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JACK STRAW, LIGHTHOUSE BUILDER

[Illustration: “Jack and Big O’Brien were the first to ride down to the
lighthouse site on the aerial cable.”]


JACK STRAW, LIGHTHOUSE BUILDER

by

IRVING CRUMP

Author of “Jack Straw in Mexico,” etc.

Illustrations by Leslie Crump


[Illustration]






New York
Robert M. McBride & Company
1915

Copyright, 1915, by Robert M. McBride & Co.

Published October, 1915



To A Tom-Boy PEGGY




ACKNOWLEDGMENT


In presenting this account of Jack Straw’s latest adventures it has
been my good fortune to have the friendly advice of Dr. Raymond
Haskell, Superintendent of the Third Light House District, and William
H. Moon of the Lighthouse Service. I have also sought for assistance
the pages of Commissioner George R. Putnam’s “Beacons of the Sea,”
Talbot’s “Light Ships and Lighthouses” and the “Lighthouse Service
Bulletin.”

  J. I. C.

  East Orange,
  September, 1915.




CONTENTS


  CHAPTER                                     PAGE

     I JACK RECEIVES A TELEGRAM                  1

    II “HOOD ISLAND--HO!”                       13

   III THE RUNAWAY                              32

    IV BIG O’BRIEN GETS HIS BICEPS INTO ACTION  48

     V MEN OF HONOR                             64

    VI WINNING THE ROCK                         89

   VII UNDER ARREST                            107

  VIII LOBSTER PIRATES                         127

    IX THE RAID                                145

     X THE CHASE                               164

    XI RAY’S FIND                              188

   XII THE REEF’S TOLL                         214

  XIII THE NEW FULL-BACK                       232




THE ILLUSTRATIONS


  “Jack and Big O’Brien were the first to ride down to
    the Lighthouse site on the aërial cable.”

                                               _Frontispiece_

                                                  FACING PAGE

  “The fight ended there”                                  60

  “Hit’s a close race, me ‘arties, fer ‘e’s comin’ fast”  184

  “The finest flapjacks that ever were cooked”            214

DIAGRAM

  Sketch of Hood Island and Cobra Reef                     66

       *       *       *       *       *

JACK STRAW, LIGHTHOUSE BUILDER

       *       *       *       *       *

JACK STRAW, LIGHTHOUSE BUILDER




CHAPTER I JACK RECEIVES A TELEGRAM


Jack Straw was walking slowly down the maple-lined avenue that led
from the campus to Phillip’s Hall, the largest of the two dormitory
buildings connected with Drueryville Academy, and judging from his many
near collisions with the aforesaid maples, not to mention hitching
posts, stepping blocks and pedestrians, it was evident that he was not
looking where he was going. Indeed his nose was buried in the latest
and final edition of _The Blue and White_, the school’s weekly, and
he was devouring the contents of the page headed “Track and Field”
eagerly. The various individual and team records for the year were set
forth there in black-face type, and Jack, having been captain of the
football team the previous Fall and no mean performer on the school’s
track team during the Spring, was rather keen to learn just how many
times his name was mentioned on that particular page.

But before he had consumed a quarter of the reading matter, a _real_
collision resulted. He was just about to turn the northwest corner
of Phillip’s Hall when there was a scurry of feet, and before he
could look up some one hurrying at top speed swept around the corner.
Instantly the air was full of arms and legs, the copy of _The Blue
and White_ accompanied by several school books, went speeding down
the graveled path and a moment later Jack found himself seated on the
ground and feeling for the exact spot on the back of his head where the
west wall of the dormitory building had hit him. Six feet away sat tiny
Tommy Todd, also feeling for injured places and trying at the same time
to regain his breath.

“Jiminy--puff--puff--crickets, what’er you gettin’ into a
fellow’s--puff--puff--way like that for, Jack?” demanded Tommy.

“Well, how on earth-- Say, why don’t you blow your horn when you are
making a corner at top speed? I didn’t know you were coming,” returned
Jack, scrutinizing the brick wall for dents. “Jiminy, I think if I had
hit just a little harder, Phillip’s Hall would be minus a few bricks.”

“Huh, that’s nothing to the amount of gravel I’ll be carrying round
with me for the rest of my life. Bet there is a peck of it jammed into
my head,” returned Tommy, rubbing his head solicitously.

“Well, why the hurry, anyway, Tommy?” asked Jack, as they stood up and
began to brush themselves off.

“Why, I was looking for you, Jack--I--”

“Found me quicker than you expected, didn’t you?”

“Yes and no; that is, when I discovered you weren’t in your room I
decided you might bob up most any place--and you did--”

“Well, what’s wanted of me in such a hurry?” demanded Jack.

“What is wanted? Oh, nothing, only there are about a half dozen fellows
over in your room waiting for you. Did you forget that there was a
special meeting of the ‘D’ Club called for this afternoon? The meeting
is in your room at three o’clock, you know.”

“No, I hadn’t forgotten only--say, it isn’t three o’clock yet, is it?”
asked Jack, somewhat surprised.

“Oh, isn’t it?” demanded Tommy, as he exhibited his watch.

“Jingo-netties, it’s half-past three. I was so interested in _The Blue
and White_ that I forgot to hurry. Come on back, Tommy, and we’ll have
the meeting started immediately,” said Jack, and seizing the diminutive
catcher of the baseball team by the arm, he hurried him at top speed
back toward the broad entrance of Phillip’s Hall.

Seven members of the “D” Club, the organization composed of honor boys
at Drueryville Academy, were occupying Jack’s room when he pushed open
the door.

“Well, good evenin’, sir; did you call to tea?” demanded Harvey Maston
sarcastically as Jack entered.

“Why didn’t you keep us waiting until midnight?” called Cory, as he put
down the book he had been reading.

“What’s the matter--fall asleep in the physics lab?” demanded Buck
Miles.

“No, fellows, I plum forgot what time it--Hi, quit.”

“O-o-o-o-o-h, forgot,” roared every boy, and a moment later Jack was
busy ducking sofa pillows that were being hurled in his direction.

“Well, now that you have subsided,” said Jack when the lads were out of
ammunition, “the meeting will come to order.” He rapped on the top of
the center table with his knuckles for lack of a gavel and assumed an
air of dignity befitting the president of the school’s most important
society.

“As I understand it,” he said, “this is to be a special meeting for a
general summing up of the athletic situation at Drueryville next year.
Am I right?”

“Right-o,” said Tommy Todd.

“Well, gentlemen, we will proceed. First, the baseball situation claims
our attention. Tommy, how are things going to shape up next year with
your outfit?”

“The outlook never was better,” said Tommy, cheerily. “Out of the nine
regulars on this year’s team, only two will be graduated and they are
both outfielders. I’ve men in the substitute squad that will take their
places all right.”

“Fine,” said Jack. “How about the track team, Harvey?”

“Well, I’m not complaining,” said the captain of the cinder athletes.
“The outlook could be better. Graduation isn’t going to knock a hole
into my list of runners, but I do wish that the freshmen who come
in next Fall would include a couple of good sprinters. We need a
good point winner for the dashes. Also we need a shot putter. Hanson
goes out this year, as you know. He’s been our only hope in the
weight events for two years now. Wish I could find another 170-pound
sixteen-year-old like him.”

“Huh, if he knocks a hole into your prospects, think how he cripples
me up,” said Jack, who had been reelected to captain the football team
next year. “He’s been the only full-back Drueryville has had in years.
I don’t know where I’m going to get a man like him. There isn’t a
fellow in the scrub squad that can play in the full-back position and
not stumble over his own feet. The freshmen will surely have to show
up mighty well in big boys to make me feel happy next year.”

“Jiminy, that does put a kink into your eleven, doesn’t it?” exclaimed
Tommy Todd.

“‘A kink?’ Why, man, it ties a regular knot into our chances for the
championship trophy, let me tell you. We’ll never be able to make it
three in a row with Seaton without another Hanson in the line-up,”
insisted Jack.

“Aw, cheer up. Don’t be so down in the mouth about it. Perhaps we can
find one for you this Summer. I’ll look for one among the stone cutters
down Bethel way, when I take my job in the granite quarries this
vacation,” said Cory, who was eager to have the meeting over with so
that he could resume the book he had been reading.

“Huh, you needn’t bother,” said Jack; “the full-back you’d pick out
would come onto the field with a fiction book under his arm. Well,
Dink, how’s the hockey team going to shape up?”

“Oh, we’ll be there with an A1 team next year. Every man in the
line-up. Pretty good, eh?”

“Well, I’m in the same shape. The basketball team will be composed of
four of this year’s regulars and Wefers, who played substitute forward
all this year. I’m not worrying,” said Cory gruffly, without even
looking up from his book.

“That leaves me the only captain in want of a good man, doesn’t it?”
said Jack. “Well, you fellows take Cory’s suggestion and keep your eyes
open during the Summer for a likely full-back for me, will you?”

“You bet we will. I’m going to spend my Summer working in a hotel over
in the Green Mountains. I may run into a good man there, you can’t
tell,” said Chris Gibson.

“That reminds me, Tommy,” said Harvey Maston. “Did you accept that job
with the contractor? You said you were going to work all Summer on the
new hydro-electric plant over in New York State.”

“Yes, I go over there the first of July for two months. What are you
going to do, Harvey?”

“Going to work for my father in his paper mill. There’s room for
another fellow over there. How about you, Jack? Got a Summer job yet?”

“No,” confessed Jack, “I haven’t. I thought perhaps I might help out
father in his marble quarries. But I guess he won’t be ready to open
’em up for three or four months.”

“Well, why not come over to Bordentown and work in the paper mills?
We could have a corking time together and you would learn a lot about
paper manufacturing. Of course if you can get a chance to go to Mexico
again, or something as interesting as that, I wouldn’t advise you to
accept my offer. A paper mill isn’t as lively as a power plant besieged
by rebels, but then a job is a job, you know.”

“Well, perhaps I might accept your offer, Harvey. I’ll think it over.
You see, I--”

“Mis-ter John-n-n Monroe-e-e Strawbridge! Strawbridge!” shouted some
one down in the street.

Jack’s head bobbed out of the open window immediately.

“Here. Right here,” he called.

“Tele-_gum_ fer Mis-_ter_ Straw-_bridge_,” came the sing-song answer.

“Telegram!” exclaimed Jack. Then he shouted, “All right, bring it up!
Third floor, Room Thirty-two.”

“Huh, what’s this? Some more mystery?” demanded Tommy Todd as Jack left
the window.

“You know as much about it as I do,” said Jack, somewhat disturbed.

A moment later the lazy tread of the messenger boy could be heard on
the creaking stairs. Then came a knock.

“Come in,” shouted Jack and the door was pushed open to admit a blue
clad messenger of diminutive proportions, whose hat was cocked at a
rakish angle on his head.

“Day letter. Sign on dis line here,” he said laconically, as he handed
Jack the stub of a much-used pencil.

Jack signed hastily and the youth scuffled out into the hall,
forgetting entirely to close the door. But the captain of the football
team did not notice this. With trembling fingers he was tearing the end
off the yellow envelope, while the rest of the boys looked on in wonder.

       *       *       *       *       *

As Jack unfolded the telegraph blank his face took on an expression of
great concern. But as he began to read, this expression changed to a
smile of delight. Finally after he had finished, he exclaimed,

“Hi, fellows, listen to this. Talk about luck. Guess I won’t accept
your offer for a job in the paper mill, Harvey. I have one that is
almost as good as a trip to Mexico. Here, I’ll read all about it.”

  Dear Jack:

  On our way up from Mexico last Summer I told you of certain work
  that I expected to do for the Lighthouse Bureau. Part of that work
  is now to be undertaken. I am to build a lighthouse on Cobra Reef,
  Hood Island, Maine. I know that you are interested in engineering
  and therefore I am holding open a job as clerk in the building crew.
  If you want the position wire me at once and report at Jefferson
  Hotel, Portland, Maine, on Tuesday afternoon. This will make a Summer
  vacation position in which you can earn a little money and learn a
  great deal about marine engineering. If you haven’t anything better
  to do be sure and come along.

  Yours truly,
  JAMES WARNER,
  Lighthouse Bureau, Washington, D. C.

“If I haven’t anything better to do,” jeered Jack. “Huh, could there
_be_ anything better to do?”

“Talk about downright good luck,” said Harvey Maston.

“When do you start? Next Tuesday. Eh! Three days from now.”

“That’s going to be quick work. I’ll have to get Dr. Moorland to excuse
me several days before school is officially closed for the Summer, but
I haven’t any more exams to keep me here. I guess I’ll go over and see
him now. I may leave first thing to-morrow morning if Dr. Moorland will
let me off. I would like to spend a day or two with my dad and talk the
matter over with him.”

And taking his hat, Jack left Phillip’s Hall for a hasty visit to the
principal’s cottage in the maple grove across the campus.




CHAPTER II “HOOD ISLAND--HO!”


Of course Dr. Moorland was willing to excuse Jack for the remaining
week of school. Indeed, after he had looked up the lad’s term record
and examination marks in his little card index, which he always kept
on the top of his study desk, the old pedagogue even urged Jack to
telegraph his acceptance to Mr. Warner immediately. He pointed out
that a Summer spent among the lighthouse builders would be of great
educational value, and besides it would afford an excellent opportunity
for the youth to earn some extra money. But first of all he suggested
that Jack call his father on the long-distance telephone and secure
permission to avail himself of the opportunity.

Jack’s home was in Middlebury, about fifty miles from Drueryville, and
the rates on telephone calls did not amount to a great deal. He made
the call on the principal’s telephone while the old man listened to
as much of the conversation as he could gather. Jack’s father saw the
offer in identically the same light as Dr. Moorland did and advised the
boy to accept the position immediately. He did say that he hoped Jack
would contrive to spend a day or two at Middlebury before he left for
Portland, however.

When Jack repeated this to Dr. Moorland the principal generously
excused him from any further work at Drueryville and suggested that he
return to Phillip’s Hall immediately and pack his things, so that he
would be ready to leave on the first train Sunday morning, thus giving
the lad at least two days at home. Needless to say Jack was thoroughly
pleased with this offer and he wrung the old gentleman’s hand cordially
as he said good-by.

Ten o’clock next morning found our young friend swinging from the train
as it rolled into Middlebury station. Townsend Strawbridge, his father,
was there to greet him and drive him home in the new red automobile
which he had acquired that Spring. Just at that particular period
Strawbridge senior was a very busy man. During the past Winter he had
completed the organization of a stock company to operate the abandoned
marble quarries on his property, and now he was engaged in the work
preliminary to actual quarrying, which he assured Jack would begin some
time in the Fall or the following Spring. However, he was not too busy
to listen to all that Jack had to say, and you may be sure the lad
from Drueryville Academy had a great deal to tell his dad. He reviewed
everything, from the record of the baseball team to the bad outlook for
the football team next year, and his father listened eagerly to every
word.

Then after all the news was exhausted the two began to plan for Jack’s
stay with the lighthouse builders. Rough, serviceable clothes, warm
sweaters, boots, oilskins and similar garments were dug up and packed
in an old steamer chest which his father unearthed in the garret of the
Strawbridge homestead. Salt water fishing tackle was put in shape, a
compass, and sailor’s clasp knife with a lanyard attached, were added,
and the entire outfit was put in first-class shape for a two months’
stay on the Maine Coast Island.

The preparations and the anticipation of the trip kept the lad keyed up
to a high pitch of excitement. In this state he managed to accomplish a
remarkable number of things during the two short days at home, and when
it finally came time to leave on Tuesday morning both he and his father
were of the opinion that everything was “shipshape” for a very pleasant
Summer of work and play.

Jack lingered in the red automobile at the Middlebury station until
the train on which he was to leave rolled in. Then a hasty good-by was
said and the lad swung aboard the last Pullman car, to appear a few
moments later on the observation platform in the rear. From this point
of vantage he watched the man and the red car until a sharp bend in the
road shut them from sight.

And as he stood there waving farewell, a strange feeling of
homesickness came over this young adventurer and he realized fully how
much his old dad meant to him. In truth a lump gathered in his throat,
for it seemed to him that his father looked pathetically lonesome as he
sat gazing after the disappearing train. Was he selfish to deprive his
father of his company during the Summer vacation? Was the trip going
to be worth the sacrifice his parent was making for him?

“Good old dad,” he murmured as he turned back into the car. “Good old
dad. How lucky I am to have such a corking fine father. I’ll bet there
is many a chap who wishes that he was as fortunate as I am.”

With such thoughts Jack rummaged in his valise and brought forth a
fountain pen and some paper and for the next half hour he was extremely
occupied in writing an affectionate letter to his paternal parent,
which he mailed at the first stop the train made.

The ride to Portland, though it occupied a greater part of the day, was
through very picturesque country. The Green Mountains of Vermont and
later notches in the picturesque White Mountains were traversed, until
finally the train entered the rich, thickly wooded country of western
Maine. A few hours later Jack caught his first view of the coast, and
he knew that he was entering upon the last stage of his long overland
journey.

It was nearly sundown when he reached his destination, and he was
tired and hungry and his clothes were somewhat soiled from his day of
travel when he jumped aboard the Portland trolley car on his way to
the Jefferson House. He was not too tired, however, to make note of
the fact that the city was unusually cozy in appearance, nor did he
neglect to take a good look at the quaint, old-fashioned houses and
particularly the one which the conductor pointed out to him as the home
of America’s greatest poet, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

James Warner, the same enthusiastic, sun-browned engineer whom Jack had
met on board the _Yucatan_ just a year before, greeted the lad from
Drueryville Academy as he swung up the front steps of the Jefferson
House. Mr. Warner was sitting in one of the long line of chairs in the
hotel lobby when he caught a glimpse of Jack.

“Well, Jack Straw, how are you, anyway? I’m mighty glad you decided to
come along,” he shouted, as he gripped the hand of the young traveler.

“Huh, decided to come--why, there wasn’t any alternative. I simply had
to take advantage of such a piece of good luck. I think I’m the most
fortunate boy in the world to get an invitation to join your crew,”
responded Jack, just as enthusiastic as Mr. Warner.

“Tut, tut, my boy, don’t be too sure of your luck. You’ll have to work
mighty hard. It won’t be all play, let me tell you. I know, because
I’ve been through it a dozen times,” replied the engineer.

But Jack could not be convinced that a Summer on a Maine island with a
lighthouse construction crew would not be about the most delightful two
months he had ever spent in his life.

Mr. Warner changed the conversation completely the next instant.

“You haven’t had dinner yet, have you, Jack? I haven’t. I have been
waiting for you and I’ve been getting hungrier by the minute. I spent
most of my day down at the lighthouse depot, seeing to the loading
of the _Blueflower_ (that’s the lighthouse tender that will take us
to Hood Island to-morrow), and the sea air has put a real edge on my
appetite. Come on into the dining-room and help me devour a good big
steak. You can arrange for your room later.”

Traveling had certainly not dulled the keenness of Jack’s appetite
either, and he assured Mr. Warner, as they entered the long
dining-room, that he would be able to do justice to the steak in
question. And he clearly demonstrated this fact during the ensuing hour.

The evening was spent in Mr. Warner’s room, for the engineer had a
great deal to do in the way of packing clothes, books, and bundles of
blueprints. At nine o’clock he called for a bell boy and instructed
that worthy to bring two glasses of iced lemonade and a dish of
assorted crackers, to fortify themselves, as Mr. Warner humorously
explained, against a night attack of hunger.

Jack was thoroughly in accord with this strategic measure and fell
to with a will. The luncheon disposed of, Mr. Warner suggested that
they retire, since they would have to have breakfast at sunrise the
following morning in order to report at the lighthouse depot at
half-past six.

Considering the importance of the day, it is not at all surprising that
Jack did not oversleep next morning. Indeed, he was up and dressed and
ready to go down to the dining-room when Mr. Warner knocked on his
door to arouse him. Breakfast was disposed of in short order, and
the engineer and his young companion were on their way down to the
waterfront before the city was thoroughly awake.

But the men at the district lighthouse depot were wide awake and
working with a vigor when they arrived. They were loading tools and
supplies on board the _Blueflower_, and from the pile of barrels and
boxes on the long dock at which the tender was moored it was evident
that it would be some little time before the engineer of the Hood
Island expedition would be ready to start.

The depot was an extremely interesting place to Jack. It was a
reservation on the edge of Portland Harbor, surrounded by a high brick
wall. Part of this space was taken up by long low buildings occupied as
repair shops, and the remainder was devoted to storeyard space. Long
docks reached out from the shore front and at these a varied assortment
of craft were moored, ranging from tiny motor boats to the businesslike
looking _Blueflower_. There was a frowning gray torpedo boat destroyer
that had put in there for some official reason or other, and two
weather-beaten lightships that were undergoing repairs, not to mention
a coal barge and several other unimportant vessels. On the docks and in
the storeyard were huge iron buoys that looked quite enormous out of
water. These were being painted and repaired, and Mr. Warner explained
that they would soon be loaded aboard a tender and taken out to the
various bars and reefs in the harbor to be planted as permanent channel
marks.

The lightships were curious looking vessels. They were built of steel
and painted red, with their name marked in tall white letters the
entire length of the hull.

Each was equipped with two steel masts at the top of which were the
lanterns and the big wickerwork day marks. The mast of one of the boats
had been taken out, and Mr. Warner explained that she would later be
equipped with a new kind of mast like a miniature lighthouse, which
would be built of steel and large enough to permit a man to climb up
through its center and not expose himself to the fury of the elements.

“Service on board the lightships, Jack,” said Mr. Warner as they walked
through the yard, “is not as dreary as it might seem. These vessels
are usually anchored out in the steamship lanes and passing vessels
steer dead on for their light in order to keep into the deep channel.
Imagine how comfortable it must be on a foggy night to be aboard one
of these vessels and know that every steamer coming that way is headed
straight for you. Oh, yes, they are run down quite frequently, for you
see that they are without motive power in most cases and cannot get
away from danger. Then, too, they are not allowed to slip their cable
or leave their anchorage under any circumstances, no matter what the
danger may be.

“There have been several serious accidents since the United States
established a lightship service back in 1820, by putting a light vessel
at the entrance of Chesapeake Bay.”

“How many light vessels are there in the Government Service?” queried
Jack.

“There are now about fifty on duty, not including the relief ships,
some of which sail under their own power and travel from place to
place, relieving vessels that are brought into the stations to be
repaired and overhauled,” replied Mr. Warner.

By this time the two had made a complete circuit of the yard and
reached the dock at which the _Blueflower_ was moored. A tall,
good-looking man in uniform and smoking a pipe was coming down the
gang-plank. Mr. Warner hurried ahead when he caught sight of him and
greeted him heartily.

“Jack,” he said, “this is Captain Wilmoth, who will take us to Hood
Island, and, Captain, this is John Strawbridge, otherwise known as
Jack Straw. He is a young adventurer whom I met on the way to Mexico
last Summer. He is going to Hood Island with me as clerk. Incidentally
he hopes to learn something about the service and a great deal about
lighthouse construction work, for he intends one day to be an engineer.”

“Well, you couldn’t have found a more competent instructor, Jack,” said
the captain, as he shook the lad’s hand. Then turning to Mr. Warner, he
announced that the cargo had been loaded and everything was ready for a
start. Mr. Warner made a last and hasty inspection of everything about
the dock, saw that all personal luggage had been carried aboard, and
then all three climbed the steep gang-plank. A few moments later the
men on the dock cast off, and with whistle shrieking the _Blueflower_
backed out of her berth and turned her sharp prow toward the open sea.

The boy was left to his own devices for the next few hours, for Mr.
Warner had a mass of plans and blueprints to look over. He did not
become lonesome, however, for he seized this opportunity to inspect the
tender. From stem to stern he rambled, taking in every detail of the
vessel. He found that she was a roomy and rather speedy craft built
like an ocean-going tug, only on a much larger scale. She was rigged to
withstand all sorts of weather and accomplish all kinds of work, and
her rugged lines appealed to the lad immediately.

While he was on his tour of inspection he ran across Captain Wilmoth,
coming out of the cabin. He was a very affable-looking man of middle
age, with sharp blue eyes and stiff black hair liberally sprinkled
with gray. In his natty blue uniform, he was Jack’s idea of a modern
sea captain, and as he advanced across the deck the lad could not help
admiring him.

“Well, son,” said the officer genially, “having a good look at the old
tub? Like her?”

“You bet I do. She looks as if she might fight any kind of a storm.”

“Right, my boy, she can,” said the captain as he filled his pipe from
a leather tobacco pouch. “The old _Blueflower_ will take any kind of a
sea without a shiver. All the lighthouse tenders are fine craft. They
have to be mighty stanch for they are traveling the high seas all the
year round, carrying provisions to lightships and lighthouses, and
seeing that everything is kept in order along Uncle Sam’s forty odd
thousand miles of coast line.”

“How many tenders does the Government have in service?” queried Jack.

“I think there are about forty-six on both coasts. And you may be
interested to know that they are all named after some kind of a flower,
the same as battleships are named after States. There is plenty of work
for them to do, too, for besides carrying the supplies, they take care
of all the buoy planting. That’s tough work. In the Spring and Fall we
have to gather up all the old buoys that have been in the water a long
time and replace them with new ones that have been overhauled in the
Portland yard. You see barnacles and other submarine growths make it
necessary to take the buoys out every so often and scrape and paint
them. Then of course they have to be returned to the water again. There
are all kinds of buoys in the service and they all mark different types
of danger points. There are whistling buoys, bell buoys, light buoys,
unlighted buoys and spar buoys, and none of them is particularly easy
to handle, I can assure you. Many a man has lost a leg or an arm while
trying to put one of the blooming things over the side of a vessel.”

“I’d like to watch the operation some time,” said Jack.

“Well, perhaps you’ll have an opportunity to. But just now I’d
forget about it and pay more attention to the cook’s bell. He’s been
ding-a-linging all over the ship. Don’t you want something to eat?”

“Eat, why I’m starved,” said the lad. And together he and the captain
went into the dining-room.

The marine engineer had finished his work on the plans during the few
hours before dinner and was at liberty to spend the time on deck with
Jack and the captain during the afternoon. The run to Hood Island took
about eight hours in all, and the captain had estimated that they would
not make their destination much before four o’clock.

The vessel was well out to sea and running due north when Jack came on
deck and the boy thrilled with pleasure when he viewed the vast expanse
of lonesome water. Astern was a long trail of black smoke across
the sky left by a steamer that had disappeared below the horizon,
while north and off the port bow was a distant sail almost directly
in the path of the tender. Jack watched this sail curiously, for he
was interested to know how soon the _Blueflower_ would overtake it.
Gradually they drew up on it until he could make out the rig without
difficulty. She appeared to be a very swift sailing yawl and Mr. Warner
confirmed this when a few minutes later he brought his binoculars from
the cabin and had a good look at her.

“She’s a trim little yawl and from the pulpit-like affair on her
bowsprit I take it she’s a swordfisherman. These waters are full of
’em. I wish that they would locate a big fish, then you’d see some fun.”

“From her lines,” he said after another inspection, “I should say
she was a mighty speedy craft. She has a big patch in her main sail.
And her name is--F-i-s-h--H--it looks like Fish Hawk, but I can’t be
positive. Hang it, I would like to-- Say, fellows, get your glasses.
They _are_ after a swordfish! There’s a man with a harpoon climbing out
onto her bowsprit now! Hurry!”

Jack and the captain hustled into the cabin and a moment later returned
armed with binoculars. Through his, Jack got an excellent view of the
little vessel. She had altered her course so that she was running at
a right angle to the direction taken by the tender and the huge patch
in the mainsail was quite visible. He could see the harpoon wielder
climbing out on her bowsprit, too, and he watched intently as he saw
him poise, spear aloft, ready to strike.

For fully five minutes the man stood in this attitude. Then suddenly
he lunged forward and hurled the shaft. Instantly there was a mighty
splash just under the yawl’s bow and the next moment the craft shot
forward with a rush.

The fight was on! This way and that the little ship zigzagged, jerked
about like a nut shell by the powerful fish it was hitched to. It was a
terrible struggle! Now and then the monster would come more than half
out of the water in a frenzied effort to tear the harpoon loose! Jack
could see its long tusk cut the waves and he shuddered when he thought
of the damage the sword would do to a dory or any other small craft in
its way. But these tremendous rushes soon began to tell on the captive
and the struggle settled down to a steady pulling match, in which the
fish towed the yawl at least three miles out of the tender’s course.
At this point Mr. Warner and the rest put down their glasses. Jack,
however, watched longer than the rest for he was extremely interested.

But before he saw the finish, his attention was diverted by a shout
from the bow:

“Hood Island--Ho!” came the cry of the lookout.

