Title: From Sea to Sea: Or, Clint Webb’s Cruise on the Windjammer
Author: Foster, W. Bert (Walter Bertram)
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.


*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "From Sea to Sea: Or, Clint Webb’s Cruise on the Windjammer" ***


[Illustration: “YOU WANT US TO LOSE THIS RACE, YOU SAWNEY!” HE
                 EXCLAIMED. (From Sea to Sea) (Page 135)]



  From Sea to Sea

  Or

  Clint Webb’s Cruise on the Windjammer

  By W. BERT FOSTER

  Author of

  The Frozen Ship; or, Clint Webb Among the Sealers. Swept Out to Sea;
  or, Clint Webb Among the Whalers. The Ocean Express; or, Clint Webb
  and the Sea Tramp.

  [Illustration]

  Chicago M. A. Donohue & Co.



  Copyright 1914 M. A. Donohue & Company Chicago



CONTENTS


  Chapter                                                          Page

       I--I Shield a Friend and Make an Enemy                         7

      II--I Relate My History and Stand Up to a Bully                15

     III--The Bubble of My Conceit Is Pricked                        27

      IV--Captain Bowditch Crowds On Sail and There Is Much
            Excitement                                               37

       V--We See a Ship Sailing in the Sky                           47

      VI--The Gullwing Suffers a Ghostly Visitation                  54

     VII--Is Pictured a Race in Mid-Ocean                            64

    VIII--It Seems That a Prophecy Will Be Fulfilled                 72

      IX--I Pass Through Deep Waters                                 80

       X--The Impossible Becomes the Possible                        88

      XI--I See That There Is Tragedy in This Ocean Race             96

     XII--The Captain’s Dog Goes Overboard                          103

    XIII--I Learn a Deal About Sea Monsters in General and the
            Giant Squid in Particular                               110

     XIV--A Signal Retards the Race                                 121

      XV--We Have a Race in Good Earnest                            131

     XVI--I Return to the Gullwing--and With My Arms Full           138

    XVII--We Learn the Particulars of the Wreck of the Galland      146

   XVIII--I Become Better Acquainted with Phillis Duane             156

     XIX--I Learn Something More About the Barney Twins             164

      XX--Phillis Tells Me of Her Dream                             172

     XXI--The Sister Ships Once More Race Neck and Neck             179

    XXII--The Capes of Virginia Are in Sight                        189

   XXIII--We Escape Death by the Breadth of a Hair                  197

    XXIV--The Tragedy of the Racing Ships Is Completed              203

     XXV--A Very Serious Question Is Discussed                      210

    XXVI--Is Told How the Barney Boys Go Ashore                     219

   XXVII--I Receive a Telegram That Troubles Me                     227

  XXVIII--My Homecoming Proves To Be a Strange One Indeed           234

    XXIX--Mr. Chester Downes and I Again “Lock Horns”               241

     XXX--My Welcome Home Is a Real Welcome After All               249



From Sea to Sea

Or,

Clint Webb’s Cruise on the Windjammer



CHAPTER I

_In Which I Shield a Friend and Make an Enemy_


The after port anchor had come inboard before I stepped over the rail
of the Gullwing, and leaped to the deck. The starboard and port bowers
were both catted and fished and the stay-fore-sail had filled to pay
off her head.

The wind was blowing directly on shore; the current ran parallel
with the land; there was no choice of direction in getting the big
four-master under weigh, and she was headed into the stream.

A clarion voice shouted from the poop:

“Haul main-tack!

“Come aft with that sheet!

“Set jib and spanker! Look alive there!

“Mr. Gates! see if you can’t get some action out of your watch!”

“Aye, aye, sir!” from the mate.

“Helm a-lee! hard a-lee!”

“Hard a-lee she is!” growled the helmsman, a great, hairy, two-fisted
salt, with an enormous quid of tobacco in one cheek, a cast in his eye,
and his blue shirt so wide open at the throat that we could catch a
glimpse of a dashing looking mermaid, in blue and red, upon his chest.

“Set fore-sail! Be alive, there, Mr. Barney. Those men of yours act as
stiff as Paddy’s father--and him nine days dead!”

The stamping of the men on the deck as they hauled on the ropes, a
confusion of cries from those in the tops, the squeal of the cables
running over the drum, the coughing of the donkey-engine amidships by
which the huge anchors had been started from the bottom of Valpariso
roadstead, and the general bustle and running about, kept Thankful
Polk--who had followed me aboard the big, four-stick schooner--and I
right there by the rail, where we would be out of the way. Thankful
gave me a sly glance, as he whispered:

“I reckon we’ve caught a Tartar in Cap’n Joe Bowditch--what?”

But I had noted the lines about the skipper’s mouth and the wrinkles at
the corners of his quick, gray eyes. Those lines and wrinkles had not
been graved in the old sea-captain’s face by any long-standing grouch.
Captain Bowditch was a man who liked his joke; and even his voice as
he bawled orders from the quarter had a tang of good-nature to it that
was not to be mistaken.

“I reckon we’ll get along all right with him, if we play the game
straight,” I observed to my chum, and turned then to wave my cap to
Cap’n Hi Rogers, of the whaling bark Scarboro, who was now being rowed
back to his own ship after leaving us to the tender mercies of Cap’n
Bowditch.

“By hickey!” exclaimed the boy from Georgia, glancing now along the
deck, “ain’t she a monster? Looks a mile from the wheel to the break of
the fo’castle.”

It was the largest sailing vessel I had ever been aboard of myself. The
Scarboro was a good sized bark, but as we crossed her stern we could
look down upon the whaler’s deck and wave our hats to the friendly crew
that had been so kind to us. Only a single scowling face was raised
to ours as the Gullwing swept on, a creamy wave breaking either side
of her sharp bow. This face belonged to my cousin, Paul Downes, who
scowled at me and shook his fist. But I merely smiled back at him.
I thought that--at length--I could afford to laugh at my cousin’s
threats. I was bound straight for home aboard the Gullwing; he had
eighteen months, or more, to serve aboard the whaling bark.

Seeing that both the captain and the mates were too busy just then
to bother with us, Thank and I strolled forward. It was a long, long
deck--and the boards were as white as stone and water could make them.
There was some litter about just now, of course; but from the look of
the whole ship I made up my mind right then and there that if Captain
Bowditch was a martinet in anything, it was in the line of neatness
and order. The slush tub beside the galley door was freshly painted
and had a tight cover; there was no open swill bucket to gather flies;
the cook’s wiping towels had been boiled out and were now hung upon a
patent drying rack fastened to the house, and were as white and clean
as the wash of a New England housewife. Every bit of brightwork shone
and where paint was needed it had been newly put on with no niggard
hand. As the sails were broke out and spread to catch the light wind,
many of them were white-new, while those that were patched had been
overboard for a good sousing before being bent on again. Oh, the
Gullwing was a smart ship, with a smart skipper, and a smart crew; one
could appraise these facts with half an eye.

“Makes you think you ought to have wiped your feet on the mat before
stepping in, eh?” chuckled Thank. “I bet we got to a place at last,
Sharp, where we’re bound to work. That old feller with the whiskers up
there could spot a fly-speck on the flying jib-boom. I wonder he don’t
have brass cuspidors setting ’round for the deck-watch!”

Compared with the frowzy old vessels, captained and manned by
foreigners, that make American ports, this American ship, American
skippered, and American manned, was a lady’s parlor. “She’s a beauty,”
I said. “We may work for our pay--whatever it is to be--but thank’s be
’tis no sealing craft. The stench of the old Gypsey Girl will never be
out of my nostrils.”

We stood about for a few minutes longer, trying to keep out of the way
of the busy crew; but one husky, red faced fellow came sliding down the
backstays and landed square on Thank’s head and shoulders, pitching him
to the deck.

“Get out o’ the way, you two young sawneys!” growled this fellow.
“Don’t you know enough to keep out from under foot?”

Thank had picked himself up quickly and turned with his usual
good-natured grin. It was hard for anybody to pick a quarrel with
Thankful Polk.

“My law-dee, Mister” he exclaimed. “Is that the way you us’ally come
from aloft? Lucky I was right here to cushion ye, eh?”

The red faced fellow, without a word, swung at him with his hard fist
doubled. I was a pretty sturdy fellow myself, with more weight than
my chum, and I saw no reason for letting him receive that blow when
interference was so easy. I stepped in and the bully crashed against
my shoulder, his blow never reaching Thank. Nor did he hurt me,
either. His collision with my shoulder threw him off his balance and
he sprawled upon the deck, striking his head hard. He rolled over and
blinked up at me for half a minute, too stunned to realize what had
happened to him.

The encounter was seen by half a dozen of the men, but none of the
officers spied us. The spectators laughed as though they hugely enjoyed
the discomfiture of the bully.

“Sarves ye right, Bob Promise,” muttered one of the A. B.s; “I bet ye
got more than ye bargained for in that youngster.”

“Caught a Tartar, eh, Bob?” scoffed another man.

The fellow on the deck “came to” then, and sprang up with every
apparent intention of attacking me. I had shielded my chum, but it was
plain that I had made an enemy.

“I’ll teach ye, ye young swab!” Bob ejaculated, and started for me.

But the others interfered. Several hustled the bully back.

“None o’ that, Bob Promise!” exclaimed the first speaker. “We’ll have
the old man down here in a second.”

“I’ll break that feller’s neck!” cried Bob.

“I dunno whether ye will or not--in a stand up fight,” drawled another
of his shipmates. “He looks like he could take care of himself.”

I had involuntarily fallen into an attitude of self-defense. That is
where I had the advantage of Thank; I knew something about boxing, and
although the bully was heavier and older than I, it was pretty certain
that he had no science. At any rate I wasn’t going to let him think I
was afraid of him.

“You wait!” growled Bob Promise. “You stand up to me in the watch
below, and I’ll eat you alive.”

I had an idea that if he did I should disagree with his stomach badly;
but I did not say this. I don’t think I am naturally a quarrelsome
fellow, if I am impulsive. Nor did I wish to get in bad with the
captain and officers of the ship by being mixed up in a fight.

“Oh, pshaw!” I said, mildly. “I don’t want to fight you, Mister. Thank
didn’t intentionally get in your way, and I didn’t mean----”

“You struck me, you white livered----”

“I didn’t,” I denied. “You ran against me.”

“Don’t you give me no back talk,” snarled the fellow, but looking out
watchfully for the officers now.

“Don’t be mad,” I said, with a smile. “I’m sorry if I hurt you----”

I guess that wasn’t a wise thing to say, although I did not mean to
heap fuel on the flames of his wrath. He gave me a black look as he
turned away, muttering:

“Wait till I git you a-tween decks, my lad. I’ll do for you!”

Thank and I looked at each other, and I guess my countenance expressed
all the chagrin I felt, for my chum did not smile, as usual.

“You butted in for me, Sharp,” he said, gloomily, “and now that big
bruiser will beat you up, as sure as shooting.”



CHAPTER II

_In Which I Relate My History and Stand Up to a Bully_


A fine introduction to my readers! That is the way I look at it. It
does seem to me, looking back upon the last few years of my life,
that my impetuosity has forever been getting me into unpleasant
predicaments. Perhaps if I wasn’t such a husky fellow for my age,
and had not learned to use my fists to defend myself, I should not
have “butted in,” as Thankful Polk said, and so laid myself open to
a beating at the hands of Bob Promise, the bully of the Gullwing’s
fo’castle.

A quarrel with my cousin, Paul Downes, on a certain September evening
more than a year and a half before, had resulted in a serious change in
my life and in a series of adventures which no sensible fellow could
ever have desired. For all those months I had been separated from my
home, and from my mother who was a widow and needed me, and at this
particular time when I had come aboard the Gullwing, my principal wish
and hope was to get back to my home, and that as quickly as possible.
That the reader may better understand my situation I must briefly
recount my history up to this hour.

Something more than fifteen years previous my father, Dr. Webb, of
Bolderhead, Massachusetts, while fishing from a dory off shore was lost
overboard and his body was never recovered. This tragedy occurred three
weeks after the death of my maternal grandfather, Mr. Darringford, who
had objected to my mother’s marriage to Dr. Webb, and who had left his
large estate in trust for my mother and myself, but so tied up that we
could never benefit by a penny of it unless we separated from Dr. Webb,
or in case of my father’s death. Dr. Webb had never been a money-making
man--not even a successful man as the world looks upon success--and he
was in financial difficulties at the time of his fatal fishing trip.

Considering these circumstances, ill-natured gossip said that Dr. Webb
had committed suicide. I was but two years old at the time and before I
had grown to the years of understanding, this story had been smothered
by time; I never should have heard the story I believe had it not been
for my cousin, Paul Downes.

Mr. Chester Downes had married my mother’s older sister, and that
match had pleased Mr. Darringford little better than the marriage of
his younger daughter. But Aunt Alice had died previous to grandfather’s
own decease, so Mr. Downes and Paul had received but a very small part
of the Darringford estate. I know now that Chester Downes had attached
himself like a leech to my weak and easily influenced mother, and
had it not been for Lawyer Hounsditch, who was co-trustee with her,
my uncle would long since have completely controlled my own and my
mother’s property.

Chester Downes and his son, who was only a few mouths older than
myself, had done their best to alienate my mother from me as I grew
older; but the quarrel between Paul and myself, mentioned above, had
brought matters to a crisis, and I believed that I had gotten the
Downeses out of the house for good and all. Fearing that Paul would try
to “get square” with me by harming my sloop, the Wavecrest, I slept
aboard that craft to guard her. At the beginning of the September gale
Paul sneaked out of the sloop in the night, nailed me into the cabin,
and cut her moorings. I was blown out to sea and was rescued by the
whaling bark, Scarboro, just beginning a three-years’ voyage to the
South Seas.

I was enabled to send home letters by a mail-boat, but was forced to
remain with the Scarboro until she reached Buenos Ayres. The story
of an old boatsteerer, Tom Anderly by name, had revived in my mind
the mystery of my poor father’s disappearance. Tom had been one of
the crew of a coasting schooner which had rescued a man swimming in
the sea on a foggy day off Bolderhead Neck, at the time--as near as
I could figure--when my father was reported drowned. This man had
called himself Carver and had left the coasting vessel at New York
after having borrowed two dollars from Tom. Years afterward a letter
had reached Tom from this Carver, enclosing the borrowed money, and
postmarked Santiago, Chile. The details of the boatsteerer’s story made
me believe that the man Carver was Dr. Webb, who had deserted my mother
and myself for the obvious reason that, as long as he remained with us,
we could not benefit from grandfather’s estate.

