Bill was swimming beside her now and as a great wave caught them up and carried them forward he grasped her under the arm.
There came a last crumbling surge and the mighty swirl of water swept them up the beach and their feet struck bottom. Fortunately, the beach was not steep. The tide was nearly at the last of the ebb and there was but little undertow. Together they waded out and staggered up the shingle to sink down on the sand breathing heavily.
The boxes were washing back and forth at the water’s edge and Bill’s first act was to haul them in.
“Well, the government’s precious loot is safe,” he said grimly. “Are you able to walk?”
“I—I guess so.”
“Then, let’s get going. We’ll freeze if we don’t.”
He gathered up the boxes and looped them from his shoulders, rose to his feet and held out a hand. Dorothy took it, scrambled up and stood for a moment swaying unsteadily.
“The end of a perfect d-day—” she tried to grin, her teeth chattering with cold.
“I don’t think!” replied Bill unenthusiastically, and helped her to get rid of the heavy life belt.
“Know where we are?” she inquired when he had dropped the belts on the sand.
“Not precisely. But if we keep going we ought to strike a lifesaving station or something—come on.”
Dorothy groaned. “I suppose I must, but—gee whiz—I sure want to rest.”
Bill, who knew that physical exertion was absolutely necessary now, got his arm about her and they started unsteadily down the beach assisted by the gale at their backs.
They had walked about half a mile when he felt her weight begin to increase and her steps to lag. He stopped and peered into her face. As he did so, she sank to the sand at his feet. Bending over her, he was surprised to see that she was asleep—utterly exhausted.
The outlook was anything but pleasant. They had apparently struck upon a wild and desolate strip of sand—an island, he thought, cut off by inlets at either end and flanked by the maze of marshes in the lower reaches of Great South Bay. Without doubt they were marooned and to make matters worse, Bill knew he had just about reached the limit of his own strength.
CHAPTER XI
FROM OUT THE SEA
Bill stared down at Dorothy sleeping the sleep of exhaustion on the cold, wet sand. Her clothes, like his, were soaked with sea water and with rain. He realized that something must be done at once, or they would both be in for pneumonia. So stripping off his rubber coat and covering the unconscious girl, he started for the dunes.
Day was breaking as he left the shingle and commenced to plow through the loose sand. The storm was abating somewhat. Although the wind still blew half a gale, the sleet had turned to a fine, cold rain which bade fair to stop altogether once the sun was fully up. By the time Bill Bolton worked his painfully slow way to the top of the dunes it was light enough to see for a considerable distance.
At first glance the prospect was anything but alluring. His point of vantage was in the approximate center of an island of sand and shingle, a mile long, perhaps, by half a mile wide. Inlets from the white-capped Atlantic effectually cut off escape at either end of the outer beach on which a fearsome surf was pounding. Along the inner shore of this desolate, wind-swept islet a complicated network of channels intertwined about still other islands as far as the eye would reach. Nor could Bill make out any sign of human habitation.
“Water, water, everywhere, and not a gol-darned drop to drink,” he misquoted thoughtfully and wondered if by chewing the eel grass he would be able to get rid of the parched feeling of his mouth and throat.
He pulled a broad blade and chewed it meditatively. Then spat it out in disgust. The grass was as salty as the sea. It made him thirstier than ever. Turning seaward he swept the pale horizon with a despondent gaze.
Not a sign of a craft of any description could be seen. Wait a minute, though. Bill caught his breath. What was that—bobbing in the chop of the waves, just outside the bar of the eastern inlet? Could it be a boat? In this gray light a proper focus was difficult. It was a boat, open; a lifeboat, by the look of it. Waiting no longer for speculation, he hurried down the low hill toward the sea.
Once he struck hard sand, Bill raced into the teeth of the wind, with the boom of the surf on his right, and dire necessity lending wings to his tired feet. Forgotten were his thirst, the clammy cold of his wet clothes and his weariness. Every ounce of strength, the entire power of his will centered in the effort to come close enough to the boat to signal her assistance.