There was something in the call that thrilled the lad and instantly
he turned his glasses toward the north. In the dim distance he could
make out a long wooded island, the seaward end of which was a high
promontory. On this was perched the black and white tower of the old
Hood Island light; the structure which was soon to be replaced by a
more modern building, providing Mr. Warner and his men were able to
conquer the breakers that swept the head of Cobra Reef.

“Well, Jack, there’s the scene of our future triumphs,” said Mr.
Warner, clapping the boy on the shoulder.

“Fine; it certainly does look interesting from here,” said the lad
enthusiastically.

“In about an hour you’ll have a chance to see the place at close range.
Then perhaps you won’t be so keen about it, my boy.”

“Oh, I’m sure I will,” insisted the lad from Drueryville, as he took
another look at the island through his glasses.




CHAPTER III THE RUNAWAY


It was late afternoon when the _Blueflower_ came abreast of the
southern end of the long heavily wooded island which was to be Jack’s
home for several months and on which the lighthouse crew was to remain
until its work was done. Jack scanned the place intently through his
glasses as the tender plowed its way northward. The island was exactly
like a hundred others on the Maine coast, with ugly granite boulders
strewing its shores, against which the breakers dashed madly, sending
plumes of spray high into the air. Jack judged that it was at least
three miles long.

Ahead, and about a quarter of a mile offshore, he could see where the
combers piled upon a jagged line of rocks. This line traveled due
north, parallel with the island for about two miles, until it ended in
a peculiarly shaped mass of rocks that reared above the waves, and
looked exactly like the hood and head of the famous India snake. This
was Cobra Reef.

Midway in the line of rocks was an opening about one hundred yards
across. When the _Blueflower_ reached this point she slowed down
until she hardly more than drifted along. Then began some strange
maneuvering, for Captain Wilmoth intended to run through this channel
and get the tender inside so that she could land her cargo on the only
strip of flat beach in sight.

First the craft would go ahead a little, then a jangle of bells in
the engine room would call for a quick reversal of the screw and she
would back away from a hidden rock. For five minutes this kept up.
Then suddenly the signal bells called for full speed ahead and the
vessel shot through into the comparatively calm water beyond the line
of rocks, and plunged away northward again until it was opposite the
little beach. Then with a rattle of chains the anchors let go and the
trip to Hood Island was ended.

The high promontory with its black and white lighthouse tower was less
than a mile away. In the cleared space around the tower Jack could see
several new sheds under construction and a huge pile of granite blocks
stacked in an orderly array not far distant. This, Mr. Warner informed
him, was the construction camp which the lighthouse crew was to occupy.
All during the past two weeks vessels had been stopping at Hood Island,
depositing tools and machinery and huge blocks of granite which were to
be used to build the new tower. The last of the crew of builders had
arrived the day before and were already hard at work constructing their
quarters.

These signs of activity stirred in Jack a desire to be ashore and up
there on the heights where he could see all that was going on, but
unfortunately there was work to be done aboard the vessel which Mr.
Warner had to oversee, and since Jack was in a way his assistant, he
had to remain with the engineer and do a share of the work.

The _Blueflower’s_ cargo consisted of surveying instruments and
numerous small barrels and boxes of provisions, kegs of bolts, and
various other necessities which had been left behind by the other
vessels that had visited Hood Island during the week. These supplies
Captain Wilmoth was eager to have landed while the daylight hours
lasted, for he did not care to keep the tender inside the reef
overnight.

“There would be trouble if a storm came up while we were inside here.
It would be too dark to see our way out and with a high tide the
breakers would come clean over the reef, and before we knew it we would
be fast on those granite boulders over there,” explained the captain
to Jack as they stood on the forward deck and watched the men load the
supplies into the _Blueflower’s_ launch.

Again and again this little vessel made trips between the beach and the
tender while Jack checked off the contents of each load on a long list
that Mr. Warner had given him. The marine engineer went ashore on the
first trip and talked with the foreman in charge of the camp, who had
been summoned to the beach by the _Blueflower’s_ whistle, and after he
had given instructions as to the care of the goods brought ashore he
returned and superintended the unloading.

The cargo that the tender carried was far larger than Jack had thought
it to be, and the launch was kept busy for nearly two hours plying
between the beach and the mother vessel. The men in charge of the
unloading worked very hard to get everything ashore before darkness set
in, but in spite of their efforts the sun had gone down and twilight
was fast coming on when the launch was finally hoisted upon its davits
and the _Blueflower_ was ready to maneuver toward the open sea again.

In the half light of evening this was no easy task, and Jack and Mr.
Warner watched with interest the careful methods adopted by Captain
Wilmoth. But even with all his caution the _Blueflower’s_ steel sides
scraped against the hidden granite of Cobra Reef on two occasions and
it was only by the quickest kind of action that the vessel was saved
from having her hull ripped open.

“Say, but that was as tough a job as I ever want to undertake,” said
the captain as he came down from the pilot house after the _Blueflower_
had come to anchor outside the reef. “Did you hear her scrape? That
granite would have ripped off a couple of our plates if we had gone
ahead six inches further. I surely feel as if I had earned my supper
to-night. And I’m going to get it right now. I trust you gentlemen are
ready to eat.”

“We are,” was the unanimous reply, and Jack and Mr. Warner accompanied
the chief officer down to the saloon, for, you see, it had been decided
that they stay aboard the tender overnight and run ashore in the launch
next morning.

Day had disappeared entirely and night had settled down by the time
they finished supper and came on deck again. Stars were winking
overhead and a great round yellow moon was just appearing above the
eastern horizon. Over the island the white light from the tower on the
promontory flashed periodically, and just below and to the left burned
a great bonfire, marking the location of the construction camp. The
_Blueflower_ swayed softly at its anchorage, and from the direction
of the shore came the deep-toned lullaby of the breakers, softened by
distance to a soothing night song. It was a wonderfully calm and clear
evening, and it made a lasting impression on Jack. It seemed to him as
if the world had not a trouble or a care on all its broad breast, and
he too felt singularly contented.

At half-past ten the watch fire on shore had gone out completely,
telling plainly that the construction camp was asleep. This suggested
retiring to the three individuals on the deck of the tender, which
suggestion they were not long in following, for they were all tired,
and besides they intended to be astir early the following morning.

By three bells of the first dog watch all on board the _Blueflower_
were awake, and by six o’clock Jack and Mr. Warner had breakfasted
and were on deck. Then since all their effects had been moved ashore
the night before, there remained nothing for Jack and the engineer to
do but shake hands with Captain Wilmoth and their friends among the
_Blueflower’s_ crew and start in the launch for Hood Island.

Though the little boat was a sturdy craft, the tide racing through
the opening in the reef threw her off her course several times during
the trip, and Jack gained a good idea of how treacherous the water of
Hood Island was and he could also see, by glancing along the jagged
edge of rocks, how the eddies formed and swirled about the Cobra Head.
Indeed, though there was practically no sea running, the currents and
cross-currents of the tide created waves about the base of the big rock
that assumed the proportions of breakers, and dashed spray high in the
air as they crashed against the immovable granite.

Mr. Warner saw what Jack was looking at and remarked, “Cobra Head looks
like a mighty ugly place, eh, lad? We are not going to have the easiest
time in the world building a lighthouse out there. Just think of
surveying the site for the tower! Why, in a storm a man wouldn’t stand
any more chance on the top of that rock than a straw. The currents are
so nasty out there that the seals don’t even attempt to land. They come
inside the reef and climb on shore to sun themselves.”

“Seals? Do they have ’em here?” queried Jack, forgetting for a moment
about the dangers of Cobra Head.

“Yes, they have seals here. Not fur seals, however. They are hair seals
and quite useless. You’ll see any number of them later in the day. Just
keep your eye out for a shiny black head in the water or listen for
them to bark.”

A few moments later the launch grated on the coarse sand of the tiny
beach and the voyage from Portland was finally ended. As the engineer
and Jack stepped out of the boat a gang of men headed by a burly,
good-natured Irishman, whom Jack learned later was Shamas, otherwise
known as Big O’Brien, the foreman of the camp, came down toward the
beach.

“Mornin’, chief,” he said to Mr. Warner. “T’ camp’ll be ready for ye
be t’ end o’ t’ forenoon. In t’ meantime, these fellers are goin’ t’
move the rest o’ t’ dunnage up, which wuz left here last night count o’
darkness. Git busy, byes.”

“Fine work, O’Brien. Now come on back with us and introduce us to our
new home,” said the engineer.

“Home, is it?” said O’Brien with a grin. “Sure an’ I’m a-thinkin’ it’s
another name we’ll all be callin’ of it be t’ time our wor-r-k is
finished here.”

“Tut--tut--don’t be such a pessimist,” said Jack’s companion
good-naturedly.

The rap-rap-rap of many hammers and the noise of falling lumber was
Jack’s first impression of the Hood Island camp. This was gained even
while he was at the foot of the promontory.

When he finally arrived at the top he found the camp a veritable
beehive for busyness. But before he could take in the details of the
very interesting place, Mr. Warner called his attention to a prolonged
whistle blast from the tender. The _Blueflower_ was saying good-by;
and of course both of its recent passengers must needs signal back a
farewell.

Jack watched the vessel until it grew quite indistinct in the distance.
Then he turned his attention to the construction camp again. One small
building and one long one had been completed, and the men were working
on two other structures of the larger type. Mr. Warner explained that
the tiny building was to be the general office in which he would have
his desk, drawing-tables and the like. The completed long building
was to be the bunk-house for the workmen, while the other two were
mess-hall and work-shed in the making.

“We will stay with Eli Whittaker, the lighthouse keeper, for the
present at least,” said the engineer. “The Government allows the light
keepers to take men employed in the service as boarders. How will you
like sleeping in a lighthouse?”

“Great!” exclaimed Jack, but he reserved the details of that pleasure
for future consideration while he made himself acquainted with the camp.

Over near the edge of the promontory was a great pile of trimmed
granite blocks, a huge stack of cement bags covered over with
tarpaulins, two donkey engines, a cement mixer, a steel tower, and
myriads of tools, tool chests, etc. Jack contemplated all this with
sparkling eyes.

“Jiminy, but this is going to be an interesting place in a day or two,”
exclaimed Jack. Then--“Say, Mr. Warner, why are those granite blocks
all cut so peculiarly? They look like sections of a great big jig-saw
puzzle.”

“Why, that is a detail of lighthouse building that is very
interesting,” said Mr. Warner, “and I will tell you about it just
as soon as I can. In the meantime you--Say, Jack, there’s our
swordfisherman again. It’s the same yawl. See the patch in her sail and
there’s her name--_Fish Hawk_.”

Sure enough, there was the yawl Jack had watched so intently from the
deck of the _Blueflower_. The little vessel was running across the wind
and had evidently just come out from behind the southern end of Hood
Island. She was plowing along at fine speed about one hundred yards off
the reef.

Jack paused to admire her trim lines and he felt that with a coat of
white paint and a new set of sails she would be a creditable yacht. The
way she covered the mile and a quarter from the southern end of the
jagged rocks to the opening through which the tender had sailed, was
nothing less than remarkable.

“Jiminy, but she’s a swift sailing vessel,” exclaimed Mr. Warner. “I
wonder who--Look! Jack! Quick! Some one has jumped overboard! Look,
he’s swimming ashore! Look at him plow through the water! By George,
what strokes! He’s heading for the inlet! He’ll be drowned! The
currents there will suck him under! He’ll get caught in the undertow!
The idiot!”

Jack had seen it all. When the swordfisherman reached the inlet,
there was a scramble on deck and an instant later the figure of a boy
appeared on the gunwale. A moment he paused there, balanced for a dive.
Then with a pretty spring he shot out and down and entered the water
without a splash. The next instant his head appeared in view, and he
struck out with a powerful overhand stroke straight for the inlet,
while the yawl went racing on ahead.

A great shout went up from the crew of the fisherman when they saw the
boy in the water, and several men bawled orders and shifted sails.
Then, with loud creaking and squeaking of blocks and tackle, the vessel
started to come about. But her headway was enough to carry her several
hundred feet past the inlet and by the time she had turned completely
and headed back toward the swimmer, the lad in the water was almost in
the opening between the rocks.

The fishermen saw in a moment that they were baffled and being
unfamiliar with the channel through the opening they dared not try to
run through it with the yawl. Once again the sailing vessel turned;
this time to stand away from the reef and out of the suction of the
dangerous eddies.

But the swimmer was undaunted. Indeed, he seemed to welcome the current
as an assistant, for he redoubled his efforts, and with his strong
strokes and the speed of the water he fairly shot along.

Could he stay afloat in that terrible mill-race? Was it possible to
battle the undertow? How soon would he be sucked under or caught in
a cross-current and hurled violently against the jagged rocks of the
reef? Jack and Mr. Warner stood there thoroughly awed at the swimmer’s
daring, while O’Brien and several other men in the camp watched in
open-mouthed amazement.

In the meantime, the yawl had come up into the wind and at a dead stop.
Then an attempt was made to launch the big dory from the stern davits.
It dropped to the water like a plummet and almost before it touched the
surface three men leapt into it. But no sooner were they in than they
started to scramble out again, for the little craft was sinking fast.
Evidently the swimmer had removed the plug before he attempted his
escape, thus cutting off one possibility of being overtaken.

But in spite of the dangers of the current, the lad in the water
progressed famously. In no time he had battled his way safely through
the opening. Then swimming madly he sped on toward the rock lined
shore! On he came! The water fairly boiled about him and each powerful
stroke brought him nearer to the island.

“Bully!” shouted Mr. Warner excitedly, as he watched the boy’s progress.

“Great! Oh, if he’ll only keep it up a little longer. They are
scurrying around looking for a dory plug on board the yawl. I hope he
wins, though I don’t know what he’s running away from,” cried Jack
eagerly.

But the tremendous pace soon began to tell on the swimmer. His strokes
grew less powerful and it was evident that he was getting arm weary.
Once he stopped and looked back toward the yawl, and seeing no one in
pursuit he turned on his side and swam with a still slower stroke.

The last few yards of the race were made with evident effort, for the
swimmer was completely fagged. Indeed, when he finally pulled himself
out of the water, he sank down behind a rock and rested for several
minutes before attempting to climb between the boulders toward the
beach.

On reaching the sand he paused as if undecided where to go. Then after
a moment he selected the path that led up to the promontory, and slowly
made his way toward the construction camp.

“Jiminy, but that was thrilling. Prettiest bit of swimming _I_ ever
saw!” exclaimed Mr. Warner when the suspense was over.

“Pretty!” cried Jack. “By jiminy, it was _wonderful_, and--say, but
that fellow is no little boy either. Look at the size of him! Oh, but
what a full-back he would make! Why, he’s bigger than Jim Hanson ever
thought of being. Guess I’ll go and meet him,” and Jack started down
the path to greet the dripping figure, who came stumbling toward him.




CHAPTER IV BIG O’BRIEN GETS HIS BICEPS INTO ACTION


“By jiminy, old man, you certainly can swim,” exclaimed Jack as he
reached the lad from the _Fish Hawk_. But the newcomer to Hood Island
made no reply. Instead, he stood still and eyed Jack suspiciously.

“Oh, that’s all right. You needn’t mistrust me. Here’s my hand on it.
My name is John Strawbridge--Jack Straw for short, you know,” said the
lad from Drueryville, extending his hand toward the big fellow.

“Mine’s Raymond Carroll. Call me Ray; it sounds better.”

“Glad to meet you, Ray. What’s all the fuss about, anyway? What are you
quitting the fisherman for? Had trouble with the master?”

“Trouble? Huh, I never am out of trouble. Yes, I’ve had a row with the
captain. He’s my uncle and I guess a day hasn’t passed in the last
ten years that we haven’t had some sort of a run in. But I’ve left him
for good this time. I’d swim clean from here to the mainland before
I’d go back on board his old vessel. By hookey, I’ve done nothing but
fight with him and his men ever since I started on this cruise. He said
he’d knock the inventive bug out of me or crack my head trying. He’s
thrashed me with rope ends and even mauled me with a belaying pin now
and then when I got my dander up. Look here.”

Ray threw back his wet shirt and exhibited a deep, ragged wound across
his shoulder.

“And you swam ashore with that!” cried Jack incredulously.

“Yep, but if it had been fifty feet further I guess I’d never have come
out of the water alive. My arm feels as if it was paralyzed. I can’t
raise it now.”

“Huh, I don’t wonder. Come on up to camp and get it fixed up,” said
Jack solicitously. But just at this point Mr. Warner and Big O’Brien
joined them. Ray’s shirt was still open and both men saw the ugly cut.

“By George, lad, that’s a bad slash you have there. What have you been
doing for it?” said the marine engineer as he bent closer to examine
the laceration.

“Taking a salt water bath,” said the lad with a plucky smile.

“Yes? Well, if you get it infected, you’ll not smile about it. Come up
to the lighthouse and we’ll see if Eli Whittaker has anything in his
government medicine chest that will help you. A good application of
iodine is the thing to chase away the poison germs and heal it up. Come
along, son.”

And together they climbed the steep path to the camp. Here they were
greeted by a group of workmen who were eager to hear Ray’s story, but
Mr. Warner refused to allow the boy to satisfy their curiosity until
they had reached the lighthouse and done some doctoring.

Old Eli Whittaker, the keeper of Hood Island light for ten years past,
was just getting downstairs from his bedroom on the top floor of the
little dwelling attached to the lighthouse, when Mr. Warner and his
party arrived. The old keeper had been able to get four hours’ sleep
since five o’clock that morning, when he put the light out, and he
figured that he had quite enough to last him until the following
morning.

“’Lo, Mister Warner. T’men told me you was coming. I calc-late ye came
ashore this morning,” said Eli, shaking hands with the engineer.

“Yes, Captain Whittaker,” said Mr. Warner. “We came up on the
_Blueflower_. Say, Captain, how’s the ‘doctor’? We have a patient here.
We wanted to see if you had anything in your medicine chest to take the
pain out of a nasty flesh wound. Some iodine perhaps.”

“Wall, I calc-late ye can have ’bout a pint o’ it. Hope ye ain’t goin’
t’ need moren that ’cause that all’s left in t’ bottle. My two Manx
cats ‘Port’ and ‘Sta’berd’ got fightin’ t’ other night an’ I used a
heap o’ iodine t’ mend up their plegid hides,” said the lighthouse
keeper, a smile playing about the corners of his mouth.

“That will be quite enough,” said Mr. Warner. “Where are your two
famous tailless cats? I guess every man in the service knows about
those cats.”

“Oh, they’re around somewheres, drat ’em,” said Captain Eli. Then he
added:

“All right, come in an’ make yerselfs t’hum, gentlemen, while I consult
t’ ‘doc.’”

They were ushered into the spick-and-span living apartment of the
tiny four-room cottage adjoining the lighthouse tower, while Captain
Whittaker bustled into the kitchen and returned with the portable
medicine chest which the Service furnishes to all lighthouse keepers.
This was the doctor referred to and Eli scrutinized the various bottles
carefully before he brought out one labeled “Poison.”

“Here’s the consarn stuff. Now, let me see this here cut, young
feller,” he said. Then when he had looked at the wound he began bathing
and bandaging with experienced fingers. Of course Ray winced with pain
when the iodine was applied, but he realized that it was the best thing
for him.

“There,” said the light keeper after he had finished, “I guess ye’ll
pull through all right, providin’ no complications sets in, es Old Doc
Chipman sez when he hed stitched up Buck Longyear after t’ red bull hed
carried him clear ’cross t’ pasture lot on t’ p’int o’ his horn. How
did you come to get beat up so? Been gettin’ fresh to t’ skipper?”

“Yes, tell us your troubles, Ray,” said Jack, who was dreadfully
curious to hear the boy’s tale.

“Oh, it isn’t much of a story,” said Ray. “Just a case of my usual
luck. I’ve been living with my Uncle Vance for the last ten years. My
dad died when I was five and mother followed him a year after. I guess
Uncle Vance wasn’t keen on having me on his hands from the first,
leastwise he never showed that he liked the idea at all, so I always
took it for granted that I was sort of in his way.

“He’s a man who believes that every one including himself should work
from dawn until darkness. He says it’s the only way to get along. Just
slave like a horse at the work in front of you. That is all he has ever
done. He don’t believe in progress and he won’t take any stock in a
single new idea. That’s why he and I had most of our misunderstandings.
I like to potter with machinery and build things. He called it all
‘durned nonsense’ and allowed he’d thrash it all out of me if it was
the only thing he ever accomplished.

“Everything I built he broke up for kindling wood or tossed overboard
as useless. Then he’d give me a flogging for not being hard at work on
something more useful. It made me mighty mad. One time I made a corking
fine water wheel in the trout stream back of our house in Ascog. I had
the grindstone hitched to it, and every time I wanted to grind the ax
or a knife or anything, all I had to do was to slip the belt on the
pulley and away she went.

“But when Uncle Vance saw that he was furious. He smashed the
waterwheel and flogged me good. Then he set to work and gathered every
knife and hatchet he could find in Ascog and made me sharpen ’em on an
old foot stone just to teach me that laziness never profited any one.
I was only eight years old, but I never forgot that. Always since then
I’ve taken particular pains to hide everything I made.

“All this Spring I was working on a model of a non-sinkable metal
lifeboat. You see, I had an idea I might have it patented and perhaps
make money enough out of it to go to high school. Uncle Vance says
my schooling days are over and that any more learning would make me
lazier than I am. And I just simply want to go to high school so that
some day I can go to college and study engineering. Well, about the
lifeboat.

“When we started off after swordfish on this last cruise, I smuggled
the model aboard the yawl, because I thought I’d get a chance to do
some tinkering on it when Uncle Vance wasn’t looking. That was the
worst thing I could have done. Last Monday he caught me working on it
and he was thundering mad. He just rushed at me and tore it out of my
hands. Then he threw the thing overboard and got a rope end. And when
he whaled me so I couldn’t stand it any longer and pulled away from
him, he threw a belaying pin at me and hit me on the shoulder. Oh, he’s
a fine uncle, you can bet. Can’t blame me for being bitter, can you?”

“I’m afraid I can’t,” said Mr. Warner.

“That’s sort of tough treatment,” said Jack with sympathy.

“I guess it was. Well, I decided after that I would quit Uncle Vance.
Last night I took the plugs out of all the dories after they had been
hoisted aboard and then made up my mind to skip to the first land we
sighted. And here I am. I guess Uncle Vance will miss me a little at
that. He’ll miss flogging me with a rope end. And he’ll miss me if Old
Bart gets seasick, as he often does. Old Bart is the harpooner and next
to him I was the best harpooner of the--”

Ray stopped talking abruptly and looked with horror toward the door.
There stood a big, burly, black-whiskered individual, who fitted
exactly Jack’s idea of an old-time buccaneer. He was hatless and his
shirt was open at the throat and his great brawny arms were bared to
the elbow. In his hand he gripped two knotted rope ends. For a moment
he paused there, glowering at Ray. Then with a roar he lunged forward
as if he intended to tear the boy in two.

“Oh, it’s Uncle Vance!” screamed Ray, leaping back in fear.

And as quickly as the lad jumped out of the path of the fisherman,
into his path stepped Big O’Brien, the camp foreman. This rapid change
of principals seemed to disconcert the intruder for a moment, for he
stopped abruptly and faced the big Irishman. Both were silent and
tense. Not a word did they exchange, but as they stood there glaring at
each other it was evident that each was ready to crush the other with a
blow. The fisherman’s face was as black as a thunder cloud.

“Let me at t’ whelp,” he hissed.

O’Brien swallowed hard. Then slowly raised his hand and pointed toward
the door.

“Git OUT! Git, or I’ll thrash ye! Ye don’t know how t’ take care o’ a
nephy!” he roared.

The fisherman did not move. Instead his fist drew back for a blow. But
the foreman was too quick for him. Throwing self-control to the wind,
the Irishman reached out and seized the big man around the waist. Then
with a superhuman effort he lifted him from the floor and hurled him
back through the doorway, following after him like a panther.

Now it happened that just at this point one of the fisherman’s
followers, who had come ashore with him, was entering the cottage. The
captain, as he plunged headlong through the open, collided with this
man and both fell into a heap at the very doorstep. But they were on
their feet in an instant and O’Brien had hardly stepped clear of the
room before his bearded adversary was on guard.

O’Brien’s eyes narrowed in anger. He never paused or wavered a moment
but plunged forward like an enraged bull. It was a vicious fight while
it lasted. Strength and brawn against strength and brawn. Two masters
fighting in almost fatal earnestness, one to avenge an insult, the
other to prove his mastery. The grunts that accompanied each trip
hammer blow told the bitterness of the encounter.

There were no preliminaries. O’Brien rushed the bearded man and as
he closed in his arm shot up from his hip like a shaft of darting
lightning. Behind it was every ounce of strength in his great powerful
body. The smack of flesh against flesh sounded and the fisherman
staggered. An instant he swayed, then he lurched forward into a clinch
before the Irishman could deliver a second blow. Desperately he clung
on, swaying to the right and left with the foreman, who tried his
hardest to shake him off.

Men came rushing from the camp. They formed a circle about the two.
They were big burly men and every one of them loved a fight. Jack and
Ray and the engineer and even mild-tempered old Eli Whittaker were
among them, and as they watched the swaying figures before them their
natural love of combat cropped forth and they cheered lustily with the
rest, cheered lustily at each clever move, no matter which one made it.

The fisherman held on to the clinch until O’Brien was almost beside
himself with rage. He held on for his life until his head cleared from
the stinging hammer-like blow he had received on the jaw. Then suddenly
with a catlike movement he broke, dropping low and slipping away from
two terrific blows aimed at his head.

This agility called forth applause from the men in the circle, which
developed into a burst of cheers when the black-bearded one stepped
back again and drove right, left and right against O’Brien’s stomach
and jumped away before the Irishman could get in anything better than a
glancing punch on the head in return. Once again he waded in. But this
time he was not so fortunate. O’Brien’s great ham-like fist smashed
squarely against his nose, and before he could recover himself a left
hook shot up and snapped his head back between his shoulders!

Once more he clinched and held, while O’Brien squirmed and wriggled to
free himself for a final and finishing blow.

But the fisherman’s wits cleared again. Then for a moment his head
rested on the shoulder of his opponent, his mouth temptingly near the
great corded neck of the foreman. An instant later the mariner’s mouth
opened and his short tobacco-stained teeth sunk into O’Brien’s flesh.
He bit and bit deeply and tiny streams of blood trickled out from
between his lips and stained the foreman’s shirt.

With a howl of pain O’Brien hurled the man from him and rained crushing
blows onto his face. The mariner was no match for the infuriated
foreman after that. He dodged this way and that to avoid the terrible
punishment, only in the end to plunge headlong into a mighty swing
that O’Brien meant to be the finishing blow! The fight ended there!
The impact was terrible! The bearded one’s body snapped like a spring.
He clutched blindly for something to support him! Then he pitched
forward into the grass!

[Illustration: “The fight ended there!”]

A moment the great body quivered, then slowly his knees drew upward
almost to his chin, and he lay perfectly still!

O’Brien stood over him, one fist clenched, the other mopping the blood
from his neck.

“There, blame him, I guess that finishes his fightin’ fer t’day,” he
said laconically. Then to the other swordfisherman who stood near
by he said, “There’s yer captain. Lug him out o’ here es fast as ye
kin. I don’t want t’ see his ugly face ’round here any more ner yours
neither.” And still mopping the blood from the wound in his neck,
he elbowed his way through the crowd and disregarding the shouts of
applause made his way into Eli Whittaker’s cottage, where he sought the
iodine bottle so recently used on Ray’s shoulder.

For several minutes Ray’s Uncle Vance lay unconscious on the grass
while the other fisherman worked over him. Finally with the aid of a
bucket of cold water, he was revived. Slowly his eyes opened and he
looked about. Then without a word he struggled to his feet and assisted
by his companion walked slowly down the steep path toward the beach
where his dory lay hauled up above the water line. The crowd on the
promontory watched him go; in fact, they remained until they saw the
small boat reach the yawl. Then O’Brien appeared on the scene again and
sent them all back to their task of building houses.

“Say, your uncle is some fighter, Ray. But he wasn’t a match for
O’Brien,” said Jack, as the two boys watched the fishermen raise the
mainsail of the yawl.

“You bet he wasn’t. That was some of his own medicine applied in a
larger quantity. By hookey, I’ll bet a copper he’s raving mad at me.
Mark my word, this isn’t the last we hear from him,” said Ray.

“Well, it’s the last we’ll hear from him to-day, for his boat is
starting off toward the south,” said Jack.

“That being the case,” said Mr. Warner, “I’m going to look around and
become familiar with my working staff. I want to start a survey of
Cobra Head to-morrow if I can. You boys can come along if you want to.
In fact, I rather think I’ll need you along to help me take stock of
materials and things.