While ashore at Buenos Ayres I was accosted by a queer old Yankee named
Adoniram Tugg, master and owner of the schooner Sea Spell, but whose
principal business was the netting of wild animals for animal dealers.
He called me “Professor Vose,” not having seen my face, and explained
that my voice and build were exactly like a partner of his whom he
knew by that name. The character of this Professor Vose, as described
by Captain Tugg, as well as other details, led me to believe that he
was the same man whom the boatsteerer aboard the Scarboro had known as
Jim Carver, and the possibility of the man being my father took hold of
my imagination so strongly that I shipped on the Sea Spell for Tugg’s
headquarters, located some miles up a river emptying into the Straits
of Magellan.

But when we reached the animal catcher’s headquarters we found
the shacks and cages destroyed and it was Tugg’s belief that his
partner--the mysterious man I had come so far to see--had been killed
by the natives. Making my way to Punta Arenas, to take a steamship for
home, feeling that my impulsiveness had delayed my return to my mother
unnecessarily, I fell in again with the Scarboro.

To my surprise I found aboard of her, under the name of “Bodfish,” my
cousin, Paul Downes. Fearing punishment for cutting my sloop adrift,
when his crime became known, Paul had run away from home and had worked
his way as far as Buenos Ayres on a Bayne Line Steamship. There Captain
Rogers of the whaling bark had found him in a crimp’s place and had
bailed him out and taken him aboard the Scarboro. Paul didn’t like
his job, and demanded that I pay his fare home on the steamship, but
I believed that a few months’ experience with the whalers would do my
cousin no harm, and should have refused his demand even had I had money
enough for both our fares. The details of these adventures are related
in full in the first volume of this series, entitled, “Swept Out to
Sea; or, Clint Webb Among the Whalers.”

Because I refused to aid Paul he threatened again to “get square,” and
he certainly made good his threat. I was to remain but two nights at
Punta Arenas and had already paid my passage as far as Buenos Ayres
on the Dundee Castle; but Paul got in with some men from the sealing
steamer, Gypsey Girl, and they shanghaied me aboard, together with a
lad from Georgia, Thankful Polk by name, who had tried to help me. Our
adventures with the sealers, and our finding of the whaleship Firebrand
frozen in the ice and deserted by her crew after her cargo of oil was
complete, is related in number two of the series, entitled, “The Frozen
Ship; or, Clint Webb Among the Sealers.”

During those adventures I learned that Adoniram Tugg’s partner,
Professor Vose, escaped death at the hands of the Patagonians, had
joined forces with the animal catcher again, and in the Sea Spell they
likewise had sought and found the frozen ship and her valuable cargo.
Professor Vose boarded the abandoned ship and remained by her when the
Sea Spell lost most of her spars and top-hamper and Tugg was obliged to
beat into port to be refitted. Meanwhile, from the deck of the Gypsey
Girl, I saw the vast field of ice and bergs in which the Firebrand was
frozen break up in a gale; was horrified by the overwhelming of the
frozen ship, and had the evidence of my own eyes that, whether the
mysterious man in whom I was so greatly interested was merely Vose,
Jim Carver, or my own father, he had sunk with the Firebrand under the
avalanche of ice.

Later the captain of the Gypsey Girl, a Russ named Sergius, and
Thankful Polk and I were lost from the sealing steamer and are picked
up by the Scarboro which was on her way to Valpariso to refit after the
gales she had suffered on the South Pacific whaling grounds. Captain
Rogers, knowing my exceeding anxiety to return home, got a chance for
Thank and I to work our passage on the Gullwing, which was just setting
sail from Valpariso as the Scarboro arrived at that port.

And here we were on the deck of the handsome schooner, homeward
bound; but before I had been here half an hour, it seemed, my ill-luck
had followed me. I was enmeshed in a quarrel with the bully of the
fo’castle, and could look forward to suffering a most finished
trouncing when the sails were all set, the deck cleared, and the
captain’s watch was piped below.

“I’ve got a good mind to give one of the mates warning,” muttered
Thank, in my ear, as the bully went grumbling away at some call to
duty by the dapper little second mate, whom I already judged to be Mr.
Barney.

“Don’t you dare!” I admonished. “That’s no way to start. We’d have all
the men down on us, then. And we don’t know how many weeks we may have
to sail with them aboard of this windjammer.”

When they began to clear up the litter made by the work of getting
under weigh, Thank and I saw where we could lend a hand, and we
did so. We learned, by talking with the men, that the Gullwing was
short-handed, and that is why Captain Bowditch, shrewd old Down East
skipper as he was, had so willingly given two rugged boys, with some
knowledge of seamanship, their passage home. Two men had deserted
at Honolulu, and another had to be taken ashore to the hospital at
Valpariso.

The ship, we learned, was well found, and the men gave the officers a
good name. Most of the crew had been with her more than this one trip.
She was owned by the Baltimore firm of Barney, Blakesley & Knight, and
her run had been out from her home port, touching at Buenos Ayres, at
Valpariso and thence on to Honolulu and from there to Manila. On her
return voyage she made Honolulu again, Valpariso, and now hoped to not
drop her anchor until she reached the Virginia Capes.

It was the captain’s watch that was short and we were turned
over to Mr. Barney, the smart young second mate. He was a natty,
five-foot-nothing man, whom, if he had voted once, that was as much as
he’d ever done! But the men jumped when he spoke to them, and he had a
blue eye that went right through you and Thank declared--made the links
of your vertebrae loosen.

Meanwhile the Gullwing began to travel. Unless one has stood upon
the deck of a great sailing ship, and looked up into the sky full of
sails that spread above her, it is hard to realize how fast such a
craft can travel through the sea under a fair wind. Many a seaworthy
steamship would have been glad to make the speed that the Gullwing did
right then, with but a fairly cheerful breeze. She made a long tack
to seaward and then a short leg back, and in that time the Valpariso
roadstead was below the horizon and the outline of the Chilean coast
was but a faint, gray haze from the deck.

We went below, leaving the mate’s watch to finish the job. “Now for
it,” I thought, for Bully Bob had kept his eye on me most of the
time, and he crowded down the stairs behind me when I entered the
well-lighted and clean fo’castle of the four-stick schooner. I expected
he might try to take me foul; for I knew what sort of fighters these
deep-sea ruffians were. As a whole the crew of the schooner seemed much
above the average; but I believed Bob Promise needed a good thrashing
and I wished with all my heart that I were able to give it to him.

But if I could keep him off--make him fight with his fists alone--I
believed I at least might put up so good a fight that the other men
would interfere when they considered Bob had given me my lesson. I
hated the thought of being knocked down and stamped on, or kicked about
the fo’castle floor. I had seen two of the men fight aboard the Gypsey
Girl and a more brutal exhibition I never hope to witness.

So I kept my eye on Bob, as he watched me, and drew off my coat and
tightened my belt the moment I got below.

“Getting ready for that beating are you?” he demanded, with an evil
smile.

“I hope you won’t insist,” I said. “But if I’ve got to take it, I
suppose I must. All I have to say, is, that I hope you other men will
see fair play.”

“You can lay to that, younker,” declared the big fellow who had held
the wheel. He was an old man, but as powerful as a gorilla. “Give ’em
room, boys, and don’t interfere.”

Scarcely had he spoken when the bully made for me. His intention was,
quite evidently, to catch me around the waist, pinion my arms, and
throw me. But I determined to be caught by no such wrestler’s trick.
The ship was sailing on an even keel and I was light of foot. Just
before the bully reached me I stepped aside and drove my right fist
with all my might into his neck as he passed me.

Goodness! but he went down with a crash. Big as he was I had fairly
lifted him from his feet. The men roared with delight, and slapped
their thighs and each other’s backs. I could see that they were
going to enjoy this set-to if I lasted any length of time against my
antagonist.

“Hold on!” I cried, before Bob Promise had managed to pick himself
up, and believing that my first blow had won me the sympathy of the
majority. “This man has all the advantage of weight and age over me. If
he’ll stand up and fight clean with his fists, I’ll do my best to meet
him. But I won’t stand for rough work, or clinches. He’ll best me in a
minute, wrestling.”

“The boy speaks true,” declared the hairy man. “And I tell you what,
mates. It ain’t clear in my mind what the fight’s about, or who’s in
the wrong. But the lad shall have his way. If you try to grab him, or
use your feet, Bob, I’ll pull you off him with my own two hands and
break you in two! Mark that, now.”

“Hurrah!” cried the irrepressible Thank. “Go to it, Sharp! I believe
you can win out.”



CHAPTER III

_In Which the Bubble of My Conceit Is Pricked_


Now this is no place to report the details of a fight of this
character. It is all well and good for a boy to learn to box; it is
one of the cleanest sports there is. It teaches one to be quick of
eye and foot, inculcates courage, gives even a naturally timid person
confidence, and aids wind and muscle. But the game should be played
only with soft gloves--never with bare fists.

Maybe once or twice in the average boy’s life will he need the
knowledge gained in the gymnasium to save himself from a beating. I
think now I should have sidestepped this trouble with Bob Promise, and
could have done so with no loss of honor or self-respect.

But as I saw how lubberly the fellow was, and how clumsy he was on his
feet, I was fired with the conceit that I had a chance to hold my own
in the contest. And so I did.

I passed my watch to Thank and claimed two-minute rounds; he acted as
timekeeper while the gorilla man was referee. We fought altogether
five rounds, and during that time my antagonist only managed to reach
me half a dozen times, and only once did he knock me to the deck.

I was pretty fresh at the end of this time, while Bob was blowing like
a porpoise, I had closed one of his eyes, and his face was bleeding
where my knuckles had cut him deeply. During the last round I noticed
that the men had kept mighty quiet, and as the big fellow stepped in
between us when Thank announced the end of the round, I saw Mr. Barney,
the second mate, standing behind me.

“I reckon that’s enough, boys,” said the little second mate,
good-naturedly enough. “They’re not matched by the rules you are
following. This young fellow will soon have Bob groggy. The boy’s got
all the science and Bob has no show.”

This was putting it in a light that vexed me. I had thought _I_ was the
one to earn sympathy, not the bully.

“Why,” I complained, “he pitched on me for nothing. And he outweighs me
thirty pound.”

“And you outweigh _me_ twenty pound, you young bantam, you!” laughed
the second mate. “Come! I’m a better match for you than Bob is.”

I flushed pretty red at that, for although I saw Mr. Barney was a man
to respect, I did not think he handled his watch by the weight of his
muscle.

“If you don’t think so, put up your hands again, and we’ll try a bout,”
said Mr. Barney, still laughing. “If you give me the kind of an eye Bob
has, I won’t chalk it up against you. The boys will tell you that if
there’s anything aboard the old Gullwing, it’s fair dealing.”

“And that’s right for ye, Mr. Barney!” exclaimed the gorilla man. Then
he winked at me. “Hit him as hard as ye kin, boy!” he whispered.

“Come on,” said the mate, buttoning his jacket tight and taking his
position. “You won’t have to fight the whole crew to get a standing.”

I saw he meant it, and I knew by his smile that he was a fair-minded
man and wished me no harm. I secretly thought, too, that I was as good
as he was.

“Time!” called Thank, rather shakily.

The very next second something happened to me that I hadn’t expected. I
thought I could parry his first blow, at least; but it landed under my
jaw and every tooth in my head rattled. I leaped back and he followed
me up with a swiftness that made me blink.

I parried several more swift blows and then hit out myself when I
thought I saw my chance. He just moved his head a trifle to one side
and my fist shot by. My whole weight went with it and I collided
against him. He only rocked a little on his feet, and as I dodged back
he struck me a blow on the chest that drove me half a dozen yards into
the arms of the spectators.

“If I had placed that higher up--as I might--you would have been
asleep, my lad,” he said, coolly. “Don’t you believe it?”

“I do, sir,” I said, panting.

“I am just as much better than you, as you are than Bob,” he said,
laughing again. “He has no science and you have a little. But I have
more science and so we’re not fairly matched. And now, boys, that’s fun
enough for to-day,” and he turned on his heel and went up on deck.

I tell you right now, I felt pretty foolish. But the men didn’t laugh.
The big man, whom I learned later was Tom Thornton, said:

“He’s a smart little bit of a man, is Mr. Jim Barney. You might be
proud to be put out by him.”

“Excuse me!” I returned, feeling to see if all my teeth were sound.
“No kicking mule has got anything on him when he hits you.”

“And his brother Alf, on the Seamew, is a match for him,” said another
of the men. “There’s a pair of them--brothers and twins, and as much
alike as two peas in a pod. I mind the time they was looking for some
men down in a joint on Front Street, Baltimore, and a gang started in
to clean ’em up. Thought they was dudes trying to be rounders. The
Barney boys held off a dozen of them till the police came, and neither
of them even showed a scratch.”

I pulled myself together and went over to Bob, who was swabbing his
face in a bucket of water. I held out my hand to him, and said:

“The second mate was right. If we’d fought rough and tumble you could
have easily fixed me. But you’ve got lots of muscle and I bet that
second mate doesn’t sail without a set of gloves in his cabin. If he’ll
lend ’em to us I’ll teach you what little I know myself about boxing.”

“That’s fair enough!” shouted Tom Thornton. “The boy’s all right.”

“I’m game,” growled Bob, giving me his hand. “But I don’t like fresh
kids.”

“That’s all right,” said I. “Mebbe I’ll get salted a little before the
voyage is over.”

And so the affair ended in a laugh. But I guess I learned one lesson
that I was not likely to forget in a hurry.

And both Thankful Polk and I had a whole lot to learn about this big
ship. Although my chum had been five years from home (leaving his
native village in the hills of Georgia when he was twelve) he had
learned little seamanship. Nowadays ships do not receive apprentices as
they used to in the palmy days of the American merchant marine, which
is a regrettable fact, for it was from the class of apprentices that
most of our best shipmasters came.

