by Hugh Lloyd
“I feel sick on accounta my Pop, that’s what,” said he bitterly. “Youhelped make things worse for him too, Mr. Jones, on account of thethings you told about what he said that day after you inspected the_Minnie M. Baxter_.”
Inspector Jones’ bland countenance looked immediately troubled.
“I told the truth, Skippy,” he said kindly. “I told only what yourfather had said and my men were there to prove it.”
“You needn’t have said that Pop said he was gonna _fix_ Mr. Flint ’causeyou mighta known he really didn’t mean it. Pop was mad then, but hepromised me before we left for the _Apollyon_ that night that hewouldn’t lose his head. Gee, he’s even sworn since he didn’t take Mr.Flint’s life an’ don’t you suppose I know when my Pop’s tellin’ thetruth?”
“I guess so,” Inspector Jones answered with real feeling in his voice;“I guess you know your Pop better than anybody, Skippy. I’m sorry, thelaw required me to testify against him. But it was my duty—can’t yousee?”
“Then you believe they’ll be keepin’ my Pop in jail when he’s innocent,too, huh?” Skippy asked excitedly.
“I’m rather inclined to believe that your father didn’t shoot Flint,”answered the inspector. “But I can’t do anything about it, Skippy, and Idoubt if my testimony alone would convict him. It’s thatDistrict-Attorney and Marty Skinner that’s made it so tough for yourfather. You know Skinner swore he saw Toby at the porthole and the D. A.put it over to the jury that he was dropping the gun which did the job.”
“Yeah, but that diver didn’t find no gun,” Skippy replied, “an’ my Popswore he wasn’t near no porthole an’ besides nobody tried findin’ outabout that kicker that was around when we come up. I’ll betcha thefeller what did the killin’ got away in it.”
“You’re right about not finding the gun, Skippy,” Inspector Jones noddedthoughtfully. “I’ll look into the kicker angle some more.”
“Say, thanks, Mr. Jones, me’n Pop we’d be so thankful, we would. Maybeif I went to see Mr. Skinner he’d help us ’cause I guess hard as he ishe’ll see I don’t tell lies even to get my Pop free. Maybe I oughta goright away to see him, huh?”
Inspector Jones nodded thinking how futile the boy’s errand would be.But he had boys of his own and he did not want to jolt the lad out ofhis pleasant dream. So all he said was: “The sooner the better, becauseI hear he’s going on the _Apollyon_ for a week’s cruise. You know BuckFlint has gone to Europe and now Skinner, who was only Josiah Flint’syes-man for years, is ruling the roost and living high on amillionaire’s yacht. Buck says he won’t ever board her so it’s prettysoft for Skinner. He’s got the boat anchored just outside in the bay,ready to nose her out to sea after nightfall. If you get right on downthere, you’ll catch him aboard, sure.”
Skippy smiled his thanks and turned his little motor over. The inspectorwaved his hand.
“From the sound of that kicker,” he shouted, “I take it you’ve lostToby’s muffler?”
“Sure,” Skippy answered laughing, “what do I need with a muffler, huh?’Cepting it might be better for fishin’ with. But gee, I should worryabout livin’ on fish if I can see Mr. Skinner, huh? Pop ought to be outby—by....”
“Tomorrow, eh?” Inspector Jones interposed turning his head aside andblowing his nose hard.
“Nope,” Skippy answered wistfully, “I won’t say tomorrow ’cause then—ohwell, it’s too quick. But anyway, if I see Mr. Skinner it won’t be longafter tomorrow, I bet.”
He had yet to learn from his bitter experience that tomorrow nevercomes.
CHAPTER XI ALL OF A KIND
Skippy’s little boat chugged out of the bay and around toward the Hook.It was late afternoon and the haze had deepened into an ominoussultriness. White caps danced atop the waves and off on the horizonblack clouds and black sea met in dismal union. A flock of gulls swarmedabout, flapping their huge wings between sky and sea with monotonousprecision.
