' to it?"
Rob knitted his brows and watched the phenomenon to which the captain had called attention with narrowed eyes.
There was no question about it the smoke was certainly behaving "queerly" as the captain put it.
The blue vapor emerged from the chimney now in a copious puff and then, for a space, would cease, only to roll forth once more in larger volume. The boys watched it in some astonishment.
"What can they be doing, do you suppose?" Merritt asked.
"I have no idea. It's past me to say," responded Rob, "it comes out in puffs like—like—by hookey! I've got it!" he broke off with a shout, "like the Morse code!"
"Somebody signaling?" stammered Merritt.
"That's it—watch!"
The smoke, which had not been visible for some seconds, now emerged from the stone chimney once more and the boys, fascinated, watched it closely with burning eyes. There was no doubt whatever about it now. It was signaling.
Four short puffs.
"Four dots—that's H," exclaimed Rob, trembling with excitement.
The smoke ceased.
"Here comes some more," shouted Merritt.
One short puff from the chimney.
"E, one dot, that's E sure enough," translated Rob.
The others stood like figures carved in stone as their leader read off the strange signals.
Puff! A longer period of smoking by the chimney—then two sharp puffs.
"That's L," interpreted the leader of the Eagles. Before they could say a word the chimney took up its message once more.
Puff—a long puff—another long one, and then a short one.
"Dot—dash—dash—dot," exclaimed Rob.
"That's the letter P," put in Merritt.
"That's right, old man," shouted Rob, slapping him on the back, "and we've found Joe Digby. That smoke signal spelled Help in the Morse code."
"You're right," shouted Merritt, "come on, Cap, come on, boys, we've got to get a move on and get it on quick!"
They dashed toward the dinghy and a few seconds later had once more embarked and were speeding toward the desolate and forsaken bungalow. Somehow they managed to get ashore in the dinghy without anyone being spilled over the side in their desperate hurry and a minute later were pounding at the door.
"Joe—Joe Digby," shouted Rob in a strange, strained voice.
"Here," came back the answer in a feeble tone, "oh, boys, I'm glad you've come."
Furiously Rob shook the door.
"It's locked," came the voice from inside, "I tried to break it down. Too weak, I guess. Try the shutters."
At each window in turn the Boy Scouts sought to effect an entrance, but in vain. The owner of the place had screwed up the window coverings too tightly for them to be opened without tools.
The rescue party came to a momentary halt.
"I've got it," shouted the captain suddenly, "we'll have him out uv there in two shakes uv a drake's tail."
He produced his formidable old pistol and waved it grimly.
"Come on, boys," he yelled, darting round to the front of the house—the side on which the door was.
"What are you going to do?" demanded Rob, as much mystified as the rest at the old eccentric actions.
"Watch me," grinned the captain as he gained the door.
"Stand clear!" he bawled at the top of his lungs, "stand clear uv the door inside there, Joe!"
"All right," came back the reply, "I'm in a corner."
"Now, stand by ter receive boarders!" roared the veteran as he placed the muzzle weapon at the lock and pulled the trigger.
"Bang!"
There was a roaring explosion from the wide mouthed weapon and a cloud of smoke filled the air. But simultaneously there came a sound of ripping, tearing and splintering and the lock of the door, shot clean out by the heavy charge, clattered down to the floor on the inside of the room.
An instant later Joe Digby, pale and trembling from privation, surprise and happiness all mingled in one, was in the midst of his friends and fellow scouts.
"I don't know what made me think of it," he explained in answer to eager questions about the smoke telegraph message. "It was what the books call an inspiration, I guess. There were plenty of loose boards—fragments of old packing cases lying about, and luckily they had not taken my matches. I built a blaze and then, while it was still smoldering, I covered it with an old strip of sacking that I wetted with some water out of the bottle they left me."
"It made about as good a signal, as one could want," responded Rob warmly, "but now tell us about your capture, Joe, how did it happen?"
"Why, you see," exclaimed the lad, his voice growing stronger as he proceeded, "I was just thinking it was about time to wake my relief when I heard a rustling noise in the bushes back of the camp. I walked up there to investigate, for I thought it might be some animals—maybe the captain's pigs."
"Keel haul them lubberly swine," from the captain.
"But, as you shall hear, I was mistaken. Hardly had I reached the edge of the dark shadows than I was seized and a hand put over my mouth. I had only time to let out one yell for help."
"The one that woke me," put in Merritt, in parenthesis.
"That was it; I guess," went on the small lad, "well, I was picked up and carried some little distance to where they had a boat, and thrown into it. Then the three men who were in the boat rowed to an island with a tent on it and there two of them got out. The other, a fellow with a big beard and very dirty, then rowed over to this place with me and, after putting some bread and a bottle of water inside the door, closed and locked it.