“And, by the way there, son--ah--er--Ray, I mean, what are we going to
do with you?”

“I don’t know, sir,” said Ray, looking anxiously at the engineer.

“Well, ah--er--hum, how’d you like a job clerking here with Jack? Can’t
pay you much, but we’ll give you your board at least. There will be
enough work for the two of you to do, I guess. How about it?”

“That would be slick,” exclaimed Ray, all smiles now.

“All right. You’re hired. Come along with me,” said Mr. Warner.




CHAPTER V MEN OF HONOR


As soon as the trio began their tour of inspection of the construction
camp Jack’s curiosity about the big blocks of granite that looked like
sections of a jig-saw puzzle was revived, and the first question he
asked of Mr. Warner was:

“What were you going to tell me about that granite?”

“Oh, yes,” said the engineer; “I haven’t said much about lighthouse
building yet, have I? Well, we’ll begin at the proper place, which is
the beginning, and I’ll outline to you and Ray just what we hope to
do here on Cobra Reef. I don’t know whether you two have studied that
big boulder out there that looks like a snake’s head, but if you have
you’ve noticed that it is about fifty feet across in either direction
and that at low tide it stands eighteen or twenty feet out of water.
Under those circumstances it is not going to be as difficult to build
a lighthouse there as it would were the rock submerged all day. As a
matter of fact, it is never totally under water, although sometimes the
seas break completely over it at high tide.

“Last year when it was decided to supersede the Hood Island light with
a more modern structure (you’ve noticed that the present tower is quite
antiquated in appearance) engineers from the Bureau of Lighthouses came
here and after a great deal of trouble landed on Cobra Head and ran
a survey across the rock. Their figures were taken to Washington and
studied, and the kind of a lighthouse necessary to crown the reef was
decided upon.

“The decision resulted in the adoption of the most common form of light
which is known as a monolithic structure; a single shaft of stone.
Lighthouses of this character are usually built of granite prepared as
the granite you see over there on the cliff’s edge. There are other
good lighthouse materials, however. Some structures are built of
reenforced concrete, some of steel, and some are nothing more or less
than wooden buildings built on steel supports.

“But granite is considered superior material where the light is wave
swept, as this one will be. In building a lighthouse of granite it is
very necessary that when the pile is completed it shall be almost as
solid as a single section of rock. To make this possible a European
engineer, a long time ago, devised the plan of making each block of
stone lock into the other by means of dove-tailing them. This is
accomplished by having the stonecutters in the quarry yards chip
projections on the top and one side, and indentations on the bottom and
remaining side of the granite building blocks, so that when the stone
is put in place the two projections fit into two indentions on the side
of the block next to it and the top of the one it rests upon, and the
indentions on the side and top are ready to receive the projections of
the next stone.”

Here Mr. Warner tore a sheet from his engineering note-book and sitting
on the edge of one of the big blocks he sketched out a cross section of
the foundation of the proposed lighthouse as well as a sectional view
of the structure itself, thus giving the boys a clear idea of how the
work would be done.

[Illustration: Map of Hood Island and Cobra Reef, Sketched by Mr.
Warner and Later Filled in by Jack Straw and Forwarded to His Father.

A, Cobra Head. B, Reef. C, Cable-Way Between Island and Reef. D,
Granite Blocks. E, Construction Camp. F, Captain Eli Whittaker’s Light.
G, Beach. H, Anchorage for Whale-Boats. I, Old Mitchell’s House. J,
Anchorage of the _Betsy Ann_. K, Path from Beach to Camp. L, Cliffs.
M, Mitchell’s Flounder Fishing Grounds. N, Mitchell’s Lobster Traps.
O, Opening in the Reef Through Which the _Blueflower_ Entered. P,
Cross-section of Lighthouse Foundation. Q, Cross-section of Lighthouse
Tower.]

“The work of shaping the stones is all done at the quarries; indeed
the entire lighthouse is erected stone for stone in the quarry yard so
that every piece fits perfectly. The blocks are then numbered and the
structure is taken apart and shipped here. If you’ll notice each of
those granite blocks is numbered according to position and section. In
that way there is no delay in preparing materials while construction
work is under way.”

“My, but that’s interesting,” said Jack. “I did notice that each block
was marked, but I had no idea that building a stone lighthouse could be
made as simple as all that.”

“Oh, it may sound simple,” said Mr. Warner, “but you just wait until we
begin operations. Then it won’t seem so easy.”

“What gets me,” said Ray, “is how you are going to get all of those
big chunks of stone over to the rock. Why, some of ’em look as if they
weighed five or six tons. Also, how on earth did you get them up on top
of this cliff?”

“I’ll answer both of those questions at once,” said Mr. Warner. “You
are quite right, Ray; the blocks do weigh a great deal. In fact,
some of the larger ones to be used in the base of the lighthouse
weigh fully four tons. Under those circumstances it must look like a
tremendous task to get them up to the top of the cliff and later take
them over to the rock. You see, if Cobra Head had been larger and the
water in the vicinity less treacherous, the lighters that brought the
stone here from Portland would have landed it on the rock. Under the
existing conditions, however, this could not be done and the next
best thing was to land the material on Hood Island. To leave it at
the beach, where we came ashore, would have been out of the question,
for it would be necessary later on to reload it on lighters, section
by section, and take it to the rock. Finally we decided that we would
adopt the same methods as those used by the English engineers in
building several famous lights; that is, we planned an aerial cableway
between the top of the cliff and Cobra Head rock, thus providing a
short and safe means of conveying men, supplies and materials to the
reef’s head. That steel tower yonder, which the men are re-rigging, and
that donkey engine on the cliff’s edge, were installed a month or so
ago, and every time a lighter with stone and supplies of a cumbersome
nature came in, a temporary cableway was rigged from the tower to the
mast on board the boat and the supplies brought ashore in that way.

“Our trip to the rock to-morrow will be to carry a line out there with
which to rig up a temporary breeches-buoy outfit such as coastguards
use in case of a wreck. In this men will be sent to the reef to drill
holes and make an anchorage for the aerial cableway which will be built
immediately. Then everything will be ready for the real construction
work.”

Mr. Warner paused again and sketched a map of the reef and the island
showing how the cableway would be built between the island and the head
of the reef.

“What sort of a foundation will you have for the light, Mr. Warner?”
asked Ray.

“Oh, I was coming to that. Here’s how we will proceed with the work.
To-morrow we will land on the rock, providing Neptune is willing. Then
while some men are drilling holes in which to put the ringbolts to hold
the reef end of the cableway, other men will start chipping away the
humps and bumps on Cobra Head. That lump that looks like a head itself
will have to be cut away and the top of the hood will be made as flat
as possible. It will not be necessary to dig very deep into the rock
because the constant erosion of the sea for centuries past has eaten
away all the soft parts of the rock, if there ever were any, and all
that you see above water now is as firm and as hard as flint. As I said
before, we’ll pare it down somewhat in spots and we may be forced to
use a little dynamite in the work, though I’ll avoid that if possible
for explosives may shatter the entire boulder if they are not used
carefully. Then where would we be?”

“I think if that should happen you would have a mighty hard job on your
hands,” said Jack.

“You’re right, we would,” assured Mr. Warner. Then he continued, “When
the chipping is all done and the cableway is in working order, things
will proceed as smoothly as the elements will allow. The first blocks
will be sent down and put in place. They will be imbedded in cement
which will take hold of both the rock and the building block. After the
cement is set a hole will be drilled through the granite block and deep
into the boulder. A heavy steel bolt will be sunk through this hole
and anchored to the reef with hydraulic cement which will be forced
home under pressure. When this cement has set the first tier of stones
will be as solid as man can make it.

“When the cableway is working we’ll start to build a miniature
construction camp out there on the rock. There will be derricks,
for one thing, for no man, or group of men, could handle one of
those tremendous blocks without some mechanical assistance. It is
probable that half a dozen derricks will be built during the course
of construction work, for storms will sweep them away in a jiffy once
the waves get piling up on the Head. We’ll be lucky if we don’t lose
some of our workmen too. There’s many a lighthouse along the coast the
building of which has cost more than one human life. This sort of work,
my boys, is not the easiest in the--”

“Ow-w-w-w-ye-e-e-e-o! Ow-w-w-w-ye-e-e-o!”

“Good gracious, what’s that,” exclaimed Jack, jumping as if he had been
shot.

Ray smiled and turned around slowly. “That’s a conch. Some one’s
calling.”

“Yes, that’s Eli Whittaker’s dinner horn,” said Mr. Warner, smiling at
Jack’s surprise.

“Call to dinner, is it?” said Jack, smiling too; “sounded to me as if a
whole drove of elephants was charging down upon us. Well, if it means
something to eat I’ll welcome it as terrible as it sounds,” said the
lad from Vermont.

“So’ll I,” assured Ray, “though I don’t know how I’m going to handle a
knife and fork with my arm out of commission.”

“Pooh, don’t mind that as long as your mouth isn’t in a sling,” said
Jack. “I’ll cut up your food and you can use the fork with your good
paw, can’t you?”

“Just watch me,” said Ray.

The sound of the conch was evidently the camp’s signal for dinner too,
for as Jack and Ray and Mr. Warner walked back toward the lighthouse
they passed scores of men on their way to the long, half-finished
mess-hall where Bongo, the dusky cook, was piling a board table full of
good wholesome victuals. The men of the crew were of all nationalities,
but they were men every one of them. Jack noted the fact that every
eye was clear and each moved with a stride that bespoke strength and
agility. They were big chested and brawny and Jack did not know when
or where he had ever seen finer specimens of manhood, a fact which he
remarked to Ray and Mr. Warner.

Four seated about the tiny dining-room of Eli Whittaker’s
spick-and-span cottage made the place seem crowded indeed. Eli was his
own cook and housekeeper and he was a past-master at both, according
to Jack’s way of thinking. That he was an excellent housekeeper was
evident from a glance about the neat cottage and the neater light
tower. And as for his cooking ability, well, great dishes full of
steamed clams, three fat lobsters split in half, and generous portions
of corned beef, boiled potatoes and canned corn, all provided eloquent
testimony to this fact. The quartet fell to with a will, and Ray,
despite his handicap, managed to consume as much as the rest.

After dinner the two lads helped Captain Eli wash dishes, though Ray
was of little assistance because of his injured arm. And while they
were thus occupied Mr. Warner came in from the camp with word that
O’Brien had assured him that all work on the buildings would be
completed by evening, and that the next morning everything would be
ready for their first attempt to land on Cobra Head.

A little later the engineer took Jack and Ray over to a two-roomed
shanty in which he intended to make his office and drafting-room. Here
they were shown to the rear apartment where there were several high
desks and a number of books. This portion of the building, Mr. Warner
informed them, was to be their domain, Jack being given one desk and
Ray another.

For half an hour Mr. Warner explained in detail the clerical work that
the boys would have to attend to, and before he left he assured them
that their daily routine would not keep them occupied more than a few
hours each morning and that the rest of the time they would be at
liberty to spend with the engineers, or the crew, or do whatever else
they saw fit to occupy their time.

Their first duties, however, were enough to keep the lads occupied for
some time and Eli Whittaker’s conch was sounding its evening warning
almost before they realized it.

“Jiminy,” said Jack, looking up from his books, “it’s time to eat
again. I’m hungrier than a bear too. My, what an appetite I’ve
developed since I left Vermont.”

“I get sort of hungry myself now that I don’t have to worry about Uncle
Vance and his disagreeable temper. If I only had the lifeboat model he
tossed overboard I’d be as happy as any one could be. I’m going to get
at a new model as soon as my arm gets better, by jiminy, and you can
bet no one’s going to get a chance to heave it overboard again. The
thing that is worrying me though is whether I’ll be able to remember
just how I had the first one built,” said Ray, slipping down from his
high stool and joining Jack.

“Tut, tut,” said Jack, “don’t worry about it now. Let’s go and get
something to eat.”

When the two lads came out of the office door they noticed immediately
that although it still lacked an hour or more of dusk Eli Whittaker
had already lighted the lamp in the tower. Jack and Ray watched it
shoot forth its single ray of white light periodically as the big lens
revolved.

“I’m going up in the tower after supper and learn something about
lighthouse lamps, that is if Captain Whittaker will let me,” said Jack,
as they walked up the path to the top of the promontory.

“I’d like to have a peek inside of the lamp too,” said Ray. “Let’s ask
Captain Eli if he won’t tell us something about the lighthouse service
too.”

“Good idea,” said Jack as they entered the cottage.

The boys were not long in bringing up the subject of conversation, for
almost as soon as the four of them were seated about the table once
more Jack turned to the light keeper and spoke.

“Captain,” said he, “Ray and I are mighty interested in the lighthouse
service and we’d like to know a lot about it. Also we’d like to know
something about the way the lighthouses are lighted too.”

“Well, as fer t’ way lights is lit I can take you up in the tower later
and ye can have a look at my light and I calc’ late I kin tell ye all
ab’ut haow ’tis run. But that hain’t ha’af what’s t’ be told about
lights. Mr. Warner here knows more about lights than I do an’ like es
not he kin reel off them there jawbrakers like ‘equiangular prisms,’
‘dioptics,’ ‘hyperradients,’ an’ what-not ’thout even stoppin’ t’ think
on ’em. As fer me I cain’t never master ’em an’ ’tain’t no use o’ my
tryin’. Time an’ agin I’ve clawed through big books on lights an’ such
like, but I allus finished ’m ignoranter than when I begun ’un.”

“Pshaw,” said Jack, “we don’t want any of those big words either. What
we want is plain English about how lights are regulated.”

“Wall,” said Captain Eli, “I calc’late Mr. Warner could give ye that a
big sight better’n I could too, but es fer t’ service; wall, I’ll have
a little t’ say on that if ye want t’ hear it.”

“Go ahead, Captain; we’re all ears,” said Mr. Warner. “I’d like to get
a good straight-from-the-shoulder opinion from one on the inside.”

“Good,” said the keeper as he began to pour another cup of tea for
himself.

“T’ begin with, I kin say that the Lighthouse Service is the finest an’
best regolated department of the United States Government from my p’int
o’ view. An’ it has the finest lot of healthy, big-minded, faithful
men in it that kin be scraped t’gether on t’ face o’ this earth. I
guess it is because these men are in it that the service has been kept
as sweet an’ clean as ’tis. You hain’t never heard o’ no political
scandals or what-not in this here department, have ye? No, siree, an’
they hain’t agoin’ t’ be none, not while fellers like they got in it
stick.

“T’ pay hain’t big an’ t’ hours is long and tedious, but there hain’t
a man of us that ’ud shirk his duty in any respect. Just you look over
my file of the _Lighthouse Service Bulletin_ which is printed every
month. There hain’t an issue what goes by ’thout it has some mention o’
some one doin’ a brave act. Tain’t much of a mention t’ be sure, but we
hain’t hankering fer medals er praise. It’s aour business t’ pertect
property on t’ high seas an’ save lives when we can.

“Why, there’s some keepers as is so faithful they won’t even take a day
off. I read as haow a lighthouse keeper over on t’ other coast in t’
C’lumby River section has only taken two days off duty in twenty-three
years. An’ there was the old man who kept the Van Weis Point light down
York way. Died when he was ninety-three years old an’ he had been in
t’ service fifty-two years. Peers t’ me like a man jest natchelly gits
faithful t’ minute he’s set t’ watching out fer some one else’s safety.
There’s wimmen in t’ service too, an’ they’re jest t’ same; all Grace
Darlings when it comes t’ a p’int o’ nerve. Look at that air woman out
Frisco way who stood all night on the platform outside t’ light in a
thick fog strikin’ the bell with a tack hammer because the machinery
had got out o’ order. An’ there was Ida Lewis, who lived at the Lime
Rock Lighthouse near Newport fer fifty-seven years. She was keeper fer
thirty-two years after her father died. ’Tis said she saved as many as
thirteen people from drownin’ during her life. Hain’t that a record fer
ye?”

“You bet it is,” said Ray and Jack, carried away with the old man’s
enthusiasm.

“Wall, from that ye can gather what I think o’ t’ Lighthouse Service.
No, siree, I hain’t got many kicks agin it. There’s on’y one er two
things need regulatin’! There hain’t no pension fer men who git too old
fer the service an’ fer men who are injured in the service, but we’re
all hopin’ that’ll be changed some day an’ I guess ’twill. An’ in the
meantime every one o’ us is workin’ our hardest t’ keep t’ service
jest es clean es it can be.”

The two lads were thoroughly impressed by the captain’s recital,
and although they did not express it each was of the opinion that
if all the men in the Lighthouse Service were as sincere as he, the
organization could not help but be free from any taint.

“By George,” said Mr. Warner at the conclusion of the captain’s
remarks, “you surely are enthusiastic, but I think you have every
reason to be so, for there isn’t a finer lot of men in the world than
the five thousand odd who have to do with lighting Uncle Sam’s coast
lines. And now, Captain, if you have a couple of amber goggles, which
I believe the department is furnishing you men with who have charge of
flashing lights, I’ll take the boys aloft and tell them something about
the lamp. That will give you time to clean up around before you get
ready to go on watch.”

Captain Eli filled his pipe first, then rummaging around in his bedroom
produced two sets of goggles which he gave to the boys.

“My goggles are hanging on a peg in the lower light room,” he said to
Mr. Warner.

The engineer led the way through the enclosed passage that connected
the cottage with the light and presently the boys found themselves in
the base of the tower from where a spiral staircase wound its way aloft.

“This is a mighty old light. I think it was built nearly a century
ago before lighthouse construction was done as scientifically as it
is to-day,” said the engineer. “But, nevertheless, it must have been
built well to withstand the elements so long. Although the promontory
on which it stands is nearly one hundred feet high and the tower thirty
feet tall, Captain Eli has sent in a report on several occasions of
waves having broken panels in the lantern, so you can see the old place
has stood through some storms.”

The trio were climbing the circular stairs now and Jack noticed, as
they wended their way round and round the building, that a long steel
wire dangled down into the well of the stairway from the very top of
the tower. On the end of the wire was a heavy weight. Of course the
boys sought a reason for this, and when they reached the lower light
room where Mr. Warner found his goggles, Jack asked him about it.

“That weight,” said the engineer as he adjusted the amber glasses,
“operates the clock works in the lamp, which in turn drive the lenses
round and round the lamp and produce the flash. Come aloft now and I’ll
explain it all in detail, only first put on your glasses because your
eyes will not stand the strain of looking into the light.”

The boys did as requested and a moment later they climbed up the last
section of the spiral stairs and entered the light. This was a platform
on the very top of the tower enclosed by eight panels of glass. There
in the center, revolving slowly round and round an incandescent oil
vapor lamp was the big lens. Mr. Warner began to explain immediately.

“To begin with, the first forms of light were, of course, wood and
coal fires which were burned in braziers. These lights were used in
England and in the Mediterranean for a long time. The next step was
naturally the candle, but no matter how big they made their tallows,
or how many of them they crowded into a lantern, the result was a
very weak light. Then came the oil lamps of all varieties. Some burned
one kind of oil, some another; a few had one kind of a wick, a few had
another type, and so on. Indeed, the experimenting with marine lights
has extended over a long period and even to-day there is no universal
form of lighting for lighthouses. But that, of course, is because
conditions are not the same at each light. Acetylene gas is used for
light buoys and similar purposes, and electricity is used where a
supply is available, or where it can be manufactured conveniently; but
the most satisfactory illuminant, all things considered, is kerosene
oil. Indeed, the Lighthouse Service consumes more than half a million
gallons of kerosene annually.

“For a long time lamps with from one to five concentric wicks were
used in the majority of lighthouses, but these are gradually giving
way to incandescent oil lamps, such as the one you see behind the lens
there. It is a small compact affair and it gives a most brilliant light
and at the same time consumes very little oil. The kerosene, which is
supplied from a tank in the lower light room, is heated and vaporized,
the vapor mixing with air under an incandescent mantle and burning as
steadily as an incandescent lamp in a city street, only brighter.”

“That’s very interesting,” said Ray, who had been watching the lamp for
some time. “Now tell us something about the lens, won’t you? How did
they come to invent such a complicated-looking affair?”

“Yes, I’ll tell you about the lens. Old-time lighthouse engineers
were always experimenting on how to improve the efficiency of a light
and when they got through changing the forms of fuel they tried the
use of reflectors of various types. Their efforts were more or less
successful, but when a French physician by the name of Fresnel came
forward with an elaborate system of lenses the science of coast
lighting was revolutionized. This lens you see before you is the
present-day result of his efforts. It embodies his idea worked out
to perfection. You will notice that there is a central lens, or
bull’s-eye, and that around it are grouped prisms of highly polished
glass. The idea is this: The light throws rays on every side, back,
front, top, bottom, and all over. Well, these prisms of glass grasp,
as it were, each ray that shoots out at the side and top and literally
bend it and shoot it forward. In that way all the light from the lamp
is gathered into one bundle and sent out in a given direction, instead
of radiating off on all sides. The lens works exactly like a megaphone
which your football rooters use at Drueryville, Jack. Do you get the
idea?”

“Indeed I do and it is mighty interesting,” assured the young Vermonter.

“Good, and now if you’ve seen all you want up here we’ll go down in the
lower light room, for it is hot in the lantern here and besides even
with these goggles the bright light hurts my eyes.”

“Mine too,” said Ray, leading the way through the tiny trap door and
down the stairway to the lower light room.

“Why do they have some lights flashing and some just a steady glare?”
asked Jack when they reached the next room.

“Well, lighthouses to-day can be made to serve a double purpose. They
warn mariners of a dangerous coast and by means of flashes they tell
vessels which particular light they are near so the seamen know their
exact position when they are traveling the coast. This light shows
steadily for one minute and then gives a five-second flash. The next
light down the coast may give two or three flashes a minute and so on.”

“Do sea captains have to know the flashes of every light along the
coast?” queried Jack.

“Indeed they do and a lot more too,” said Mr. Warner.

“What is the candle-power of lighthouse lamps?” asked Ray.

“They vary a great deal,” said Mr. Warner; “this is very small compared
with some of our lights. The one on the Highlands, marking the approach
to New York Harbor, is said to be of 25,000,000 candle-power. Not long
ago we sent one to the Hawaiian Island that had a lens nearly nine
feet tall and weighed four tons. It is mounded, or floated rather, on
a bed of mercury and makes a complete revolution every twenty seconds,
sending out a double flash of 240,000 candle-power. If it were not for
the curve of the earth it could be seen more than forty miles.”

“Jiminy, what a light!” exclaimed Jack. “Did you hear that, Captain
Eli?” The keeper was just coming up the spiral stairs to go on watch
when Mr. Warner completed his statement.

“Yes, that sort o’ makes my little pet up aloft there seem like a
taller candle, don’t it?”

“Well, Captain,” said Mr. Warner, “how’s the weather for a clear day
to-morrow?”

“Right’s a fiddle, sir,” said the old man.

“And what time is high tide?”

“Tide turns at seven to-morrow--it’ll be full at two o’clock,” said the
lightkeeper.

“Good, we’ve got to make a landing on the reef, you know, and we want
clear weather for such a venture. I only hope we all come out of it
alive,” said Mr. Warner, showing great concern. Then turning to the
boys he said: “Well, lads, if you are going to be up to tussle with the
waves to-morrow, you’d do well to go to bed. You’ll probably have to
bunk together. Which room is theirs, Captain?”

“The little room in t’ so’est corner,” said the captain, adjusting his
goggles preparatory to a visit to the light. Then before he climbed
the stairs he paused a moment and spoke. “Say, have either of you a
watch that keeps good time? I dropped mine this mornin’ an’ now she
won’t tick any more. An’ ye know I feel sort o’ lonesome up aloft here
when I hain’t got a timepiece about me. Sometimes my watch’s face is
t’ on’y friendly face I see fer months, ’ception that o’ old Mitch, t’
lobsterman who lives down t’other end o’ t’ island. He’s the only one
on this forsaken strip o’ land except me.”

“Here, Captain, take my watch,” said Jack, hastily handing over the
gold timepiece that his father had given him several years before.

“Thank ’e, when ye want it jest let me know. I calc-late I’ll be able
t’ fix mine in a day er so.”

Then as he started up the spiral stairs he said:

“Well, good night, boys. I’ll be abed when ye start out fer t’ rock
to-morrow, so here’s luck an’ hopin’ ye’ll come back safe. Good night.”

And Ray and Jack started downstairs, both wondering what the next day
would bring forth.




CHAPTER VI WINNING THE ROCK


Thump, thump, thump.

“Hi, Jack! Hello, Ray! Come, wake up. Think you can sleep all day? It’s
half-past five.”

Thus were the two lads aroused next morning by Mr. Warner as he came
from his room across the hall.

“Come,” he added, “tumble out. The boat will start for the rock before
you are dressed.”

This was enough to stir both lads, for they had set their hearts on
taking part in the tussle with the waves to gain the top of Cobra Head.
They were on their feet in a jiffy and presently were whisking on their
clothes with little regard for sartorial effect. Jack managed to get
his undershirt on wrong side out, as boys frequently do when they are
in a hurry, and Ray discovered that he was trying to get his left foot
into his right shoe. But in a remarkably short time they had adjusted
things, dashed cold water in their faces, given their hair a brief but
effective brushing, and emerged from their room.

Ray’s arm was a little stiff at first, but the iodine that had been
applied the day before had taken most of the soreness out of the cut
and he positively refused to keep his hand in a sling any longer.

“I’ll keep on the bandage, but I won’t wear a sling. Makes me feel like
an invalid,” he told Jack as they descended the stairs and joined Mr.
Warner in front of the lighthouse cottage.

Captain Eli was of course snugly tucked in bed and snoring lustily at
that unseemly hour, and since the engineer and his young companions
were destined to be early risers during their stay on the island it had
been decided that they take their breakfast with the crew in the main
mess-hall.

Bongo, the big negro cook of the outfit, was just sounding his call
to quarters on the bottom of a big dishpan when the three entered the
long low building. There was little of a decorative nature about the
arrangement of the tables in the hall. There were two, that extended
the full length of the room and were flanked on either side by long
backless benches.

In twos and threes and groups of half a dozen the burly lighthouse
builders came from the bunk-house to the mess-hall. They were a
happy-go-lucky lot who could not resist a little horse play by way of
a morning’s greeting and the fisticuffs and good-natured chaffing that
resulted made Bongo’s face shine with merriment as he hustled about the
room with big bowls of steaming victuals.

Jack, Ray and Mr. Warner crowded in beside the foreman, Big O’Brien,
and fell to with as much zest as the rest of the men. The breakfast
was of a rather coarse nature, to be sure, consisting chiefly of baked
beans, liberal slices of salt pork, thick slices of bread, canned
peaches and coffee as strong and black as Bongo could possibly brew it.
But Jack ate with a decided relish, nor did he pause to compare the
breakfast with those served at Drueryville.

During the entire meal Mr. Warner and Big O’Brien were in earnest
conversation, to which Jack and Ray were very attentive. The men were
discussing the details of the expedition to the rock, and as the lads
listened to the preparations that were being made they realized more
and more that they were about to embark upon a hazardous undertaking.

By quarter of six the foreman and the engineer had drained their cups
and pushed back their plates. Others of the crew were doing the same
thing when O’Brien stood up and shouted, “Come, bhoys, ye have t’
sha-ake a leg. In haf en hour-r we’ll man t’ bhoat and r-run out on
t’ last o’ the down tide. That’ll give us an hour-r t’ fuss ar-round
befer it sthar-rts a-racin’ in agin. Come on, Mike, and you, Sandy,
and Lafe there, git a wiggle on yez, yer all part of the boat crew.”
And presently there was the scuffle of many feet and the rasp of the
benches being pushed back, and five minutes after O’Brien left the
mess-hall Bongo had the place to himself.

Before collecting his crew the foreman singled out three sun-tanned
workmen who were among the last to leave the mess-hall and with them at
his heels the big Irishman went into one of the tool sheds. Shortly all
four reappeared, one dragging a little brass cannon, such as is used
by coast guards, while the others carried a big open box, into which
hundreds of feet of sail cord was coiled upon pegs.

The cannon was hauled to the cliff’s edge, loaded and sighted by one of
the weather-beaten trio, so as to hurl a rocket-like projectile over
the ugly gray rock out there where the breakers curled.

Of course Jack and Ray could not entirely understand what it was all
about, but, while they were wondering, Mr. Warner, who had gone to his
office for his steel surveying tape and plumb line, arrived on the
scene and explained that, when the men succeeded in landing on Cobra
Head, the projectile would be fired so as to carry a rope to them. And
when they had all things fast, a breeches-buoy would be rigged to carry
more men from the cliff to the rock.