A miscellaneous collection of craft was anchored just outside the bay;sailboats, fishing smacks, dories and yachts of every size, and not theleast of these was the shining hull of the lovely _Apollyon_. Skippycaught sight of her immediately and slowed his own little boat that hemight have a better view of her in the light of day.
Her superstructure was painted a most delicate shade of green and Skippyunderstood then why he had imagined her to be of that ghostly whitenessbelow her anchor lights which shone like stars against that dark,memorable night. Too, the large gilt letters spelling out her queer nameseemed not so ornate now as when he had first seen them.
His first reaction to the lovely yacht had been one of envy andadmiration; it was so now and he tried hard not to think of the unhappysequel that his first visit to the _Apollyon_ had brought. Yet somehowhe could not shake off the fear-inspiring memory of what the name reallymeant and he wondered if anything but evil could tread those spotlessdecks.
He chuckled a little and turned his motor boat toward the yacht. Therewere signs of a near-departure aboard and he caught sight of the secondmate resplendent in his spotless uniform and cap. Leaning over theforward rail, he recognized Skippy at once, and waved his hand.
“If it ain’t the kid!” he called cheerfully. “Young Dare, hey? Well,you’ve come a ways.”
“Sure,” Skippy smiled. “I come down to see Mr. Skinner. It’s awfulparticular what I gotta see him about.”
“You look’s if it might be a case of life or death at that,” the secondmate mused.
“It is a case of life, Mister—my Pop’s whole life,” said Skippyanxiously. “That’s why I wanta see Mr. Skinner.”
The second mate was all contrition. “Kid, I clean forgot about your Pop,’deed I did. C’mon aboard. Sure Mr. Skinner’ll be seein’ you. ’Course Iain’t promisin’ you’ll find him easy talkin’ to ’cause he ain’t. He’sright set in his notions ’bout you Basin and river folks; he thinksyou’re all rascals.”
“But his boss, ol’ Flint——” Skippy began protesting.
“He knowed like you’n me and plenty others that the old boss was a toughegg—and between you’n me Skinner ain’t no angel hisself—but that don’tchange his mind none.”
Skippy realized this full well a little later when Marty Skinner refusedto hear him, ordered him off the boat, and shouted that his father was arogue and so was he.
Skippy rushed blindly out of the cabin. The door slammed behind him, thesame door that had slammed behind his father on that tragic night. Hehad accomplished just nothing at all in that cabin of past horrors,nothing except to hear from a gentleman’s lips what his kind reallythought of river people.
And he, Skippy Dare, was one of the river people—himself, the son of arogue!
CHAPTER XII DRIFTING
Skippy nosed the motor boat toward the Hook. He had no thought ofanything save that he was angry and hurt and wanted to feel the fresh,salt breeze blow over his burning face. He felt that he must think overthis new and humiliating status in which Marty Skinner had so cruellyplaced him, and he wanted to think of it where no one could see theunhappiness that it caused him.
He hadn’t the heart to turn back toward the Basin and home. Home! Hefrowned at the word, for it seemed that the _Minnie M. Baxter_ and allthat it represented could bring him nothing now but recurring thoughtsof the hated Skinner. All that the man had said had left its mark on thesensitive boy’s mind and for the first time in his life he felt a bitterhatred toward a fellow being.
That Marty Skinner, old Josiah Flint’s right-hand man, should call hisfather a rogue, was hardly to be endured. But if it were so, he reasonedin a calmer moment, then all the more reason for the blame to fall onthe dead Josiah. Hadn’t Old Flint himself been the worst rogue of all?
He was tempted to return and shout these thoughts so that all aboard the_Apollyon_ might hear. He wanted to tell them what Toby had said aboutJosiah Flint making the despised
Brown’s Basin possible because of hisselfish, unscrupulous dealings.
But, boy-like, Skippy’s anger was soon reduced to a smoldering memoryand his father’s imminent incarceration was a thing that had to befaced. Just now he was forced to think of his own present situation, fora significant sputtering from the motor gave warning that he was aboutto have trouble.