"I carried on like a baby, I guess. I cried for a long time and shouted, but no one came. Then I grew quieter and tried to find some way of escape but the shutters were all fastened and the door was too strong for me. I tried to clamber up the chimney once but I had to give it up. Then suddenly the thought of making a smoke came to me and then I improved on that idea and used the Morse code that Rob has been drumming into me. I never thought that I might be able to use it to save my life maybe—or at least a lot of hunger and misery."
"Could you recognize the men who took you if you saw them again?" asked Rob earnestly.
"I'm not sure," responded the small lad, "one of them I would know—the one with the beard. The other two wore masks. But I think their voices sounded like Bill's and Jack's. I'm sure of the man with the beard though."
"Hank Handcraft," exclaimed Merritt.
"Oh, that's who it was," cried the small lad, "I thought somehow the voice and something about the man seemed familiar. He's that old beach comber who lives outside Hampton."
"That's the son uv a sea-swab," roared the captain, "oh, if I could only get my hands on him, I'd—"
The fate the captain had reserved for Hank was doomed not to be known, for as he was speaking Paul Perkins gave a sudden shout:
"Look—look there!" he cried, pointing.
Sneaking up to the tented island was the familiar outline of Sam Redding's hydroplane.
The group standing about the newly rescued lad on the veranda of the deserted bungalow galvanized into instant action.
"Jack Curtiss and Bill Bender are in her!" shouted Rob, "come on, scouts, we'll get after them while we can."
With a shout the Boy Scouts ran for the boat and speedily pulled out to the Flying Fish. Hastily as they executed this move, however, the two in the other boat had had time to head her about and start at top speed for the mouth of the inlet.
"Clap on more sail, my hearties," roared the captain, almost beside himself with excitement, "I want ter get my hands on them two piratical craft."
Rob, with a look of grim determination on his usually pleasant face, held the Flying Fish true on her course, but, heavily laden as she was, she could not make her usual speed and the hydroplane soon distanced her. Jack Curtiss stood in her stern and waved a mocking hand at the Boy Scouts as the light-draft craft shot over the shoals and shallows with case while the Flying Fish had to lose much time and way by threading in and out seeking the deeper water.
"Douse my toplights, I can't stand that," bellowed the irate Captain Hudgins. "I'll put a shot in that jackanapes' locker."
With these words, and before any of the boys could stop him, he rose to his feet and sent a bullet from his ponderous revolver flying in the direction of the fleeing motor boat. It missed and hit the water near by, sending up a little fountain of spray.
Even at the distance they were the occupants of the Flying Fish could see the fear which this warlike move inspired in the bully and his companion. They threw themselves flat in their boat till only the hands of Bill, who was steering, were visible.
They need not have feared, however. The captain's hasty move brought down on his head Rob's wrath, though the young leader could not find it in his heart to be really angry with the old man who had been irritated past endurance by the bully's mocking defiance.
"Shiver my garboard strake," he exclaimed contritely, when Rob pointed out to him that he might have killed one of the occupants of the hydroplane, "shiver my garboard strake, lad, I saw red fer a minute just like I did that time the Chinese pirates boarded the Sarah Jane Butts in the Yellow River."
Although there was not much hope of catching the two, Rob stuck to the chase even when he realized the scouts were outdistanced, and in fact kept his attention so closely riveted on the other craft that when there came a sudden jar and jolt and the Flying Fish stopped with a grunt and a wheeze, he realized with a start that he had not been watching the treacherous channel and was once more fast on a sand bar.
With a last shout and a yell of defiance the bully and his companion, who had by now got over their fright, shot out on to the ocean and rapidly vanished.
"There goes our hope of catching those two crooks," cried Tubby angrily, while the engine of the Flying Fish was set at reverse. "It's all off now. They know that we have rescued Joe and they'll fly the coop for some other part of the country."
"I suppose they came down here to get their tent, not realizing we'd be here so soon," observed Andy, which indeed was the fact.
Fortunately the Flying Fish was not very hard aground and a little manipulation got her off into deep water once more.
"I guess those two chaps are almost in Hampton by this time and getting ready to leave town," observed Rob as the motor boat forged ahead, once more.
"This will be the safest thing for them to do," exclaimed Merritt, "they are in a serious position this time. Kidnapping is a dire offense."
"I wonder what they came back for?" said Tubby suddenly.
"No doubt to get their tent and the few things they had left on the island," vouchsafed Rob, skillfully dodging a shoal as he spoke, "maybe, too, they intended to see how Joe was making out."