Upon Mr. Warner’s return, O’Brien quickly gathered his crew and, with
Jack and Ray among them, they started down the pathway that led to the
beach where the two whaleboats were moored. Into these the men swarmed
and a few minutes later the craft shot away from the strip of sand and
headed north inside the reef and toward the dangerous Cobra Head.

It was low water and the long jagged reef, exposed from end to end,
looked exactly like a giant of the species after which it had been
named. Outside, beyond the wicked rocks, rolled the Atlantic; great
ground swells heaving in restlessly and thundering against the granite
barrier with a grumbling roar. Jack and Ray, who sat in the stern of
the whaleboat with Mr. Warner and Big O’Brien, were fascinated by the
sight.

But, although the waves piled up outside, the strip of water between
the island and the beach was unruffled, so far as the surface was
concerned. Under this calm exterior, however, were currents and
cross-currents that slipped oilily over the granite-strewn bottom in
spite of the fact that it was the hour for slack water. Jack could see
from the way Big O’Brien handled the tiller and the strength that the
men put in their tugs at the oars that the force of these currents was
tremendous, and he wondered what that strip of water would be like when
the tide turned and began to come in.

As the whaleboat proceeded northward and approached the big rock
the currents became more vicious. They ripped and swirled and licked
at the side of the sturdy vessel like the advance guard of Neptune’s
forces defending the rock from the invaders. The men were bending to
the oars now and grunting with each stroke, and Jack and Ray could see
the muscles in their knotted arms stand out under the strain. Slowly
but surely the boat drew nearer the tremendous boulder, and as the lads
got a closer view of the pedestal on which the new lighthouse was to
be erected they realized why Mr. Warner had cause to worry about the
outcome of the expedition.

For fifty feet about the great chunk of granite the water fairly boiled
with eddies and currents and the force of the heaving swells of the
Atlantic. Here all these met and struggled for supremacy, and the ugly
sides of Cobra Head were lashed and pounded by tons of water hurled
against them. It seemed folly for a craft even as stanch as the big
whaleboat to venture into that turmoil and dare the approach of the
rock.

And to make the situation harder the head presented a grim and
foreboding surface to the adventurers. Indeed, there did not appear
to be a crack, or crevice into which the men could get a foothold when
they attempted a landing, and if there really were any they were well
covered with slippery brown rock weed and kelp that draped the sides of
the massive stone. In truth, as Jack gazed upon the grim barrier, it
looked to him like the great shaggy head of Medusa with her snaky locks
tossed about in the hissing breakers. And the thunder of the tumbling
water was almost deafening.

“Mighty ugly looking, isn’t it?” shouted Mr. Warner, for a shout was
necessary to make his voice heard above the roar.

“I should say so,” cried the boys, trying to suppress their excitement.

Big O’Brien cupped one hand about his mouth and shouted to the boat
crew:

“Row on, boys. Pull, an’ we’ll go ar-round t’ blitherin’ thing t’ see
if ther-re be a place fer a fly t’ sthick on.” And the men bent to
once more and urged the craft forward, keeping outside of the ring of
troubled water as much as possible.

Slowly they made their way round the circle, the whaleboat pitching
and rolling like a cork. Foot by foot they moved through the boiling,
foam-flecked water and all the time Big O’Brien and Mr. Warner scanned
the great granite crag for a place to attempt a landing.

And at last they found it. To be sure it was not much of a landing
place, but then it was better than a sheer wall of granite covered with
slippery kelp. On the ocean side where the great breakers dashed in
with a roar the rock weed had been all torn away by the force of the
water. Ages of erosion had worn soft spots in the granite away, too,
until there remained a slopping trough into which the water dashed with
a hiss and fountained twenty feet in the air.

The constant action on the sloping side had worn the hard stone as
smooth as glass and the dashing of the wave plumes had pitted the rock
here and there above, so that a man of great agility could hope to gain
the top if he moved fast enough and could beat these curling tongues of
water that shot against the rock and licked it clean.

“Tiz there ’er no place, Chief,” shouted the foreman to Mr. Warner.
Then, as the engineer studied the situation, he shouted again. “May we
be per-rtechted whin we tr-ry too; fer if wan o’ thim waves hits yez a
slap in t’ back ’twill be Davy Jones’ Locker t’ next stop. They’ll suck
yez under in a whink, an’ yez’ll niver see daylight agin. No shwimmin’
yez ivver learnt will save yez agin the undertow.”

“Well, the engineer who made the survey last year did it, O’Brien, and
I guess we can do as much,” called Mr. Warner.

“Sure-re yez ’er a Kilkenny cat fer pluck,” said the foreman, “but
I’m wid yez. Hi, bhoys, we’ll make a landin’. Tiz me an’ Mr. Warner
what does it an’ don’t anither wan o’ yez even think o’ thr-ryin’. Yez
hear-r me now. I’ll lick t’ life out o’ eny man who even sthands up
in t’ bhoat. Here, Lanky Sims, yez ’er t’ bist sailor in t’ outfit;
take t’ tiller and mind yez kape her hull. Jist a shlip an’ she’ll be
smashed t’ kindlin’ agin t’ r-rock an’ we’ll all be at t’ bhottom.”

Lanky Sims, a tall, raw-boned Yankee who had been brought up on the
high seas, came from the bow and took O’Brien’s place. Mr. Warner
turned solemnly and shook hands with Jack and Ray, and O’Brien did the
same. Not a word did they utter, but the lads understood, and a lump
as big as an apple came into Jack’s throat.

The engineer and the foreman made their way to the bow of the boat.
Then Lanky Sims took a fresh quid from a black plug of tobacco, spat
over the side and shouted:

“Yo-heave-ho, boys!”

And the men bent to the oars with a will. Sims took the craft out
toward the open ocean, then turned her, and with the swells at her
stern started to ride in slowly, keeping his eyes pinned on the sloping
trough of rock into which each big wave plunged and surged aloft with a
gurgling hiss. Nearer and nearer they drew, the men rowing with short
strokes and keeping their great bodies alert and ready to obey Sims’
orders. Mr. Warner had decided to try first, in spite of the Irishman’s
protests, and he stood waiting in the bow, one foot on the gunwale and
his hand resting on Big O’Brien’s shoulder to steady himself.

Sims watched the waves with calculating eyes. Not a muscle in his face
moved. Not a nerve in his body quivered. Closer and closer to certain
destruction moved the pitching boat. A great wave raised it, held it
trembling aloft for a moment, then slipped out from under it and shot
into the trough, spurting foam and water aloft and drenching the entire
crew. And the moment its force had been spent and the water began to
suck backward Sims gave the expected order.

“Yo-heave-ho!” he roared and bent his body forward. The oars dug deep
and the whaleboat shot forward! Mr. Warner hesitated a moment, then
jumped! Into the trough he dropped and up the slippery granite he
scrambled. He reached the first niche, the second, the third. He was
ten feet up, twelve, and now fifteen. Then Sims shouted:

“Back, boys, back water quick. Here comes another.”

The oak oars bent and creaked under the strain. The whaleboat shot
backward and full into the oncoming wave. For a fraction of a second
it stopped dead and every timber quivered. Then with a rush it shot
backward again and the wave slipped under it and hurled itself into the
trough, its great curling tongue licking up the side of the rock as if
seeking to tear Mr. Warner from the little niches to which he clung.

But the engineer was safe. He was drenched with foam and spray, but he
was well out of the way of the dangerous water. Up he climbed, slower
now, feeling his way from place to place; while the boat backed off to
a safe distance and the crew watched his progress. Finally he gained
the top and stood erect. Then, what a shout went up from the men in the
whaler!

It was O’Brien’s turn now. The big Irishman stood up in the bow while
Sims began maneuvering the boat once more. Again it approached the rock
slowly, riding in on the long waves until it began to get dangerously
near the big boulder. Then the tall Yankee at the tiller waited, tense
and alert, watching his chance to run in immediately after a big wave
had spent itself, and back the boat out of danger before the next wave
could hurl it against the granite and shatter it into splinters.

The chance came. A big wave burst with a roar against the rock, the
spray splashing in all directions. Then, as the tons of water slipped
back again, Sims roared his “Yo-heave-ho” command.

In shot the boat against the curling, sucking eddies. Big O’Brien
balanced a moment on the gunwale and leapt forward. Into the trough he
dropped. Then began the scramble for the first niche before the next
wave surged in and seized him. Up he climbed over the slippery stone.
He reached the first of the grooves and was trying to get a foothold
in another when--his hand slipped! The next moment he shot down the
trough and back to the very spot upon which he had landed! Frantically
he struggled to his knees, then to his feet, only to slip prone again.
Then with a hiss and a roar the next wave came curling in. He was
doomed!

The force of the water hurled him up the slippery trough, raised him
high in the air and dropped him backward, helpless, into the spume at
the base of the rock.

“Merciful Providence protect him! He’s gone!” cried Sims, turning white.

Jack and Ray were numb with horror. Big O’Brien had been whisked from
the face of the earth like a straw.

But before they could collect their scattered wits Lanky Sims’ voice
was heard again above the roar of the water.

“Look! Quick! There he is! On the port side! You boy, grab him! There!
See him!”

Ray saw a distorted mass of clothing and legs rise to the surface
just under him. It was whirled round and round by the force of the
undercurrent for a brief instant before it started to sink again.
Blindly the lad reached over the side and clutched. His fingers closed
upon a cold and clammy wrist, to which he clung despite the surging and
tearing of the current.

Forgetful of the danger for the moment, Lanky Sims let go the tiller
and reaching a long arm into the water seized hold of the big foreman
too. Then together they dragged him over the gunwale and into the boat.
And while Jack and Ray took care of the all but drowned foreman, Sims
directed the whaleboat out of the lashing water and toward the open sea
where there were only the long rollers to combat.

The two boys worked manfully over Big O’Brien. First they got all of
the water out of his lungs. Then with him lying prone in the bottom of
the boat they started artificial respiration, as Jack had been taught
it by the football coach at Drueryville Academy. For fully fifteen
minutes the boys labored over the foreman while Sims and the rest of
the crew looked on in silence. And gradually their efforts told, for
O’Brien’s eyelids quivered once or twice and finally opened. Two red
spots began to show in his ashen cheeks, and after a few moments he
regained consciousness.

“Phwat happened?--ugh--O, shur-re I know. The big wave caught me, huh?”
he said rather thickly as he sat up.

“It didn’t on’y ketch ye but it smashed t’ life ha’af outen ye,” said
Lanky Sims.

“How about Mr. War-rner,” demanded O’Brien, turning and looking toward
the big rock. Then for the first time the men in the boat thought of
the engineer.

There on the top of Cobra Head stood the lighthouse builder. He had
seen the accident and the rescue as well, and Jack could guess what his
feeling must have been as he waited there for a signal to tell him
whether his foreman was alive or dead.

“Wave to him, O’Brien. Wave your hand and show him that you are still
alive,” cried Jack. And the big Irishman struggled to his feet and,
holding on to Lanky Sims, waved and shouted as loud as he could.

Mr. Warner answered the signal with a warning wave, which told the
men in the boat quite plainly that he wanted them to keep off and not
attempt to land another man.

“Sur-r I’d like t’ thr-ry anither fling at it jist t’ show meself that
I can’t be bate be a duckin’, but if the boss sez ‘No,’ thin ‘No’ ’tiz.
Come on, Lank, thur-rn t’ boat and we’ll go back t’ th’ island.”

During the return journey Jack and Ray kept their eye on Mr. Warner.
They saw him scrambling about on the rock, making measurements and
marking off various sections of the rugged Head. Then they saw him send
a signal to the men on the cliff who waited to fire a lifeline to him.
They saw, too, the puff of smoke from the little brass cannon and they
watched the rocket with the line trailing out behind it describe a
big arc over the rock and fall into the sea beyond, dropping the rope
almost into Mr. Warner’s hands.

The engineer began to haul in immediately and presently he dragged out
of the surf a heavier section of rope to which the line was fastened.
This was the cable upon which the breeches-buoy was to be suspended,
and Mr. Warner spent some time in making the end secure over the top
of the big lump of granite that formed the cobra’s head. The men on
shore worked quickly at rigging the buoy, too, and by the time the boat
crew had landed and made its way up the promontory, stone cutters were
already being sent down to the rock to level its surface and build the
tower that was to support the aerial cableway. And, when Jack saw this,
he realized that Cobra Reef had been conquered and that the lighthouse
was actually under way.




CHAPTER VII UNDER ARREST


With the completion of the aerial cableway and the clearing of the
surface of the rock the Hood Island construction camp became a very
busy place. A score or more of men were to be seen on the big rock
whenever the waves were not piling up on top of it (as always happened
when a storm came in) and the donkey engine that operated the cableway
was puffing and snorting from daylight until darkness settled down.

Jack and Ray found that their duties increased with the rush of work
also, for besides their tasks in Mr. Warner’s office there were
numerous other small jobs about the camp that they could accomplish.
But for all that they had plenty of time on their hands to roam about
the rocky shores of the island, or take short trips in the dory that
belonged to Captain Eli and was moored down off the sandy beach near
the whaleboats. The boys made frequent trips to Cobra Head, also
traveling by way of the aerial cable of course. Indeed, Jack and Big
O’Brien were the first to ride down to the rock, on a section of stone
that was conveyed to the lighthouse site. This was more or less of a
perilous trip and Big O’Brien insisted on accompanying the lad when he
heard that he was going.

But with all these possibilities for a good time Ray seemed to become
less interested in the construction work as the days went on. In truth,
he developed a certain melancholy air which, after a time, became very
noticeable. This, of course, puzzled Jack, as it did the engineer and
the others of the camp who had become friendly with him. More than once
Jack sought to gain his confidence and have him tell his troubles, but
the boy always appeared to cheer up for the time and assure the youth
from Vermont that he had not a single trouble in the world. Jack knew
well that this was not true, however, and to add to the mystery of it
all, Ray frequently strayed away from the camp in the evening or when
he had no work to do and went wandering down along the rocky shore of
the island until he came to a secluded spot where he would sit and
brood over his troubles for hours at a time.

It was after one of these mysterious disappearances one afternoon
that Jack went in search of his companion, quite determined to get at
the bottom of all that was upsetting his peace of mind. The lad from
Drueryville had seen Ray steal away and go down the path that led to
the little beach near where the whaleboats were moored. He watched him
as long as he could, but when he saw Ray walk the entire length of the
sandy strip and start climbing along the rock-strewn shore beyond, he
decided to follow.

But Jack soon discovered that his chum had not gone far. Just on the
other side of the beach he saw the lonesome figure perched upon a
smooth chunk of granite, his back resting against a large boulder just
behind him. Ray’s hat was off and the wind was playing with his hair.
He was staring off into space in a most preoccupied manner, and the
expression on his face was that of a lad who was greatly disappointed
over something.

So absorbed was he with his troubles that Jack managed to come up
very close to him before the young swordfisherman was aware of his
presence. When he did notice the Vermonter, he seemed very much
chagrined at being discovered and a sheepish smile wrinkled the corners
of his mouth.

“Hello, Ray,” said Jack, sitting down upon the rock beside him. “I hope
you’ll excuse me for following you, but--well, hang it all, you looked
so glum that I just naturally worry over you. Something is on your
mind, old chap, and I do wish that you would spit it out. Tell me all
about it. Maybe I can help you or at least give you some advice.”

“Pshaw, Jack, don’t mind me. My troubles don’t amount to a row o’ pins
to any one except myself. Shucks, let’s forget about it.”

“No, siree, now, Ray, I want to know. Look here; we’ve been pretty
good friends since you came to the island in that whirlwind fashion,
a couple of weeks ago, and I think that I should know all about your
difficulties.”

“Aw, I haven’t any real troubles. I’m just disappointed, that’s all.
You see--aw--er--let’s forget about it, will you?”

“No, no, Ray, come on, shout it out,” insisted Jack.

“I tell you it’s just disappointment, that’s all. You see I had laid so
much store by it that I--”

“By what?” demanded Jack.

“Why, by my model--my non-sinkable lifeboat, you know. The one that
Uncle Vance threw overboard.”

“Oh, I see, now I understand. I’d forgotten all about it. Well, why
don’t you build a new model, old chap?”

“Why--er--well you see, Jack, I’ve been trying to, but, hang it all,
I haven’t the material, for one thing, and--and--well, I’ve--you see
there are a lot of figures about it that I’ve forgotten. I don’t know
just how I did build the first one. It was made of sheet metal all
soldered together and I can’t get a bit of tin or sheet iron here.
I tried to make one of wood but that don’t go either. Gee, I am up
against it. And I wanted to see if I couldn’t earn enough money with
it--aw, shucks, let’s quit talkin’ about it. There’s no use in worrying
you about it too, Jack.”

“Well, I’m mighty interested, Ray,” said Jack encouragingly. “What was
the principle of the thing?”

“Why, just this, Jack. You remember when the _Titanic_ was wrecked
about a year ago? Sure you do. Well, when that happened there was a
lot of talk about not enough lifeboats, and about the general unsafe
condition of the boats that were being used on board the various
steamers. That set me a-thinking and I decided to try and build a boat
that wouldn’t sink and could not turn over, no matter how hard a wave
hit it. Then after months of pottering around I worked out my model
which looked like a big pumpkin seed roofed over. It was all fitted
up, airtight compartments in the bow and stern, and the keel was so
balanced, and the roof so well made, that even if the boat should be
launched upside down, it would right itself and not ship a drop of
water. There was a little place for a motor which, of course, could
not be put in the model, but could be put in a big boat of regulation
lifeboat size. It could also be propelled by oars and it had a number
of advantages over the old-fashioned open lifeboat.”

“My, but that’s interesting,” said Jack; “I sure would like to see it.”

“Well, I guess it’ll be a long time before I can build another and, by
George, I’m getting older all the time. I’m nearly seventeen now.”

“What of that?” said Jack.

“What of it? Why, I want to go to high school some time, and college
too. I sort of hoped that I might make money enough out of my invention
to pay my way through school. I can’t wait until I am a full-grown
man to go to ‘prep’ school, can I? And now that I’ve quit Uncle Vance
I haven’t a single person in the world to help me. Not that I could
ever expect any real help from him. But then a fellow needs a grown-up
friend or two, no matter how cussed mean they are to him at times. But
Uncle Vance was dead set against my ever going to school again--said it
would make me even lazier than I am. I’m not lazy, am I, Jack?”

“Indeed, you’re not,” said Jack, and then he fell to thinking, for
Ray’s remarks about school brought Jack’s mind back to Drueryville
Academy, and, of course, the first thing that he thought of in
connection with the school was the football situation for the next Fall.

“Jiminy, I certainly wish that you had made money out of your
invention,” he said after a moment.

“Why?” queried Ray in surprise.

“Well, we need a full-back out at Drueryville Academy and if you were
going to go to ‘prep’ school I surely would see that you found your way
over to Vermont. You’d make a corking full-back, Ray. Got the right
build and all, and you’re strong as a bull, too. Ever play football?”

“Ever play? No, but I’d like to. Hang it, Jack, I haven’t ever been
able to play at anything. Never had the chance that other boys get. All
my life has been work and darned hard work, too. And when I haven’t
been working, I’ve been quarreling with Uncle Vance or trying to keep
out of his way, either one,” said Ray bitterly.

“Never mind,” said Jack solicitously, for he saw how unhappy Ray really
was. “Your time will come, just you wait and see. I’m going to speak to
Mr. Warner about your schooling, anyway. Perhaps he can help you out
with some good advice at least. Pshaw, come on, let’s forget about your
troubles. I’ll tell you what we’ll do. Let’s go for a row in Captain
Eli’s dory. We’ve never been down near the lower end of the island.
I’d like to explore. Are you game for a row, Ray? Mr. Warner says that
he will not have anything for us to do until some time to-morrow. How
about it?”

“Sure enough,” said the unhappy youngster and presently the two boys
were climbing over the rocks back toward the little strip of beach
where the boats waited, gently tugging at their mooring lines.

It was a wonderful July afternoon, with scarcely a cloud in the warm
blue sky. Out beyond the reef the broad Atlantic rolled on lazily
under the Summer sun, while inside even the currents that usually
raced between the ledge of rocks and the island seemed to have become
sluggish.

“Let me take the oars,” said Ray, after the two lads had waded out and
climbed aboard the dory, “I have the blues and there’s nothing like
some good husky exercise to work them out of a fellow’s system.”

Jack consented and shortly the little craft was slipping along through
the water under the young swordfisherman’s steady stroke. In half
an hour they had passed the southern end of the reef and gone beyond
the reach of the currents into the open sea. Ray kept the boat about
half a mile off the shore of the island and rowed steadily southward,
apparently taking a great deal of pleasure in working the stiffness out
of his muscular arms and back. As for Jack, he lay off in the stern of
the boat thinking of nothing in particular.

Presently, however, Ray stopped rowing and appeared to listen. Then
turning, he looked ahead and announced.

“Jack, there’s a school of mackerel ahead of us. Look in the locker
there under the stern thwart, and see if Captain Eli has any fishing
tackle. Perhaps we can find a couple of jigs in there.”

“Eh, how’s that? How do you know there’s a school of mackerel ahead? I
see some gulls out there feeding on something but--”

“That’s just it. I heard ’em squealing like a whole flock of cats. If
you’d been around salt water as long as I have you’d know they are
feeding on little menhaden and wherever there’s a school of them you’ll
be sure to find mackerel--or pollock. If it’s a school of pollock then
we _can_ have some fun, providing, of course, we can find some fish
lines. Pollock are the gamiest fish in the sea.”

Jack became enthusiastic immediately and quickly began a search under
the stern seat. In a moment he resurrected a dilapidated market basket
half full of coils of line, fish hooks, jigs, and a double handful of
clams.

“Fine!” exclaimed Ray, surveying the outfit. “We’ll have fresh fish for
supper all right. Here, Jack, break open one of those clams and cut out
a chunk of the tough part. There, that’s it. Now hook it onto that jig;
just double it over the hook so, it doesn’t make any difference whether
you have the point covered or not. Now throw it over the stern, and let
out about sixty feet of line while I row. You’ll feel ’em take hold in
a minute; they’re coming this way.”

Ray bent to the oars again and started the boat toward the flock of
gulls that were flying close to the surface and diving in and out of
the water, squeaking and calling at a furious rate. Jack had hardly got
the jig overboard before the dory was among the fish. They were big
fellows, according to Jack’s way of thinking, but Ray said that they
were only young pollock. But Jack had no time to argue the matter, for
the next second something struck his jig savagely and the heavy line
shot through his fingers and scorched a blister on the flesh before the
fish let go.

“Oh--wow,” howled Jack, shaking his hand.

“Ho, ho, that was funny,” laughed Ray. “Loop the line around your hand
next time Jack, and snub him good. Then keep hauling in as hard as you
can, or you’ll lose him.”

Jack hooked another piece of clam onto the jig and tossed it astern,
and the moment he had the line looped about his hand came another
savage jerk-- Zipp-pp hissed the line through the water, but Jack
snubbed back and started to haul away hand over hand, the fish
thrashing from side to side and even jumping clear of the water in his
mad effort to tear free.

“Wow, what a corker,” cried Jack, as he swung the struggling thing into
the dory.

“Oh, he isn’t so big,” said Ray. “Pollock grow sixty and seventy pounds
and I’ve seen ’em even bigger than that. That’s only a young one you
caught. Weighs about five pounds, I guess. This is a school of little
ones, I tell you. Try again.”

Jack hove the jig again and for the next fifteen minutes he was busy
as could be hauling in the big silvery fish. They bit ravenously and
before he knew it he had caught at least a score. Finally his fingers
became so blistered and chafed that he simply had to quit.

“Here,” he said, “you take the line, Ray. I’m through.”

“All right,” said Ray. “Keep rowing around in a big figure eight. Keep
right in the school. Follow the birds. I’ll see if I can’t yank out
a couple of big ones just for luck. I wish I had a pair of nippers,
though--those are woolen gloves with the fingers cut. They protect your
hands. All fishermen use ’em up here on the Maine coast.”

But before Ray had caught more than a couple of fish, the surface of
the water became suddenly quiet again and the troop of gulls, after a
few farewell squeaks, dispersed and flew off in different directions.

“Hang it, just when I started to get interested the bloomin’ things
disappear. That’s my luck. Too bad. They’ll come to the surface again
somewhere else, but there’s no use of our trying to follow them. They
may come up a mile or so out to sea. Guess we’re through fishing for
to-day. I don’t care though, do you?”

“No, only for your sake,” said Jack. “I was selfish to keep the line so
long.”

“Oh, pshaw, don’t mind me. I’ve had more fishing than a little. When a
fellow has to do it for a living it ceases to be fun,” said Ray with a
smile, as he sat down in the stern and surveyed the catch.

“Jiminy,” he added, “we’ve enough fish to feed the camp.”

“I guess we have, but say, I’ll bet that net over there is filled with
’em,” answered Jack.

“Net? What net? Where?” asked Ray.

“Why, that net over there. See those buoys in toward the island? They
are fastened to a net, aren’t they?”

Ray looked in the direction in which Jack was pointing and saw a line
of half a dozen black and white buoys dancing on the surface.

“No, Jack, those aren’t net buoys. Those are lobster pots. Some one
has a line of traps set along here. Looks like he’d picked out a good
place too. All rock bottom.”

“Are those lobster traps?” asked Jack, becoming interested immediately.

“Sure they are. Net buoys are entirely different looking affairs.”

“I never saw a lobster pot. What do they look like?” queried the
Vermonter.

“Pshaw, don’t you know what they are like. Let’s row over and we’ll
haul one. I don’t believe it would make any difference so long as we
don’t take any of the lobsters. I know it’s considered a terrible thing
among lobstermen for one man to haul another man’s trap, but we won’t
steal anything.”

“Oh, I have an idea what they look like. Never mind about pulling it
up,” said Jack.

“No, no, come on, we’ll row over. I’ll haul it. ’Twon’t make a particle
of difference. And besides there’s no one around to see us. I wonder
who owns it?”

“Why, perhaps that old fellow Captain Eli says lives on this end of
the island. He’s a lobsterman,” said Jack as he headed the boat in the
direction of the buoys.

“That’s right, perhaps they are his,” said Ray.

It was only a matter of a hundred yards or more to the buoy and soon
Jack pulled the dory around close to the bobbing thing. Then Ray stood
up and reaching the line attached to it began to pull it in hand
over hand. Presently he reached a section of the line to which two
tightly corked bottles were attached. He held them up for Jack to see,
explaining in the meantime that they were fastened to the warping,
which is the fisherman’s term for the line, to keep it off the bottom
so that it would not foul with the rocks. The bottles, he said, acted
as floats which kept the warping midway between the rocky bottom and
the surface.

Ray pulled some more and soon the big lobster pot came dripping from
the water. It was a peculiar crate-like affair, shaped like half of
a cylinder, and at either end was a pocket-like net with a hole in
the very bottom through which the lobsters crawled to get at the bait
suspended in a bag in the middle of the trap. There were four big green
lobsters in the trap and innumerable brown rock crabs which clicked
their horny claws maliciously as Jack and Ray took hold of the trap.

“Say, but they look ugly, don’t they?” exclaimed Ray as he looked
between the slats.

“Ugly? You bet they are. If that big green fellow should get hold of
your finger you’d lose it (I mean your finger) mighty quick.”

“What do they use for bait?” asked Jack.

“Dead fish--flounders mostly, although--”

“’I there, throw that air trap hoverboard! Quick now! Look lively
there, you bloomin’ lobster piruts. Hoverboard wi’ hit an’ put hup
yer ’ands er hi’ll blow yer bloody ’eds hoff,” shouted some one.
And turning, the two lads found themselves facing a bewhiskered old
fisherman with a wooden leg, who stood in the stern of a trim little
sloop, the tiller in one hand and a tremendously big but old-fashioned
revolver in the other.

“By George, it’s the owner of the lobster traps,” said Ray, shoving the
contrivance overboard and putting his hands above his head. Jack looked
at the blunderbuss, then having made up his mind that perhaps it would
go off if urged, he too held up his hands.

“I got ’e now, I ’ave. I been a layin’ fer t’ two o’ ye fer a week
past. Says I t’ myself says I, Mitch, Hole Topper, they’ll show hup
agin an’ you can slip hout hin yer hole _Betsy Hanne_ an’ poak yer hole
barker hunder their noses and there you ’ave ’em. An’ hup you showed,
an’ ’ere I are wi’ me _Betsy Hanne_ and me hole barker, an’ ’ere you
are jest es neat en’ snug wi’ yer ’ands above yer ’ed and lookin’ t’
bloomin’ crookedest crooks as ever was. An’ now me an’ me _Betsy Hanne_
is goin’ t’ take both o’ ye t’ th’ warden at Haustin’s Pool an’ ’e’ll
jug ye as tight as ever was. Honely which one o’ you is th’ lad as has
t’ ’nitials J. S.?”