With his heart pumping like a steam engine, he passed Dorothy, who was lying exactly as he had left her. Then he got his second wind and running became less of a painful struggle. He could see the boat more plainly now. Surely it was an open motor sailor. Could it be the one belonging to Donovan and Charlie, he wondered. What irony!—to be rescued by the smugglers—and to lose liberty and the diamonds after all this storm and stress!
But the motor sailor was drifting—into the surf off the bar—without a soul aboard.
Coming to a halt at the inlet, he watched the tide pull the boat through the breakers on the bar to the smooth water. Off came his jacket and flinging it behind him on to the sand he waded into the water and swam for the boat. He reached her at last and with difficulty pulled himself aboard.
For a moment or two he rested on a thwart in a state of semi-collapse. As he had thought, it was the smugglers’ boat. But there was no sign of Donovan or Charlie. However, except for six inches or so of water that sloshed about his feet, the motor sailor seemed to be in good condition.
When he felt better, he started the engine and ran her ashore on the island. Then after inspecting the boat’s lockers, he buried her anchor in the sand and trudged back along the beach to Dorothy.
She was still sleeping, tousled head pillowed on her right arm, and it was some time before he could bring her back to consciousness.
“Let me alone,” she moaned drowsily, “I’m too tired to get up this morning, Lizzie. I don’t want any breakfast—go away and let me sleep!”
Bill raised her to a sitting position. “Wake up—wake up! You aren’t at home. And this isn’t Lizzie—it’s Bill—Bill Bolton! We’re still on the island.”
Dorothy opened her eyes, and looked at him wonderingly.
“The island—” he reiterated. “We were wrecked—had to swim for it. Don’t you remember?”
Suddenly she gained full control of her waking senses.
“I know. I know now, Bill. Guess I’ve been asleep. Ugh! I’m soaking. What did you wake me for? At least, I was comfortable!”
“Come to breakfast and dry clothes. You’ll get pneumonia if you stay here. Do you think you can walk? You’re a pretty husky armful, but I guess I can carry you to the boat if I must.” He grinned at her.
Dorothy was stiff and weary but she fairly jumped to her feet.
“What boat? Where is it?”
Bill told her.
“But you said ‘dry clothes and breakfast’—”
They were hurrying along the beach.
“That’s right. She’s got plenty of food aboard—and one of the lockers is packed with clothes. There are even dry towels, think of that! Those guys had her provisioned and equipped for a long trip.”
“What’s happened to them, do you think?”
“I can’t make it out. The boat has shipped some water, but nothing to be worried about. The motor’s O.K. and there’s plenty of gas. They may have got into the surf, thought she was going to founder, perhaps, and swam ashore like we did.”
“But they’re not on the island?”
“No. If they made the beach, it was somewhere else along the coast.”
“We should worry,” said Dorothy. “If they don’t want her, we do—and she certainly looks good to me.”
They walked down the shingle and Bill got aboard the boat.
“You wait on the beach,” he directed. “It’s pretty wet underfoot. I’ll pass
the things overside. I think the best plan is for you to go up in the dunes and change there. Meanwhile, I’ll start in with the handpump and get rid of the water. I’ll have her good and dry by the time you get back. Then you can rustle a meal while I put on dry things. Catch!”
Dorothy found herself possessed of a bundle knotted in a large bath towel. Upon inspection it proved to contain dungaree trousers, a jumper, a dark blue sweater, woolen socks and a pair of rubber-soled shoes.
“They may be a trifle large,” said Bill. “But at least they’re dry and the clothes seem to be clean.”
“Nothing could be sweeter,” was Dorothy’s comment. “See you in ten minutes—so long!”
“O.K.,” replied Bill and turned to the handpump.
Quarter of an hour later he was completing his labors with the aid of a large sponge when he heard footsteps on the shingle and looked up to see a young fellow in blue dungarees and sweater coming toward the boat, carrying a bundle of clothes.
“Dorothy! Gee—what a change! For a minute I thought you were a stranger.”