A seaman--a real A. B.--must know every part of the ship he serves,
its rigging and whatnot, just as any other journeyman tradesman must
know his business. It is not necessary that an able seaman should be
a navigator; but every navigator should be an able seaman. Such a man
likewise should be something of a sailmaker, rigger and shipbuilder. In
these days when the work of a crew is so divided that men are stationed
at certain work in all weathers few men before the mast are all-round
seamen. And this is likewise regrettable.

In the months I had spent upon the Scarboro I had learned much--and in
that I had the advantage of Thank. Captain Rogers and Mr. Robbins were
both thorough-going seamen, and when we were not chasing whales I had
been drilled by the mate, and by young Ben Gibson, the second officer,
in the ropes, the spars, the handling of gear, and taught to take my
trick at the wheel with the best man aboard.

And I was thankful for all this now, for although the Gullwing was a
much larger ship, and differently rigged from the whaler, I could catch
hold now pretty well when an order was given. I knew, too, that men
like Captain Bowditch and Mr. Gates and Mr. Barney liked their hands to
be smart, and I was not afraid to tackle anything alow or aloft.

The men told me, too, that “the old man” (which is a term given
the captain aboard ship not at all disrespectful in meaning) was a
terror for crowding on sail. Besides, there was a deeper reason for
Captain Bowditch wishing to put his ship through the seas and reaching
Baltimore just as soon as possible.

“Ye see,” said old Tom Thornton, in the dog-watch that afternoon, “the
firm owns another ship like the Gullwing--the very spittin’ image of
it--the Seamew. They’re sister ships; built in the same dockyard, at
the same time, and by the very same plans. A knee, or a deck plank,
out o’ either one would fit exactly into the similar space in the
other--and vicy varsy.

“They was put into commission the same month, and they make the same
v’yges, as usual. Cap’n Si Somes, of the Seamew is about the same
age as our skipper. They was raised together down east; they went to
sea together in their first ship. And they got their tickets at the
same time, since which they’ve always served in different ships, one
mounting a notch when the other did. Rivals, ye’d call them, but good
friends.

“But they’re always and forever trying to best each other in a v’yge.
They races from the minute they cast off moorings at Baltimore to the
minute they’re towed inter their berths again. They crowd on sail, and
work their crews like kildee, and stow their cargoes, and unload the
same like they was racin’ against time. And now, this trip, they’ve got
a wager up,” and old Tom chuckled.

“It was this here way: We battened down hatches the same morning the
Seamew did at Baltimore, and the tugs was a-swinging of us out. Cap’n
Si sung out from his poop: ‘Joe! I bet ye an apple I tie up here afore
you do when the v’yge is over.’

“‘I take ye,’ says our skipper, ‘pervidin’ it’s a Rhode Islan’
Greenin’--I ain’t sunk my teeth into no other kind for forty year--it’s
the kind I got my first stomach-ache from eatin’ green, when I was a
kid.’

“And that settled it. The bet was on,” chuckled Tom. “And we fellers
for’ard have suffered for it, now I tell ye! The Seamew beat us to
Buenos Ayres by ten hours on the outward v’yge. We caught her up,
weathered the Horn and was unloading at Valpariso when the Seamew
arrived. But, by jinks! she beat us to Honolulu.”

“How was that?” I asked.

“Made a better passage. We got some top-hamper carried away in a
squall. To tell you the truth, Cap’n Joe carried on too much sail for
such a blow. But we weren’t long behind her at Manila, and my soul! how
Cap’n Joe did make those Chinks work unloadin’ an’ then stowin’ cargo
again when we started back.

“The Seamew got away two days before we did. But we left Honolulu a few
hours ahead of her, and she has to touch at Guayaquil--up in Equidor.
As far as time and distance goes, however, both ships is about even.
We had to unload a lot of stuff back there at Valpariso, and load
again. Both are hopin’ not to touch nowheres till we git home. And it
wouldn’t surprise me none if we sighted the Seamew almost any day now,
unless she’s clawed too far off shore.”

This good-natured competition between the two big ships had, I believe,
something to do with the smart way in which the crew of this one on
which I sailed went about their work. Jack Tar is supposed to be a
chronic grumbler; and surely the monotony of life at sea may get on the
nerves of the best man afloat; but I seldom heard any grumbling in the
fo’castle of the Gullwing.

However, there was another rivalry connected with this voyage of the
sister ships--a much more serious matter--and, indeed, one that proved
tragic in the end, but of this I was yet to learn the particulars in
the eventful days that followed.



CHAPTER IV

_In Which Captain Bowditch Crowds On Sail and There Is Much Excitement_


In writing a story of the sea--even a narrative of personal
experiences--it is difficult to give the reader a proper idea of the
daily life of the man before the mast. It naturally falls that the high
lights of adventure are accentuated while the shadows of monotony are
very faint indeed. But the sailor’s life is no sinecure.

Saving on occasion the work on shipboard is not very hard. The
watch-and-watch system followed on all ships makes the work easy in
fair weather; and foul weather lasts but for short spells, save in
certain portions of the two hemispheres.

“Eight bells! Rise and shine!”

This order, shouted into the fo’castle at four o’clock in the morning,
roused Thankful Polk and I from our berths. No turning over for another
nap--or for even a wink of sleep--with that command ringing in one’s
ears. We tumbled out, got into our outer clothing, ran our fingers
through our hair (no chance for any fancy toilets at this hour) and
went on deck with the other members of the captain’s watch.

There was plenty of light by which to chore around, and Mr. Barney’s
sharp voice kept us stirring until five when we lined up at the galley
door and each man got a tin of hot coffee--and good coffee it was too,
aboard the Gullwing. Then buckets and brooms was the order and the
ship began to be slopped and scrubbed from the bowsprit to the rudder
timbers. No housewife was ever half as thorough as we had to be to
satisfy Mr. Barney and the old man. Thank and I learned that Captain
Bowditch made a tour of the deck every morning after breakfast, and if
there had been any part of the work skimped he would call up the watch
and have the whole job done over again.

“But that don’t happen more’n once on a v’yage,” chuckled Tom Thornton,
working beside us. “The feller that skips any part of the work he’s set
to do on this here packet, gets to be mighty onpopular with his mates.”

Thus warned, we two boys were very careful with our share of the
scrubbing--and likewise the coiling down of ropes which followed. I can
assure the reader that, when we were through, everything in sight was
as spick and span as it could be--every stain was holystoned from the
deck, the white paint glistened, and the brasswork shone.

At seven-thirty the watch below was given breakfast and at four
bells--eight o’clock--we were relieved and went below to our own
breakfast; and that was not a bad meal aboard the Gullwing. There are
no fancy dishes tacked onto Jack Tar’s bill of fare--nor does he expect
it; but on this ship food was served with some regard to decency.

On the Gypsey Girl “souse” was served in a bucket, set down in the
middle of the long fo’castle table, and every man scooped his cup into
the mess, broke in his hardtack, and inhaled it a good deal after the
style of a pig at a trough. But for breakfast on this ship there was
more good coffee, tack that was not mouldy and scraps of meat and
potatoes fried together--a hearty, satisfying meal.

Each man washed and put away his own cup, plate and knife and fork.
Some used their gulleys, or sheath-knives; but Thank and I had brought
aboard proper table tools in our dunnage bags. After the breakfast
was cleared away, and the fo’castle itself tidied up, the watch below
busied itself in mending, sock darning, and such like odd jobs. A
sailor has got to be his own tailor, seamstress and housewife; and
even such a horny-handed and tar-fingered giant as Tom Thornton was
mighty handy with his needle and “sailor’s palm.”

Some of the men shaved at this time, one cut another’s hair and trimmed
his beard. The crew of the Gullwing respected themselves; the deck of
the fo’castle was kept as well scrubbed as the deck above. Nobody came
to the table without having scrubbed his face and hands clean; nor was
the men’s clothing foul with tar or the grease of the running gear.
They may all have been “sword-swallowers” when it came to “stowing
their cargo ’tween hatches,” but cleanliness was the order, and the
ordinary decencies of life were not ignored. These men may not have
been particularly strong on etiquette, and were not “parlor broke,”
as the saying is; but they were neat, accommodating, cheerful, and if
they skylarked some, it was fun of a good-natured kind and was not
objectionable.

I liked old Tom Thornton, for despite the cast in his eye, and his
gorilla-like appearance, he was good hearted. He was just about
covered with tattooing, I reckon. As he said, if he’d wanted to take
any more indigo into his system he’d have to swallow it! Most of the
work had been done on him by a South Sea Islander who had sailed in
whaling ships and the like and made a little “on the side” by tattooing
pictures on foolish sailors.

“’Taint done now, no more,” old Tom said, shaking his head. “But when
I was a youngster it was the fashion. Poor Jack can’t afford to buy
picters and have a family portrait gallery, or the like. But he used to
be strong for art,” and the old man grinned.

“I was wrecked with this here nigger-man I tell you about. About all he
saved from the wreck was his colors and bone needles, and the patterns
he outlined his figgers from. We was held prisoner on that blamed reef,
living on stuff from the wreck, for three months. There wasn’t nothing
else to do. His tattooing me kept him from going crazy, and the smart
of the thing kept me alive. So there you have it--tit for tat! He never
charged me nothing for his work, neither, and I allus was a great lad
for gittin’ a good deal for my money.”

Tom’s legs were mural paintings of serpents and sea monsters. He had
anklets and bracelets worked in red and blue. On his back was a picture
of three gallows with a man hanging in chains from the middle one. I
believe that it was the ignorant South Sea native’s idea of the story
of Calvary, for there was the typical cross and crown worked above
it at the back of Tom’s neck. The mermaid on Tom’s chest could have
won a job as fat woman with a traveling circus; but then, Tom had an
enormous chest which had given the tattooer plenty of space to work on.
Around his waist was tattooed a belt like a lattice-work fence. When he
stripped to “sluice down,” as he called his daily bath, he looked as
gay as a billboard.

At ten o’clock (six bells) of the forenoon watch most of the watch
below turned in for a nap, and at half past eleven we answered the
call to dinner. At noon we were on duty again until four o’clock. In
pleasant weather this afternoon watch is a mighty easy one. Besides the
man at the wheel and the two on lookout, the others haven’t much to do
but tell stories, play checkers, or read. As long as everything was
neat and shipshape the old man did not hound us to work at odd jobs as
some masters do.

From four to eight p. m. the time is divided into two dog-watches,
although the second half of that spell is the actual dog-watch. “Dog”
is a corruption of “dodge,” the object of this division being to make
an even number of watches to the twenty-four hours so that there
will be a daily changing or shifting, thus dodging the routine. For
example, the watch that goes below one day at noon will the next day
come on deck at that hour.

At five-thirty our watch had supper and at six we took the deck once
more until eight o’clock. Then we could sleep until midnight and from
thence had the watch until four in the morning. It is a monotonous
round--especially in fair weather. We were like to welcome a bit of a
blow now and then, although the Gullwing was such a big ship, and her
crew was so small, that all hands had to turn out to shorten or make
sail. On some ships this fact would have made the crew ugly but these
boys had even a good word for the cook or “doctor,” and usually Jack
looks upon that functionary as his natural enemy.

But during those first few days of the run down the coast of Chile it
was seldom that we were called on to shorten sail. Captain Bowditch
was living up to his reputation; the Gullwing foamed along through the
short green seas with every sail she would bear spread to the favoring
gale. With her four whole sails on the lower spars and all her jibs
set, she spread a vast amount of canvas to the wind. And the only
changes we made were in her topsails. Those the skipper kept spread
every moment that he dared; and it took a pretty strong gust to make
him give the order to reef down.

When he left the deck himself, either day or night, he instructed his
mates to call him before they took in an inch of cloth. And Mr. Gates
and Mr. Barney were just as hungry for speed, as the old man. The
Gullwing was heavily laden, but there was probably few stiffer vessels
at sea that day than she. With plenty of ballast there was no gale or
no sea that could capsize her.

She took cheerfully all the wind and all the sea could give her. A
little loose water flopping around her deck didn’t trouble Captain
Bowditch. “Tarpaulin her hatches, clamp ’em down, and let her roll!”
had been his order when we had got well away from our anchorage at
Valpariso. We had good weather, however, as I have said, for some days.

Then suddenly, one afternoon in the first dog-watch, it came on to
blow. Carefully as the captain watched the glass, I do not think this
squall was foretold. A more cautious navigator might have been better
prepared for a squall. He wouldn’t have had his topsails spread in
any such gale as had been blowing. And when all hands were called to
go aloft, the wind shrieked down upon us and the foretopsail and two
staysails were blown clean out of the boltropes before the men could
get at them.

“What are ye about, ye sawneys!” yelled Captain Bowditch, dancing up
and down on the deck and shaking his fists at the men above. “Save
my sails for me! Think I’m _made_ o’ sailcloth? And them right new
fixin’s, too! Git busy there!”

Oh, we were busy! I had been sent aloft and so had Thank. We were
nimble enough in the shrouds; but we were not as smart about handling
the stiff canvas as some. I found my chum beside me as we hauled down
the stiff canvas upon the spar, and threw ourselves upon the folds to
hold them till they could be secured.

“My law-dee!” gasped the Georgian boy, grinning. “Jest as lives try to
pin an apron around the waist of a baby hippopotamus--what?”

I saw his wet, red, grinning face for a moment looking across at me.
Then, suddenly, the ship keeled over, the rope on which we stood
overhung those leaping, green, froth-streaked waves--waves which seemed
hungrily trying to lap our feet. Thank disappeared! Something gave way,
his weight left the sail to me alone. And perhaps, fearful for my chum,
I bore off the canvas myself to look for him.

The next instant I was cast back by the wind tearing under the canvas
and lifting it in a great balloon.

“Swish--r-r-rip!”

Like a banshee on a broomstick that sail kited off to leeward, and I
was left hanging desperately to the shrouds, with the wind booming in
my ears so that I could not even hear the angry roaring of the skipper
below.

And all the time this question kept thumping in my head: “Where was
Thankful Polk?”



CHAPTER V

_In Which We See a Ship Sailing in the Sky_


I had forgotten my own peril. Indeed, so disturbed was I for the moment
for my chum’s safety that I cared nothing for the lost sail. I yelled
for Thank at the top of my voice, though doubtless the shrieking of
the wind drowned all sound of my cries. And Thank, for all I knew, was
already far to leeward, fighting in that tempestuous sea.