The little sloop had come up in the wind in the meantime and the
fisherman, still keeping the lads covered with the old revolver, had by
means of a short boathook pulled the dory alongside.

“Come,” he said impatiently, “which o’ ye is hit ’as ’is ’nitials J.
S.?”

“Why--er--ah--why those are my initials,” stuttered the amazed Jack
Straw, “but--but--how did you come to know them?”

“O-ho-ho-ho, Mister Innercent, ’ow did I come t’ know? Why I got yer
watch as you so kindly left hin my traps, I did.”

“My watch?--in your traps?” exclaimed Jack.

“I says a ’ow I found hit in my traps, ye pirut. Yes.”

“Why--why--but how did it get there? It wasn’t my watch you found. I’m
sure of it.”

“O-ho-ho-ho, hit wasn’t ’is watch. O-ho-ho, blow me ef ’e ain’t tryin’
t’ joke me. Looke ’er, young feller, you jest says a ’ow yer ’nitials
is J. S. an’ bein’s I found ’e a-’aulin’ o’ my lobster traps hit ain’t
no doubt as you’r t’ guilty party, ’specially as ’ow I found t’ watch
hin my trap. Oh, I figgered hit hall hout. You ’ad t’ trap hup on t’
side o’ t’ dory an’ arter you ’ad got finished a-pinchin’ t’ lobsters
as belongs t’ me overboard you shoves t’ trap wi’ t’ chain o’ yer watch
caught hin t’ net. Hout slips yer watch an’ you bein’ hexcited an’ hin
a ’urry never misses hit till you gets ’ome. Then you sez, ‘Where about
’ave I left my watch?’ an’ you don’t know, see?”

“Why, that’s all wrong,” said Jack. “I never stole any of your lobsters
and besides my watch hasn’t disappeared.”

“Looke ’ere, you young pirut, hif this ain’t your watch then show me
your watch.” The old lobsterman held up a big silver timepiece attached
to a silver chain.

“Pshaw, no; mine’s gold,” said Jack, feeling in his watch pocket. Then
suddenly the expression on the lad’s face changed. “Why--why--it’s
gone; where on earth--what has happened to my watch?”

“O-ho-ho. E-he-he, what’s ’appened to ’is watch. T’ blomin’ pirut. Why
’ere hit his, lad; ’ere hit his.”

“No, no. I know where it is. I loaned it to Captain Eli and--”

“O-ho-ho, a likely story, but just t’ same I’m goin’ t’ tike ’e both t’
th’ warden at Haustin’s Pool. ’E’ll tike care o’ ye. Come, ’op haboard
t’ _Betsy Hanne_. Lively now ’er I’ll blow yer bloomin’ ’eads hoff,
blime me hif I don’t.”




CHAPTER VIII LOBSTER PIRATES


There remained nothing for Jack and Ray to do but climb aboard. With
the determined old fisherman standing there in the stern of the
_Betsy Anne_, looking coldly along the barrel of the old “barker,”
as he called his pistol, the two lads felt that he had them at a
disadvantage. From the age and condition of the revolver it did not
look as if it could do very much damage. But nevertheless the two boys
were not of a mind to experiment with its shooting qualities by making
themselves the target. Therefore they made haste to obey the old salt’s
command, especially when he emphasized it by waving the “barker” very
close to them. Also they moved forward into the bow of the boat at his
direction. Then, as he tied the painter of Captain Eli’s dory to a
stern cleat and grasped the tiller of his own boat, he muttered:

“Now, blime me, wi’ all things shipshape, an’ two o’ th’ bloominest
lobster pirates as ever was a-stowed awi in t’ bow, were hoff for
Haustin’s Pool, Miss _Betsy Hanne_.” He let out the sheet and shoved
over the tiller, and as if in answer to his suggestion the little boat
filled her main sail and presently was scudding merrily through the
water.

All three occupants of the boat were silent for some time after that,
but the doughty captain kept his eyes fastened on the two boys in the
bow and the “barker” within convenient reach.

After a time, however, the little old one-legged fisherman could
stand the silence no longer, and began to muse once more, apparently
addressing the _Betsy Anne_ as before.

“Me bein’ a jest man as ’ow I are an’ me bein’ a right-minded person as
’ow I ’opes I are, ’ow can I g’ back on me bloomin’ senses? ’Ere I been
a-findin’ o’ my traps robbed, these weeks past, an’ ’ere I comes along
hin me hole _Betsy Hanne_ an’ finds these ’ere two a-robbin’ of ’em and
then I says t’ one o’ ’em, says I, ‘Whose ’nitials is J. S.?’ an’ ’e
says, says ’e, ‘My ’nitials is J. S.,’ an’ I says, then,’ ’Ere’s your
watch as I found hin my lobster traps,’ says I, an’ then ’e ups an’
denies hit and says, says ’e, ‘Hit ain’t my watch, ’ere’s my watch,’
an’ goes fer t’ find ’is watch, an’ then seems surprised like ’cause
it ain’t hin ’e’s pocket which o’ course hit ain’t ’cause hit’s in my
’and all t’ time, an’ then ’e says, says ’e, ‘Oh I left hit ’ome wi’
Cap’n Eli,’ says ’e, an’ I ax ye, me bein’ a jest man as ever was an’ a
right-thinkin’ hole sea-dog as is, I ax ye, what for are I t’ think?”

“I tell you, we are not lobster thieves. We are from the construction
camp over on Hood Island. We’re friends of Captain Eli’s--Captain Eli
Whittaker, the keeper of Hood Island light,” asserted Jack, who had
become very indignant listening to the old man’s recital.

“O-ho-ho, ’ear ’im now. Blime me hif ’e don’t talk back as is just what
all crooked lobster piruts does. Look ’ere, sonny, ’ow’s hit you was
a-raisin’ o’ my lobster pots then?” asked the lobsterman.

“Why, I hauled it because Jack here never saw a lobster pot before and
he was just curious. I wanted to show him. We didn’t take a single fish
and we didn’t intend to. I know it was wrong for us to even haul it
but then we aren’t thieves. And we don’t know who’s been taking your
lobsters either,” said Ray, who had also become irritated by the old
salt.

“Keel ’aul me, listen at ’im. ’E says as ’ow ’e’s friend ’ere ain’t
nuvver seen a lobster pot. O-ho-ho, a likely story, young feller,
O-ho-ho.”

“It’s true, though,” insisted Jack. “We are friends of Captain Eli.
Why, that’s his dory we have been using.”

“Listen at ’im now, listen. ’E says as ’ow that’s Cap’n Eli’s dory when
Cap’n Eli’s dory is brown painted,” mused the old tar.

“Pooh, you don’t use your eyes,” exploded Ray in disgust. “Can’t you
see that that dory has just been repainted green.”

“As fer my a-usin’ my heyes, mebby I does an’ then agin’ mebby I don’t.
Me not bein’ a man give for to arger enny, I won’t say ‘Ay’ ner ‘Nay.’
But I say, say I, hif that air his Cap’n Eli’s dory painted green, why
t’ on’y way as two o’ the bloomines’ lobster piruts as ever was come
by hit is they come by hit crooked, same has they comes by ever’thing
else. Cap’n Eli ain’t goin’ for t’ lend his dory as is painted brown
to two o’ t’ crookedest lobster stealers as was ever fit for to walk
t’ plank, blime me. Go for t’ conterdick that will ’e,” answered the
fisherman with finality.

“Oh, pshaw, what’s the use of arguing with him,” said Jack in disgust.

“Right an’ so, right an’ so. Hit ain’t no use for t’ argey wi’ me. Save
hit all for t’ bloomin’ warden. ’Es paid for t’ argey, ’e is, an’ argey
’e will, that’s sartin’.”

“I hope he’s easier to convince than our friend with the peg leg here.
But I guess he will. I’ve been to Austin’s Pool before with Uncle Vance
and they all seem civilized there at least,” said Ray to Jack, under
his breath.

Again the three lapsed into silence while the _Betsy Anne_ slipped away
on a long port reach. Hood Island dropped behind rapidly, and off the
starboard bow Jack and Ray could see a thin gray speck on the horizon
which they concluded must be the mainland.

“How long does it take this craft of yours to make Austin’s Pool or
wherever it is you are taking us?” demanded Jack of the skipper a
little later when the _Betsy Anne_ had come about and started on a
starboard tack.

“Has soon’s any craft o’ ’er size kin make hit,” was the lobsterman’s
ambiguous reply.

“Huh, that’s definite,” muttered the lad from Vermont.

“Well, then I shud say as ’ow she’d make hit soon enough for Warden
Williams to lock two capital lobster piruts hup before supper,” added
the fisherman.

“Jiminy,” said Jack, quite disturbed. “That means we won’t get back to
Hood Island until long after dark, Ray, even if we can convince this
warden fellow, whoever he is, that we are not lobster thieves.”

“’Ood Hisland,” exclaimed the lobsterman. “Ye ain’t expectin’ ever for
t’ git back there again, are ’e? Why, that warden jest goes daft on
lobster piruts like you. ’E’ll keep ’e in ’is lockup for a year or two,
mebby three,” assured the lobsterman.

The thoughts of such a possibility really began to worry Jack. He
knew perfectly well that he and Ray could convince any fair-minded
person that they were not lobster pirates. In truth, if worse came to
worse, they could send for Mr. Warner and some of their friends in the
construction camp and in that way prove their innocence. But at best
that would take a whole day and perhaps longer, and he had visions
of spending time in some vile-smelling country jail until assistance
arrived.

Such disturbing thoughts occupied them both for most of the afternoon.
They conversed in undertones occasionally, but for the most part they
were silent, thinking of their strange predicament and wondering what
their friends back on Hood Island would think when they did not turn up
at the sound of Bongo’s supper call that evening.

As the sun dropped lower in the western sky a stiffer breeze sprung up
and the _Betsy Anne_ redoubled her speed. Already she had approached
so close to the mainland that Jack and Ray could hear the grumble of
the surf that rolled in upon the rock-strewn beach, and it was not long
after that when the little boat was headed into a big crescent-shaped
bay about four miles across where the beach was broad and of the
whitest sand. At one horn of the crescent was a little hamlet and
innumerable docks, while far across on the other side was a long low
sandy point which stretched out into the water and was capped with
what appeared at a distance to be a number of dilapidated sheds.
Jack learned later that this sandy cape was called Frenchman’s Point,
and that the shanties he saw were the dwellings of a horde of French
Canadians, half-breed Indians and other riffraff that lived on what
they could find or steal along the beach.

The _Betsy Anne_ headed in for the docks at the Pool. The long low
piers were fairly crowded with craft of all kinds, ranging from
tiny motor boats and fishing sloops to long low-bank schooners and
trim-looking trawlers. This was Austin’s Pool, one of the best-known
fishing villages in that section of Maine, and the point from which
fish and lobsters were sent to Portland, Boston, and New York.

Fishermen swarmed over the dock. Some were loading their little vessels
with tubs of bait and butts of water, others were unloading their day’s
catch, while still others were just sitting around on the string pieces
or tie posts, smoking and gossiping and waiting for the time to put out
for a night’s work on near-by fishing grounds.

Old Mitchell took particular care to bring the _Betsy Anne_ alongside
of the most popular dock of all and as he came about and dropped the
main sail of his sloop he was greeted by a chorus from the pier.

“How’s luck over Hood Island way, Mitch?”

“How many markers this time, English?”

“What’s the haul?”

To this last the lobsterman answered by waving his “barker” and
pointing to the two lads in the bow.

“What’s t’ ’aul, say you? Why, ’ere’s t’ ’aul. Two o’ t’ bloominest
lobster piruts as ever was. Found ’em a robbin’ o’ my traps right afore
my heyes,” he said with a grin.

Instantly Jack and Ray became the center of attention. Seamen gathered
from all quarters, it seemed, and looked the lads over, as Old Mitchell
forced them to climb the landing ladder.

Of course the two boys felt greatly humiliated at all this, especially
since the lobsterman still insisted on flourishing his revolver.

“Aw, say, there’s no need of your parading that revolver, is there?”
demanded Jack, who had become quite indignant. “We’re your prisoners
and we’ll go with you peaceably so you can stick it back into your
pocket. You make us look like a couple of desperate characters that
way.”

“Desprut? Now blow me hif ye ain’t desprut. I shed say I won’t put
me ‘barker’ awi. I ain’t tikin’ no chances of your a-runnin’ hoff, I
ain’t. Go on, walk hup a’ead o’ me now,” said the old mariner with
emphasis.

“Be keerful, Mitch,” said one of the fishermen. “They looks t’ me like
murderers. See t’ willinus mug on that air one with t’ blue jacket.”

“Been a-stealin’ yer lobsters, eh, Mitch?” said another. “Wall, t’ last
lobster pirut got ten years. Like es not t’ judge’ll give these ’ere
lads just es much.”

“Look a bad lot, they does,” remarked some one else.

All this and a great deal more was said by the fishermen as the lads
walked up the dock in front of Old Mitchell. Of course they felt
humiliated. Who could feel otherwise under the circumstances?

From the pier the lads proceeded up the board walk of a narrow street
lined with low sheds and dingy stores which reeked with the odor of
fish. Their alert guard stumped along behind them still with the
revolver at their backs.

But presently as they went on the thumping of Mitchell’s wooden leg
suddenly ceased and immediately the old man set up a great hue and cry.

“’Ere, ’ere, stop ’em, they’re a-runnin’ awi. Stop ’em, I say.”

Jack and Ray stopped in surprise and turned to look and what they saw
almost convulsed them with laughter.

There was the lobsterman in the middle of the board walk struggling to
release the end of his peg leg from the grip of a knot hole into which
he had stepped, and at the same time trying to keep the lads covered
with his revolver. It was extremely ludicrous and the boys simply could
not help laughing at the old man’s plight.

“Ha, ha, ho, ho, he stepped in a knot hole,” cried Jack in glee.

“Now’s our chance to run, he, he, ho, ho, ho. He couldn’t shoot or run
or do much of anything now, could he? Look at him squirm,” shouted Ray.

“What’s the use of running? That would make us look guilty. Ha, ha,
ha, this is funny. Come on, let’s help the old duffer out of his fix,”
said Jack.

And much to the amazement of the lobsterman, the two “desprut” lobster
pirates returned and pried his wooden appendage out of the hole into
which it had been wedged.

“Well, blow me, this is funny,” said Mitchell, when he was again on a
firm foundation. “I thought as ’ow you’d run hoff when ye seed me in
such a pickle.”

“We told you we’d go along peaceably, didn’t we?” said Jack, still
giggling.

“Keel ’aul me, so ye did, so ye did,” said their captor, and for the
rest of the journey up the narrow street he stumped along beside them
with the revolver concealed in his pocket.

The trio stopped, at Mitchell’s direction, before a dingy building
over the door of which hung a faded notary’s sign, bearing the name
of William Williams. The lobsterman pushed open the door and the two
lads preceded him into the dim interior. A cloud of thick tobacco smoke
filled the place, and the lads were not long in discovering that it
emanated from a tremendous pipe being smoked by an equally tremendous
individual who sat behind a desk in one corner of the room. He was
a giant of a man, but for all that he had a good-natured face, and
Ray and Jack liked him immediately. There was another person in the
room also, a boy of about Ray’s age and not unlike him in build and
features. He sat at a smaller desk against the opposite wall and was
evidently Warden Williams’ assistant.

“Well, ’ere I are, Warden, ’ere I are wi’ two o’ t’ bloominest funniest
lobster piruts as ever I sees. ’Ere I finds ’em a-’aulin’ o’ my lobster
traps in broad daylight an’ one o’ ’em says as ’ow ’is ’nitials is t’
same es on ’is watch what I found in my lobster traps t’ other day, an’
yet ’e’s all fer denyin’ as ’e is a thief, blime ’e. Now hif--”

“What? What’s all this stuff you’re tryin’ t’ say?” demanded the
warden, who was very much puzzled by the jumble of words Old Mitchell
had just delivered.

“Why, it’s this way, sir,” said Jack, speaking up. “Ray and I are from
the Hood Island lighthouse construction camp. This afternoon we went
out in Captain Eli’s dory for a row. We caught some fish too, and
by chance ran across one of Mr. Mitchell’s lobster pots. I come from
Vermont and I never saw a lobster trap in my life or knew how lobsters
were caught and I asked Ray here to tell me something about them.

“Well, Ray volunteered to pull up one of the traps to show me what
they looked like and just when we had hauled it and were looking at
it, along came the owner here and arrested us for lobster stealing. We
never took any of his lobsters and never intended to. Then he asked
if my initials were J. S. and I said that they were. My name is John
Monroe Strawbridge. Then he felt certain that he had caught the men
who had been robbing his lobster pots. You see, a few days ago he had
found a watch and chain caught in one of his lobster pots and the watch
bore the initials J. S. It was not my watch, however, for mine has the
initials J. M. S., and furthermore my watch is now in the possession
of Captain Eli Whittaker, the keeper of Hood Island light. I loaned it
to him several weeks ago and never thought to get it back. I told Mr.
Mitchell all this, but he would not believe me and arrested us at the
point of a revolver and brought us here. Do I state the case right, Mr.
Mitchell?”

“Right has ever was,” said the old lobsterman, quite surprised to hear
Jack make such a confession. “Right an’ proper as ever was an’ ’ere’s
t’ watch, sir.”

Mitchell brought forth the big silver timepiece and laid it on the
table before the warden.

“That isn’t my watch,” asserted Jack. “Mine’s gold.” He said the last
with no little pride.

But the warden was not listening to him. He was examining the watch
instead, and there was a certain eagerness about him as he turned the
heavy timepiece over and over in his hand.

“You found this in your lobster pot?” he demanded.

“Keel ’aul me hif I didn’t, sir, an’ I can tell ’e ’ow hit got there,
too.”

“Pooh, don’t take t’ trouble. I know. I lost a watch on a lobster
pot once myself. Chain caught in the net and when I shoved the trap
overboard it jerked the watch out of my pocket and overboard it went.
Lots of watches have been lost that way.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” said Mitchell.

“Say, do you know who this belongs to?” said the warden. “Do you really
know who’s been tampering with your lobster traps?”

“Why, ’im as says ’is ’nitials is J. S.,” said the lobsterman, pointing
with his thumb to Jack.

“Pshaw, no. That watch belongs to John Salmon--Salmon Jack, you know
him. The cutthroat over at Frenchman’s Point. Why, I’ve been trying to
get some evidence on him for the last six months and this is the best
we’ve found yet. This is his watch all right. I’ve seen it before and
so has many another man.”

“Eh, what, blime me? Then ’e mean t’ say these ’ere lads ain’t lobster
piruts?” demanded Mitchell incredulously.

“Why, I don’t believe they are. They look like honest lads,” said the
warden.

“Well, keel ’aul me, now I come t’ think on’t they do that. My mistake,
lads, axin’ yer parding, my mistake,” said the old man, quite put out
at the turn affairs had taken. “I ’opes ye’ll excuse an hole sea-dog as
is on’y got one leg. I ax yer parding, I does.”

“Tut, tut, don’t mention it,” said Jack and Ray together, as they shook
the old fellow’s hand. “We only hope you’ll take us back to Hood
Island with you.”

“I’d be ’onored, lads, ’onored. I on’y wish I ’adn’t brung ’e awi.”

“I’m mighty glad you did,” said the warden, “for you’ve brought the
best piece of evidence I’ve ever been able to get against the worst
lobster pirate on the Maine coast. The lobster patrol has been looking
to get something on him for a long time and now, by George, if you’ll
help me get out a warrant against him, we’ll arrest him. We’ll raid
Frenchman’s Point this very night and arrest him and two or three
others I have warrants for.”

“An’ hif ye git t’ beggar wi’ now, jest let me ’ave one crack at ’im
wi’ a b’layin’ pin er such like,” said Mitchell truculently.

“We’ll think about that afterward, but, by hookey, we’ll get Salmon
Jack to-night or I’ll resign my job as chief of the lobster patrol.
Dave, you go get Steve Basset, Ben Emery, Joe Milliken an’ whoever else
you can find and swear ’em all in as deputies. Tell ’em we’re going
to raid Frenchman’s Point to-night and to meet me at the long dock at
half-past eight.”

The lad in the corner of the room left the dingy office immediately.
Then the warden turned to Mitchell and said, “You’d better come along
too, if you want to see some fun. You can take care of our boats while
we land on the point. Then you’ll be able to get a good look at the man
who robbed your traps for we’ll bring him back with us or I’ll quit
being an officer.”

“May we go too?” exclaimed Jack and Ray in one breath. “We’re pretty
husky.”

“Sure thing. I’ll swear you in as deputies too. This will be a big
night, you can bet. We’re after the scalps of several men besides
Salmon Jack and they all hang out at the point.”

“Whoop-e-e-e, great!” exclaimed Jack.

“I’m keen for excitement,” said Ray.

“All right, boys, you’ll get enough of it, I guess. In the meantime
you two and Mitchell can come on up to my house and have supper. We’ll
start from the long dock at eight-thirty.”




CHAPTER IX THE RAID


With the setting of the sun a light mist formed and hung above the
surface of the big crescent-shaped bay on which Austin’s Pool was
located. The shadowy blanket was just heavy enough to dim the side
lights of the little vessels that were moving in and out of the harbor,
going to or returning from the fishing grounds, and to make the craft
themselves phantom-like and ghostly as they flitted by.

Jack and Ray, with Warden Williams and Old Mitchell, were not the first
to arrive at the end of the long dock which was the appointed place of
meeting for the party that was to raid Frenchman’s Point. Indeed, as
they made their way down the pier they could see a group of shadowy
figures standing about the structure, the glowing openings of their
pipe bowls making dull red sparks in the grayed darkness.

The matter of which kind of a boat would be best to take the party
across the bay was under discussion when the warden and his three
assistants arrived. Some advised the use of sail boats which would
approach the Point in silence, while others suggested motor boats
because of their superior speed. The chief of the expedition soon
settled the question, however, by suggesting that Mitchell’s boat, the
_Betsy Anne_, which was known to be one of the speediest of its size
in that vicinity, be used to convey part of the group. Joe Milliken’s
sloop was chartered to carry the remainder. There were twenty men all
told, which provided ten to each boat, thus allowing all to travel in
comfort.

Before embarking, however, a council of war was held, for every man of
the twenty was decidedly eager to have the expedition a success. Not
one of them had the slightest liking for the riffraff of Frenchman’s
Point and they said so in rather crude but forceful language. Indeed,
almost every fisherman and lobsterman at the Pool had some grudge
against Salmon Jack and other men of the notorious settlement across
the bay, and they were more than eager to pay up old scores. Nets had
been cut or stolen, lobsters and even lobster traps and lobster cars
had disappeared, and the fishermen were quite certain that the honest
old seamen who put in at the Pool were not to blame for these outrages.

In truth, the fact that Old Mitchell had actually secured evidence by
means of which arrests and convictions could be made pleased every one
in the fishing village who had heard of it so far, and probably Warden
Williams could have had a hundred deputies if he had wanted them. His
assistant, June Emery, whom Jack and Ray had seen in the warden’s
office that evening and whom Mr. Williams had sent to organize the
posse, had been discreet, however, and had only told the news of the
proposed raid to the men whom he knew Mr. Williams was anxious to have
as members of his party.

Every man of them had come armed in some way or another. One or two had
guns, but most of them carried clubs or short-handled, ugly looking
mallets, which Ray informed Jack were called “muckles” and were used
by cod-fishermen to kill the big fish as they were hauled aboard the
dories out on the banks.

The conference on the wharf’s end lasted fully fifteen minutes and
finally resulted in Warden Williams outlining a plan of action.

“Look here, boys,” he said. “It’ll be about half-past nine when we
reach t’ P’int. By that time ha’af of the population of the shanties
will be in Fred King’s hang-out, which is the only social center those
heathens have. I suggest we land on the P’int as quickly as we can and
go up and surround the rum shop. Then I’ll go inside and arrest whoever
I want, and if they try to scatter, we’ll buckle into ’em and arrest
every one we can lay hands on, even if we can’t prove anything agin’
’em. How’s that?”

“Right’s a fiddle,” said several.

“Mighty smart figgerin’,” assured others.

“All right,” said Warden Williams. “Now, boys, tumble aboard the boats.
Mitchell, you take your load, and when we land you stand by your boat.
Joe, you get your load and when we reach there let June Emery stand by
your boat.”

“Aw, Mr. Williams, does that keep me out of the fracas?” asked June,
who had come around by the side of Jack and Ray.

“Well, I don’t know,” said Mr. Williams, slowly scratching his head.
“Seems sort of mean to keep you out of it. I guess Mitch, here, can
watch the two boats if you’re keen to mix it up with the rest. All
right, you can be one of the fightin’ force.”

At this gratifying news, Jack and Ray could see the lad’s face brighten
and they were glad for his sake that he was going to share whatever
excitement might attend the raid. All three lads kept close together
and found a place in Mitchell’s boat during the scramble of embarking.

With the men aboard, the respective skippers were not long in casting
off and presently the two boats were racing through the mist, the swift
little _Betsy Anne_ taking the lead immediately.

To Jack and Ray there was a peculiar fascination about the night’s
work. A primitive instinct seemed to work to the surface when they
realized that they were slipping along silently through the black
water, bent on surprising the lobster pirates. Indeed, the spirit of
the expedition was so strong that before the boats were half way to
the Point men and boys were talking in whispers and even the swish and
gurgle under the bow seemed to become subdued.

“Say, but this is exciting,” whispered Jack to June Emery, who sat at
his elbow.

“You bet it is. We’re in for a rough time too, I’m a-thinking. These
Frenchmen ain’t any children when it comes to scrapping, and they’re
liable to get their bad blood up before the night’s over and knife a
couple of us. There’s been some wild doin’s over there at the Point
sometimes when the whole crew was filled full of licker. Fred King
sells licker right out in the open, even though it’s agin’ the law in
Maine. They’re a bad lot, I tell you.”

“I know French Canadians and half-breeds,” said Ray. “One got loose
down in Ascog one night after he’d been out getting tight, and before
they got him into the lockup he’d laid three men up for repairs.
They’ve bad blood in them, I guess.”

“Jiminy, I wonder what will break loose to-night, then?” asked Ray
breathlessly.

“We’ll know in mighty short order now, for I can see lights out ahead
there in the mist and I guess they come from the shanties on the Point.
Some of their houses are built pretty well down on the beach,” said
June.

Jack and Ray looked out past the bulging jib and saw tiny specks of
yellow through the gray darkness. Others saw these pin points of light
too, for a murmur went ’round the boat and the lads could hear the men
gathering their clubs and mallets together. As for Jack, he had armed
himself with a weighty cudgel which he had found in Mr. Williams’
woodshed and as the boat approached the beach he took a firm grip upon
this formidable weapon. Ray had equipped himself in a similar manner,
while June carried a stout looking hickory ax-haft.

Fortunately the boats approached Frenchman’s Point on the bay side and
consequently there were no breakers to make landing difficult. Indeed,
Old Mitchell ran the _Betsy Anne_ head on for the beach and grounded
her without making the slightest noise. Milliken’s boat arrived a
moment later and in less than five minutes the entire posse was ashore
and ready for action.

But few moments were wasted in getting the lay of the land, for most of
the men knew Frenchman’s Point well enough to make any building there
in any kind of a mist. That being the case, Warden Williams took the
lead and in a jiffy the men were trudging through the sands as silently
as so many specters. As they moved on up the beach the lights became
more numerous and now and then the little band passed within a stone’s
toss of one of the many dilapidated shanties that made up the colony.

Soon Jack found that they were proceeding down what appeared to be a
street. There were shacks and shanties on either side and in one place
there were strips of bark and pieces of old timber. This was evidently
meant to serve as a sidewalk, but sand had blown up and covered it
completely in many places. No one appeared to be awake about the place,
for the men did not encounter a single person. Indeed, the only signs
of life were the sparks of yellow light that glimmered through the mist
and the muffled voices in the distance.

It was toward the point from which the voices sounded that Warden
Williams led his followers. The lights of Fred King’s hang-out
soon became discernible, and when they did the men proceeded more
cautiously, some of them crouching low and moving along with stealthy
tread, although there was no reason for such caution since the sand
muffled their footsteps.

Once more Jack thrilled with the primitive instinct of the hunter.
It did not take much of an imagination to conjure up feathered
head-dresses instead of the so’westers the fishermen wore, and
tomahawks and spears instead of clubs and mallets. Indeed, for the
moment he felt exactly as if he had been transported back a century or
more and was a member of an Indian raiding party about to swoop down
upon a log cabin filled with settlers.