“Somebody’s younger brother, I suppose,” she laughed. “These things are miles too big for me—but they’re darned comfortable and warm. You go ahead and change your own clothes. I’ll finish bailing.”
Bill stepped overside and on to the sand, carrying his dry rig and a towel. Dorothy was spreading her sodden clothing on the sand.
“Bailing’s over for today,” he told her, “don’t forget about breakfast, though. I could eat a raw whale.”
“Don’t worry, young feller,” she retorted. “Your breakfast will be ready before you are. Just let me get these things drying in the nice warm sun that’s coming up now, and you’ll see!”
With a wave of his hand he disappeared over the brow of the sand hills, and Dorothy clambered aboard the beached motor sailor. Much to her delight she found a small two-burner oil stove, already lighted, standing on a thwart. Nearby had been placed a coffee-pot and a large frying pan. The lid of the food locker lay open, as did the one containing the water keg.
“Bright boy,” she murmured approvingly. “You’re a real help to mother! Now let’s see what smugglers live on.”
She had set a collapsible table that hinged to the side of the boat and was busy at the stove when she heard Bill’s halloo.
“Breakfast ready?” he called from the beach.
“Will be in a jiffy,” she answered without looking up. “How do you like your eggs?”
“Sunny side up, if it’s all the same to you.”
“O.K. Spread your wet clothes on the sand and come aboard.”
She was serving his eggs on a hot plate when Bill’s head appeared over the side.
“My, but that coffee smells good,” he cried, and swung himself aboard. “How did you manage to cook all that food!”
“Come to the table, and see what we’ve got.”
He sat down and inspected the various edibles, ticking them off on his fingers.
“Coffee, condensed milk, bread and butter, the ham-what-am, fried eggs, marmalade and maple syrup! Say, Dorothy, those guys certainly lived high. Some meal, this!”
Dorothy turned about from the stove, smiling. “And here’s what goes with the maple syrup!”
“A stack of wheats!” He shouted as she uncovered the dish. “You’re a wonder, a magician, Dorothy. How in the world did you manage it?”
Dorothy laughed, pleased by his enthusiasm.
“Found a package of pancake flour in the locker. They’re simple enough to make. Now dig in before things get cold. Help yourself to butter—it’s rather soft, but this lugger doesn’t seem to run to ice.”
Bill set to work as she poured the coffee.
“Like it that way,” he replied, his mouth full of ham and eggs, while he plastered his pancakes with butter. “Well, we’ve sure put it over on Messrs. Donovan and Charlie this trip, not to mention your friend Peters. Got their diamonds and their boat and their clothes. Now we’re eating their breakfast,—the sun is shining once more—and all is right in the world.”
“Where are those diamonds, by the way?” exclaimed Dorothy suddenly, having taken the edge off her ravenous appetite.
Bill laid down his knife and fork. For a moment he looked startled, then burst into a great roar of laughter.
“We’re a fine pair of Secret Service workers!” he cried derisively. “But it’s my fault. You were all in.”
Dorothy’s jaw dropped. “Don’t tell me you left them on the beach!”
“Surest thing you know. I left them beside you on the sand and forgot all about the darn things when I spotted the motor sailor. Never thought of them again until this minute!”
Dorothy nodded sagely. “Which only goes to show that diamonds don’t count for much when one is tired and wet and hungry, not to mention being marooned on a desert island!”
“Ain’t it the truth! Another cup of coffee, please. I’ll fetch them when we’ve finished eating.”
“After we’ve washed up?”
“O.K. with me.”
Bill drank his third cup of coffee and leaned back with a sigh of content.
“Well, the old appetite’s satisfied at last,” he admitted comfortably. “And I don’t mind telling you that was the best meal I ever ate.”
“Thank you, kind sir. Though I think it is your appetite rather than the cook you should thank.”
Bill shook his head. “When it comes to cooking, you’re a real, bona fide, died-in-the-wool, A-1 Ace! How about it—shall we wash the dishes now?”