And then suddenly, through a rift in the flying spray that stung my
face so cruelly and almost blinded me, I beheld something swinging from
the ropes on which I stood. The ship was almost on her beam-ends and
the waves broke just below me. There Thank hung by his foot, which had
twisted in the ropes and was held firm, his head and shoulders buried
in the foaming sea at every plunge of the laboring Gullwing!

I shrieked again and, clinging with one hand with a desperate grip, I
sought to seize him as he swung, pendulum-like, to and fro. _I could
not reach him._

But now the brave ship was righting herself. We rose higher and higher
from the leaping waves. Thank swung back and forth and, as we came
inboard, I feared he would batter his poor brains out against the wire
cables, or against some spar.

He was unconscious. He was helpless. And it seemed as though I was
helpless as well. Those few momentous seconds showed me plainly how
deeply I loved the youth who had been my comrade in adventure and labor
and peril during these last few months. I had never had a chum before
of my own age--not one whom I had really cottoned to. Thank was as dear
to me as a brother would have been.

As we rose higher and higher another fear smote me. If his foot
loosened now and he fell, he would be dashed to death upon the deck
below. In my struggles my hand found a loose rope. I hauled it in
quickly, hung to the spar by my elbows while I formed a noose in the
end, and was unsuccessfully trying to get this over Thank’s head and
shoulders when another man sprang to the footrope beside me.

“Git down there and grab him!” yelled this individual in my ear. “I’ll
hold you both.”

It was Bob Promise and although he was the man aboard whom I least
liked, he was an angel of mercy to me just then. I knew his muscle and
vigor. With one hand he clung to the rope and seized my belt with his
other paw. I knew that belt would hold, and I swung myself, without
question, head-downward.

It was only for a moment that he had to be under the strain of all my
weight and Thank’s as well. Then I had scrambled back to the footrope,
and held my chum in the hollow of my arm. Thank was half drowned,
but his eyes opened and he gasped out something or other before Bob
steadied us both again upon the footrope. Later I realized that he
tried to say, in his cheerful way: “That’s all right, Sharp!”

Between us Bob and I managed to get him down to the deck. We should not
have been able to do that without a sling had the squall not passed
away and left the old Gullwing once more on a comparatively level keel.

When we landed upon the deck boards, Thank managed to stand erect. And
we three shook hands with a sort of grim satisfaction. I don’t think
any of us ever spoke of the event thereafter, and our mates had not
seen our peril, but we three were not likely to forget it.

The old man was still careening around the quarter, like a hen on a hot
skillet, fussing about the lost sails. And scarcely had the squall
passed when he was ordering up new ones to replace those that had been
lost. We went to work bending on the fresh sails while it was yet
blowing so hard that most captains would have kept their crews out of
the rigging.

I began to see that Tom Thornton had not been joking when he said that
the men were paying the penalty for the skipper’s betting an apple
with Captain Si Somes, of the Seamew. Had it been a thousand dollars
at stake, Captain Bowditch would have been no more earnest in his
determination to beat the Gullwing’s sister ship.

But the wind was little more than a stiff gale when the new sails were
set and the ripping repaired. We drove along until night and then the
air became very light. During the night a fog began to gather and when
our watch was called at eight bells in the morning it was pretty thick.

“Looks like a Cape Horn soup,” growled old Tom, as he stepped on deck.
“Though we’re a good bit of a ways from that latitude yet.”

As we stumbled around the deck, doing that everlasting cleaning up
that Mr. Barney watched so sharply, the fog began to thin and waver.
Somewhere overhead there was a breeze; but it was pretty near a dead
calm down here on the deck of the Gullwing.

By the time the sun began to glow upon the edge of the sea, looking
like a great argand lamp in the fog; overhead the billows of mist were
rolling in imitation of the long, swinging swell of the sea itself.
At first those billows in the sky glowed in purple, and rose hues,
ever changing, magnificently beautiful! It was a seascape long to be
remembered.

The sun rose higher. Its rays shot through the rolling mist like
arrows. Now and then the breeze breathed on our sails and the Gullwing
forged ahead at a better pace. The fog left us. We were sailing in an
open space, it seemed, with the mist bank encircling us at a distance
on a few cable-lengths, and the billows still rolling high above the
points of our masts.

And then, to the westward, the curtains rolled back as it seemed for
the scene that had been set for us. Like the stage of a great theatre,
this setting of cloud and mist and heaving sea appeared, and there,
sailing with her keel in the clouds, and her tapering masts and shaking
sails pointing seaward, was a beautiful, misty, four-stick schooner.

“What do you know about that?” demanded Thankful Polk. “Do you see what
I see, Sharp, or have I ‘got ’em?’ That ship’s upside down.”

“It’s a mirage,” I murmured.

“It’s a Jim Hickey of a sight, whatever the right name of it is,” he
rejoined.

Everybody else on deck was aware of the mirage, and a chorus of
exclamations arose from the watch.

“It’s the Gullwing herself!” ejaculated Bob Promise. “Of course it is!
It’s a four-sticker.”

“How do you make that out?” demanded Thank. “I know derned well _I_
ain’t standing on my head, whatever you be.”

“It’s her reflection, sawney!” said somebody else.

“Oh! well I reckoned that I knew whether I was on my head, or my
heels,” chuckled the boy from Georgia.

But I had been watching the mirage very sharply. I knew just what sails
were set upon the Gullwing, and I counted those upon the ship in the
sky. Misty as the reflection was I could distinguish them plainly. And
suddenly I saw a movement among those sails. _Sharply defined figures
of men swarmed into her rigging._

“That’s not the Gullwing at all!” I shouted.

“That boy’s right,” said Mr. Barney sharply, coming out of the
afterhouse with his glass, and with the captain right behind him.
“You’ve got good eyes on you, Webb.”

“By jinks! It’s the Seamew!” roared our skipper, the moment he set his
eyes upon the mirage. “And if she’s sailing that way, she’ll never beat
us to the Capes of Virginia.”

A roar of laughter greeted this joke. But the ship in the sky began
immediately to fade away, and it had soon disappeared, while the wind
freshened with us and we forged ahead still faster. When the fog
completely disappeared there was not a sail in sight anywhere on that
sea, although Mr. Barney went into the tops himself and searched the
horizon with a glass.

But I know that they made a note of the appearance on the log. Some of
the sailors thought the Seamew couldn’t be far from us, either head
or astern; but I knew that the mirage might have reflected our sister
ship hundreds of miles away. The incident gave us a deal to talk about,
however, and an added savor to the race we were sailing half around the
globe.



CHAPTER VI

_In Which the Gullwing Suffers a Ghostly Visitation_


“The words of Agur, the son of Jaketh.... There be three things which
are too wonderful for me, yea, four which I know not: The way of an
eagle in the air, the way of a serpent upon a rock, _the way of a ship
in the midst of the sea_....”

That old fellow whose wise sayings make up the final chapter of the
Book of Proverbs had a deal of experience and knowledge; but navigation
was a mystery to him. And to see a great ship sailing straight away on
her course, in the midst of the sea, without a sign of land anywhere
about, is like to make one think of the wonder of it.

We picked up many a sail after the mirage of our sister ship, during
the next few days; but none of them were the Seamew. The wind increased
and the Gullwing went snoring through green seas, her bow in a smother
of foam and a good deal of loose water inboard on occasion. But that
did not bother the captain. We were speeding up toward the Horn and
little else mattered.

We were getting into a colder latitude, too. Now we were down about to
the line where the Gypsey Girl had steamed in and out of the channels
after seals. But we never saw the land. The Gullwing was keeping well
off shore.

The keen wind blew a fitful gale. We were glad to get into the lee of
the deck-houses when we were on duty. Thanks to Captain Rogers of the
Scarboro, however, my chum and I were well dressed for colder weather;
but we got each a suit of tarpaulins and hip boots from Captain
Bowditch, for we had not owned them. We could safely dress in these
water-shedding garments every watch above, when the weather was not
fair; for the schooner was bound to ship a deal of suds.

In our watch besides old Tom Thornton, was another ancient mariner, and
the only man not an American born aboard the Gullwing--August Stronson.
He was a queer, gentle old man with the marks of dissipation strong
upon his face, although most of his spare time below he sat and read a
well-thumbed Swedish Bible. He was a man in whom Alcohol had taken a
strangle hold on Will. A more than ordinarily good seaman, when ashore
he soon became a derelict along the docks, finally ending in some
mission or bethel where he would be straightened out and a berth found
for him again. He was only safe aboard ship. Eternally sailing about
the Seven Seas was his salvation.

He was aboard the Gullwing, as Thank and I were, merely by chance. And
his reason for wishing to make the port of Baltimore was a curious
one--yet one that gives a sidelight upon the sailor’s character. As a
usual thing, Jack is grateful to anybody who does him a kindness, and
he does not often forget a favor done him. Besides, he prides himself
on “being square.” Yet it seemed to me that old Stronson was carrying
that trait farther than most seamen.

He had been picked up at Honolulu by Cap-Bowditch, after the two
men before mentioned had deserted the Gullwing to go with a native
trader into the South Seas. Stronson had already traveled by one craft
and another from Australia and would have traveled, when he reached
Baltimore, all of ten thousand miles to see just one man. He told me
this story in one watch below and I think it worth repeating.

“Captain Sowle, who iss de superintendent of that mission where dey
iss so goot to sailormans, lend me a dollar five years ago when I was
sick. I ban goin’ to pay dat dollar, me! I ban going to Baltimore to
pay him.”

“But why didn’t you send it to him by mail?” I asked the old fellow.

“Captain Sowle, gif me dat dollar in his own hand, and I haf to give it
back to him mit mine. I could nefer forget his kindness--no. In many
foreign ports I thought of him--how goot he wass. I long carry that
dollar note in my shirt--yes. In Sydney I went to the sailor’s mission
one night and heard an old song das Captain Sowle sung to me and odders
in Baltimore. I had that dollar note I haf saved mit me den. Why! I ban
shipwrecked once and safe only dot dollar and a jumper. Luck foller me
mit das dollar.

“I says to my mate dere in Sydney, ‘Bill,’ I says, ‘I got de old man’s
dollar yet. Meppe he need it for de poys when he sing dot old hymn
to-night over seas.’

“‘Do you feel uneasy like?’ Bill asks me.

“‘No,’ says I, ‘but I seems to hear the old man singing and I’m minding
the old Bethel and the winter night he ban givin’ me de dollar.’
‘Well,’ says Bill, ‘you must bring your cargo to port and get a
discharge. You must show de old man dat you sail straight. That’s my
verdict.’

“So we shook hands undt I go find me a berth to Manila--best I can do
just then. I makes Honolulu on a Pacific Mail; but she drops me there.
Then I finds de Gullwing. She iss de ship for me,” added Stronson,
smiling in his simple way. “She carry me straight for Baltimore, undt I
pay das dollar to Captain Sowle.”

Some of the men made a good deal of fun of Stronson because he was slow
of intellect; but he was an able seaman and even the sharp-spoken Mr.
Barney seemed to bear easy on the old man. He was stiff in his joints
at times, for the sailor’s chief enemy, rheumatism, had got a grip
on Stronson. Thank and I saved him many a job aloft, and in return
he patiently set about teaching us all he knew about splicing and
knotting--which was no small job for either the old man or for us.

It was soon after this that we got the four days’ gale that I, for one,
shall not soon forget. The wind, however, did not increase so suddenly
as before, and Captain Bowditch took warning in time and had the small
sails furled. But when the gale fairly struck us we had enough lower
canvas set in all good conscience. The ship fairly reeled under the
sudden stroke of the blast.

With the wind, too, came the snow. Such a snowstorm I had not seen
for several years, for we had had two or three mild winters in New
England before I had gone to sea. We were forced to reef down the big
sails, though every order from the skipper to this end was punctuated
by groans. The canvas was stiff and the snow froze on it, and we had a
mess. Glad was I that the work was not to be done in the tops.

A smother of snow wrapped the Gullwing about and we plunged on without
an idea as to what was in our path. The lookout forward could not see
to the end of the jib-boom. The sea was lashed to fury and, again
and again, a wave broke over our bows and washed the deck from stem
to stern. To add to the wonder of it, somewhere in the depths of the
universe above us an electrical storm raged; we could hear the sullen
thunder rolling from horizon to horizon. At first I had thought this
was surf on the rocks and believed we were going head-on to death and
destruction; but the officers knew where we were and they assured us
that the chart gave us an open sea.

The decks were a mess of slush and it was dangerous to go about without
hanging to the lifelines that checkrowed the Gullwing from forward
of the fo’castle to the after companionway. Yet how the staunch
craft sailed! She shook the waves off her back like a duck under a
waterspout, and seemed to enjoy the buffeting of the sea like a thing
alive.

While the storm continued we got just such food as we could grab in our
fists. Nothing was safe on the table. The doctor kept the coffee hot
in some magic way; yet there were times when the ship rolled so that
the lids flew off his stove and the fire was dumped on the deck of the
galley.

Sixty hours and more of this sort of weather dragged past. I once said
to Tom Thornton:

“It’s a pity the skipper didn’t try for the Straits, isn’t it?”

“And what would the Gullwing be doing in the Straits, in a blow like
this, my lad?” he demanded. “A big ship like her in that narrow way has
little chance in a storm. The tail of such a gale as this would heave
her on the rocks. There’s not seaway enough there for anything bigger
than a bugeye canoe.”

“But the Scarboro made a fair course through it,” I said.

“That greaser!” snorted the old A. B. “She can loaf along as she
pleases. Sea-anchor, if there’s a bit of a gale. But the Windjammer
has to make time. These days the big sailin’ ships hafter compete with
them dirty steam tramps. We can’t risk bein’ becalmed in any narrow
waterway--no, sir!”

It was on the fourth night, with the wind blowing a hurricane and the
snow as thick about us as a winding-sheet, that our watch had come on
deck at midnight. I was sent as second man with Bob Promise to the
wheel. It took both of us to handle the steering gear when the old
schooner kicked and plunged so.

We were under close-reefed mainsail and jibs and were battling fearful
waves. The sleet-like snow drove across her deck and all but blinded
us. I had to keep wiping the slush off the binnacle, or the lamp would
have been completely smothered and we could not have seen the trembling
needle.