But he could not afford to give such thought playroom in his mind very
long, for presently Mr. Williams halted the party and pointed out a low
building not fifty feet distant. Light was glowing from its windows and
above the shouts of laughter and the loud talking could be heard the
discordant jangle of a dance hall piano.

“There’s Fred King’s place and from the noise I calc-late there’s a
full house an’ plenty doin’,” said Mr. Williams. “Now, boys, surround
the building and lie down in the sand until you hear things begin to
happen. I’m goin’ to take four or five with me an’ kick my way into the
place. Who wants to come along?”

Jack and Ray crowded forward with several others while the rest of the
party started to surround the building.

“All right, boys, come on, an’ if a free fight starts, the rest of you
pile right in behin’ us and crack as many heads as you see. I’m going
after Salmon Jack, Long Aleck, and whoever else I see in there,” said
the warden as he started forward with his detachment of followers at
his heels.

On his way around to the front of the building the warden drew a huge
revolver from under his coat and cocked the hammer. Then as he reached
the narrow porch that stretched in front of the doorway he muttered
under his breath:

“Be ready, lads; here goes.”

The next instant there was the tramping of many feet on the porch and
a bang as Mr. Williams threw open the door and leapt inside, his
revolver leveled.

“Hands up,” he roared as he advanced, followed closely by the five men
who had come to help him make the arrests.

In the brief pause that followed Jack caught a glimpse of a
smoke-filled room furnished with dirty, grimy-looking round tables and
a big flat piano. The place was crowded with disreputable looking men.
They were all swarthy and ugly of feature and Jack appraised them as
about the worst looking lot of individuals he had ever set eyes upon.

At the roared command of the warden, every man turned and faced
the doorway, and when they saw the leveled revolver, backed up by
determined faces and heavy looking clubs, they at once put their hands
above their heads. Then before they could recover from their surprise
Mr. Williams pointed out four of them with a wave of his revolver,
calling each one of them by name.

“You, Salmon Jack, an’ Long Aleck, come out here, an’ you Jean Bastian,
and Paul Nez there, come on. You’re all under arrest. I’ve warrants for
each one o’--”

CRASH!

Jack heard the rattle of glass and tin and the place was in total
darkness! Some one had thrown a chair and smashed the big swinging oil
lamp in the center of the room, putting it completely out. And the next
instant came the cry:

“Da warden! Gatheem! Queek! Queek!--”

Things began to happen in earnest after that. Indeed, events transpired
so swiftly during the next five minutes that Jack could hardly believe
that so much could happen in so short a time. There was the rush of
feet and the muttering of the Frenchmen as they closed with the men
in the doorway. Then came another rush from the rear as the rest of
the posse came up. Jack was quite undetermined what to do. He could
hear the voices of his friends and he could hear the curses of the
Frenchmen, but for the life of him he could not tell which was which,
and indeed for a moment he was helplessly jostled one way and the other
by the swaying fighters, and afraid to wield his club for fear of
hitting some one of his own party.

But presently a big fist shot out of the darkness and landed a
stinging blow on his cheek. That settled the lad’s indecision. The
club came down with a whack on the spot where the head behind that
hand should have been. And it must have found its mark, for it landed
solidly and was immediately followed by an explosion of French oaths.

Again Jack struck and again the club landed. But this time it was
seized and wrenched from his hand. The lad realized on the instant
that he would feel the club next unless he could lay hand upon the man
who had torn it from his grasp. Like a bull dog he leapt forward and
grappled with his assailant. Then with a thump and a grunt from the man
on the bottom they both landed upon the floor and began rolling over
and over, pummeling each other with their fists.

It was no mean antagonist that Jack had selected, as the lad realized
when he felt the weight of the Frenchman. Nor did he have a soft fist
or playful touch either. Indeed, every time that fist landed, Jack
felt dazed for the moment. But he gave as much as he took. Every time
his arms were free he drove a solid right at his enemy and each one
brought forth a grunt and a string of curses.

Over and over they rolled. Sometimes they struggled to their feet, only
to trip over tables and chairs and go crashing down again, and all the
time they were working away from the center of the turmoil which was
about the door and out upon the narrow porch. Indeed, as they swayed
backward and forward Jack suddenly realized that they had fought their
way clear across the room, for presently they brought up with a bang
and a discordant jangle against the piano, tripped over the stool and
crashed to the floor once more.

But this time the Frenchman was on top of Jack and had one of the lad’s
hands pinned fast to the floor. The Vermonter struck with the other
at the ugly face which he felt, rather than saw, close to his own. It
was a stinging blow, for the Frenchman roared with pain. Then in his
frenzy his big hand reached out and clutched Jack about the throat. For
a moment the lobster thief did not seem to realize his advantage, but
when he did his grip tightened about the boy’s windpipe.

Jack thrashed and punched as hard as he could but the Frenchman had
him pinned fast and did not seem to mind the boy’s blows at all. Jack
was frantic! The grip seemed to tighten! The veins in his neck burned
under the pressure, and his head swam with dizziness! His lungs, too,
seemed on the point of bursting with the air that was pent up in them!
He grew sick and faint! Was this the end? Would the Frenchman hold on
forever! Couldn’t he shake the big man off! Was he--

Jack’s right hand had been groping about on the floor for something to
strike with. Suddenly it closed upon the iron pivot of the piano stool.
Grasping it thus, the seat made an excellent mallet and with all his
might Jack struck once, twice, three times, at the face that bent above
him!

Jack felt the grip on his throat relax and the man who had pinned him
down fell helplessly across his body. The lad tried to throw him off,
but his strength was almost gone. Once more he tried but this effort
was weaker than the last, and with a third attempt he fainted.

       *       *       *       *       *

The sensation of a dipper of salt water being dashed into his face
aroused Jack to consciousness. Never had cold seawater felt so
pleasant. In spite of the fact that it was all running down his neck
and into his shirt, Jack lay still and let himself be deluged again
before he opened his eyes and sat up. He was lying in the bottom of the
_Betsy Anne_ with Ray and Warden Williams bending over him.

“What do you want to scare a fellow most to death for? Are you all
right now, Jack?” asked Ray with great concern.

“Why, why--well, I guess I am-- Say give me a dipper full of real
water--er--ah, white water--aw, I mean fresh water. I’m as thirsty as a
horse and my throat--ugh.” Jack felt tenderly of his neck as he spoke.

“Sure, here you are, son,” said the warden.

Jack drank gratefully. Then as he passed the dipper back to Mr.
Williams, he asked:

“Well, did you get Salmon Jack?”

“Did we get him?” exclaimed the warden. “Why, lad, you laid him out so
cold he hasn’t come to yet. Though I calculate he will by the time we
reach the Pool. He’s over in Milliken’s boat. They’re workin’ on him
now. What did you hit him with, son, he’s almost--”

“What did I hit him with? Why, was that Salmon Jack I buckled into?”
exclaimed the boy from Drueryville in surprise.

“You bet it was. And it’s a wonder to me he didn’t knife you. We
thought he had when we saw the two of you all in a heap on the floor.
Guess he didn’t have his dirk with him. What did you hit him with?”

“Well, you see he was choking me and--I guess I found the top of the
piano stool,” said Jack.

“I thinks as ’ow ’e’s lucky ye didn’t ’ave a mind t’ ’it ’im wi’ t’
pianner hinstid. T’ seat made an’ hawful dint as ’twas,” said Old
Mitchell dryly, as he shifted the tiller a little to draw the _Betsy
Anne_ into her course.

“Hello, Mr. Mitchell,” said Jack, turning toward the lobsterman whom
he could discern but dimly through the mist which had thickened
considerably. “Say, are you going to take us to Hood Island?”

“’Eavens no, leastwise not t’night,” said the one-legged mariner as he
spat over the side of the boat. “Won’t t’morrer do jest as well?”

“No, no, you can’t go back to-night. T’ trip is too long and dangerous.
Stay at my house and let English here take you back in the morning,”
said Warden Williams.

“Thank ’e, Warden, but I ain’t ’customed t’ leave t’ _Betsy Hanne_ hin
a strange port. I’ll stick by t’ craft, though t’ boys kin go ’ome wi’
ye. There ain’t beddin’ ’nough aboard fer three, anyway,” said Mitchell.

“All right,” consented Jack, “only I’m very much afraid Mr. Warner and
our friends at the camp will be worried about us. I really don’t feel
much like going back before I get some sleep, though. I’m about all in.”

“So am I,” said Ray with a yawn.

“Well, we’ll raise t’ pier head-lights at t’ Pool in a few minutes now
and then as soon as we git our prisoners in t’ lockup we can all tumble
into bed. I calc-late that-- Hi, Mitchell, look out there-- Them lights
there-- Quick! It’s a boat--she’ll run us down! Where’s that fish horn!”

Warden Williams grasped a long tin horn and began to blow furiously.

Jack and Ray both looked and beheld the dimmed lights of a sailing
vessel coming out of the mist and dead toward them. But Old Mitchell
had seen them too, and in a moment he became a man of action. He saw
that he could not cross the on-coming vessel’s bow without being run
down, so he threw over the helm and hauled in upon the sheet and in a
jiffy the _Betsy Anne_ had come up into the wind and almost to a full
stop. At the same time the old man shouted at the top of his voice:

“Ay, there, port yer ’elm, port ’er, ye bloody lubbers. Why n’t ye look
where yer goin’. Blime ’e hif ’e ain’t awkkerd.”

The man at the wheel of the larger vessel had acted as quickly as
Mitchell, however, and the next moment a big yawl slipped through the
fog not ten feet from the _Betsy Anne_. And as the ghostly craft faded
out of sight again, Ray seized Jack by the arm and asked:

“Jack, did you get a good look at her?”

“No,” said the young Vermonter. “Why?”

“Well it was a yawl--and--and--oh, well, it looked sort of familiar,
that was all.”




CHAPTER X THE CHASE


Jack awoke with a start. He knew instinctively that some one had been
gazing at him while he slept and his feeling was that of impending
trouble. He sat up quickly and turned to find Ray’s eyes fastened upon
him. The erstwhile swordfisherman was sitting up in bed, his back
resting against the head board and his arms clasped about his knees.

“Hi you, Ray! Why, you startled the life out of me. What are you
sitting there like a stone idol for, cheating an honest fellow out of
his sleep, by staring at him with trouble in your eyes. How long have
you been awake?”

“Who? Me?” asked Ray absently.

“Yes, you. Who did you think I meant? The bed post? Say, you’re
worried, aren’t you? What’s sticking in your crop now? I’ll bet you’ve
been sitting there half of the night. Hang it, Ray, what _is_ the
matter, anyway?” demanded Jack.

“Oh, nothing, I was just thinking, that’s all.”

“Thinking? About what? I’ll bet it was that blamed old model lifeboat
of yours, wasn’t it?”

“Well, something like that,” said Ray with a sheepish grin.

“Now, I know you’re lying to me,” said Jack. “You weren’t thinking
about the model at all or you wouldn’t have confessed so quickly. You
were worrying about something else.”

“No, no, Jack, the model was in my mind--a little, anyway. Come on,
let’s get up. I’ve been awake a long time, waiting for you to turn
out. Mr. Williams has been up nearly an hour. I heard his wife call
him for breakfast. Come on, get a wiggle on, for I think I smell some
good old fried clams. Um-m-m, ah--just think how they’ll taste,” said
Ray, smacking his lips as he hopped out of bed and began to pull on his
trousers.

Jack tried to be equally agile, but when he bounded to the floor he let
out a whoop of distress, for it seemed as if every muscle in his body
had been stretched out of shape. He was sore from his violent exercise
of the night before, and there were bumps and bruises all over him,
not to mention a puffed-up lip which felt about thrice its natural size.

“Jiminy, but I’m stiff,” he grunted as he sat down on the edge of the
bed and began to pull on his stockings.

“I’m a little stiff myself,” confessed Ray, stretching his strong arms
above his head. “I had a fracas last night with one of those Frenchmen
too, only I didn’t have to use a piano stool. I just lammed him good
with my right hand. Say, but you did lay old Salmon Jack out for fair.
Did you notice how wobbly he was when they took him into the lockup
last night? And did you see that long lanky fellow? Some one treated
him mighty rough. He had two dandy shiners. I suppose they’ll all be
brought before the Justice of the Peace to-day. If it wasn’t that Mr.
Warner and the rest might be worrying over us, I’d like to stay.”

“I wonder what they’ll do with ’em?” said Jack, crossing the room to
the little old-fashioned mirror on the wall and smoothing his rumpled
hair with a white comb he had found on the highboy in the corner.

“Why, Mr. Williams said that they would probably be taken to the County
Seat and kept there until the County Court meets next month. Then they
will likely be sent to jail for three or four years or even longer. I
guess they’re a bad lot and the warden’s glad to get ’em under lock and
key.”

“Well, come on. Let’s get downstairs. I’m nearly famished, and besides
Old Mitchell will be waiting for us. I suppose he’s wondering now
whether we’re going to sleep all day or not. The mist seems to have
thinned out a little, but the sky looks mighty lowery, doesn’t it?”
said Jack.

“Yes, I guess we’re in for a spell o’ weather,” answered his companion.

Ray’s sense of smell had not deceived him. There were clams for
breakfast, great stacks of them, and hot biscuits and a pitcher of
honey and still another of cream. And there were doughnuts, too, and
coffee, and best of all the smiling face of Mrs. Williams and the
genial countenance of the warden himself. He was already seated at the
table, a big napkin tucked under his double chin, and Mrs. Williams,
who was as tiny as her husband was ponderous, was heaping his plate
with freshly fried clams.

“Good morning, boys,” she said with a smile, but before they could
reply, the warden’s deep voice boomed out:

“Well, well, what do you fellers think this place is, one o’ those city
houses that don’t wake up until nine o’clock? Jingonetties, why didn’t
you sleep all day?”

“There, there, Will, don’t scold them. Poor lads, they’re tired. Here
sit down in this comfortable chair. I’ll bring you some hot clams
right away,” said Mrs. Williams, who was fond of pretending that her
husband’s assumed gruffness frightened her when it really did not at
all.

Those clams were truly wonderful. They fairly melted in Jack’s mouth
and the honey and cream was the best he had ever tasted. Indeed, Jack
could scarcely remember ever having enjoyed a breakfast quite so
thoroughly as he did the one arranged by Mrs. Williams. And as for Ray,
well, he said absolutely nothing at all, but the way he devoured the
savory brown morsels that the good lady set before him was quite the
best compliment he could have offered her. The boys had the appetites
of young sharks, and since Mr. Williams was as busy as they at the same
occupation, there was very little conversation. But the unfortunate
part of a good meal is that one finally reaches the point where he can
eat no more. Jack and Ray reached this period disappointingly soon.
They were forced to suspend activities for sheer lack of room.

“Oh, what a good breakfast,” said Ray, with a sigh as he wiped his
mouth on his napkin. “Shucks, I’m sorry I can’t stow away any more.”

“So am I,” assured Jack as he let his belt out another hole.

“Well, now that you’ve got a full cargo, how about goin’ over to the
lock-up and havin’ a look at our friends of last night?” asked Mr.
Williams, finding his hat and coat.

“Well, no, I’m afraid we can’t, though we’d like to very much. You see,
we’ve been away from Hood Island a day and a night and goodness knows
what Mr. Warner thinks has happened to us. Then, besides, Old Mitchell
is probably waiting for us. I think we’d better go right down to the
wharf,” said Jack.

“I’d rather get aboard the _Betsy Anne_. I think I’d feel better,”
said Ray, and his words seemed to have a peculiar meaning.

“Well, all right, boys, go long. I’ll be over to Hood Island to see
you before the Summer’s over,” said the warden as he shook hands and
hurried out.

Jack and Ray lingered long enough to say good-by to Mrs. Williams and
thank the little woman for her kindness. Then they fared forth into
the old-fashioned street in which Mr. Williams lived. The residential
section of the Pool was up a gentle slope from the bay and some
distance from the business section where the fish markets and stalls
were located.

This quarter of the community was quaintly aristocratic in appearance.
The streets were lined with elms guarded by squared tree boxes and
the houses were all surrounded by little lawns and flower gardens. In
truth, the whole section had an atmosphere of the early Sixties, a fact
which Jack remarked as the boys walked toward the waterfront.

But soon they passed on into the busy part of the town where merchants
and fishermen were dickering and bargaining over the morning’s catch
and where women with baskets on their arms were marketing and shippers
were trading for their daily consignments for Boston or New York.

The little community seemed to Jack to be very lively and wide awake
for a place of its size and he watched with eager interest the crowds
of men who tramped up and down the narrow streets, their big sea boots
making a tremendous thumping noise on the board sidewalks.

And presently as he was watching, there moved into his line of vision
on the opposite side of the thoroughfare a ponderous man who was clad
in a pea jacket, blue cap and heavy boots. His face was dark and
weather-beaten and he wore a black beard which helped to give him a
very stern appearance. Jack knew that he had seen him before and he
groped about in his mind for a name to fit his countenance.

“Who is he?” he mused. “Where did I see him before? Where--”

“Say, Ray,” he said aloud, “who is that big man with a beard over
there? See he’s looking this way now--why--why-- What’s the matter,
Ray?”

Ray had looked, at Jack’s request, and the moment he set eyes upon the
big man his face paled and he became thoroughly frightened.

“Jack, that’s Uncle Vance,” he said in a husky whisper. “I wonder if he
saw us. I was almost certain that was his yawl that nearly ran us down
last night. That’s what I was worrying about this morning. Come on,
let’s-- Oh, Jack, he’s recognized me! Here he comes! Run! Run! Please
run!”

Jack gave one glance across the street again and saw the bearded giant
headed for them at top speed and the look on his face was enough to
make the boys run, whether they wanted to or not. Like a flash Jack
turned, but Ray had already bolted and was twenty feet away and running
like the wind. Up the center of the crowded street went the chase, Ray
in the lead and Jack right at his heels, with the big man in full cry
not thirty feet behind.

Ray dodged into the first cross street he came to and this being
comparatively free of pedestrians he let out a burst of speed that
astonished the young Vermonter, who was no slow runner himself. The lad
from Drueryville had hard work to keep up with his chum, and as he
raced along at Ray’s heels he could not help but picture how Ray would
look in moleskins with a football tucked under one arm, going across a
gridiron at such a pace.

But he had no time to conjure up such pictures, for presently Ray
dodged around another corner into a street that ran parallel to the
main street and led toward the wharves. Jack risked a glance backward
at this point and saw that while they had not shaken the uncle off
their tracks they were outdistancing him fast.

“Hit it up faster and dodge once more, Ray, and we’ll shake him,” he
panted to the young swordfisherman. And hit it up Ray did until Jack’s
legs fairly ached with the pace. Down to the docks ran the boys,
upsetting a clam digger with a basket on his head, and leaving chaos
and a crowd of angry looking natives in their wake.

But in a moment the lads reached the long dock at the end of which the
_Betsy Anne_ was moored. At a distance they could see Old Mitchell
standing on the very end of the wharf, looking in their direction. And
when he saw the boys racing down the pier at full speed his eyes grew
round with wonder.

Ray could not stop to explain, however:

“Quick, Mitchell, quick! Get us aboard the _Betsy Anne_ and get her out
among the fishing boats so he can’t find us. Oh, please, please hurry.”

“’Urry, is hit? ’Urry, wit blow me, hif I thought you lads wuz hin a
’urry, seeings ’ow I been a-waitin’ fer a ’our.”

“Yes, yes, but we _are_ in a hurry,” insisted Jack as he followed Ray
down the ladder and into the cockpit of the _Betsy Anne_.

“So are I,” said Mitchell, and after casting off the mooring he
scrambled down on one foot. “So are I, fer I likes t’ go hout on t’
tide, I does.”

Just where or when Ray’s uncle had given up the chase the boys could
not tell, but in spite of the wide trail of angry men and women, and
overturned carts the boys had left along the water front, Vance Carroll
had evidently lost them. Leastwise, he did not put in his appearance
upon the long dock while the _Betsy Anne_ was getting under way, for
which Ray and Jack were truly thankful.

In ten minutes the little sloop, with Captain Eli’s green dory still
trailing on behind, was scudding out toward the open sea, dodging
through the fleet of fishing boats and walking away from every craft
that tried to keep pace with her. And when the boys had finally
regained their breath and were a little more at ease, they related to
the old lobsterman their triumph in shaking the man whom Ray feared so
much.

But this triumph was short-lived, for even while they were telling
their story Ray paused and shaded his eyes with his hands; for
back there, far across the harbor, he had caught sight of the
swordfisherman’s yawl.

“Mr. Mitchell, have you got a glass? There’s his boat over yonder and I
do believe they’re making sail on her. Say, do you suppose he’s found
out that we are on the _Betsy Anne_ and is getting ready to chase us?
If he is, we’re lost, for the _Fish Hawk_ can overhaul anything that
carries sail, seems to me.”

“Huh, don’t be s’ sure o’ that, me ’arty,” said Old Mitchell
indignantly. “T’ _Betsy Hanne_ kin shake a leg ’erself. Which be t’
yawl ye want t’ know about. That one ower there; way, way ower ’bout a
mile?”

“Yes, that’s it, over there in a line with that church steeple on
shore. She’s--”

“Blow me hif she ain’t makin’ sail,” exclaimed Mitchell.

“Good night, Jack!” said Ray with a startled look. “Then it’s all up
with me.”

“Hup, say ye, hall hup. Huh, blime ’e hif t’ hole _Betsy Hanne_ can’t
make ’Ood Hisland afore that air wessel, seein’ as ’ow we got a mile
start wi’ them, blime ’e I’ll sink ’er, that’s what I’ll do.”

“Can you beat her, Mr. Mitchell? Can you?” asked Ray almost tearfully,
putting his hand on the old man’s shoulder.

“I’ll go fer t’ show ’e hif ye want me to,” said the lobsterman as he
spat over the side.

“Well, goodness help me if you don’t,” said Ray, “for if Uncle Vance
ever gets his hands on me again he’ll certainly make me pay for running
away.”

“Why now, ’ow’s this? ’Tis yer uncle ye’re a-runnin’ awi’ from?”
queried Mitchell, as he shifted the tiller and took in about a foot of
the sheet, to make the mainsail draw better.

“Yes, that’s who he is,” said Ray bitterly. “He’s my uncle and a fine
uncle he’s been to me. Thrashed the life out of me as long as I’ve
known him and made things generally miserable for me. Aw--hang it, I
get so unhappy thinking about the way he treated me that I could almost
be a baby over it, I guess,” said Ray, swallowing hard.

“Tut, tut, don’t take hit s’ard, me lad; ye don’t need t’ talk habout
hit hif ’e don’t want t’,” said the kind-hearted old lobsterman as he
cast a watchful eye aloft to see that there were no wrinkles in the
peak.

“I’m mighty glad I ran away from him,” said Ray, “though sometimes I
worry over whether I did right or not. You see, he’s my only relative
and I’ve cut loose from him entirely. Folks says that when a lad shifts
around without any grown folks to lean upon he’s liable to become a
‘good-for-nothing,’ as my uncle says. Yet, for all, I’ve been a heap
more comfortable since I ran away from him,” he concluded doggedly.

“’Ow came ’e fer t’ git on ’Ood Hisland?” queried Mitchell.

“Why, I jumped overboard and swam ashore,” said Ray.

“And it was some swim,” supplemented Jack enthusiastically.

“Han’ ye crossed ’e’s bow t’ day over in Haustin’s Pool?” queried
Mitchell, looking astern.

“Yes, and we had to run like the dickens to shake him. Is his boat
anywhere in sight-- Gee, he’s following us all right? That’s his sail,
way back there. Oh, Mr. Mitchell, please get us to the island first. I
can’t go back with him. I can’t.”

“Tut, tut, lad, we’ve a flyin’ start hon ’im, an’ hif we don’t out-run
’im, big as ’e is, wi--wi--well, we’ll do hit. An’ as fer you bein’
aferd o’ turnin’ hout a ‘good-for-nothin’ es you say, wi’ I think as
’ow ’e might o’ become one o’ them air things hif ye’d stayed wi ’im.
Floggins an’ rope hend ain’t good hif a feller gits ’em too hoften.
Why, lads, look o’ me. I ain’t a ‘good-fer-nothin’ no more are I a
lofer er a lobster pirut er a bloomin’ sea lawyer, an’ I ain’t ’ad no
re-elatives t’ lean hupon since I was passin’ ten.”

“Tell us about yourself,” said Jack, who had always been curious to
know the old seaman’s past.

“Why, now they ain’t much t’ tell,” said the lobsterman, after his
usual preliminary of spitting over the rail. “They ain’t much t’ tell,
seein’ as ’ow when I was but knee ’igh t’ a water butt me daddy was lost
wi’ a hull trawlin’ crew hin t’ North Sea. Then I became an horphant
an’ wi’hout one relative, seein’ as ’ow me mother ’ad died when I was a
toddler.

“The folks as I was livin’ wi’ didn’t hexpect no more board money fer
me as was paid by me daddy when ’e was alivin’ an’ they jest turned me
hout t’ a free farm which ain’t no com’f’table place fer a yonker.

“Seein’ as ’ow things was as they was I hups an’ runs awi, sterin’ a
course fer Lonnon. But on me wi I finds an’ hole salt, naime o’ Jem
Banks, an’ ’e bein’ a ’arty hole salt as is hin t’ sarvice, ’e takes
a likin’ o’ me an’ says, says ’e, ‘’Ere, lad, they’re a needin’ of a
cabin-boy aboard t’ _Bull’ark_. Why don’t ’e come along o’ me an’ sign
pipers?’

“‘Aye, aye,’ says I, bein’ by natcher a sailor. This ’ere tickles Jem
Banks an’ ’e tikes me along of ’im an’ next thing ’ere I are cabin boy
aboard the H.M.S. _Bull’ark_.”

“How long did you stay in the navy?” asked Ray.

“Till I gits t’ be a real A.B. When I’m a lad habout twenty I tikes hit
hin me ’ead t’ try an adwenture ’er two, so seein’ as ’ow I’d served
me time I hups an’ leaves an’ ships aboard t’ _Jenney Lee_, what is a
ship as is runnin’ hof t’ bloccade hin Caroliney durin’ t’ Civil War.
But we ain’t run ’em more’n twict when sinked we are be t’ U.S.S. _New
’Ampshire_ an’ hin t’ fracus me laig’s shot hoff.

“Well, now, they ain’t much more to tell, exceptin’ as ’ow I was taken
pris’ner o’ war an’ such like an’ nigh got ’ung fer me bein’ a bloccade
runner, hafter I comes hout of the ’orspital wi’ me timber laig. Hafter
t’ war I gets hup north ’ere ’mongst t’ fishermen, an’ drifted from one
thing to t’other till ’ere I are ’igh an’ dry hon ’Ood Hisland, makin’
of a fair livin’ wi’ me lobster pots, where I been t’ last twenty
years.”

“You certainly have had an interesting time of it,” said Jack
enthusiastically.

“I guess he has,” added Ray. “I wonder how I’ll come out without my
uncle or any one to--By George, I plum forgot we were running away from
him. Look, look, he’s picked up a lot. Oh, Mr. Mitchell, can we make
the island ahead of him?”

In truth, all three had forgotten the chase for the time and in the
meanwhile the yawl had been gaining at every mile.

“Blow me, hif I didn’t fergit habout hit, too. My heye, but ’e’s got
a sailboat fer ’e an’ a sailor at ’er wheel too. Come, shake a leg,
_Betsy Hanne_. There’s t’ hisland ower there. Bout four miles t’ go.
Ye gotta ’op along, me _Betsy_. An’ hit’s startin’ t’ rain an’ blow a
little, hin t’ bargain.”

From then on the boys were too much worried about the swiftly flying
yawl to think of conversation. Ray’s uncle had every inch of canvas
set and the swift swordfisherman was plowing through the water at top
speed. But the _Betsy Anne_ was making time, too. With the wind off
her port quarter and all sails set, she was heeling low and making the
water boil under her sharp little bow. On and on she raced, dashing
spray over her crew as she cut her way through the big seas that were
being kicked up by the ever freshening wind.

But in spite of the little boat’s good time, Old Mitchell was plainly
worried over the outcome of the race.

“Look ’ere, lads, even hif we do beat ’im to t’ hisland, ’ow are I
t’ prewent yer uncle from comin’ ’longside an’ shanghain’ o’ ye hoff
aboard e’s own wessel what is such a nifty sailin’ one?”

“Why--why--that’s right,” said Ray helplessly.

“Do the same as you did before, Ray,” said Jack. “I mean, let Mr.
Mitchell run the _Betsy Anne_ along the outside of the reef to the
opening and then slip through. He won’t dare follow you then.”

“That’s right. Can you put the _Betsy Anne_ through that opening
in Cobra Reef? You know the place I mean. About half way up to the
lighthouse.”