“I can’t eat any more, and if I don’t get busy soon, I’ll go to sleep again.”
“Pass the dishes and things overside to me. I’ll sluice ’em off in the water. We should worry. This will be our last meal on this boat. I’ll bet a rubber nickel those smuggler-guys wouldn’t have done this much if they’d got the Mary Jane.”
“Poor Mary Jane,” sighed Dorothy as they tidied up. “She was a staunch old thing. I wonder what Yancy will soak Dad for her?”
“Nothing. Uncle Sam pays for that boat. She went down on government service, didn’t she?”
“That’s good news,” smiled Dorothy. “Now, that’s the last plate. Let’s go along the beach. I’m getting worried about those boxes of diamonds. Do you think they’ll be there, all right?”
“Sure to be. Unless somebody has landed on this island while we were busy with the eats. Come along and we’ll see.”
CHAPTER XII
THE NOTEBOOK
“Do you really think they’ll be where we left them, Bill?”
“Why sure! You’re not worrying, are you?”
The two were hurrying along the beach toward the spot where Dorothy had dropped to the sand and fallen asleep.
“Yes, I am.”
“Well, it’s Uncle Sam’s loot, not ours. And I reckon he cares more about knowing how the smuggling was done than the contraband itself, anyway.”
“I know. But that’s only half of it. The gang has got to be rounded up. We don’t know where they have their headquarters or who is in back of this business. So I’d hate to have to admit I’d lost the diamonds, after all.” Then, as Bill began to reply, she went on: “And don’t forget that Terry Walters is still missing—or was, when I flew over from New Canaan yesterday!”
“You’re right, pal. I just didn’t want you to take it too soberly. But that bearded aviator has got to be checked up. No easy matter, either, after what happened last night.” He broke off sharply. “There are the old boxes—just where I dropped them—so you see you’ve had your worry for nothing.”
“Just the same, we’ve been terribly careless!”
“Don’t rub it in,” said Bill, looping the line and its dangling load over his shoulder. “These things go to a bank for safe keeping just as soon as I can get rid of them.”
Dorothy caught his arm. “Let’s pry open one of the boxes, and make sure there really are diamonds inside.”
“Nothing doing,” Bill answered
decisively. “They’re going to be turned over to the authorities—as is!”
“Well, you needn’t be so snooty about it. But I am crazy to see the sparklers—especially after all we’ve been through to rescue them!”
“Of course,—I’m sorry,” apologized Bill with a grin, “I’m kind of jumpy this morning, I guess. Me for bed as soon as I can find one. But you know, we really can’t open those things up, because we’d then be held responsible for contents—or no contents—as the case may be. See?”
“I didn’t think about that, Bill. But let’s forget the old boxes. I’m all in myself. Any idea what time it is? My watch has stopped.”
Bill glanced at his wrist. “Just seven o’clock. Seems like noon to me. This nice warm sun is a wonderful help—I was chilled to the bone.”
“Me too,” said Dorothy. “Well, here we are at the motor sailor. Nothing to keep us longer on this island. I vote we shove off.”
“Second the motion. Hop aboard and go aft. Your weight in the stern will help to raise her bow so I can push her out without breaking my back.”
“How’s that?” called Dorothy a minute later.
“Fine! Stand by for a shove!”
A heave of his shoulder against the bow loosened the boat’s keel from the sand and Bill sprang aboard as she glided into deep water.
“Don’t suppose there’s a chart of the lower bay stowed in one of those lockers?” he remarked as he started the engine. “The shallows are going to be the limit to navigate without running aground. Do you mind seeing what you can find, Dorothy?”
“Not at all—seeing I’ve already found one,” she laughed. “Came across it when I was looking for food.”
“Good.” Bill took over the wheel. “Let me see it, will you?”
Dorothy passed over the map. Bill studied it with a hand on the wheel.
“Thank goodness the deeper channels are marked,” he ruminated, “that’s a help, anyway.”
The Second Girl Detective Megapack: 23 Classic Mystery Novels for Girls Page 179