Sometimes the officer on the quarter was hidden from our eyes, but his
voice reached us all right:

“Steady your helm! You lubbers act like your muscles were mush. Keep
off! Can’t you hear that sail shaking? You’ll have us under sternway
yet. Call yourselves sailors? You’re a pair of farmers! What d’ye think
you’re doing? Plowing with a pair of steers? Steady!”

Bob muttered imprecations on Mr. Barney’s head; but I knew better.

“He’s nervous, that’s all,” I said. “He’s always so when the skipper
ain’t on deck.”

“All he thinks of is whether we’re beatin’ the Seamew, or not,” growled
Bob.

“I notice that bothers him,” said I. “But he hasn’t bet a Greening
apple on the race, has he?”

“It’s bigger than that, I reckon. They say it’s something betwixt him
and his brother Alf. They’ve been sore on each other for a year or
more.”

I knew Mr. Alfred Barney was second mate of the Seamew, and I wondered
what the trouble was between the twin brothers.

But just as this moment something happened that gave our minds a slant
in another direction. The snow squall had thinned. We could see pretty
near the length of the deck from where we stood--Bob and I--at the
wheel.

Suddenly my mate uttered a stifled yell and his hands dropped from the
spokes.

“Looker there!” he gasped.

I hung to the wheel, although a kick of the schooner near sent me on my
head.

“Catch hold here, confound you!” I bawled.

“There!” he cried again, pointing with a terror stiffened arm into the
forerigging.

I saw a flash of light--a glow like that of a big incandescent lamp
bulb. It hung for fully thirty seconds to the very tip of one of the
fore-topmast spars. Again, another flashed upon another point of the
rigging. Bob Promise crouched by the wheel; he fairly groveled, while I
could hear cries and groans from many of the hands on deck.

“What’s the matter with you? What is it?” I demanded, still fighting
with the wabbling wheel alone; and I am afraid I kicked him. “Catch
hold here!”

“Corpse lights!” groaned Bob, not even resenting my foot. “We’re all
dead men. We’re doomed.”



CHAPTER VII

_In Which Is Pictured a Race in Mid-Ocean_


There was a snapping and crackling in the air over the laboring
ship. It sounded as though the taut stays were giving way, one after
another. For the moment, what Bob said about “corpse lights” I did not
understand; I was mainly giving my attention to the wheel.

But the ship came to an even keel for a minute and I was able to hold
her on her course, and get my breath. Then I beheld the strange lights
shining here, there, and everywhere about the rigging, and I was
amazed. Not that I was frightened, as Bob and some of the others of
the watch appeared to be. The sailor is a very superstitious person;
and let him tell it, there are enough strange things happen at sea to
convince a most philosophical mind that there is a spirit world very,
very close to our own mundane sphere. There’s a very thin veil between
the two, and at times that veil is torn away.

But I knew in a minute that what Bob meant by “corpse lights” were
corposant lights and were an electric display better known as “St.
Elmo’s fire.” The lights were globular in shape, and about four inches
in diameter. There were apparently a score of them all through the
rigging, and they appeared at intervals of a minute, or two. The
driving sleet could not hide them, and the fires illuminated the ship
and the sea for some distance around her.

It certainly was a queer sight, and the brilliance of the corposant
lights was very marked. I heard Mr. Barney shouting from his station:

“Keep your shirts on, you hardshells! They won’t bite--nor none o’ you
ain’t got to go aloft to put ’em out. There’s one sure thing about them
lights--they won’t set the rigging afire.”

“Get up and take hold of this wheel, Bob,” I exclaimed, “or I’ll yell
for help. I can’t handle her proper if she plunges again.”

He got up shakingly and took hold. When the sea was sucked away from
the bow of the Gullwing next time we held her on her course. But my
companion was still frightened and looked at the glowing lights askance.

“Holding your own there at the wheel, boys?” demanded Mr. Barney.

“Aye, aye, sir!” I replied, but Bob didn’t even whisper.

Suddenly the last light disappeared--as suddenly as the first had
appeared--and immediately there was a loud explosion over our heads and
Mr. Barney pitched down the ladder to the deck. Several of the other
men were flung to the deck, too, and Bob gave another frightened yell
and started forward on a dead run.

He collided with Captain Bowditch, who had just shot up through the
companionway.

“What’s this, you swab?” yelled the skipper, grabbing Bob by the collar
with one hand and seizing a rope with the other, as the ship staggered
again. “What d’ye mean?”

Then he saw Mr. Barney just scrambling to his feet.

“What’s this mutinous swab been doing, sir?” added the captain.

The second mate explained in a moment. But Bob suffered. The old man
was in a towering rage because he had left his post.

“You flat-footed son of a sea-cook!” he bawled, shaking Promise, big as
he was, like a drowned kitten. “What d’ye mean by leaving the wheel?
That boy yonder kept his place didn’t he? Scared of a light, be ye?
Why, if a sea-sarpint came aboard that wouldn’t be no excuse for your
leaving the helm. Git back there!”

And when he started Bob aft again he accelerated his motions with a
vigorous kick in the broad of the seaman’s back. Bob grabbed the spokes
of the wheel, and braced himself, with a face like a thundercloud. I
crowded down my amusement and perhaps it is well I did. The fellow was
in no mood for enduring chaffing. When a man is both angry and scared a
joke doesn’t appeal to him--much.

I am reminded that this is a sorry scene to depict. Yet Captain
Bowditch was a kindly man and not given to unjust punishments. And I
believe that Bob got only what he deserved. Even terror cannot excuse
a man for neglecting his duty, especially at sea. It is like a private
in the ranks enduring the natural fear of a first charge against the
enemy. No matter what he may feel in his trembling soul, for the sake
of the example he sets the man next to him, he must crowd down that
fear and press on!

The storm had broken, however. At daylight we found that four feet of
the fore-topmast had been snapped off short, whether by the electrical
explosion, or by the wind, we could not tell. But that was the end
of that bad spell of weather, thanks be! The Gullwing sailed through
it, we spliced on a new spar, trimmed our sails, and tore on, under a
goodly press of canvas, for the Horn.

But several of the crew remained gloomy because of the “corpse lights.”
Something was bound to happen--of course, something unlucky. The lights
had foretold it. And Stronson, with Tom Thornton and other of the old
salts, told weird tales in the dog-watch.

In spite of the hurricane we had made good time in this run from
Valparaiso. As far as I could see, however, nothing momentous happened
at once; and the next important incident that went down in the ship’s
log was the sighting of the Seamew.

We really saw her this time--“in the flesh,” not a ghostly mirage. She
came out of the murk of fog to the south’ard at dawn and, far away as
she was, the lookout identified her.

“Seamew, ahoy!” he yelled.

It brought all hands upon deck--even the mate himself who had just
turned in, and the captain, too. There the sister of the Gullwing
sailed, her canvas spread to the freshening morning breeze, her prow
throwing off two high foamy waves as she tacked toward us.

She was on one tack; we were on the other. Therefore we were
approaching each other rapidly. And what a sight! If a marine artist
could have painted the picture of that beautiful ship, with her
glistening paint, and pearl-tinted sails, and her lithe masts and taut
cordage, he would have had a picture worth looking at. And from her
deck the Gullwing must have seemed quite as beautiful to those aboard
the Seamew.

The two ships were the best of their class--more trimly modeled than
most. I had not realized before what a beautiful ship the Gullwing was.
I saw her reflected in the Seamew.

She carried an open rail amidships; and her white painted stations,
carved in the shape of hour-glasses, with the painted flat handrail
atop, stood clearly and sharply defined above her black lower sides and
the pale green seas.

Not that either ship showed much lower planking, saving when they
rolled; they were heavily laden. With all her jibs and all her whole
sails on the four lower spars, and most of the small sails spread
above, our sister ship certainly was a beautiful picture.

But the old man wasn’t satisfied. Through his glass he saw something
that spurred him to emulation.

“She’s got all her t’gallant-sails set, by Pollox!” he bawled. “Mr.
Gates! what are you moonin’ about? Get them men up there in short
order, or I’ll be after them myself.” And as we jumped into the
rigging, I heard him growling away on the quarter: “That’s the way
Cap’n Si beats us. He crowds on sail, _he_ does. Why, I bet he never
furled a rag durin’ that four-day breeze we just struck, and like
enough had the crew pin their shirts on the wash line inter the
bargain.”

Two vessels may be rigged alike and built alike, but that doesn’t mean
that they will sail exactly alike. The Seamew was a shade faster in
reaching and running than the Gullwing. Mr. Barney told me that.

“But to windward we have the best of her. And that’s not because of
our sailing qualities. The difference is in the two masters,” the
second mate said. “Captain Joe can always get more out of his ship
than Captain Si can out of his when the going is bad. In fair weather
the Seamew will beat us a little every reach. But it isn’t all fair
weather in a voyage of ten thousand miles, or so,” and he smiled--I
thought--rather nastily.

I was reminded of the hint Bob Promise had given me that there was bad
blood and no pleasant rivalry between our second mate and the twin
who held the same berth on our sister ship. Mr. Barney was in the tops
studying the Seamew a good deal through the glass that day, too. I
wondered if he was trying to see if his brother was on deck.

For we did not run near enough to her that day for figures to be
descried very clearly either on her deck or in her rigging.



CHAPTER VIII

_In Which It Seems That a Prophecy Will Be Fulfilled_


We wallowed through the seas, but with comparatively fair winds, for
two days. The Seamew would stand off on one tack, we on the other; and
by and by we would lose her below the horizon; but, standing in, after
some hours, we found her again and were glad to see that she had not
pulled so very much ahead of us. But it made Captain Joe awful fidgety,
and he certainly did keep the men hopping--reefing and letting go the
topsails, and working every moment to gain a bit over his antagonist.
Why, we might as well have been sailing a crack yacht for the America’s
cup!

All this activity was very well during bad weather; but the men began
to get pretty sore when the hard work continued throughout the hours of
fair days too. The Gullwing was, as I have said, short-handed. The sea
laws cover such cases as this; but there are so many excuses masters
may give for going to sea without sufficient hands to properly manage
the ship that it is almost impossible to get a conviction if the case
is carried to court.

Besides, it is the law that, if a case is not proved against the master
of a vessel, the men bringing the suit must pay all the costs. Jack Tar
knows of something else to do with his small pay without giving it to
“landsharks of lawyers.” That is why being a sailor and being a slave
is an interchangeable term. Many legislators, having the welfare of
seamen at heart, have tried to amend the laws so that the sailor will
get at least an even break; but it seems impossible to give him as fair
a deal as the journeyman tradesman in any other line of work obtains.

Old Captain Joe Bowditch, as decent a master as he really was, had a
streak of “cheese-paring” in him that made him delight in saving on the
running expenses of his ship. Besides, he probably knew his employers,
Barney, Blakesley & Knight. Many a sea captain takes chances, and runs
risks, and sails in a rotten ship with an insufficient crew, because
he needs to save his job, and if he doesn’t please his employers, some
other needy master will!

Although the Gullwing was so large a ship, there are larger sailing
vessels afloat, notably some engaged in the Atlantic sea-board trade,
and a fleet of Standard Oil ships that circumnavigate the world. These
are both five and six masted vessels; but many of them are supplied
with steam winches, steam capstans, and various other mechanical helps
to the handling of the sails and anchors. The Gullwing had merely a
donkey-engine amidships, by which the anchors could be raised, one at a
time, or to which the pumps might be attached. The great sails on her
lower masts had to be raised by sheer bull strength.

But in our watch old Tom Thornton was a famous chantey-man, and the
way we hauled under the impetus of his rhythm, and the swing of the
chants (“shanties,” the sailor-man calls them) would have surprised
a landsman. I learned that “a strong pull, a long pull, and a pull
altogether” would accomplish wonders.

We were now down in the regions where the tide follows the growing and
waning of the moon exactly. Indeed, the great Antarctic Basin, south
of the Cape of Good Hope and Cape Horn, is the only division of the
seas where the tide follows the moon with absolute regularity. This is
because the great sweep of water here is uninterrupted by land.

The enormous wave, raised by the moon’s attraction, courses around the
world with nothing to break it. Here in our northern hemisphere immense
masses of land interfere with the coursing of this tidal wave; and the
shallow seas interfere, too. In the Mexican Gulf, for instance, the
tide seldom rises more than two feet, while up along our north Atlantic
shores it often rises six and eight feet, while everybody has heard of
the awful tidal wave of the Bay of Fundy.

The depth of the water, therefore, has much to do with tidal
irregularities. Out in the open ocean, where the tide is abyssmal--that
is, about five thousand fathoms--the speed of the waves is amazing.
Where the depth decreases to five fathoms the tide cannot travel
more than fifteen miles an hour. In England, for example, which is
surrounded by narrow land-broken seas, the result is that they get some
of the most terrible and dangerous tidal races and currents to be found
anywhere on the globe.

In the South Seas--particularly at Tahiti--the ebb and flow of the
tide is perfectly adjusted. It is always full tide at noonday and at
midnight, while at sunrise and sunset it is low water. The rise and
fall seldom exceeds two feet; but once in six months a mighty sea comes
rolling in and, sweeping over the corral reefs, nature’s breakwater,
it bursts violently on the shore. Indeed, sometimes this tidal wave
inundates entire islands.

In various parts of the world the tide creates various natural
phenomena. There is the whirlpool between the islands of Jura and
Scarba, on the west coast of Scotland, known as the “Cauldron of the
Spotted Seas.” The Maelstrom upon the coast of Norway is another
creation of the tide. The force of a heavy tidal current pushing up a
wide-mouthed river, causes what is termed a “bore.” The most striking
example of this tidal feature is seen at the mouth of the Amazon, where
a moving wall of water, thirty feet high and from bank to bank, rushes
inland from the ocean.

The waves raced by the Gullwing’s bulwarks with dizzy speed. We plowed
on, gaining all we could in every reach, but noting likewise that the
Seamew, when she was in sight, seemed to draw away from us. When we had
beheld her in the mirage she must have been a long way behind.

I reckon Captain Bowditch prayed for foul weather. And he did not have
to pray long in this latitude. We were in the district of the Boiling
Seas. Fogs are frequent; gales sweep this section below the Horn almost
continually--sometimes from one direction, sometimes from another. All
the winds of heaven seem to meet here and gambol together.