"I wasn't making out at all," said the small lad, with a shudder at the recollection of his imprisonment.
"Never mind, Joe, that's all over now," put in Merritt.
"I'm glad it is," answered the small lad, "and just think, if I hadn't been a Boy Scout and understood that code I might have been there yet."
"That's true enough," said Rob, "for we had about made up our minds that the bungalow was deserted, and were not going to bother investigating it, till we saw the smoke."
About an hour later the boys landed once more in camp, where their reception by the others may be well imagined by my young readers.
"And now comes the final chapter in the career of Messrs. Jack Curtiss and Bill Bender," said Rob decisively, "I'm going to take a run up to Hampton. Joe, you'll come along, and you, Merritt, and Tubby. If that letter was delivered, as I imagine it was, Joe's parents must be in a terrible state of anxiety by now and we must hurry up and see them at once."
"Right," agreed Merritt, and a few moments later, having left the captain and the others ashore, the Boy Scouts and their young leader were speeding toward Hampton. With the craft lightened as she was, they made good time and arrived at the yacht club pier speedily.
News of the events which had transpired at the island had evidently reached the town, for Mr. Wingate himself, with Mr. Blake and Merritt's father were at the landing as the Flying Fish glided up to it.
The three elders were almost as enthusiastic as the boys had been over the safe recovery of Joe, the details attendant on which Rob rapidly sketched to them. He had hardly concluded and had not had time to ask how they knew of the kidnapping when a wild-eyed man in faded old farm clothes, accompanied by an equally distracted woman, came rushing down to the wharf.
"Where's them Boy Scouts? I allers knew no good would come of my son joining 'em," the man shouted. "I'll give a hundred dollars fer a boat that'll take me ter Topsail Island in ten minutes."
"'No need of that, Mr. Digby," said Rob quietly stepping forward with his hand on Joe's shoulder, "here is Joe safe and sound."
"Great hopping watermelons!" yelled the farmer, rushing at his son followed by his wife. Together the worthy souls almost squashed the small lad like a butterfly under a harrow. But at last the first greetings were over and the farmer turned to the somewhat amused group of boys and men who were looking on.
"My, what a fright we had," exclaimed Mrs. Digby, a motherly-looking woman, dabbing at her eyes with capacious pocket handkerchief, "we gets a letter tellin' us that our boy be kidnapped."
"Yes we know all about that, Mrs. Digby," put in Mr. Blake, "you recollect your husband telephoned to the chief of police here about it, and expecting news from the island, we came down here."
"So he did, so he did," cried Mrs. Digby, "oh, dear me, Mr. Blake, I'm in such a takin! I hardly know what I'm sayin'."
"Consarn them Boy Scouts," sputtered the farmer, returning to his original grievance, "if Joe hadn't a joined them none of this would have happened."
"Oh, yes it would and worse in fact," said Mr. Blake quietly, "from what I have learned of the affair it was your lad's knowledge of the Morse code, which every Boy Scout must know, that saved him when he was confined on the island."
"That's right, pop," piped up the lad himself.
"Wall, I don't know nothin' about Horses, codes," grunted Mr. Digby, somewhat mollified, "but if it saved Joe here it must be all right."
"Then your animosity toward the Boy Scouts is somewhat modified," smiled Mr. Blake, "let me tell you just what happened. As a matter of fact the whole trouble dates back to the day your son exposed the contemptible trick by which Jack Curtiss hoped to win the aeroplane model prize contest."
The banker drew the farmer aside and related to him the story that had been previously narrated by Rob.
"I want ter shake yer hand, boy," exclaimed the fanner, darting at Rob at the conclusion, "I want ter shake all yer hands," he yelled in his enthusiasm.
"Bless my soul," exclaimed Commodore Wingate suddenly, "we are clean forgetting about those two young rascals who tried to extort the money from Mr. Digby. We must get after them at once and their accomplice who, I suppose, is, the man delegated to take the money from under the rock."
"What do you suggest?" asked Mr. Blake.
"That we hasten to the office of the chief of police and then get into my car and ferret them out if possible," said the commodore briskly, "they must be made to suffer for this."
"I don't believe that Sam Redding had any hand in it," put in Rob as Merritt mentioned the name of the boat-builder's son. "You know that all our investigation only pointed to two persons, Jack and Bill, and their assistant, Hank Handcraft."