He had not his father’s knack for adjusting the rebellious motor, and sohe decided to turn the boat about and make for the quieter waters of thebay. But just then the motor stalled and despite his earnest efforts, itrefused to respond.
Skippy looked about him anxiously and saw that he had already beencarried an alarming distance. Dusk was rapidly settling, hastened by thedeepening haze and in a few moments the tide and undertow had swept himout of sight of all the anchored craft clustered about the _Apollyon_.
He looked hopefully toward the Hook but saw that it was useless to tryand reach it even with the one oar that the little boat had in reserve.The tide was against him.
After a quick glance about, he hunted around among some neglected toolslying at his feet and picked out the searchlight. But that, too, refusedto respond; the battery was dead. Then he looked for some matches onlyto meet with disheartening disappointment.
He got to his knees after that and worked furiously at the cold motor,squinting at his hopeless task in the near-darkness. The boom of thundercould be heard from out at sea, and with the swiftly passing minutes thestorm came nearer and nearer until it broke directly overhead.
Lightning flashed across the drifting boat and Skippy dodged under thebow. There was something terrifying about the elements when one wasalone and drifting steadily toward the sea in an open boat.
After a momentary lull, he crept out, not a little ashamed of hiscowardice. He looked about, trying hard not to look or feel panickydespite the fact that he could see nothing of the Hook or anything else.Darkness and high, shadowy waves upon which the little boat bobbed wereall that met his frightened gaze. Then a damp, cold wind began to blow.
He crouched down in the bottom of the boat with a feeling of dulldespair. Rain pattered into an old rusty bait can that lay at his feetand he edged his shivering body closer under the bow. Curiously enough,he was quite calm now and the thought that his situation was dangerousdid not enter his mind.
Skippy-like, he was thinking only that he was terribly hungry and morethan anything else he wanted to eat.
CHAPTER XIII LIGHTS
The thunder and lightning died away after a time but the rain continued.The constant boom of the sea gradually wore away some of Skippy’s calmand he raised his head from time to time to gaze apprehensively at thedark sea rising all about him in mountainous waves.
The sky seemed a black void and at times as the little boat tossed aboutin the waves, he had the breath-taking sensation that he had turnedturtle. Once, he mused about what probability there was of his beingcarried clear across the sea to some European port. He had heard of menbeing able to live without food or water from ten to fourteen days.Well, he had his fishing outfit, he reasoned hopefully; he needn’tstarve, but how to get water puzzled him.
After a few more minutes of tossing wildly about, he decided that thelittle boat could probably never stand an ocean voyage. With eachsucceeding wave it came perilously near to upsetting and he doubted thatthe craft could triumph over the angry sea much longer.
That contingency awoke a strong determination in him, for he got to hisfeet, reached for the oar and struggled valiantly to balance the boatagainst the oncoming foe. The rain soaked him through to the skin but hewas not cold for he was kept in constant action trying to make one oardo the work of two.
He had lost all sense of time and direction; he thought only of keepingthe boat balanced. That he could not keep it up very long did not occurto him, for he already felt the effects of the past week’s malnutritionand his long journey from the Basin had fatigued him.
After what seemed an interminable time he caught a glimpse of a light, afaint gleam, but nevertheless a light. He gasped with joy and lookedhard into the darkness to get a definite idea of its location. In pointof fact he looked so hard he all but swamped the boat.
Great beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead when he rightedthe boat, but he came up triumphant on the crest of a wave. The exertionwas too much for him, however; he felt inexpressibly weak and tired. Hismuscles ached and a giddiness in his head made him feel as if he mustlie down.
But there was the light just ahead and he bent his frail body in asupreme effort to reach it. He was cheered because it did not seem tomove and he ventured to hope that it might be on the shore. The mainthing—it was a light, and light might reasonably be expected to meanrescue by all the rules of the game.