“I put ’er through every time I pays a call hon Cap’n Eli, which I
admits ain’t been often o’ late,” said the lobsterman.

“Good, then beat him to it and put her through this time. He’ll never
follow us ’cause he don’t know the channel and he’ll never land on that
end of the island again, not after the lamming he got from Big O’Brien,
will he, Jack?”

“No, siree,” said Jack.

“Aye, aye, sir, through t’ reef she goes,” said Mitchell.

All attention was settled on the chase after that. The yawl had cut the
distance between the two vessels down to half a mile and Hood Island
was still two miles off. On sped the boats, the yawl breasting the
waves in fine fashion and heeling over to what seemed a perilous angle.

“He keeps canvas on the _Fish Hawk_,” said Ray. “Wind’s fresh enough to
stand a reef. Don’t you think so, Mr. Mitchell?”

“’E kin take a reef hif ’e want, but not fer t’ _Betsy Hanne_,” said
the old mariner. “My boat kin stand weather, she can.”

Indeed, the _Betsy Anne_ proved that she could, for her big mainsail
was as tight as a drum and her jib as full. She was cutting the water
like a knife and eating up the distance toward the island.

Now they were abreast of the lower end and a mile off shore. The
yawl was sliding down on the same tack but still a half mile off the
_Betsy’s_ starboard quarter.

“Neck and neck,” cried the skipper of the little craft. “Neck an’ neck
wi’ a mile t’ run before we strikes t’ reef. Hit’s a close race, me
’arties, for ’e’s comin’ fast.”

[Illustration: “Hit’s a close race, me ’arties, for ’e’s comin’ fast.”]

“Oh, make it please! We must! We must!” said Ray nervously as he looked
toward his uncle’s boat.

“Aye, aye, sir,” said the lobsterman and the next moment the _Betsy
Anne_ came about and started on the last reach toward the reef.

The _Fish Hawk_ came about a moment later and much to the chagrin of
the boys she seemed but half the distance behind.

“Jiminy, look at that boat come,” cried Jack, now thoroughly excited.

“I should say she is coming,” said Ray, “and by gracious if she can
beat us out on this stretch she can cut across our bow and head us off
from the opening in the reef for she’ll be on our port side. Oh, make
it, Mr. Mitchell, make it, for goodness’ sakes.”

But Mitchell was all attention on the race just then and did not
even look at the lads. With cool calculating eye he measured the
distance between his boat and the yawl and the distance to the reef.
For fully five minutes he was as silent as a stone image, then he said
triumphantly:

“Hif we keep hit up, boys, we’ll crowd ’im hin s’close to t’ reef that
’e’ll be huncom’f’table. Then ’e’ll ’ave t’ come about and run astern
o’ us, which will lose ’im a ’undred yards; either that er ’e’ll ’ave
t’ run hus down, which ’e won’t do fer fear o’ stovin’ hup ’es own
boat. We got ’im, lads, cause ’e won’t run werry close hin fer t’
water’s bilin’ hup on t’ rocks. Watch now. We’re edgin’ closer. See
’im, ’es narvous! See ’im! See ’im now! Ain’t ’e figity! ’E gettin’ hin
clost! ’As ’e got ’es nerve wi’ ’im? Nope--’o--’o--I knew hit--’ere ’e
comes about an’ on we goes a ’undred yards further. Hoorah!”

True to the old man’s calculations, the little boat crowded the big
boat out of the inside course. Ray’s uncle was afraid to venture as
close to the ugly water as Mitchell sailed his boat and he was forced
to come about and head across the wake of the _Betsy Anne_. But the
lobsterman’s craft kept dead on for five minutes longer and the yawl
sheered off to keep from running her down.

“Out-sailed, by George, out-sailed! I’ll bet Uncle Vance is so mad he
would sink us if he had to do it over again,” screamed Ray in delight.
The two boats had crossed so close to each other that he could see the
bearded figure of his uncle at the wheel. Indeed, the old tyrant shook
his fist at the lad and Ray grinned in return.

The run up along the reef was made with the _Betsy Anne_ on the inside
and the _Fish Hawk_ two hundred yards off the starboard quarter. But
the swordfisherman could see that the race was lost and he was only
keeping abreast while he thought of a new plan of action. But even
while he was thinking it over the sloop came even with the break
between the rocks and although the water raced through the opening at
express speed and lashed the boulders on either side, Old Mitchell
jammed down the helm, hauled in on his sheet and with a swish of canvas
and the creaking of blocks, the _Betsy Anne_ came about and slipped
through and into the comparatively smooth water inside.

“Talk about a sailor!” cried Ray, as Mitchell headed the _Betsy Anne_
north again toward the little beach. “Talk about a sailor! Why, there
isn’t a man along the Maine coast who could have done it prettier, Mr.
Mitchell.”

“Tut, tut, hit hall comes o’ my known t’ wies o’ me _Betsy Hanne_,
me boy,” said the lobsterman, but he was plainly pleased with the
compliment.

A few minutes later the little sloop came to anchor and the crew of
three rowed to the beach in Captain Eli’s dory. And as the trio stepped
ashore, Ray turned and gazed at the disappearing _Fish Hawk_.

“Well, we beat you, Uncle Vance, and I hope I’ll never see your old
boat again,” he said.

But he little knew under what circumstances he would see his uncle’s
vessel once more.




CHAPTER XI RAY’S FIND


For some time following their adventure with Warden Williams’ lobster
patrol and their subsequent chase by the _Fish Hawk_, Ray and Jack
were kept rather busy about the construction camp, for the lighthouse
builders were working at full speed and taking advantage of the
excellent August weather. Mr. Warner was staying awake all hours of the
night, working out construction problems in his little office, and of
course the two lads had to keep his place in order and do a great deal
of checking up after these sessions of activity.

They paid daily visits to Cobra Head, also, to watch the progress of
the work there, and during each of their visits they learned something
new about the problems of erecting a sea-swept lighthouse. In spite of
the excellent weather that the workmen had been blessed with, it seemed
to the two lads that they were making unusually slow progress. In
truth, though they had been laboring a little more than six weeks there
were but four courses of stone laid. Jack remarked about this to Mr.
Warner on one occasion when the engineer had accompanied the boys to
the rocks.

“Huh,” said Mr. Warner, “if you think that is slow just look up the
construction records made on other lighthouses and you will understand
what slow work is. We’ve been particularly fortunate here in being so
well above the water. Why, there are some jobs where the tide and waves
will only allow the men to work a few hours every month, and then they
have to accomplish their task with one hand on a life-line, so to speak.

“Look at the conditions that the workmen were forced to contend with
while building Minot’s Ledge light, for instance. The old rock was
but three feet out of water at the best tide and the engineers had to
build a steel structure over the ledge and attach life-lines to it and
station a lookout to watch for big waves. When the lookout saw a large
one coming which he knew would curl over the rock he shouted a warning
and every man grabbed his life-line and threw himself flat upon the
rock to keep from being washed overboard. They always worked in wet
clothes and they were mighty lucky to have whole legs and arms after a
wave had passed. Why, they didn’t get in but 130 hours’ work the first
year and it took five whole years to build the beacon.”

“Jiminy, that must have been some job,” said Jack.

“You bet it was,” assured Mr. Warner. “Why, they had to think of all
sorts of tricks to keep old Neptune from beating them. When they were
building the foundation on the ledge, they had to bring bags of sand
out and construct veritable cofferdams about the spot that had been
pared down to hold a building block. Then every time they put cement
onto a block to hold the next one in place they had to put cheese cloth
over the cement to keep stray waves from sneaking up and licking the
block clear before the new block could be put in place.”

“Did they take the cheese cloth off before they put the next stone in
position?” asked Ray.

“No, they let it stay. The cement oozed through the mesh of the cloth
and gripped the block just the same,” said Mr. Warner.

“Hum, that’s a queer wrinkle,” said Jack.

“Well, we may do some of that work here the early part of the Fall when
the tides run unusually high and the seas get to curling up on us. Yes,
we’re mighty lucky in having the top of the Head so high above water.
Also we have been fortunate so far as weather conditions are concerned.
Goodness knows some lighthouse builders have had to fight storms almost
all the time. Look at the crew that undertook to build the famous
Tillemook light under Ballantyne. They fought the weather incessantly,
and they even stuck to the rock during a blow that developed into a
real tornado which smashed and carried away the storehouse in which
their provisions were kept. It was several weeks before more provisions
could be brought to them, and in the meantime all they had left was
some hard bread and coffee and a little bacon. Those are conditions
to work under, lads. Why, this is like dallying in the lap of luxury
compared with Tillemook, Minot’s Ledge, Eddystone and the rest of the
difficult marine engineering stunts that have been undertaken.”

“Lighthouses have to be mighty strong structures, don’t they?” said
Ray, who had been examining the way the heavy stones were interlocked,
cemented, and then double fastened with iron “dogs.”

“Strong? I should say so,” assured the engineer. “Why, some of them
have to stand wind and waves that tear solid stone to pieces. I
remember hearing once of a light over in England, or Ireland, rather,
on the Fastnet Rock, the first light steamships sight on their way to
England. In a storm a big section of the rock itself, three tons or
more it weighed, was torn loose, but before it could fall into the sea,
a second wave seized it and hurled it into the air squarely against the
lighthouse tower on the top of the rock.”

“Did the tower stand up under that?” exclaimed Jack in wide-eyed
amazement.

“Yes, it did, and many another beating almost as bad. Why, they say
that storms are so heavy over there that the tower trembles and sways
under the force of wind and water. Cups have been jarred from the
table to the floor, glasses knocked down and broken, and many other
disagreeable things have happened. Yet the tower stood up under it all
and still stands, although there has been a new tower erected since. I
think that one of the famous Stevensons had something to do with it.”

“Stevensons?” said Jack. “Oh, I’ve heard of them. They were related to
the author, Robert Louis Stevenson, weren’t they?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Warner, “the author of Treasure Island came from a
family of renowned lighthouse builders. There are many lights along the
Scottish and English coast that stand as monuments to the skill of the
author’s kinsmen. Among them are the Chicken Rock light on the Isle of
Man and Skerryvore.”

“Tell us, Mr. Warner, have many lights been swept away into the sea by
storms?” asked Jack, as he and Ray started to climb into the little
cable-car that carried them over the aerial railway back to shore.

“Indeed, there have been many. Some have been swept away so completely
that only a twisted steel bar or two remained to tell that a light once
marked the spot. And always the keepers disappear with them for they
are too brave to desert their posts even in the face of death. Take
the fate of the keepers of the Grand Manan, which was located not so
very far north of here. The light and men disappeared in a storm and
never were heard of again. The first Minot’s Ledge light in Boston
harbor went the same way and with it went the keepers too. Oh, yes,
many a brave man has gone to his death in the Lighthouse Service.”

Such little talks as these with the engineer and the workmen added
interest to the boys’ life on the island and the days passed as if on
wings. Captain Eli, the lighthouse keeper, also told them tales of the
service and the lads spent many an hour in his company while he was on
watch in the tower or off duty in his little cottage. Taking it all
in all the boys were having quite a delightful time, and if it had
not been for Ray’s periodical “blues” (as Jack called them) over his
inability to fit another model of his non-sinkable lifeboat together,
neither lad would have had a single thing to complain about.

As August wore on Ray’s blue spells occurred more often, however, for
he realized that in a few weeks or a month at best Jack would be
leaving Hood Island to return to school, while he--well, he didn’t
know exactly what he would do. From all appearances there would be no
school for him, as much as he wanted to attend. Indeed, sometimes he
grew quite beside himself with his unhappiness and it was all that Jack
could do to change his frame of mind.

His lonesomeness was emphasized frequently too when a lighthouse tender
put in at the island to bring additional supplies and any mail that
was meant for the working men. On every visit of the mail steamer Jack
was almost certain to have from two to a dozen letters from his father
and schoolboy friends who were scattered over the country during the
vacation period. But the pleasure of receiving letters was denied Ray
simply because he had no friends and relatives in the outside world to
communicate with him.

Aside from the visits of the lighthouse tender no vessels touched at
the island at all. The lads, almost daily, saw the trails of black
smoke above the horizon, left by transatlantic steamers traveling
the water lanes across the ocean, but usually these craft were hull
down by the time they reached Hood Island. Fishing vessels bound for
the banks were occasionally sighted also, and once in a while a stray
swordfishing schooner or yawl would hover about the island for several
hours in search of their elusive prey.

Once or twice the lads also sighted the trim little _Betsy Anne_,
Mitchell’s boat, dancing on the waves far outside the reef. Since their
adventurous two days with the timber-legged lobsterman the lads had
always intended walking across the island and locating his house, but
nearly two weeks passed before they could find time to pay him a visit.

And strangely enough, on the very day they had planned to cross the
island (they had cleared up all their work and Mr. Warner had given
them time off), the _Betsy Anne_ came scudding up inside the reef,
towing a dory. The small boat was piled high with lobster traps as was
the cockpit of the little sloop, and the boys wondered what the old
seaman was about.

From the edge of the cliff they hailed him while he was yet some
distance off. And when he saw them standing there he hallooed back,
and then quite suddenly brought the _Betsy Anne_ up into the wind and
waved to them to come down to the beach.

When the boys had made their way down the winding path from the
promontory to the sandy strip, the old lobsterman was waiting for them,
having rowed ashore in his seemingly overloaded dory.

“Why, blime me; blime me and blow me, say I, where about are you
younkers been a-keeping of yersel’s? Blow me an’ sink me, hif ’e ain’t
t’ most onsociablest coves as ever was. Why’n’t ’e ever come fer t’ see
Hole Mitch, I axe ye?”

“Why--well--you see--the truth is we were going to walk across the
island some time to-day--truly we were--don’t grin like that as if you
doubted us.”

“I ain’t given’ for t’ doubt ’e, I ain’t. But seein’ as ’ow I spends
most o’ my days an’ considerable o’ my nights a-tryin’ fer t’ make a
livin’ I ain’t t’ ’ome much. Like es not ye’d never been findin’ o’ me
’ome hif ye ’ad a-come ’crost. I’m hup at four, I are, and hout hin
me hole _Betsy Anne_ a-tendin’ o’ my traps ’till hits too dark fer t’
see.”

“What are you doing up at this end of the island? I never saw you come
up this way before,” said Jack.

“Right an’ so, right an’ so. Never does I come hup ’ere fer t’ fish, me
bein’ given t’ string my traps hout to t’ sow’east’ard. But lobsterin’
been s’ poor hin my usu’l wisinity that I guest I’d try hout a score o’
traps to t’ nor’west’ard, seein’ as ’ow t’ bottom’s likely hout there.
I’m goin’ fer t’ try hout these ’ere traps. That’s where I’m bound.
Want t’ ship hon this ’ere cruis’, lads?”

“Do we? You bet we do. But--but, will that dory hold all of us? She’s
loaded down now,” said Jack.

“Tut, tut, them traps is light. Come along, we’ll make a day of hit, er
we’ll make as much o’ a day of hit as t’ weather ’ll let us, fer she’s
goin’ t’ blow some this a’ternoon,” said Old Mitchell, making a place
for the lads in the dory.

Presently the boys tumbled aboard the _Betsy Anne_ and a few minutes
later they were under way. Up along the island coast they sped, the
tumultuous currents that slipped between the reef and the land making
the little sloop dance and yaw in surprising manner. As they sped
past the promontory and plunged tossing and pitching through the line
of breakers that marked the joining of the mill race of water with the
ocean just off the point of the high promontory, Jack and Ray hallooed
as loud as they could to the workmen on Cobra Head and waved a passing
salute. Mr. Warner was on the rock and when he saw the lobsterman’s
sloop go dancing by he took off his hat and waved a farewell to them.

Beyond the breaker line were the long rolling ground swells of the
broad Atlantic, over which the little craft scudded swiftly. Out, out,
oceanward they raced, the boys thoroughly enjoying the sail. For two
miles to the northwest Old Mitchell kept a straight course and watched
the water with critical eye. Finally, after he had prefaced his remarks
by spitting over the side, he said:

“Well, ’ere’s es good a place es any fer t’ try a trap. ’Ow say ’e t’
puttin’ one ower t’ side?” Then heading the sloop into the wind he
examined one of the traps in the stern of the _Betsy Anne_, and after
seeing that the little mesh bag inside the slat-like prison was well
baited with dead fish he shoved it overboard. Two stones in the trap
caused it to sink immediately and the lobsterman played out the warping
line until he reached the point where a big stone jug was fastened.
He examined the stopper in the jug to see that it was airtight, then
tossed this over too, and a little later the black and white buoy, to
which the end of the line was fastened. This floated away from the
sloop, bobbing and dancing in a fascinating manner.

“There,” said Mitchell, “I ’opes as ’ow when I comes t’ see ’e t-morrer
er t’ next day ye’ll ’ave a ’alf dozen o’ t’ biggest lobsters es ever
was.”

“We hope the same,” said Ray with a grin.

“Thank ’e, lad, thank ’e,” said Mitchell. Then he added, “’Eavens knows
I need ’em. This ’ere is t’ sheddin’ season and hits t’ blimdest time
o’ year ever fer hus lobster coves.”

“Shedding season?” said Jack. “Do lobsters shed their shells too? I
thought only crabs did.”

“They’re t’ sheddinest fish as ever was,” said the lobsterman. “I’ve
’ad ’em shed over night on me. Put a lot o’ big uns in t’ lobster car
one day an’ when I comes t’ wisit ’em t’ next day there’s ’alf o’ ’em
just crawled hout o’ their shells. An’ they ain’t no good arter they’re
shed neither. Just es soft es putty.”

“That’s mighty interesting,” said Jack. “Tell us something about
lobsters, will you, Mr. Mitchell? How do they live? How fast do they
grow? What do they--?”

“Tut, tut, not s’ fast, lad,” said Mitchell, holding up his hand.
“Lobsters is pecooliar fish, seein’ ’as ’ow their chise allus runs t’
livin on rock bottom. Ye’ll never find a lobster as is livin’ hin water
wi’ a sand bottom. They eats most heverythin’ too; that is heverythin’
what’s dead. Mostly they eats dead fish, an’ t’ best bait fer ’em is
flounders. That’s what I baits my traps wi’. They’re ’eathens too;
jest reg’lar cannibuls. I’m meanin’, by that, hif I puts three or four
lobsters as ain’t got a little wooden plug stuck hin their nippers, hin
my car together, why the next mornin’ I finds that they’ve chawed each
other up in fine shape. Bite each other t’ pieces jest like cannibuls
does.

“As fer growin’, why, lobsters grows habout a hinch er a hinch an’ a
’alf a year. When they sheds as ’ow I tol ye, why then t’ new shell as
grows on ’em is habout a hinch too big for ’em; like a pair o’ daddy’s
pants as is on a younker. Durin’ t’ year their body grows an’ fills hup
t’ hinch o’ space, an’ next Summer they’re ready fer t’ shed and grow
another hinch.

“When a lobster sheds ’e goes an’ crawls down hin t’ kelp an’ lives
there ’till ’es shell grows hon agin. If ’e didn’t ’e’d get et hup by
fishes as is lookin’ fer soft lobsters. In Maine ’ere we can’t take no
lobsters what ain’t growed ten hinches long. Them’s called ‘counters.’
Nine hinch lobsters, what is sold in N’York and Bosting is called
‘Nippers’ and lobsters less ’en nine hinches is called just plain
‘bugs.’ An’ hif a Maine cove as catches lobsters ’as heny bugs hin ’es
lobster car when Warden Williams come ’round ’e’s liable fer t’ get
fined a dollar fer every one o’ ’em as is there.”

“Jiminy, is that so?” exclaimed Jack, who had been listening eagerly to
all Mitchell had said. “How big do some lobsters grow?”

“Well, lad, an huncommon lobster is one as is seven or height pound,
though I did see one as weighted twenty-seven pounds down Portland wi’
last time I went there. But when we gets a three or four pound lobster
’ere we don’t raise no ’oller habout bein’ cheated,” said the old salt
dryly.

“I think I remember reading somewhere about how, when a lobster loses
a leg or a claw a new one begins to grow on immediately. Is that so?”
asked Jack.

“Right an’ so lad, right an’ so. I’ve ketched ’em as ’ad one claw which
is a big one and t’other which ain’t ’alf as big, en I’ve seen big
lobsters wi’ a couple of little small legs as looks ri-dic’lus, too.”

“The Winter season is the best, isn’t it, Mr. Mitchell?” said Ray.

“T’ best for ketchen ’em, but hit ain’t t’ best weather t’ be hout
a-hauling hof t’ traps. Why, lads, sometimes hits been s’ cold as me
nippers ud freeze fast t’ me ’ands and many’s t’ time I’ve ’ad t’ hang
me whiskers ower t’ back o’ a chair near the fireplace when I got ’ome
so’s t’ git t’ hice outen ’em.”

The mental picture of the old lobsterman sitting with his beard hanging
over the back of the chair tickled the lads, and they roared with
laughter, much to the amusement of the one-legged fisherman.

“Lobstering is mighty good sport though,” said Ray. “I’ve been out with
the fellows down Ascog way and had a heap of fun. The lobstermen down
that way are bad ones though, and they are constantly getting into
trouble with one another. They have regular feuds sometimes; the French
Canadians and the Yankees. I remember Uncle Vance telling a story once
of how one fellow planted a half dozen lobster traps near an island
and then hid behind a rock until he saw one of his rivals, a French
Canadian, haul one of his traps. He blazed away at him from shore
with a rifle he’d taken out there, and the Frenchman shot back with a
revolver. They had a hot time until the Frenchman got hit in the knee.”

“Them ’air Cannucks is t’ natchralest lobster piruts as ever was,” said
Mitchell with emphasis.

Thus did the crew of the _Betsy Anne_ chat as they sailed here and
there in the water north of Hood Island while Old Mitchell dropped his
twenty-odd lobster traps overboard. The lobsterman explained, as he
finished this task, that these were merely by way of trying out the
new location, and that if it proved a good fishing ground he would
shift a hundred or more traps north of the island. This amount he said
was about one-third of the total number he owned. He also assured the
lads that three hundred lobster traps were about as many as one could
handle conveniently and that some lobstermen limited their string to
half that number.

By high noon the old sailor had deposited all of his traps and was
headed back toward the island. Past the northern end they sailed and
down the west coast. In the lee of the island the ocean was a great
deal calmer, for the mighty currents that swept the other side did not
reach them. The shore did not seem as rocky either, and sandy beaches
were quite numerous.

When they reached the extreme southern end the lads saw a large cove,
and on the shore, above a short sandy beach, the neatest little cottage
they had ever set eyes upon.

“Wow,” said Jack, “what a corking little place. That must be your home,
Mr. Mitchell.”

“Right an’ so, right an’ so. ’Tis t’ place I built me when I first came
’ere nigh onto twenty years ago. But we won’t stop now, lads, even
though ’tis dinner time. Ye see I been heyein’ hof them air clouds off
hin t’ nor’east there. Hits a settin’ fer t’ blow, an’ I want t’ git
some bait afore t’ waves git s’ ’igh es t’ make hit on’com’ft’bul fer
t’ fish outen t’ hole _Betsy Hanne_. I’m goin’ hoff that air strip o’
sand there where t’ flounders ’angs hout. Flounders is fish as likes t’
nose ’round hin t’ mud fer their food an’ they honly lives hon sandy
bottoms. You, lads, kin ’andle a line er two fer me, can’t ’e? Then,
arter we get hour bait we’ll go ’ome an’ git somethin’ t’ eat. ’Ow’s
that strike ’e?”

“Fine,” said Ray.

“I’ll be ready for the eats,” assured Jack.

For an hour the three in the _Betsy Anne_ fished diligently. Each one
handled two lines and was kept busy, for the flounders bit ravenously.
But the fish were all small and it took a great many of them to fill
the big box that Mitchell used to hold his trap bait. And in the
meantime great gray storm clouds were gathering in the northeast and
the wind was becoming higher every minute. The long rolling swell
changed to choppy seas that made the little sloop dance about like a
cockleshell, and the lads had difficulty in attending to their lines
and maintaining their places in the boat at the same time.

Finally Old Mitchell announced that the seas were running a little too
high for comfort, and since the bait box was nearly full he thought
it best to up anchor and set sail for the cove where his cottage was
located. This suggestion pleased both Jack and Ray for, to tell the
truth, the bucking of the boat was getting really uncomfortable.
Mitchell put his main sail up with a reef in it, which Ray helped him
tie, and without a jib ran for the shelter of the little harbor in
front of the cottage.

Inside the cove the wind seemed less fierce and the water less violent,
and in a few moments the _Betsy Anne_ reached the square mooring buoy
to which she was fastened. It took but a few moments to make the little
craft snug in her berth with her sails furled, and after this operation
Mitchell and the lads rowed ashore in the dory.

Although the wind was blowing hard and rain occasionally spattered
down, the lads found time to pause and admire the cottage and its
surroundings before accepting Mitchell’s invitation to enter.

The old mariner had spent a great deal of time and labor about the
place, from all appearances. There was a little dooryard in which had
been cultivated the tiniest lawn the boys had ever seen. In the center
of this was an old dory with bulging sides. This had been filled with
earth and converted into a big flower box and over the gunwale flowers
and trailing vines dangled in profusion. The cottage itself was painted
white and looked unusually inviting, considering the present weather
conditions.

Old Mitchell led the way into his little dwelling and immediately set
about preparing a dinner from his well-stocked pantry shelves, while
the boys inspected his quarters. There were but two rooms to the
cottage, the largest of which was kitchen, dining-room and living-room
all in one. But, though the apartment served these many purposes, it
was scrupulously clean, and resembled very much Captain Eli’s cottage
over at the lighthouse.

It was apparent from the first that the place was the dwelling of a
seafaring man, for painted yellow canvas covered the floor and marine
prints hung about the wall. There was a picture of Farragut’s fleet
in action, with the intrepid commander clinging to the rigging as he
was supposed to have done during most of his battles. Then there was
a picture of the burning of the frigate _Golden Horn_, a print of the
_Shannon_ bringing the _Chesapeake_ into Halifax Harbor and a score of
other decorations of a similar nature.

But the section of the wall above the chimneypiece was the most
interesting to the boys, for over the shining stovepipe hung a great
old-fashioned cutlass with its brass hand-guard and its black leather
scabbard, and there too was Mitchell’s famous old “barker” sticking
from its holster. Besides these, a dirk and several vicious-looking
knives which the old salt had gathered in the “Inges” were made to
serve a decorative purpose.

On the right hand side of the mantelpiece itself was a model of a
full-rigged ship bearing in gilt letters the name “H.M.S. _Bulwark_.”
The tiny little craft looked very majestic with all her sails set, and
the boys were attracted to it immediately. And to balance this on the
other side of the mantel was another craft of very strange appearance.
In fact, it was of such a peculiar design that Jack was at a loss to
know just what to make of it when he saw it. But the moment Ray caught
sight of it he gave a loud cry of delight.

“Jack, Jack, look. Jove, there’s my model; my lifeboat, all safe and
sound. Oh, Mr. Mitchell, where did you get it? By George, can it really
be mine? How--where--?”

“’Ere, ’ere, what ’er ye jabberin’ habout,” exclaimed Mitchell, who was
cramming an armful of wood into the stove preparatory to making coffee.

“Why that, that over there--the model--the little boat. Where did you
get it? It’s mine, mine. I made it. Oh, Mr. Mitchell, how did you ever
get hold of it?” cried the delighted youth as he rushed across the room
and took the metal boat down from the pedestal Mitchell had made for it.

“That air punkin seed--that air tin kettle o’ a wessel; is that what
ye’re a-meanin’? Why now, blime ’e, ye say hit’s yours? Well, mebby
’tis. Mebby ’tis, seein’ as ’ow hit ain’t mine ’ceptin’ by right
o’ salvage, which I ain’t claimin’ hif ’tis yours. ’Ere’s a go fer
’e, ain’t hit?” said the old fisherman as he scratched his head in
perplexity.

“Salvage? Do you mean you picked it up in the water?”

“Right an’ so, lad, right an’ so. ’Ere I war hout a-tendin’ of me
traps one day when this ’ere thing comes a-bobbin’ an’ a skippin’ ower
t’ water, lookin’ queerer ’n all git hout. Says I t’ myself, says I,
‘’Ere’s a strange craft, Mitchell, what ain’t got no owner aboard; why
fer don’t ’e inwestigate hit.’ So I hup an’ salwages hit and blime me
hif she ain’t t’ queerest looking wessel as ever I sot heyes on. Says
I t’ myself, says I, ‘Now, hif this ain’t t’ most pecooler tin punkin
seed as ever I clapped heyes hon, I’ll eat hit.’ An’ seein’ as ’ow she
war s’ queer I tikes ’er hinto port an’ stows ’er hup longside o’ t’
hole _Bulwark_, I does.”