A short time later Merritt, Tubby and the Digbys being left behind on the landing, a high powered car, containing Rob, his father, Commodore Wingate and the chief of police of Hampton shot out on to the road leading to the farm owned by Jack Curtiss' father. Inquiry at the Bender home had already developed the fact that Jack and Bill had left there hurriedly a short time before, saying they were going out to the Curtiss place. The party was doomed to disappointment, however, so far as the hope of catching Jack or his accomplices at the farm was concerned. Old Mr. Curtiss informed them that his son had taken the family buggy and driven furiously off down the road with Bill Bender a short time before.
"He got a hundred dollars from me," explained the old man simply, "he told me he was goin' ter invest it in some rich mining stock his friend Bender had promoted but—what's the matter, gentlemen," he broke off, noticing the half-pitying look on the faces of the men in the automobile. Mr. Blake hurriedly explained the attempted extortion of which Jack had been guilty.
"What, Jack—my son!" exclaimed the old man in half daze at the stunning intelligence, "my boy Jack do a thing like that? Why, it can't be true. I don't believe it."
"I'm afraid, nevertheless, it is," rejoined Mr. Blake, but the old man only shook his head.
"I'll not believe it," he kept repeating.
"I wish that so good a father had a worthy son," remarked Mr. Blake as the car shot out of the farm and out upon the highroad in the hope of overtaking the buggy.
At the Digby farm the machine was turned off to take the cross roads and at this spot they encountered a buggy coming toward them driven by a farmer friend of Mr. Blake's.
"Seen a rig with Jack Curtiss and Bill Bender in it?" shouted the banker as the car was slowed up by Commodore Wingate.
"Down the road a piece driving like the Mischief," responded the rustic pointing back with his whip, "but you're wrong 'bout ther' bein' only two of them; that no-good beach-comber, Hank Handcraft, was in there with them."
With a shouted word of thanks the car dashed forward once more. It was evident that, realizing that their game was up, Jack and Bill had picked up Hank, and, with a sense of loyalty for which Rob certainly would not have given them credit, were trying to save him too.
"Where can they be headed for?" wondered Mr. Blake as the car dashed forward.
"I can hazard a guess," exclaimed Commodore Wingate, "for the Sunnyside railroad station. If they make a train they may escape us yet."
"Je-rus-a-lem," exclaimed the chief of police, a man named Applegate, pulling out a huge old-fashioned silver watch, "there's a train due in a few minutes now; if we don't make it, they'll slip through our fingers!"
Faster and faster the car roared forward and suddenly as it shot round a curve the little station of Sunnyside came in sight. Tied outside it was the buggy and horse of farmer Curtiss and on the platform stood three figures that the party in the auto made out at once as Jack Curtiss, Bill Bender and their unsavory ally.
The road took a long curve at this point and while they could see the station the pursuers had the mortification of knowing that it would be some minutes before they could reach it. As the car bounded forward, swaying like a rocking ship over the rough roads, there came a sudden sound that made Rob's heart bound.
The long whistle of an approaching train.
Faster the machine shot onward roaring like a battery of machine guns going into action. Its occupants leaned forward with eyes glued on the group on the platform.
The trio of whom the autoists were in pursuit had by this time realized that they were the objects of the chase and were nervously staring up the track down which was fast approaching the train by which they hoped to escape.
The auto was still a good two hundred yards from the station when the train rolled in and, hardly stopping, started to move out again.
"Stop! stop!" yelled Chief Applegate, at the top of his lungs, and the others waved their hands frantically. The engineer looked back at them with a grin.
"Some more idiots missed their train, Jim," he remarked to the fireman, "I might have waited for them but we're five minutes behind schedule time now."
The fireman nodded understandingly and as the auto, in a cloud of dust, dashed up to the little depot the train, with a screech that sounded like the last defiance of the bully, shot round a curve and vanished with a cloud of black smoke.
"Beaten!" gasped the chief.
"We can telegraph ahead and have them arrested in New York," suggested Rob.
"No, perhaps it is all for the best," counseled Mr. Blake, "the parents of both those boys are respected citizens, and it would be a cruel grievance to them were their boys to be publicly disgraced. Let them work out their own salvation."
And so Jack Curtiss, Bill Bender and Hank Handcraft vanish for a time from the ken of the Boy Scouts, leaving behind them no regrets, except it be those of their parents who were for many months bowed down with the grief and humiliation of their boys' misdoings.
"Ta-ra-ta-ra-ta! Ta-ra-ta-ra-ta! Ta-ra-ta-rata! Ta-ra-ta-a-a!"
Andy's bugle briskly announced the last morning of the Boy Scouts' camp on Topsail Island. Already the first breath of autumn had begun to tint the leaves of the earlier fading trees, and the chill of the early dawn was noticeable.