Suddenly a great arc of faint yellow light swept from behind and circledhis head. He had come to no decision about its origin before it cameagain, a little brighter than before. Then after some minutes had passedand it had grown still brighter, it occurred to him that it was from thelighthouse at the Hook and the great light had gradually penetrated thefast dissolving haze.
He took heart at this because he knew he could not be so very far awayfrom land. But he knew it was futile to even hope to get back there inhis boat. It might be ten miles and it might be twenty. The great lightat the Hook boasted a range of thirty miles on a clear night, he hadheard his father say.
The light that gave him real hope was the heartening glimmer just ahead.He knew that it was not just because he wished it so fervently, but hecould plainly see that it became brighter as the boat advanced.
Then suddenly he heard the faint ringing of a bell, which echoed eerilyon the shifting wind.
CHAPTER XIV THE BELL BUOY
He listened intently and thought that it came from the direction of thelight. It rang again and again, each time a little louder. Suddenly,however, he was aware that the light seemed no longer stationary. He hadthe disheartening experience of realizing that his beacon of hope was arunning light on a fishing smack. He felt like crying as he watched theshadowy hull gaining speed for he realized that she must have juststarted ahead, having waited for the wind to change.
Every wave carried her farther and farther away from the watching boy.If he had only got there just a little sooner, he thought dismally. Buthe had done the best he could. There was nothing left now but to sit andwatch her swallowed up by the darkness and the mountainous seas and thathad happened in a few minutes’ time.
He was glad he had not been foolish enough to hope that he could reachher and overtake her, only to be disappointed and use up what littlestrength he had left. That at least was some satisfaction and it helpedhim bear his desperate plight a little more patiently.
The constant booming of the sea had a queer effect on his sensitiveears. He imagined himself to be hearing all sorts of noises,particularly the ringing of the bell. At times he could have sworn heheard it right at hand and at other times it seemed but a mocking echo.
The air was quite clear now, though the rain continued, and Skippy sawto his dismay that the boat was getting a little too full of water forhis safety. He put down the oar for a while and bailed her out with hisrusty bait can.
The little boat tossed against each rising wave like a feather; but heworked feverishly and trusted to luck that it would not upset. Thenafter a few minutes he was startled by the sound of the bell ringingright over his head. Before he had time to look up he felt the boat bumphard against something.
He was on his feet in a second and saw to his great surprise that theboat was alongside of a bell buoy.
It has been truly said that time and tide wait for no man and certainlySkippy was aware of this instantly, for in the next second a giant wavehad washed him out of reach of the buoy. This realization made himdesperate and he got into action to get back to it, for he well knew nowthat to drift on through the night would mean cer
tain death.
With a swift movement he pushed his wet hair back from his highforehead. Then he bent over, got the oar and grabbed a rope, holding ittightly in his hand. And for fully five minutes he battled and struggledagainst the undertow.
His eyes were wide and staring from the strain and little streams ofwater ran down either cheek. His clothes from head to foot were weightedagainst him with water but he never stopped until he had brought theboat back against the buoy and in a second he had thrown the painteraround it and pulled it taut.
That done he sank down in the bottom of the boat, exhausted.
For some time his mind was an utter blank. He was too tired and weak tothink or even to care. But the rain beating steadily down on hisunprotected body soon chilled him back into action and he got up andexercised his arms and legs.
As the buoy swayed upon each succeeding swell, the bell tolledmournfully. Its eerie echoes were faint and quickly lost in the noise ofthe pounding sea, and Skippy decided that no mariner ten minutes’ sailfrom the bell was likely to look that way. Also, the quick wash of thesea prevented the bell from tolling its loudest and longest. Nothing buthis own two hands could do that.
And so he did it.
For the next hour he bent his frail body over the swaying buoy and swungthe cold, wet bell back and forth, back and forth. Peal after pealtolled forth dismally and though his eyes became blurred with wearinesshe knew that he had missed nothing, for nothing had passed for him tomiss.