“Say, but that’s funny. Here I’ve been longing for this all Summer and
it’s been right on the same island with me,” said Ray as he turned the
model over and over.

“’Ow’s that?” said Mitchell, as he stopped in the act of putting the
dishes on the table and listened.

“Why, you see the Uncle I ran into over at Austin’s Pool a few weeks
ago--you know the one who owned the _Fish Hawk_ and--”

“T’ feller as was sech a good sailor as we outsailed, ye mean?” asked
Mitchell with a grin, taking a big brown pie from the pantry in one
corner of the room.

“Yes, he’s t’ one. I told you that he had always treated me mean. Well,
you see, he always thought I was lazy and he was bound he’d flog it
out of me. He called me lazy because I always wanted to potter around
with new ideas and new inventions. He never believed in anything that
was progressive. All he knew was hard work, wouldn’t send me to school,
wouldn’t help me with anything; just made me work like sin. Treated me
downright nasty.

“Keeping me from school was what worried me more than anything else,
though. I wanted to go to high school mighty badly because I hoped some
day to go to college and study engineering.

“Well, I knew the only way I could ever get to school was to earn
enough money all in a lump to pay my way. About that time the _Titanic_
ran into an iceberg up off the banks somewhere; you remember the time,
don’t you? Well, I got an idea out of that. Why not try to invent an
absolutely safe lifeboat that could not sink or capsize? The idea was
a corker and I set to work on it. And, by jingoes, when I got my model
finished if my uncle didn’t get hold of it and throw it overboard and
flog me besides. That’s what made me run away from him.”

“Well, blow me, hif ye didn’t make a lifeboat what won’t sink ner
capsize, fer that air wessel war right side hup and warn’t leakin’
neither when I got hit,” said Mitchell.

“Oh, you don’t know how tickled I am. I was sure it would work. I knew
I had the right idea,” said Ray as he fondled the little craft.

“Right an’ so, lad, right an’ so; but look ’ere, hif ye stand there
ravin’ habout yer boat ye won’t git anythin’ t’ eat. Las’ call fer
dinner, fellers. Hits on t’ tible,” said the old seaman, drawing up the
chairs.




CHAPTER XII THE REEF’S TOLL


That dinner was one of the best the lads had ever eaten, it seemed
to them. Indeed, Jack forgot about the howling of the wind and the
spattering of the rain outside, and Ray even ceased talking of his
precious model, so intent were they both on satisfying their ravenous
appetites. There were sizzling hot flounders, the finest flapjacks that
ever were cooked, cold boiled lobster, fine homemade bread, steaming
coffee and a generous apple pie, which Jack assured the lobsterman was
quite the best of its kind he had ever tasted.

[Illustration: “The finest flapjacks that ever were cooked.”]

The old seaman took as much pride in his cooking as any housewife and
it pleased him to watch the lads “git a full cargo,” as he expressed
it. In fact, he urged them to eat more, even after they had announced
that they could not possibly hold another morsel, and finally the
boys simply had to push back their chairs and cry “enough.”

It was fully half-past three when the dishes were cleared away and
washed, and by that time the storm outside had worked up to a furious
pitch. The wind whistled about the little cottage and down the chimney,
blowing great quantities of smoke into the room from the wood fire that
Mitchell kept burning to heat his dish water. The rain was coming down
harder now, and spattering against the window panes so furiously that
Jack had difficulty in seeing out across the cove in which the _Betsy
Anne_ and Mitchell’s dories were moored.

“Say, Ray, this is a real storm,” he said to his young chum. “How on
earth are we to get back to the lighthouse? We can’t go by way of the
_Betsy Anne_. I’d never take a chance in any boat to-day no matter how
seaworthy she is.”

“Right an’ so, right an’ so, lad,” said the old lobsterman as he took
a squint at the weather through the front window. “An’ ’e needn’t be
a fearin’ as I’d ask ’e to. Hit ud take a ’ull lot of coaxin’ for t’
git me t’ take t’ _Betsy Hanne_ hout hin weather like this ’ere even
though she’s t’ safest boat fer ’er size as ever was. But must ’e go
back t’day? Can’t ’e stiy ’ere for t’ night, mebby?”

“Goodness, no. You remember how we got a scolding for staying away
over night at Austin’s Pool, don’t you, Ray? Poor Mr. Warner and Big
O’Brien were worried to death. Thought we’d been drowned, sure enough.
And he saw us go out in a sailboat this morning too. Jiminy, I’ll bet
they think we were caught in this storm. They will sure decide we are
goners, if we don’t show up to-night. We must get to the lighthouse,
Ray. Don’t you agree with me?”

“Yes,” said Ray firmly, “Mr. Warner has been mighty good to both of us
and I don’t think we should cause him any more worry than necessary. I
was sorry that we made it so unpleasant by staying at Frenchman’s Point
last time. We must get back to the lighthouse. We can walk across the
island. I don’t mind getting wet, do you? That’s about the worst that
can happen to us.”

“Jest so, jest so,” said Mitchell with a pleased smile. “I think as ’ow
yer two boys ’as got common sense and a bit o’ feelin’ fer t’ other
feller. Glad t’ ’ear ye speak es ye do. Go, by hall means, an’ hif
ye’ll take my advice ye’ll start mighty soon fer there’s no tellin’ as
t’ ’ow long hit’ll tike ’e. An’ hif ye’re hout there when night comes
on--well hin t’ dark ye might stumble over a cliff peraps er--er--.
Say, look ’ere, lads, I’ll go along wi’ ye. I don’t mind gettin’ wet
an’ besides I got ’ilers an’ a so’wester. I’ll go long wi’ ye t’ show
’e t’ wi, seein’ as ’ow ye never walked crost t’ hisland yit.”

“Great,” cried Jack.

“Finest ever,” said Ray, and the old seaman looked delighted at their
manifestations of pleasure.

“Hall right, me ’arties, we’ll start right awiy. You lads, just wait
till I git on me ilers an’ I’ll go out hin t’ boat ’ouse an’ look hup
some old duds as I got stowed awi there agin jist sech an adwersity.”
And presently the lobsterman donned his oilskins and plunged out into
the storm.

A few moments later he stumped into the room again, puffing like
a grampus and dripping wet. In his arms he clutched a bundle of
weatherworn oilskins.

“Phew, blime ’e hif hit ain’t rainin’,” said he as he deposited the
bundle of clothing on the floor. “’Ere’s a lot o’ cast-hoffs as I’ve
’ad a ’angin’ hin t’ boat ’ouse fer this long time. Some o’ ’em is
putty much worn, but they’ll shed water in spots henywi’. Sort ’em
hout, lads.”

Jack and Ray began rummaging through the bundle of yellowish gray
garments and in no time they were decked out in weatherproof clothes.
Of course they wore their regular clothing underneath, as did Old
Mitchell, but even at that the lobsterman’s cast-offs were far too
large for them.

“Some fit,” said Jack as he waved a far too long sleeve in the air.

“Huh, two of us could get into this jacket, but just the same I’m
glad to have ’em. I’m ready to start--how about you?” said Ray, as he
gathered his precious model up under his arms and started for the door.
Jack followed him and the lobsterman, after a glance about the cottage
and a last poke at the dying fire in the stove, followed the two boys.

The moment they emerged, the lads had to brace themselves to keep from
being blown down. The wind swooped around the corner of the little
cottage and tore at their garments madly, while the big raindrops beat
into their faces.

“Jiminy, some storm”, growled Ray as he forced his so’wester down over
his eyes.

“Hit’s blowin’ some ’at,” assured the lobsterman as he pulled his
collar up higher and stumped forward in the lead of the little party.

Jack was on the point of making an appropriate remark also, but the
wind snatched the words from between his teeth, it seemed, and he
decided after that to conserve his energies for the fight against the
storm.

Mitchell apparently followed some sort of a path through the forest
that clad the top of the island, for he wound his way in and out among
the trees in a peculiar manner. But if there was a path, the boys
could not detect it. All they did was follow the one-legged old man
who silently fought his way against the wind. Although the pine trees
were many and their foliage thick, the wind seemed just as strong in
the woods as out in the little opening around the lobsterman’s cottage.
It blew a veritable hurricane, it seemed to Jack, and the tall trees
bent and swayed in a most awe-inspiring manner. In truth, branches were
literally torn from some of them and here and there the lads found
a big timber that had been uprooted and flung aside by the elements
exactly as if it had been no heavier than a clump of bay berry bushes.

On through this wind-lashed forest they plodded, watching constantly to
keep out of harm’s way for they realized that to be in the path of one
of the falling trees would be the end of them. On and on they forced
their way, backs bent and faces shielded as much as possible against
the stinging rain. Minutes seemed like hours and hours eternal, so slow
was their progress. How long they fought the elements the boys could
not guess, but gradually as they worked their way across the island a
new note was added to the terrible growl of the storm and it gave the
lads a better idea of their location. It was the boom of the breakers
upon Cobra Reef.

They were nearing the ocean side of the island now. Jack began to
detect familiar sections of the woods, in spite of the storm. He also
knew that they were approaching the top of the promontory upon which
the lighthouse was located, for they had begun to climb a rather steep
slope. On they toiled, their way growing harder as they advanced, until
suddenly they were struck by a gust of wind that almost hurled them off
their feet. Then Jack knew that they had left the forest and entered
the clearing about the construction camp.

Past the blacksmith shop and the bunk-house they trudged, until they
came to the long mess-hall. Along the lee wall of this building they
made their way until they came to the path that led to the lighthouse.
Here they paused and before leaving the shelter of the building, took a
survey of the situation.

And as Jack looked toward the beacon he caught sight of a big group of
men huddled in the shelter of the pile of granite blocks near the steel
tower of the cable-way. There must have been fifty or more in the crowd
and all were dressed in oilskins or overcoats.

“Look, there’s the whole camp. What’s wrong? What’s going on out there?
Something’s happened on the rock, I’ll bet. They are looking out to
sea!”

“Sure enough. What do you suppose is the matter?” exclaimed Ray, as he
too caught sight of the men.

“Matter! matter! Why noo, lad, hit could be something wrong on Cobra
’Ead, but t’ my judgment hits like as not a wessel what’s comin’
ashore, like es ’ow t’ schooner _Jessie Joy_ did two years back. She
came ashore down t’ sow’east hend o’ t’ hisland an’ was lifted ower t’
reef an’ thirty feet hup onto t’ rocks an’ smashed t’ kindlin’ afore ’e
could say scat. Yes-siree, not a man ner a stick as was saved an’--”

“Jiminy, do you suppose it’s a wreck?” shouted Jack. Then pulling his
hat down over his eyes he shouted:

“Come on!”

And in a moment all three were fighting their way up the slope toward
the men in the lee of the stone pile.

So loud was the roar of the storm and boom of the surf and so intent
were the men on whatever they were watching out at sea that none of
them heard the three arrive. Indeed, they did not know of the lads’
presence until Jack stopped alongside of Mr. Warner, who was on the
outside of the group, and clutched his arm.

“Why, Jack, thank goodness you’re here--and here’s Ray, too. We thought
sure you had been caught in this storm. All safe? Good. And here’s Mr.
Mitchell again. Brought ’em safely back once more, just as you did from
Frenchman’s Point. Fine--we were getting worried but--”

“What’s going on, anyway? What’s the trouble?” interrupted Jack, who
had been peering out into the storm.

“What’s the matter? Why there’s a vessel out there fighting its last
fight, I guess, and trying to keep off the reef. Storm’s a little too
thick now. When it quiets for a few moments you’ll be able to see her.
Both masts are gone and--There, there! See her! Look quick before the
storm shuts in again!”

The lads looked and, sure enough, out beyond the reef they saw the
battered hulk of a vessel being tossed about on the big waves like a
cork. Only two stumps remained of the masts and the wreckage of sails
and spars dragged over the sides and into the sea. The bowsprit had
been snapped, too, but on the stump of what remained was the little
pulpit-like affair that characterized the vessel as a swordfisherman.

“Why she’s a swordfisherman,” exclaimed Jack.

“Right, by George, I hadn’t discovered that before, and she looks
mighty familiar in--”

“Good lands, it’s the _Fish Hawk_,” cried Ray in distressed tones.
“It’s Uncle Vance and his crew. I--I--by hookey, he’s in a tight fix,
too. I guess it’s all up with him now! He’ll be on the reef sure!
Nothing to give him steerage way! He’s helpless!”

“By George, it is your uncle, Ray. And he sure is up against it, too.
There’s nothing we can do either,” said Mr. Warner unhappily. “He’s
too far out for us to get a line to him. We have the cannon out. It’s
tucked under the stone pile here. We’re trying to keep it dry. Maybe
if he comes on to the reef and the ship holds together long enough
we can get a breeches-buoy rigged. But it looks to me as if the
_Fish Hawk_ will go to pieces the moment it hits that line of rocks.
Look at those breakers pile up! Did you ever see anything like it? A
battleship couldn’t stand up under the pounding those waves would give
her. Everything has been washed off Cobra Head except the lighthouse
foundation stones. The cableway tower is bent and crippled and all the
derricks are gone. So are the tool boxes and all the tools. We’re in
a bad way out there. It will take us two weeks to recover from this
storm.”

In truth, the jagged reef with the Cobra’s Head at the end was terrible
to look upon. Waves thirty feet in height were hurling themselves
against the rugged granite boulders, as if seeking to drive the stony
barrier deep into the ocean. But the reef resisted the onslaughts and
great towers of water shot aloft as the breakers burst with a hiss and
a roar against the immovable stone. Jack realized the terrible crushing
power behind the tons of water, and he knew that there was little hope
of the _Fish Hawk_ staying whole once she grounded on the reef.

Close and closer to its terrible fate drove the helpless yawl while the
men on the cliff looked on in grim silence. Sometimes the rain came
down so hard and fast that the doomed vessel was shut from view. But
each time the storm abated they could see that the sturdy little craft
had been driven nearer to the horrible end that awaited it.

Yet with the fight almost lost the swordfishermen had not surrendered.
Both Jack and Ray could see a man still clinging to the wheel while
several others crawled about the careening decks and sought to build
a jury rig on the stump of the foremast. With but a few square feet
of canvas to give the vessel steerage way, there was still the barest
chance of saving her. But no human beings could hope to work the
battered little craft in such an angry sea. Any moment one of the ugly
waves that swept the decks might catch them off guard and sweep them
over the side like so many match sticks.

Jack, and every other man on the promontory for that matter, stood
spellbound. Here before their very eyes were a dozen human beings
going to certain death and no power on earth could stop them. It was
appalling. Jack shuddered.

“Oh, can’t something be done? Can’t we get a line to them?” he asked,
clutching Mr. Warner’s arm.

“I’m afraid not, son,” said Mr. Warner, choking with emotion. “It’s
terrible, but we’re powerless. They are too far off. We’ll have to wait
until they strike and then perhaps we may be able to do something.”

“Poor Uncle Vance. I feel mighty sorry for him. And Bannerman too, poor
fellow, and Mack and Duncan. Heaven help ’em. It’s the end of ’em all,”
cried Ray as he watched the storm-tossed _Fish Hawk_ drive toward her
doom.

She was only fifty feet off the reef now--one wave length separated her
from eternity. The angry water swirled about her. Great clots of spume
were hurled at her by the lashing wind, and white water washed her deck
from end to end.

“Oh, it’s terrible, terrible!” sobbed Ray. “If we could only help ’em.
If--look, look! They’ll strike. That big wave was too much for ’em!
The next wave will do it! There they go--they’re on the reef--no, no,
they sheered off--they didn’t strike--but--but--Oh! Great goodness,
look--look--it’s horrible!”

CRASH!

A great wave had seized the helpless vessel, lifted it high aloft and
hurled it down across the jagged rocks. The sound of rending timbers
could be heard even above the roar of the storm. The _Fish Hawk_ had
been cut completely in half by the granite ridge and in a fraction of
a second the hull of the yawl had been shattered to kindlings. Only a
mass of wave-tossed wreckage marked the place where it had foundered.

For a moment the men on the promontory seemed stunned by the hideous
sight they had witnessed. Then as they realized that the vessel and the
men had been blotted from existence entirely, several of them groaned
aloud and turned away. But the next instant they were startled by a cry.

“Look! Look! Jack, O’Brien, look, there’s a head, there’s a man, two
of ’em, three of ’em inside the reef; struggling; swimming. They are
trying for the beach. Come on, we’ll save ’em. Come!” Ray bounded down
the crooked path that led to the narrow strip of beach and Jack and Big
O’Brien followed him, with the rest of the men trailing out behind.
Even Old Mitchell stumped down the path, although he could not keep
pace with the rest of the party.

Ray reached the sandy strip first and began tugging at one of the two
whaleboats which had been tossed high and dry on the beach by the
storm. Others rushed to help him, some manning the boat while others
tried to launch it. And meanwhile off toward the reef the three men
struggled desperately. On they swam, battling with the stubborn,
though not so violent, waves inside. Sometimes their heads were above
the water and sometimes great curling white caps dashed over them and
forced them under, but they were fighting for their lives and they
meant to keep afloat until aid arrived.

Slowly but surely the horde of lighthouse builders forced the heavy
whaleboat, loaded with the rescue party, toward the water. Inch by
inch, foot by foot until at last one of the curling waves reached under
its bow and gave them assistance. Another wave and it was launched.
Then in a twinkle a dozen oars were shipped and the boat was under
way. Ray was in the bow, looking anxiously out toward the struggling
swimmers, and Jack was in the stern beside Big O’Brien, who clutched
the tiller.

Under the strokes of the brawny laborers the heavy boat shot forward,
bow on, into the angry seas that curled shoreward. But for all the
strength behind those hickory timbers and all the sturdiness of the
vessel’s oaken sides, it was a question whether it could live in even
the seas behind the reef. It tossed about like an eggshell and the
angry waves clutched at either side and pulled it here and there in
spite of the efforts of the rowers.

But slowly they urged her forward toward the swimmers. On and on it
forged, each stroke cutting down the distance between the fighting
fishermen and their rescuers. They were fifty feet away, now forty, now
thirty! Only a little way farther. Only a few strokes more!

“Pull! Pull!” cried Ray from the bow. “Here’s one! Pull! It’s Duncan,
good old Duncan--he’s all in! Pull! Whoope-e-e--! Saved!”

Ray reached over the side and seized the all but unconscious man, and
with what appeared to be a superhuman effort, hauled him into the boat
and let him fall into a limp, soggy mass in the bottom, just behind the
forward oarsman.

“Pull! Pull! Don’t stop--here’s another. It’s Beck--Beck Crawford.
We’ve got to save him! He has a wife and some kiddies! Pull! Pull!
Here! Some one help me! I can’t lift him! Come quick!”

The forward oarsman dropped his blade and climbing to Ray’s side helped
to drag Beck aboard.

“All right! Keep it up! Here’s another! It’s--it’s--oh, it’s Uncle
Vance. PULL! PULL! He’s sinking, he’s sink--I’ve got him! Help me here!
Heave-o! Good!”

Then as Ray laid the limp form in the bottom of the boat with the
others, he said with a peculiar catch in his voice:

“Poor Uncle Vance, he looks like he’s most dead.”




CHAPTER XIII THE NEW FULL-BACK


For three days Beck, Duncan and Ray’s Uncle Vance were in a precarious
state. The men had spent most of their energy in battling for their
lives after the wreck of the _Fish Hawk_ and it was very fortunate that
they possessed the fine strong bodies they did or they would never
have rallied at all. In truth, all three were taken from the whaleboat
more dead than alive, and when they were carried up to the lighthouse
Captain Eli was almost certain that none would live over night.

The three rooms in Captain Eli’s cottage were devoted to hospital
purposes and Jack and Ray and Mr. Warner shared the bunk-house with
the rest of the crew for the time. Old Mitchell, the lobsterman, and
Captain Eli took turns as physician and nurse to the unfortunate
swordfishermen and worked diligently to restore them to normal health.
Daily Jack and either Mr. Warner or Big O’Brien visited the cottage to
learn how the patients fared, and on several occasions they entered the
sickrooms and tried to cheer up the men. But Ray, for reasons of his
own, would not accompany them.

Indeed, since the day he saved his uncle from drowning Ray had been
acting very peculiarly. He seemed undetermined what to do and Jack and
Mr. Warner could not help sympathizing with him. Somehow, seeing his
uncle close to the point of death, had made the lad forgive him for his
past brutality. In truth, his heart had softened to the point where
he would have been quite willing to do anything he could for the old
swordfisherman. But though his intentions were good, he was quite timid
in carrying them out, for, as he explained to Jack, he was not sure
how his kinsman would receive him. For that reason he refrained from
going near his uncle’s bedside or communicating with him in any way. He
satisfied himself by visiting the cottage occasionally and inquiring
from Mitchell or Captain Eli as to the state of his uncle’s health.

The lightkeeper and the fisherman proved efficient physicians, however,
for they rallied the men gradually and by the end of the week had
them so that they could hobble downstairs and sit out in front of
the cottage in the sunshine. Duncan and Beck seemed to regain their
strength faster than Ray’s uncle, and in a short time after their first
appearance downstairs they were going about the camp as hale and hearty
as ever. Vance Carroll, however, did not find his strength as rapidly
as the younger men, and for many a day he went hobbling about with the
assistance of a cane which Captain Eli loaned him.

As soon as the storm had subsided the camp turned its attention to
repairing the damage that the breakers had done out there on Cobra
Head. The steel tower of the cableway needed repairing, new derricks
had to be erected, new tool boxes constructed, and tremendous
quantities of kelp and rockweed cleared away before the men could begin
their building where they had left off before the storm. Of course,
with these added tasks to be accomplished, Jack and Ray found that
their duties increased in proportion. They, too, were very hard at work
carrying out little details that Mr. Warner entrusted to them.

By the end of the second week following the storm, however, things were
in excellent shape to resume work on the lighthouse structure, and
after that there came a brief breathing spell for Mr. Warner and his
two young assistants.

This was just what Ray had hoped for. He had been waiting all this time
to show Mr. Warner his precious lifeboat model which he had brought
through the storm from Mitchell’s house that day the _Fish Hawk_
struck. Before taking part in the rescue he had shoved the two-foot tin
model between the big blocks of granite on the top of the promontory
and left it there until he found time to get it out and look it over. A
few days after the storm he had brought it to the office shanty, but he
had made no effort to show it to the engineer until he was certain that
the man had time enough to go into every detail with him.

The first day that the rush of work let up and Ray found Mr. Warner
strolling through the camp enjoying his early morning pipe, the boy
asked him if he would not spare a few moments in the office with him.

Jack was already there doing some work that he had left undone the day
before, but when Ray brought Mr. Warner in, and a few moments later
unearthed the lifeboat model from beneath a dozen rolls of discarded
blue prints that had been tossed in one corner of the room, the lad
from Drueryville put his work aside and stopped to listen.

Mr. Warner examined the curious little craft from all angles and paid
strict attention while Ray explained the details of the idea. And after
he had ceased talking the engineer was silent for some time while he
scrutinized the metal boat more closely. Then finally he put the model
on the table and exclaimed:

“By George, Ray, you’re a clever chap. I believe you have a corking
scheme here, too. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll help you get patents
on it and then I’ll see that it gets into the hands of a friend of mine
who is in the metallic boat building business. I’ve an idea he might be
able to do something with it.”

“Say, will you?” cried Ray enthusiastically, “Great! Perhaps I’ll be
able to go to school after all. It--ah--”

“Tut, tut, son. Don’t get too excited about the prospects. Remember,
I didn’t say that you would get rich. It may not be a success, or--oh,
a dozen things may happen to spoil the possibility of your getting
any money out of it. Mighty few inventors ever get rich anyway. It is
even possible that you can’t get a patent on it, for some one may have
thought of the idea long ago. You’ll find when you get older that it
is not an easy matter to get a device through the patent office. Many
a man has spent a fortune and valuable time on an idea only to have it
knocked on the head by some little detail.

“There’s the man who invented the periscope of the submarine, for
instance. He worked out the contrivance and tried to have it patented
only to find, after two years of hard work, that the Government would
not allow a patent on it because some Frenchman, a long time before,
had written a visionary story in which a device, similar to the one
he had invented, had been suggested. The Frenchman had never tried
to build his instrument, but, nevertheless, the Patent Office in
Washington would not allow a patent on the practical appliance on the
ground that it had been exploited before, and the inventor died a poor
man, when he should have been wealthy.”

“That was hard luck,” said Ray; “but anyway, I’m mighty glad to find
some one who will take enough interest in my work to try and help me. I
have always--”

At this point came a violent thump-thump-thumping in the front room
of the office, indicating that some one with a wooden appendage
was approaching. All three looked up, expecting Old Mitchell to
come through the door. They were not mistaken. The old lobsterman
hobbled into the room, a broad grin wrinkling his face. But following
immediately behind him was Ray’s Uncle Vance!

For a moment every one was silent! The situation was tense, for this
was the first time that Ray and his kinsman had come face to face since
the day, months before, when Big O’Brien had administered a liberal
trouncing to the swordfisherman. Ray turned white and became very
nervous, and Jack, for the moment, was breathless. But before either of
the lads could speak Vance Carroll strode across the room and held out
a big horny hand toward his nephew.

“Ray,” he said in a rough voice, “Mitchell here tells me you saved my
life. Thank ye, lad, thank ye. I don’t know as it was wo’th savin’, but
thank ye. Also I want to--ah--er--apologize fer ah--” (the gruff voice
faltered for a moment)--“aw, shucks, I guess I wasn’t all that an’
uncle an’ on’y kin should hev been to ye, Ray, and I ax yer parding,
Ray.”

“Pshaw, don’t mention it, Uncle Vance,” said Ray, tears starting to his
eyes. “I guess I wasn’t such a very good boy either. I--”

“Oh, yes, you were. But I didn’t realize it until Mitchell here opened
my eyes. We got a lot to thank him for, lad. He showed me what kind of
a boy you are; he nursed me back on my feet again; and he tells me that
he found your lifeboat model, too, which I flung overboard.”

“So he did and here it is,” said Ray, holding up the metal vessel.

“I’m mighty glad, Ray, fer I repented throwin’ t’ thing away more than
once lately,” said the swordfisherman.

This made Ray fairly tremble with happiness, for he had been hoping
that his uncle would not catch sight of the model for fear it would
bring back his old animosity. But it had quite the opposite effect.
Vance Carroll picked the metal boat up and examined it. Then turning to
Mr. Warner he demanded:

“What do you think of it, Mr. Engineer?”

“Think? Why I think it’s bully,” said Mr. Warner.

“An’ that’s what I been thinkin’ too. A lifeboat what won’t sink ner
turn over could be a mighty handy thing. If we’d had one on board t’
_Fish Hawk_ instead o’ dories, which we was afraid t’ trust, we could
have left her long before she struck, and perhaps saved all o’ t’ crew.”

“By hookey, that’s right,” said Ray, whose eyes were sparkling now.
Then he added, “This is going to be great, Uncle Vance, and Mr. Warner
is going to help me patent it, and perhaps sell it for me so’s I can
earn money enough to go to school.”

“Well, he needn’t if he don’t want to, fer I’m goin’ t’ send you to
school on my own money. I’ve got enough fer that, an’ besides I guess
I owe it to you.”

“What!” exclaimed the incredulous Ray.

“Yes, ye can go t’ school’s long es ye want. I don’t set much store by
schoolin’ usually, but I’ve been so blasted mean to ye that I figger
I owe ye t’ right o’ lettin’ ye hev yer own way fer a while. Sure, go
to school wherever you want an’ es long es ye want. I’ll foot t’ bill.
Guess ye earned enough money fer me t’ make accounts square in the end.”

“Whoop-e-e, hear that, Jack!” cried Ray, scarcely able to control his
emotions. “I’m to go to school anywhere I want and--”

“And, of course, you’ll come to Drueryville, and be our full-back next
year,” added the delighted Jack.

“Will I? Well, you bet your boots I will!” shouted Ray, and just
because they did not know of a better way to express their pleasure,
the two excited lads shook hands again and again.

And while Jack and Ray were talking, Vance Carroll picked up the model
lifeboat and, beckoning to Mr. Warner and Old Mitchell, left the room
for the outer office. There the three remained for a good two hours,
discussing the feasibility of organizing a company to build metal
lifeboats, for each one of the three men seemed eager to invest his
money in Ray’s invention.

THE END

VAIL-BALLOU CO., BINGHAMTON AND NEW YORK




       *       *       *       *       *




Transcriber’s note:

Illustrations have been moved to paragraph breaks near where they are
mentioned.

Punctuation has been made consistent.

Variations in spelling and hyphenation were retained as they appear in
the original publication, except that obvious typographical errors have
been corrected.