During their stay in camp the lads had profited in every way. The scout program as sent out for camps by headquarters had been gone, through with some modifications, and Sim Jeffords had qualified as a first-class scout while Martin Green, Walter Lonsdale and Joe Digby, once more as merry as ever, were all fitted for their second-class scout diplomas. The prospect of another patrol in Hampton had been discussed and the outlook for one seemed favorable.
As the last notes of Andy's call—to turn to the subject of the opening of this chapter—rang out the tousle-headed, sleepy-eyed scouts appeared from their tents and found themselves enveloped in a fleecy mist—such a light fog as is common on that part of the Atlantic coast at this season of the year.
"Pretty thick!" was Rob's comment as he doused his face in his tin basin.
"Hull-o-o-o!" suddenly hailed a voice from the water, "got any breakfast fer an old shipmate?"
Through the fog the boys could make out the dim outline of the captain's motor boat even if it's apoplectic cough had not already told them it was there.
"Sure, come ashore," hailed Merritt.
A few moments later the hearty old seaman was sitting down with the lads and performing miracles of eating.
"It's a good thing we haven't all got your capacity," remarked Rob, laughing, "or that provision tent wouldn't have held out very long."
"Wall, boys," observed the captain, drawing out a black pipe and ramming some equally black tobacco into it with a horny thumb, "a full hold makes fair sailin', that's my motto and 'Be Prepared' is yers. A man can be no better prepared than with a good meal under his belt. Give me a well-fed crew and I'll navigate a raft to Hindustan, but a pack uv slab-sided lime juicers couldn't work a full-rigged ship uv the finest from here to Ban-gor."
Having delivered himself of this bit of philosophy, the captain passed on to another subject.
"Hear'n anything uv them varmints what slipped their moorings on the train?" he asked.
"We heard that they had gone West," rejoined Merritt, "but to just what part I don't know."
"That thar Sam Reddin' boy clar'd himself uv all suspicion, did he?" went on the old man.
"Yes, after he had admitted that Jack Curtiss and Bill Bender and himself stole our uniforms and robbed you—"
"Consarn him," interrupted the captain.
"You needn't grumble, his father paid you back all that was taken," observed Merritt.
"That don't lessen the crime," grunted the captain, "heave ahead with yer yarn, my boy; yer was sayin' that that Reddin' boy admitted everythin'."
"Well," continued Rob, "in consideration of his confession, it was agreed not to prosecute him and he seems to be a reformed character. He absolutely denied, though, having had anything to do with the kidnapping of Joe Digby here, and I believe he is telling the truth."
"The truth ain't in any uv them fellers, that's my belief," snorted the captain, "and if ever I get my hands on that thar Jack Curtiss or Bill Bender I'll lay onto 'em with a rope's end."
"Oh, we'll never see them again," laughed Rob.
It may be said here, however, that in this he was very much mistaken. Rob and his friends did meet the bully again and under strange circumstances, in scenes far removed from the peaceful surroundings of Hampton.
"Fog's thickenin'," observed the captain squinting seaward.
As he remarked, the mist was indeed increasing in density, shrouding the surroundings of the camp completely and covering the trees and bushes with condensed moisture, which dripped in a slow, melancholy sort of way from their limbs.
"Bad weather for ships," observed Merritt.
"Yer may well say that, my lad, and this is a powerful bad part uv the coast ter be navigatin' on in a fog. I've heard it said that there's a lot uv iron in the Long Island shoals and that this deflects the compasses uv ships that stay too near in shore in a fog. I don't know how that maybe, I don't place a lot uv stock in it myself, but I do know that steamers and vessels uv al kinds go ashore here more than seems ter be natural."
As he finished speaking there came, the fog a sound that fitted in so well with subject of his conversation that it almost an accompaniment to it.
"Who-oo-oo-oo!"
"A steamer's siren," exclaimed Rob.
"That's what it is, lad," assented the old sailor, as the sound came again, booming through the fog with a melancholy cadence.
"Who-o-o-o-o-o!" roared the siren once more.
"I'll bet the feller who's on the bridge uv that ship is havin' his own troubles just about now," remarked the captain, "hark at that!"
The whistle was now roaring like a wounded bull, sending distinct vibrations of sound through the increasing fog billows.
"Thick as pea soup," commented the captain, refilling his pipe, "reckon I'll have ter stay here till she lifts a bit. Wind's hauled to the sou'west too. Bad quarter means more fog and smother."
"Who-o-o-o-o!" boomed the siren of the hidden vessel once more, and this time it was answered by another whistle somewhere further off in the fog.
"Two uv 'em now. Stand by fer a collision," shouted the captain, while the scouts, intensely interested in the development of this hidden drama of the fog, clustered about him.