“He’s runnin’ us into trouble, that’s what he ban doing,” croaked
Stronson. “De old man, I mean. He iss not satisfied with the fair
wedder; and who but a madt man vould crave for a gale down here under
de Horn?”

But we younger fellows laughed at the old Swede. We were almost as
much excited in the race between the two windjammers as were Captain
Bowditch and Mr. Barney.

“Remember!” croaked Stronson. “The corpus lights wass not for nottings.
Trouble iss coming.”

“But not necessarily trouble to the ship,” declared Tom Thornton. “Them
St. Elmo’s fires foreruns death.”

“Dey ban mean bad luck, anyway,” growled Stronson.

Thank and I listened to all this croaking with a good deal of
amusement. It surely never entered my head that the prophecy of the old
men might be in anyway fulfilled.

And I certainly did not feel any foredoom of peril myself. The expected
gale came down. We passed within sight of the islet named Cape Horn,
with a terrific wind blowing and the waves running half mast high. The
Seamew had then been dropped behind. Indeed, the last we saw of her,
she was wallowing in our very wake.

“Gimme a breeze like this,” roared Captain Joe from his station, to Mr.
Gates and Mr. Barney, “all the way to the time we take our tug, and
we’ll be eating supper in Baltimore before that Seamew sights the Capes
o’ Virginia.”

But this, of course, was only brag. The Seamew was not far behind us.

And then, that very night the prophecy of ill-luck was fulfilled, at
least insofar as it affected me. Something broke loose and began to
slat in the tops. Mr. Gates, roaring through the captain’s speaking
trumpet, shouted for all hands. We had barely got to sleep below, and I
reckon I was half way up the shrouds before I got both eyes open.

It was a black night, with the wind coming in strange, uneven puffs,
and the deck all a-wash with loose water. The ship was rolling till the
ends of her yardarms almost dipped in the leaping waves.

My foot slipped; futilely I clutched at the brace with the tips of my
fingers. I knew I was lost, and the shriek I uttered was answered by
Thank’s voice as I whirled downward:

“Man overboard!”

I shot down, and down, and down--and then struck the sea and kept on
descending. I thought of Mahomet’s coffin, hung between the heavens and
the earth. I was hung between the ship’s keel and the bottom of the
vast deep, swinging in that coffin which can never rot--the coffin of
the ocean.



CHAPTER IX

_In Which I Pass Through Deep Waters_


But I came to the surface after a time--and with all my wits about me.
I had need of them.

In these months that I had been knocking about the seas I had been in
peril often. Nor was this the first time that death by drowning had
threatened me.

But on no former occasion had I been in so desperate a strait. I know
that in this rising gale the Gullwing could neither be hove to, nor
could a boat be launched for me.

The schooner had gone on at the pace of a fast steamship. And the tide
was sweeping me astern just as rapidly as the ship was sailing. When I
rose breast high on the first breaker I saw the Gullwing’s twinkling
lights so far ahead that they seemed like candle flames.

I was alone--and this was one of the loneliest seas upon all this
great, round globe!

But when one is thrown into such a situation of peril as I was then,
his thoughts are so confused that it is only afterward--if there _is_
an afterward--that he analyzes his mental activities. Just then I had
only the clear desire to live.

I turned on my back almost immediately and letting my legs hang well
down, floated easily with my nostrils just out of water, and enjoyed
two or three minutes of very, very grateful repose. I had been under
the surface so long that it was some time before I could breathe clear
to the bottom of my lungs again.

The buzzing in my head gradually died away. I began to think
collectedly. I did not waste time thinking of rescue. At least, I could
expect no help from my comrades on the Gullwing.

When I took my headlong plunge from the rigging I was clad in the heavy
garb that most deep-water seamen wear. I had on two thick shirts, a
heavy pea-jacket closely buttoned, and, worse than all, boots to my
hips. Sooner or later all this weight of clothing would drag me down.

I had paddled half a day at a time in Bolderhead Bay; and even the
fresh water ponds about Darringford House, with their hidden springs
and under-tows, had never frightened me. I was the first boy to go in
swimming in the spring and it had to be a pretty cold day in the fall
that drove me out of the water after the first plunge.

Of course, this sea off the boisterous islet of Cape Horn, was no warm
bath. The chill of it struck through to the marrow of my bones; yet I
believed I was good for several hours yet, if I could get rid of those
clothes.

Undressing under water was a trick I had tried more than once; but it
was those long-legged boots that scared me. They already made my lower
limbs feel as heavy as lead.

Paddling with one hand I tore open my jacket with the other, ripping
the buttons off or through the buttonholes as they pleased, and finally
got one shoulder and arm clear. As I was fumbling to get the other arm
out of the sleeve I felt the handle of my knife.

The coat stuck to my left shoulder; but a few slashes cleared me of the
garment. It went floating away on the tide.

I had bobbed up and down in this operation; but was none the worse for
the plunges under the surface, being careful to breathe no water into
my lungs.

With the knife I slit both my shirts and tore them off. But the boots
were the problem that shook me. I had to rest a bit before I tackled
them.

I doubled up in a sitting posture and made a slash at one bootleg. Down
I went--down, down, until it was a fight to get up again--especially
with my fist closed upon my knife handle. It was pretty hard work;
every slash meant a plunge under. It was slow.

I would draw up my left foot, for example, paddle vigorously with my
left hand, take a long breath, make a slash with the knife in my right
hand--and start for the bottom of the sea!

But I got those boots off at last, though not without suffering
several cuts and slashes upon my legs, which the salt seawater stung
tremendously. I had already gotten rid of my belt, and my trousers came
off easier. I was sorry to lose some things in my pockets; but was glad
to think that my father’s chronometer was hanging above my berth in the
Gullwing’s fo’castle and that what money I had was in the keeping of
Captain Bowditch.

And yet, it seemed utterly foolish to think of escape from this
predicament. I had heard stories of wonderful rescues from drowning in
mid ocean; but why should _I_ expect a miracle? Here I was, struggling
miles behind the Gullwing, as naked as the day I was born.

Not many minutes had been spent in these maneuvers, for all the time
occupied in their telling. For the Gullwing to have launched a boat to
hunt for me would have been ridiculous. By day there might have been
some chance of their finding me before I sank for good; but in the
night--and a night as black as this--such an attempt would endanger a
boat’s crew for nothing.

If they had flung me life-buoys, they would have to come to me, for
I could not see them. Gazing up into the sky I saw that scurrying
clouds gave signs of a break in the weather. Here and there a little
lightening of the gloom overhead showed the moon’s rays trying to break
through the mists.

Breast high again upon a rising wave, I took one swift, whirling look
all about. Dense blackness everywhere on the face of the ocean; but
just as I sank back again the moon, breaking through a rift, lighted up
a silvery path before me and at the end of that path--for an instant--I
believed I saw the glistening sails of the Gullwing!

It may have been a mirage--a vision. The blackness shut down upon me,
and upon the sea again; but I fell back into the trough experiencing a
more sickening sense of desolation than I had yet felt. It seemed to me
as though I had looked upon the last sign of human life that I would
ever see.

I suppose a more hopeless situation than mine could scarcely be
imagined. Yet I have philosophized upon it much more since than I did
at the time. I would not let my mind picture the natural end of this
adventure. My mind rebounded from the horrible thought that I was lost.
I would not contemplate it.

In the middle of this broad, tempestuous sea--naked--alone. No hope of
rescue by my companions on the Gullwing, with not a splinter to cling
to, keeping from death only by constant effort. Yet there was something
inside me that would not give up hope--that would not let my muscles
relax--that clung with a desperation that clamped me to life!

But at first it was little exertion for me to keep afloat. I was in
first rate physical condition and I was not afraid of sinking right
away. I knew how to handle myself.

I lay on my back with my head deep, my mouth closed, only my nostrils
above, conserved the strength of my legs by letting them hang deep,
kept my arms outstretched, pretty well down in the water, palms down,
and paddled gently, sometimes with both legs and arms, and again only
with my hands.

The waves rolled me over occasionally and used me roughly; but I did
not lose my head and never sank to any depth, having always plenty of
air in my lungs. When I felt that my arms might become wearied I folded
them under my head and kicked easily.

I am not sure that the sea subsided; but I believe it must have done
so. It was a providence for me, then. I know that not many of the waves
broke over me, and I seemed sliding up and down vast swells which
heaved up out of Nowhere, gray and green and foam-streaked, and then
disappeared and left me floating in the deep trough.

If anyone was ever literally rocked in the cradle of the deep, I was
that person--from the crest of the wave, down, down, in a gradually
diminishing rush, and then up and up to the crest of the next
roller--and so on, over and over again.

Once I let my mind slip and began to calculate the chances for and
against my escape. The conviction that it was impossible rushed over me
and I turned over quickly and struck out with a savage, hand-over-hand
stroke through the waves, with the momentary insane feeling that I must
get somewhere!

The dogged idea of living as long as I could, however, came to me
again with fatigue, and I rolled over and rested, cradled in the waves.

My hand touched my knife, which still hung by its lanyard from my neck.
An awful thought touched my mind, at the same moment. They say it is an
easy death, this drowning; but I can imagine nothing more awful than
to drift for hours upon the surface of the sea with the knowledge in
one’s mind that, after all, there is but one end possible. I opened my
knife and held it tightly gripped in my hand a moment. Then I pulled
the lanyard over my head and let the knife and all drop into the
depths--and the curse went from me.



CHAPTER X

_In Which the Impossible Becomes the Possible_


Four hours had I floated on the tumbling sea, with the clouds above
gradually breaking and with the moon finally paleing under the stronger
light of the advancing sun. The blackness disappeared. A wind-driven
sky arched the sea. And I lay looking up into heaven, waiting for the
end.

For I was in a sort of mesmerized state toward the last, and kept
myself afloat automatically. It must have been so; by no other means
can I explain that I was still floating on the surface when the sun
arose.

The rocking motion of the swells soothed me to a strange content that
I can neither explain nor talk about sanely. I remember I babbled
something or other over and over again; I was talking to the moon
riding so high there among the rifted clouds.

       *       *       *       *       *

In the night of July 14, 1886, the British ship Conqueror, fourteen
days out from Liverpool, bound for the lumber and fishing ports of
the Miramichi, in the Straits of Northumberland, lost overboard
Robert Johnson, A. B. The fact is registered on the ship’s log. Three
days after the Conqueror reached Miramichi, the Bark Adelaide, from
Belfast, likewise came into port and when she was warped into her berth
beside the Conqueror, the first man to step from the Adelaide to the
Conqueror’s deck was Bob Johnson.

There are reasons for the sailor-men being superstitious. The crew of
the Conqueror would not sail with Bob Johnson again. He was _fey_. But
really, he had only experienced a strange and harsh adventure. The
Adelaide, following the unmarked wake of the Conqueror, had picked him
up after he had floated for some hours.

And there are plenty of similar incidents in the annals of those who go
down to the sea in ships to match this narrative of Bob Johnson.

       *       *       *       *       *

The men who picked _me_ up told me that I shouted to them; but I do not
remember it. They were a crew of a boat put overboard by the Seamew,
and they brought me aboard and I lay in a bunk in the fo’castle all
that day without knowing where I was, or how I had been snatched from
an ocean grave.

About the first thing I remember clearly was that a young man stood
beside my berth and looked down upon me with a rather quizzical smile.
I knew him at once and thought that I must be in my old bunk aboard the
Gullwing.

“I--I--. Have I been sick, Mr. Barney?” I asked, and was surprised to
find my voice so weak.

He seemed surprised for a moment, too, and then I saw his face flush.
He exclaimed:

“By the great hornspoon! this fellow is off the Gullwing.”

“I _was_ off the Gullwing,” I whispered. “But I guess this is no dream?
I am aboard again now.”

“No you’re not!” he declared, but he still seemed bewildered.

“This isn’t the Gullwing?”

“It’s the Seamew,” he said.

“But--but--you’re Mr. Barney?”

“I am,” he said, grimly. “But not the Mr. Barney you know, young man.”

Then the mystery broke and I understood. It was Mr. Alf Barney I was
talking to, the second mate of the Seamew.

“Then--then you picked me up,” I murmured.

“And we had an idea that you were a merman,” he said, with a quick
laugh. “Out here in the ocean without a stitch of clothing on you.”

I told him how I had got rid of my garments after falling overboard
from the other ship. The men below gathered around to listen. They were
men of about the same class as manned the Gullwing, I saw.

“You’re the luckiest fellow that ever drew breath, I believe,” said the
second mate, finally. “You stay abed here till morning. Then you can go
forward and talk to the captain. It’s almost unbelievable.”

And I scarce believed it myself--at least, not while I was so
lightheaded and weak. But being a husky fellow my strength quickly came
back to me, and the care of the kind fellows in the fo’castle set me on
my pins the next day. I had a brief interview with Captain Si Somes--a
long, cadaverous, hatchet-faced man who barked his words at one as
though he did not like to waste either voice or words.

“So Cap’n Joe didn’t try to pick ye up?”

“I reckon he couldn’t. It was blowing pretty hard just then.”

“That’s like the old murderer,” he snapped. “Didn’t clew down his
tops’ls quick enough of course. He means to beat me if he kin.”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“Well, he won’t. We’ll pick him up if the wind keeps this a-way.”

“No chance of my getting back to her I sp’ose?” I suggested.

“To the Gullwing?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Wa-al! I ain’t goin’ to waste no time puttin’ you aboard. He’s
short-handed anyway. He allus is. I’ll feed ye for the sake of keepin’
ye,” and he cackled rather unpleasantly.

I didn’t like him as well as I did Captain Bowditch. And my interest
was centered in the success of the Gullwing, too. I wanted to get back
to her and see her win the race.

I found the fo’castle hands of the Seamew just as much interested
in the rivalry of the two ships as the Gullwing’s hands were. They
believed they were on the better craft, too.

“Why, she sails a foot and a half to the Gullwing’s one in fair
weather,” one man told me. “Wait till we get out of this latitude.
You’ll see something like sailing, then, when the Seamew gits to going.”

I thought she was sailing pretty fast just then, and said so.