"Who-o-o-o-o! Who-o-o-o-o! Who-o-o-o-o!" came the nearest siren.
"She's standin' in shore," shouted the captain, "boys, she's in grave danger."
"What's she coming in for?" asked Merritt.
"I suppose her skipper thinks he's got plenty uv water under his keel and wants ter give a wide berth ter the other vessel," explained the captain. "Boys, if only we had a big bell or a steam whistle we could warn them poor fellows uv their peril."
"It does seem hard to hear them blundering in and not be able to warn them," agreed Rob, "there should have been a lighthouse put on these shoals long ago."
"Right yer are, boy, but the government is a slow movin' vessel and hard ter get under way."
The boys had to laugh at this odd way of expressing the difficulty of getting new lights erected, but they knew as well almost as their companion the dangers of the ocean off this part of Long Island.
The whistle boomed out its wailing note again.
"Closer and closer," lamented the captain, "what's the matter with those lubbers? Yer'd think they'd have a leadsman out."
All at once the catastrophe for which they had been more or less prepared happened. So quickly did it come that they had not time to speak.
The echoes of the last note of the siren had hardly died out when there came a loud explosion.
"Bang!"
"A signal gun," roared the captain.
"They are calling for help?" asked Rob.
"That's it, my boy. They've struck, just as I thought they would."
The distress gun sounded again.
"They're in a bad mess by the sound uv that," said the captain.
"It doesn't sound as if they were more than half a mile or so out," remarked Rob.
"I guess they're not. Hark at that! They must be scared ter death."
The gun was fired three times in rapid succession.
"They'll never hear that at Lone Hill life savin' station," grimly commented the captain, "and this fog's too thick fer them ter see her."
"Do you imagine she is badly damaged, captain?" asked Rob anxiously. The idea of the stranded ship lost in the dense fog affected him strangely.
"Can't tell," the captain replied to his question, "may have stove a hole in herself and be sinking now."
"Can't we do something to help them?" asked Merritt eagerly.
"Only one thing we can do, boy, and that's full uv danger."
"What is it?" demanded Rob, ignoring the last part of the captain's speech.
"Get in ther boat and go out thar to 'em. If they're sinkin' we can help 'em a whole lot, and—"
The captain stopped short in amazement.
Rob, Merritt and Tubby had already started for the beach and Hiram, "the wireless scout", was close on their heels.
"Well, douse my toplights," exclaimed the captain, rising to his feet and lumbering after them, "Yer can't beat the Boy Scouts."
"Can you make her out?"
Five pairs of eyes peered through the mist that hung like a white pall an every side of the Flying Fish.
"Stop that motor a minute, while I listen!"
In compliance with Rob's order Merritt shut down the panting engine.
"What's that noise off there?" asked Hiram suddenly.
"That sort of throbbing sound?" rejoined Tubby Hopkins.
"That's it, sounds like a big heart beating," put in Rob.
"I guess that's their engine. They're tryin' ter back her off," suggested the captain.
"Give them a blast on that fog-horn and see if they answer," said Rob suddenly.
Hiram took up the big brass fish-horn, used as a fog signal on the Flying Fish, and blew a loud, long call.
After an interval of waiting, from out of the mist came the wail of the stranded ship's siren once more.
"There she is, right in there," declared the captain, pointing seaward into the mist. "Steer right on that tack, Rob, and we'll pick her up pretty soon."
The motor was started up once more and the Flying Fish forged ahead through the smother. Suddenly Rob, with a sharp cry of:
"Stop her!" swung his wheel over sharp and the Flying Fish headed about.
The gleaming black rampart of a large vessel's side had suddenly loomed up dead ahead of him.
"Ahoy! aboard the steamer," roared the captain, framing his mouth with his hands, "what ship is that?"
"The El Paso from London to New York," came back a hail from somewhere above them in a somewhat surprised tone, "who are you?"
"The Flying Fish of Hampton, Long Island," responded Rob, with a laugh.
"Never heard of her," responded the voice, "we're hard aground on one of your Long Island shoals it seems."
"That's what yer are," exclaimed the captain, "how come yer ter be huggin' the shore so hard?"
"Trying to avoid a collision with another vessel."
"Are yer all right?" bellowed the captain.
"Seem to be. So far as we can find out there's not a plate started, but if you're from the land we've got a couple of passengers we'd be thankful if you'd take ashore. Will you come on board?"
"Sure, if yer'll drop a Jacob's ladder," bellowed the captain at the invisible speaker.
"In a minute."
The conversation had been carried on without either of the parties to it being able to see one another, but the captain of the vessel—for he had been the boy's interlocutor—now came off the bridge and with some of the crew watched two sailors lower a Jacob's ladder and make it fast to the rail.
"Now we go aboard," said Captain Hudgins, clambering up the swaying contrivance as nimbly as an athlete, "make our painter fast ter the ladder, Rob."
This being done, the boys followed the veteran on board. The steamer, when they gained her deck, puzzled them a good deal and it was not till her captain, a genial blond-bearded Britisher, explained to them that she was a cattle ship that they understood the utility of the wooden structures with which her decks were obstructed.
The captain explained that these were pens for the cattle she expected to take back to England, from which country she was returning after having taken over a large consignment of steers.
"Which," went on the captain, "brings us to my passengers. They are Mr. Frank Harkness and his son, of Lariat, a small cattle town in the West, where Mr. Harkness has a large ranch. They were his cattle that we took over and as he had difficulty in engaging a berth on a liner at this time of year, when the passenger ships are crowded, he decided to return with us. Here is Mr. Harkness now," he added, as a tall, bronzed man, with a long coat draped over a pair of broad shoulders, and a wide-brimmed sombrero above keen eyes, approached.
"Visitors from the shore, captain?" he inquired, a pleasant smile illuminating his clean-shaven, sun-browned face.
"That's what they are," rejoined the captain, "just dropped in on us, don't you know."
"You mean we dropped in on them," amended the other with a laugh, "come here, Harry," he called, raising his voice, "we've got some company out of the fog."
In response to his call a lad about the age of Rob appeared from the after-end of the ship, where the cabins were, and greeted the boys with a smile and a nod. He, like his father, wore a sombrero and was quite as sunburned. For the rest he was well-knit and athletic looking and had evidently lived an out-door life.
"Well, we are getting plenty of experiences away from the ranch, eh, Harry?" observed his father, after the boys and the captain had introduced themselves and there had been a great and ceremonious hand-shaking all round.
"We just naturally are," responded the rancher's son. "Say, captain," he went on, "when do you expect to get off?"
"If we are not too badly hung up we ought to get off at high-water," rejoined the Britisher.
"That won't be till late to-night," observed Rob.
"If I could only get a tug we might do better," observed the captain, "in fact, since I've had the engines going I don't think we can back off under our own power."
"Have you got a wireless?" asked Hiram, his pet subject uppermost.
"Yes, but our operator went ashore in London and I guess he had too good a time; anyhow he never showed up so we had to cross without one."
"Is she working?" asked Hiram interestedly.
"Sure, there's plenty of 'juice' as the operators, call it. I tried to work it coming over," laughed Harry, "but outside of getting a proper shock, I didn't do much."
"I'll send out a signal for a tug," said Hiram quietly, "there's a station at Island. They'll pick up the message and transmit it."
"What—you can work a wireless?"
"A little bit," said the lad modestly.
"Come on, I'll show you the way," said the delighted captain, starting off with Hiram, and followed by the others.
"Say, don't think it personal of me, will you?" remarked Harry Harkness to Rob as they followed, "but would you mind telling me what you all are wearing those uniforms for?"
"Why, we're Boy Scouts," rejoined Rob proudly, and went on to explain just what the organization is.
"Say, that's great," exclaimed Harry enthusiastically, "I'd like to form a patrol out at Lariat. Do you reckon I could?"
"I don't doubt it," rejoined Rob, smiling the Western enthusiasm.
"By cracky, I'll do it," went on Harry Harkness, "I'll make it a mounted patrol and if we don't get old 'Silver Tip' then, besides all the other sport we'll have, call me a coyote."
"Who or what is old Silver Tip?" asked Rob, somewhat interested in his breezy new acquaintance.
"Silver Tip is a grizzly," explained Harry, "a grizzly bear you know. Dad says he's the biggest he's ever seen and he seems to bear—excuse the pun, please—he seems to bear a charmed life. All the boys on the ranch are crazy to get a shot at him, but they've never been able to."
"Say, that sounds bully," agreed Rob, "I wish I could get out West for a while."
"It's a great country," said Harry sagely, as they entered the wireless room, where Hiram was already bending over the instrument sending out a message for aid, while the blue spark leaped and crackled across its gap. The others gazed on admiringly as Hiram, having completed his message, adjusted the detector on his head and awaited an answer.
It soon came. Tugs would be dispatched as soon as the fog lifted, the operator at Fire Island announced.
"That's a weight off my mind," breathed the captain, while Harry hastily confided to his father that the lads who had boarded the vessel out of the mist were Boy Scouts.
"The fog is lifting," announced Rob, as they streamed out of the wireless room.
"Yes, the wind has shifted," remarked Captain Hudgins. "I guess it was that sou'west breeze that brought the mist. She's hauled ter the nor'west now, and in an hour's time it will be clear."