“If she ever struck another craft--or anything drifting in the
sea--she’d just about cut it down with that sharp bow,” I observed.

“Ain’t much danger of running into anything down here. We ain’t seen
another sail but the Gullwing--save one--for a week.”

“We hadn’t spoken a vessel on the Gullwing for a number of days,” I
replied.

“No. Not many windjammers just now in these waters. And all the
steamers go through the Straits,” my informant said. “But this craft we
spoke three days ago was a-wallowin’ along pretty well--and she had a
tow, too.”

“A steamship, then?”

“No. She was a two-stick schooner, but she had a big auxiliary engine
and was under both steam and sail. The Sea Spell, she was.”

“The Sea Spell!” I cried, in surprise. “I know her. I’ve been aboard
her. Cap’n Tugg, skipper and owner.”

“That’s the Yankee,” said my friend. “And ain’t he a cleaner? What do
you suppose he had in tow?”

I was too amazed to answer, and the man went on:

“That’s one cute Yankee, that Adoniram Tugg. If there wasn’t but two
dollars left in the world he’d have one in his pocket and a mortgage
on the other.”

I had to laugh at this description of the master of the Sea Spell. And
it hit off Adoniram pretty well, too.

“That Yankee has made a killing this time,” continued my informant. “He
has been for weeks cruising south of here, so he yelled across to Cap’n
Somes, hunting for an old whaler stranded in the ice.”

“The Firebrand. I know about her. Indeed, I’ve seen her,” I said, and
told him the story of my cruise on the Gypsey Girl and how we had come
across the frozen ship and I had boarded her.

“Well! don’t that beat cock-fighting!” ejaculated the seaman, who was
called Job Perkins. “That old ile boiler was worth a mint of money.”

“I know it. They said she had fifty thousand dollars in oil aboard.”

“And if Adoniram Tugg makes port with her he’ll turn a pretty penny.
Salvage and all,” ruminated Job.

“What do you mean?” I gasped, suddenly awakened to the fact that I was
listening to a mighty queer story.

“Why, that’s what Tugg was tugging,” and Job smote his knee and laughed
at his own joke.

“He was tugging _what_?”

“Why, I told you he had a ship in tow. She was a sight, she was! Her
masts were just stumps; there wasn’t ten feet of her rail that hadn’t
carried away, and she was battered and bruised and looked like she’d
sink under the surface every time a wave struck her.

“But that cute Yankee had broached oil barrels on her deck, and she
was just wallowin’ along in a pond of ile--a reg’lar slick. The waves
couldn’t break over her,” declared Job, still laughing. “I reckon he’d
patched up her hull in some way, and it looked to me as though he’d tow
her into San Pedro, at least.”

“But, man alive!” I cried. “What was she? What was the Sea Spell
towing?”

“Why, that Firebrand,” he said. “And he’ll make a mint of money out of
her, as sure as you’re a foot high.”



CHAPTER XI

_In Which I See That There Is Tragedy in This Ocean Race_


I was dumfounded by this story of Job Perkins. Later it was
corroborated by the other hands. It had really been Adoniram Tugg and
the Sea Spell that had sailed near enough to this ship for conversation
between the two skippers. And the Sea Spell actually had that old
whaleship in tow.

_This_ was the astonishing part of it: The fact that the Firebrand was
not at the bottom of the seas. I thought I had seen her rained upon by
ice--beaten down by the bursting berg--driven under the leaping waves.

Yet, come to think of it, the rotating icefield had turned so as to
hide the frozen ship from us aboard the Gypsey Girl when the ice split
up, and a curtain of ice-mist and leaping waves had really hidden the
spot where the Firebrand lay.

I had taken it for granted that the frozen ship--more than a year and
a half in the ice--had found her grave right then and there. But I
remembered how sound the hulk of the whaleship seemed when I went
aboard of her. Only her spars and upper works were wrecked. She had
collided with the ice and slid right out of the sea at the collision.
Perhaps the blow had never made her leak a drop!

And then it smote upon my mind that the man of mystery, Tugg’s partner,
must be alive, too.

That stern, sturdy man with his gray beard and hair, and his
wonderfully sharp eyes, who had stuck by the frozen ship when his
mates were driven off, and had battled against the gang of sealers
to preserve the treasure of oil from their greed--this man in whose
presence I had felt a thrill not yet to be explained even in my most
serious times of thought. Why, Professor Vose must be alive! There was
no doubt of that.

I could remember very distinctly our brief interview upon the frozen
ship. How quickly he had disarmed me and showed me that he was my
master. I could imagine that he had not given up hope even when the
ice split up and the Firebrand had slid back into the water amid the
crashing bergs and boiling sea.

Whoever this man was, he was a person of marked character. He had
impressed me deeply and I felt that I could never really get him out
of my mind. Be he Jim Carver, the renegade that had stolen money from
the fish firm back in Bolderhead, or Professor Vose, the marvelous
scientist that Tugg claimed him to be, the man who had risked his life
for the fortune of oil aboard the Firebrand, was an individual whom I
should never forget.

I can’t say that I was as pleased, as the hours passed, with my
situation aboard the Seamew as I had been on her sister ship. In the
first place, I had no proper niche here. I was not one of the crew. I
was really an outsider--and from the enemy’s camp at that.

There seemed to be a different spirit in this crew. They spoke more
bitterly of the Gullwing’s company. They seemed to have no good word
for Captain Bowditch and Mate Gates, and it was from Job Perkins that
I finally got an insight into the real significance of the rivalry
between the sister ships.

“Ye wanter jump quick, young feller, when Mr. Barney speaks,” Job
advised me.

“I know. That is the way it is with _our_ Mr. Barney,” I replied.

“Shucks! Jim Barney’s another sort of a man from Alf Barney.”

“Not to the naked eye,” I responded, laughing. “I couldn’t tell ’em
apart.”

“That’s because you don’t know either of them very well.”

“Why--I don’t know. I think I know our Mr. Barney pretty well. He’s a
smart second officer and altogether a good fellow, too.”

“Smart! Why, he’s a fool to his brother Alfred,” declared Job. “They
ain’t in the same class--them boys. No, they ain’t.”

“Why, I thought they were considered very much alike,” I murmured.

“Alf will show Jim, I reckon, how much better he is,” and Job chuckled.
“Ye see, they useter be the best of friends, though brothers----”

“What do you mean by that?” I cried. “Hadn’t brothers ought to be the
best of friends?”

“Never had a brother, had ye?”

“No. For which I’m awfully sorry.”

“I had brothers. You needn’t be sorry,” said Job, in his sneering way.
“And I reckon that is the way Alf Barney looks at it. Brothers can be
in your way, I tell ye. I found it so. So does Alf Barney. Them boys is
rivals.”

“Well, so are Captain Si and Captain Joe.”

“Huh! Them old tarriers!” snorted Job, very disrespectfully. “They only
play at fighting each other. These Barney boys mean business.”

“But why?” I demanded.

“Well, it’s something about their uncle. You know, their uncle, old
Jothan Barney, is senior partner of the firm?”

“Yes.”

“And he’s put ’em into the business. Not that he’s showed favoritism.
No. These Barney twins air good seamen.”

“I’m glad you will allow that,” I said, rather sharply.

“Yes. Jim is good; but Alf is a corker! a crackajack!” chuckled Job.
“They begun to be rivals in a serious way previous to the v’yge before
last.

“Ye see, there ain’t but one rung at the top o’ any ladder. And there
can’t but one man stand at the top of a pyramid. When old Jothan passes
in his checks there will be just one chance for a nephew to take his
place.”

“You mean that the two boys are jealous of who will get the old man’s
money?”

“And stand in his place in the business,” said Job. “Jothan isn’t one
for dividing power. He’s always been the cock o’ the walk in the firm.
He’ll expect the nephew that takes his place to be the boss. Can’t
divide responsibility. That is the way he looks at it.”

“And a bad thing for the Barney boys,” I muttered.

“Well, he puts it to his nephews two years ago,” continued Job Perkins.
“He tells them they’re running too even. He can’t tell which is the
best man. He don’t believe they are just alike, even if they be twins.

“‘You git up and dust, boys,’ he said. ‘One of ye do something
different from the other. Ye air jest of a pattern. I can’t tell which
is the man and which is his reflection in the glass.’

“Ye understand, old Jothan didn’t know which to put down in his will to
be boss of his money and the firm. The boys have got to show him. He
gives ’em both the same chance, but he expects one to beat the other.

“Old Jothan begun before the mast. He believes in the boys working out
their salvation aboard ship. And even so near a thing as these two
craft racin’, and one beating the other, will tell in the favor of the
second mate who’s aboard the winning ship.”

“I can’t believe it!” I said to Job.

“You don’t hafter--only watch. Old Jothan is getting tired of holding
on to the business. He wants to be shown who is the best man of the two
boys. That best one he’ll take into the House after this voyage--and
you mark my word, sonny, that best man is going to be Mr. Alf Barney.”

I didn’t know whether Job had told me the truth, or not; but I was
sorry to learn of the sordid rivalry between the two brothers. It was
tragic--no less; and I wondered what would come of it in the end?

But my wildest imaginings would have been tame indeed beside what
really was to be the outcome of the misunderstanding between Jim and
Alf Barney.



CHAPTER XII

_In Which the Captain’s Dog Goes Overboard_


The heavy weather could not last forever; we came to a comparatively
calmer season of several days. But the Gullwing was not sighted and I
began to be worried. So many things might easily happen to her. The
officers and crew of the Seamew were interested in finding the sister
ship, too; but their comments upon her absence were neither kindly nor
cheering.

“Is she still ahead, or has she sunk?” demanded Cap’n Si, after an
examination of the entire circle of sea through his glass.

“I bet we’ve sailed clean around her,” said the first mate, chuckling.
“She’s in the discard.”

“No,” said Cap’n Si. “It couldn’t be that.”

“She’s reached land, then,” grinned the mate pointing downward.

I thought that after all, both the crew and officers of the Seamew were
little like my friends aboard the Gullwing. But we had such fitful
winds for a time and made so little speed, that I reckon all hands were
badly rasped.

We sighted several craft in these seas--all windjammers; but none of
them proved to be our sister ship. We were now in the South Atlantic,
and had clawed well off from the threatening rocks of Terra del Fuego.
We had passed from one great sea to another, and the prow of the Seamew
was turned northward. She was headed for home in earnest.

The men and officers were decent enough to me. I had been drafted into
the mate’s watch and I was smart at my duties and had learned a deal
aboard the Gullwing which came into good play aboard her sister ship.
But I wasn’t happy.

The captain had a big Newfoundland dog aboard--Major. He was the pet of
the crew and was a good fellow. Every day that it was not too rough he
went overboard for his bath--usually in a sling made of an old sail,
although in these waters there was not so much danger of sharks as in
the more tropical seas.

However, there were other wicked marine creatures--far more
blood-thirsty than Mr. Shark. And we had occasion to find this fact
out for ourselves within a few days of my coming aboard the Seamew so
strangely.

We had a morning when the sea was almost calm. The wind scarcely gave
the ship headway, and the canvas slatted and hung dead, from time to
time. We all “whistled for a breeze.”

Along about the middle of the morning watch a school of porpoises came
into view. First we saw them in a string to windward, and stories of
sea-serpents, told by both seamen and landsmen, came to my mind. In the
distance, following one another with an undulating motion through the
short seas, the porpoises looked like one enormously long creature--a
huge serpent indeed.

The porpoises struck a school of small fish nearby and then there was
fun. The big fish sported all around the ship, rolling and bouncing
through the water in much excitement.

The Captain’s dog likewise grew excited. He ran to the open rail and
barked and yapped at the sea-pigs; and I believe that one of the men
slyly “set him on” at the porpoises.

However, to the surprise of the watch on deck (the captain was below),
Major suddenly leaped the rail and went plump into the water.

“Hi, there!” cried Job Perkins. “That dog’ll git inter trouble; and
then what will Cap’n Si say?”

I fancy the surprise of the porpoises when Major got among them was
quite as great as the amazement of the men on the deck of the slow
moving Seamew. The schooner was just slipping through the sea, the
short waves lapping against her hull very gently. Major could easily
have kept up with us.

The porpoises were sailing around and around the ship by this time,
and the big dog bounced among them, barking and biting--or trying to
bite--and otherwise acting like a mad dog. He plunged first for one
porpoise, then for another, rising as lightly as a dog of cork on the
waves, and throwing himself about in great abandon.

He so excited the porpoises that they made a general charge upon him.
The dog beat a retreat in a hurry; but the sea-pigs had their “dander
up” now and a score of them followed him, jumping, snorting, and
tumbling about, evidently much delighted at putting the black stranger
to flight.

Major came towards the ship with a rush--his only refuge. The men
cheered him excitedly; and the watch below was aroused and rushed up to
see what was going on. So did Captain Somes appear, and the moment he
saw the dog with the big fish after him, he sang out for the sling and
scolded us unmercifully for letting Major overboard.

I verily believe that the porpoises would have torn the noble fellow
to shreds in a very few minutes. When Major came over the side, he was
cut in several places and one of his ears hung from a thread or little
more. I learned then that, although the porpoise is such a playful
creature, and apparently harmless, it has means of defending itself not
to be sneered at!

I was leaning on the forward port rail, looking idly across the stretch
of comparatively quiet sea (the porpoises having rushed away to
lee’ard), when I saw rising to the surface not many furlongs from the
ship’s side, a great brownish mass that I took to be seaweed.

After a storm we often met fields of rock weed, wrenched from the
shallow banks underneath the ocean by the terrific waves. This rising
mass was not much different--in first appearance--from many weed-fields
I had seen.

Mr. Alfred Barney was seldom on deck without his fowling-piece--a
beautiful, double-barreled shotgun--in weather like this. He was a
splendid wing shot and seemed to delight in bringing a gull flapping
down into the sea, although he never shot at albatross.

“What you looking at, Webb?” he demanded of me, suddenly, coming around
the corner of the forward house, gun in hand.

“Why, sir,” said I, just making up my mind that I had made a mistake
in my first diagnosis of the nature of the brown mass that had now
risen to the surface, “why, sir, I believe it is something alive.”

“Something alive?”

“That thing off there,” I replied, pointing to the object that had
attracted my attention.