"I wonder if you boys can put us ashore," said Mr. Harkness, as the group walked aft to the captain's cabin; "I would be very grateful if you could. It seems that it will be some time before the steamer is cleared, and I am anxious to make a train for the West."
The boys agreed to land the ranchman and his son as soon as the fog cleared off, which, as the captain had prophesied, it did in about an hour's time. The boys had spent the interim in exploring the ship and listening to Harry Harkness' tales of the ranch and the marvelous exploits of Silver Tip, the huge grizzly, who derived his name, it appeared, from a spot of white fur on his breast. In fact, so fast did they get on, that by the time Harry and his father were called by Captain Hudgins to embark in the Flying Fish, the boys had become fast friends.
The run to the shore was made quickly and by landing the two travelers at a point above Hampton they were enabled to make a train that would land them in the city in time for dinner. Mr. Harkness whiled away the trip by plying the boys with all sorts of questions about the Boy Scouts and seemed greatly interested in their answers. Altogether the boys felt quite sorry when it came time to part at the wharf at Farmingdale, the place where the rancher and his son were put ashore.
"Well, good-bye, boys," said Mr. Harkness, holding out a big hand to Rob, who took it and was amazed to find a twenty dollar gold piece slipped into his palm by the ranchman.
"Oh, I couldn't think of taking that," he said, insisting on handing it back despite the ranchman's protests, "I appreciate your motive, but I couldn't think of taking any money for an ordinary courtesy."
"By Sam Hooker, you're right, boy," cried the ranchman heartily, "and it's a privilege to meet such a bunch of fine lads. I thought all you Easterners were a bunch of stuck-up tenderfeet, but I find I'm wrong—anyhow so far as the Boy Scouts are concerned."
A few minutes later the rancher and his son were hastening to the railroad station, followed by the boys' eyes. As they entered the depot, just in time to catch the New York train—they waved a hearty farewell and the boys waved and shouted in return.
"We've only known them a few hours, but I feel as if I'd just said good-bye to two friends," said Rob as they turned away and prepared to go back to the island in their boat and break camp.
"So do I!" said Tubby; "I wonder if we'll ever see them again."
"No, I guess they're kind of ships that pass in the night,"' laughed Merritt, "however, I'm glad we did them a good turn."
The boys, however, were destined to meet the ranchers again and to have many strange and exciting adventures, among which the ultimate downfall of Silver Tip was to be one. Could they have looked into the future, too, they would have seen that in the Far West they were to face dangers and difficulties of which they had as yet never dreamed and were to be the victims of the malicious contrivings of Bill Bender and our old, acquaintance, Jack Curtiss.
A few weeks after the events related above there was great excitement in Hampton over the announcement that Merritt's courageous act of life-saving and the achievements of the other young scouts of the Eagle Patrol were to receive official recognition. A field secretary of the organization arrived at the village one evening and was met at the depot by the Patrol in full uniform, and with the village band drawn up at their head. Proudly, under the Eagle standard, they marched to the Town Hall, which had been illuminated in a style the villagers would never have believed possible and were greeted by the local committee headed by Commodore Wingate and Mr. Blake.
"Three cheers for the Boy Scouts!" came from a voice in the back of the crowded hall after the honors had been distributed and the advances in rank announced.
The shout that went up cracked the plaster on the ceiling of the venerable building.
"Speech, speech," shouted one of those individuals who always do raise that cry on the slightest excuse.
Rob Blake, very red and protesting, was hustled to the front of the stage on which the Scouts had been drawn up.
"I can't make a speech," he began.
"Hear! Hear!" shouted the crowd, most of whom couldn't.
"But on behalf of the Boy Scouts I want to thank you all and—and—"
The rest was drowned by the band which, having been quiescent for ten whole minutes, could maintain silence no longer and blared out into that favorite of all village bands, "Hail to the Chief."
"Come on, let's get out of here," whispered Rob to Merritt, whose breast was decorated with the coveted bronze cross and red ribbon, which is the highest honor a scout can attain.
As they slipped out upon the darkened street a boy came up to them with an outstretched hand.
"I want to tell you I'm sorry for the part I played in the mean tricks Jack Curtiss and Bill Bender put up on you fellows," he said contritely, "will you shake hands?"
"Sure we will, Sam Redding," responded Merritt, extending his palm, while Rob did likewise.
"At that," added Merritt, "I guess we win."
And here, with their former enemy become a remorseful friend, we will, for the present, leave the Boy Scouts to renew our acquaintance with them in the next volume of this series which will be called: "The Boy Scouts on the Range."