He stepped to my side quickly and shaded his eyes under the palm of his
hand as he gazed at the peculiar looking brown patch.

“A whale’s back?” I suggested, as he remained silent.

“No. It hasn’t got slope enough,” replied Mr. Alf Barney. “By George,
though! it’s alive.”

“That’s what I thought,” I said. “I believed it moved--there!”

A tremor of life seemed to seize the object and passed all through it.
Whatever it was, its length was fifty or sixty feet.

“Maybe it’s dying,” I said. “Some great beast----”

“Not a bat-fish,” he muttered, half raising his rifle.

“No, sir. I don’t see either head or tail to it.”

It moved again--rather, it quivered. I can scarcely express the feeling
of horror and dislike for the thing that came over me. I shuddered.

“I wish it would go away,” I muttered.

Mr. Barney laughed, shortly. He raised his gun again. Suddenly we heard
a sharp, mandatory voice behind us:

“Don’t do that, Mr. Barney!”

We both turned. It was the mate, Mr. Hollister. He was a dark, stern,
silent man, who spoke to the men without much bustle, but who evidently
expected to be obeyed the first time.

“That’s a giant squid, Mr. Barney,” said the mate. “He’s ‘bad
medicine.’ You don’t want to fool with one of those fellows. I did so
once to my sorrow.”



CHAPTER XIII

_In Which I Learn a Deal About Sea Monsters in General and the Giant
Squid in Particular_


“A squid of _that_ size?” cried the young second mate, doubtfully,
while I gave my closer attention to the long, dark brown body that lay
quivering upon the surface of the sea.

“There’s bigger,” said Mate Hollister, grimly. “Ask any old Norwegian
hardshell about the ‘kraken.’ I don’t mean the octopus; I mean the real
devil-fish--the squid.”

“I know the octopus and the squid are two different creatures,” said
Barney.

“Yes. And that yonder is a squid--a devil-fish of the largest size.
There! you can see his fore-arms now--look!”

I had observed something moving thirty feet beyond one end of the bulky
brown creature. Two snake-like tentacles suddenly whipped out of the
water. They bore between their ends a struggling fish. In a moment
tentacles and fish disappeared, apparently sucked in toward the head of
the monster.

“Good-bye, Johnny Fish!” said Mr. Hollister, grimly. “The parrot-beaks
of that gentleman have snapped him up.”

I had seen small squid. This beast lying on the sea so near us was
between fifty and sixty feet long, with an average diameter of
something like five feet, and a ten-foot breadth of tail.

The squid are the natural food of the sperm whale. Often the whale
is so greedy for the squid that it tackles one of these giants and
swallows the hard and indigestible beak which, causing a disease
in the cetacean’s stomach, sometimes brings about the death of the
gourmand. As parts of squid beaks have been found imbedded in masses of
ambergris, scientists are quite convinced that this gormandizing of the
sperm whale on squid is the immediate cause of that secretion in its
stomach which, strange as it may seem, is the basis of many of the best
perfumes. Ambergris is a very valuable “by-product” of the sperm whale.

The orca--that tiger of the sea--is inordinately fond of the squid,
too, as a diet. This devil-fish, with its eight short arms, each
covered on the underside with innumberable “suckers,” and its two
fishing-arms which have suckers only at the extremity, excites no fear
in the killer-whale.

Concealed at the base of the squid’s ten arms is the terrible beak,
shaped like that of a hawk, except that the upper jaw shuts into the
lower. This beak is likewise dark brown in color, almost black at the
tips, and is supported by powerful muscles.

Years ago there was a huge squid captured at Catalina, on the southern
shore of Trinity Bay, Newfoundland. This squid was bought by the New
York Aquarium and was the largest perfect specimen of its kind ever
examined by scientists. Of course, they had to satisfy themselves with
a post-mortem examination!

The beak of this immense fish--which could not have been much larger
than the one we were contemplating from the deck of the Seamew--was as
big as a six-gallon keg.

No animal can have a more formidable appearance, or a more deadly
grasp, than these squid. It would seem as though the long, flexible,
muscular tentacles were a sufficient means of defense and offense,
without their being armed with the terrible suction cups.

These cups have a serrated edge like a handsaw, and are used for
anchors as well as to secure prey. They cling with the greatest
tenacity, it being easier to tear away an arm from the body of the
squid, than to force the beast to give up its hold. It has all the
desperate nature of a bulldog.

The beak, or jaw, is provided with terrible teeth, and even the
tongue is covered on the upper part by a horny bed, bristling in the
center with a series of recurving teeth, while its edge is armed with
three other erect teeth, which are slender and hooked. A man might as
well put his hand into a knitting machine and expect to take it out
unscarred, as to risk a hand in the jaws of a squid. Those teeth tear
the creature’s food to shreds.

And one other characteristic the squid possesses which gives it
advantage over both enemy and prey. When excited, and at will, it can
eject a substance like ink--indeed, it was used by the ancients as
ink--by which it clouds the sea, and so often escapes an enemy. Its own
eyes being of a phosphorescent nature, it can see well enough through
the haze of this cloud of ink, therefore its prey cannot escape.
Besides, its fishing-arms being three times the length of its other
tentacles, the squid can “fish a long way from headquarters.”

This ink of the squid, or cuttle-fish, when dried, is used in
water-color painting, and is known by the name of “sepia.” It is
practically indestructible.

Now, all this by the way of introducing the squid. The Seamew crept by
the creature and I, for one, was not sorry to see it finally disappear.
And from what the men told about the cuttle-fish I judged that it would
have been the part of unwisdom for Mr. Barney to have fired at the
creature.

“Lemme tell you,” said old Job Perkins, leaning on the rail beside me.
“Them ain’t critters to fool with. I know. I been there and learned.”

“Did you ever get real close to a big squid, Job?” I asked him.

“Big enough and near enough to suit me,” he said, wagging his head and
expectorating over the rail. “I went up against a reef-squid once--in
the Galapagos, it was--and that was enough for Job. Yes, sir!

“I was in the clipper ship Chelsea that time, I was,” continued the old
man, taking another “chaw.” “Cap’n Daggett ordered a boat ashore for
turtles. He shot ’em for soup and fresh meat. Good eatin’, too. But I
took a seal-club with me, for I wanted a sea-lion’s skin to make me a
pair of moccasins, and I’d heard ’em roaring when we dropped anchor.

“I went off by myself and waded around a low, rocky point, in water not
ha’f knee deep, but deep jest outside, when I saw Mr. Squid moving
along atop of the water. He made considerable thrashing as he come
along, like a whirligig waterwheel; his body part looked bigger than I
am, and his arms two or three times as long--at any rate, them two long
arms was tremendous.

“It headed into a little bay ahead of me,” pursued Job, “and when it
got into about three foot of water it dropped anchor and began to feel
around with three or four of its arms. The upperside of them arms were
brown colored like the rocks, with wrinkles and stiff bristles all
along the edge; the underside was white--sort of a nasty, yallerish,
dead-looking white--with suckers like saucers in two rows. What I took
to be the head had something like eyes; but I couldn’t make ’em out
plain.

“Ye know how it is when ye see a snake, when you’re walking on shore,”
said old Job. “Ye always want to try and kill it. That’s the way I felt
about that squid. I didn’t think of any danger when I waded to it, but
it seemed to be watchin’ me, for it squared round, head-on. I hit it a
clip with my iron-bound seal-club, when, quick as a thought, it took
a turn around the club with one o’ them short suckers, and held on. I
pulled my blessedest, but the critter was too much for me. Then’s when
I’d oughter backed out.

“But I was obstinate and I kept tugging at the club. Just then it
showed its head--it shot out from the knob in front, a brown-and-purple
spotted thing with the eyes showing. And in a second one of its arms
was around me. It wound around my bare leg and another shot around my
neck. The suckers took hold like a doctor’s cups.

“It began to heave and haul on me. You kin guess I pulled and hollered.
I got out my knife and hacked at it, but it would have mastered me--it
sure would!--if Cap’n Daggett hadn’t come running along the shore and
fired both barrels of his gun into its head. Then it let go and slid
back into deep water, squirting its nasty ink all about.

“I ain’t never fooled with no squid again,” concluded Job Perkins.
“They ain’t no pets.”

It was later in that day, when I was standing my trick on lookout, and
the Seamew had got a better wind and was forging ahead at a spanking
pace, that Mr. Hollister and Mr. Barney stood near me and I heard the
second mate ask the older man about the experience _he_ had had with a
giant squid.

“Yes,” said Mr. Hollister, “when I was a young fellow I ran against
one of those squids, and I never want to bother with another one. I
was mate of a little schooner--the Pearl, she was--150 tons and a crew
of six men forward, with the cook. We were bound from the Mauritius to
Rangoon in ballast, to return with paddy, and had put in at Galle for
water. Three days out we fell becalmed in the bay--about latitude 8
degrees 50 minutes North, longitude 84 degrees 5 minutes East.

“On the 10th of May about five o’clock in the afternoon--eight bells, I
know, had gone some time before--we sighted a two masted screw steamer
on our port quarter, about five or six miles off. Very soon after, as
we lay motionless on a sea like glass, a great mass rose slowly to the
surface about half a mile on our larboard side, and remained spread
out, as it were, and stationary.

“Even at that distance I could see that it was fully as long as the
Pearl, and I sung out to the skipper to ask what he thought it was.

“‘Blest if I know,’ says he. ‘Barring its size, color and shape, it
might be a whale. Some deep-sea critter, sure enough,’ and he dove
below and came up with a heavy rifle.

“The crew was discussing it, too, and as the skipper was preparing to
fire at the thing, Bill Darling, a Newfoundlander, exclaimed, putting
up his hand:

“‘Have a care, Skipper. That ere is a squid and it’ll capsize ye if ye
hurt him.’

“I’d heard of squid, and seen squid,” proceeded Mr. Hollister, “and so
had the skipper. But we both laughed at old Bill. The skipper up with
his gun and let her go. He hit the thing, and it shook all over; there
was a great ripple all around him and he began to move.

“‘Out with all your axes and knives!’ shouted Bill, ‘and cut at any
part of him that comes aboard.’

“The old fellow taking the deck in that way made the skipper mad, and I
was some surprised myself. You know how old sailors are--superstitious,
as Negroes were in slavery. We couldn’t do anything to move the
schooner, of course, and the skipper and I didn’t say a thing to the
crew. Bill and the two others got axes and one other a rusty cutlass.
We were all looking over the side at the advancing monster; but I for
one, didn’t believe it was dangerous.

“We could now see a huge, oblong mass, moving by jerks, just under the
surface of the water, and an enormous train following. The oblong body
was at least half the size of the Pearl and just as thick. The wake,
or trail, might have been a hundred feet long.

“In the time I’ve taken to tell you,” said Mr. Hollister, “the brute
struck us and the ship quivered under the thud; I wasn’t scared a mite
until then. The skipper gave a yell and plugged away with his rifle
another time. And then monstrous arms like trees seized the vessel and
she keeled over; in another second the monster was aboard, squeezing
its great polypus bulk in between the two masts.

“Bill screamed, ‘Slash for your lives!’ But all our slashing and
yelling didn’t do a mite of good. Holding on by his arms, the monster
slipped back into the sea again, and dragged the vessel down with him
on her beam-ends.

“The skipper and I were thrown into the water. I caught sight of old
Bill and one of the others squashed up betwixt the mast and one of them
arms. It was an awful sight, I tell you.

“Of course, the Pearl’s hatches were open and in a few moments she
filled and went down. Those two went with her. The rest of us escaped
the brute’s tentacles and a boat from the Strathowen--the steamer we’d
seen--picked us up a little later.

“That was the finish of the Pearl and two brave men,” added Mr.
Hollister, gravely. “And she isn’t the only craft that’s been carried
down by a giant squid. Most folks I’ve told it to think it’s a sailor’s
yarn. But the crew and the passengers of the Strathowen could swear to
it--and did so, too. The story was printed in the Indian papers when we
reached Madras. And you’ve seen one of the beasts yourself, to-day, and
know to what an enormous size they grow. There are dangerous monsters
in the sea, Mr. Barney; but I reckon there’s nothing worse than a
healthy, full-grown devil-fish.”



CHAPTER XIV

_In Which a Signal Retards the Race_


It was at six bells in the morning watch of the next day that the
lookout in the top sang out the wailing cry:

“On deck!”

“Crow’s nest, ahoy!” responded Mr. Hollister, who had the deck.

“Sail-oh!”

“Where away?”

“Two points off the weather bow. Four-sticker! It’s that blessed
Gullwing, by Jiminy Christmas!” responded the sharp-eyed seaman aloft.

There was as much excitement aboard the Seamew now as though this was
the first time her sister ship had been spied in the offing. We ran up
the shrouds to see her better, and the officers were all on deck with
their glasses.

She came snorting up to us on the starboard tack, all her bright canvas
bellying, and so trim and taut that it was a pleasure to gaze upon her.
I felt a thrill of delight as I watched the Gullwing. Aboard of her
was my chum, Thankful Polk, and my other friends, and I wished with all
my heart that I might rejoin them.

But I knew very well that under the present circumstances that would be
impossible. Had the two schooners been becalmed the day before, side by
side, I might have got Cap’n Si to put me aboard the Gullwing.

But one thing I did beg the captain of the Seamew to do, and, after
some little demur, he agreed to it. He ordered Mr. Barney to bring out
the signal flags, kept in the chest amidships, and instructed him to
inform Captain Bowditch that the Seamew had picked up, alive, the lost
member of his crew.

This signaling was not done until the Gullwing was so near that both
ships were about to tack. As soon as the line of flags was run up on
the Seamew, they hustled about on the Gullwing and replied. Nor did
Captain Bowditch shift his helm at once. The sister ships continued to
approach each other.

The Seamew had plainly overtaken the Gullwing, and now, when she
sheered off, she would begin to creep ahead of the craft in which I
was the more interested. With the wind as it was, and nothing untoward
occurring, the Seamew was bound to gain something over her rival in
each leg she made.

“What’s he sayin’?” bawled Cap’n Si to Mr. Barney.

I had already learned something about the signal code, and when the
second mate’s back was turned I got a squint at the codebook. Captain
Bowditch was asking if the Seamew would heave to and send me aboard!

“Cap’n Joe is sure cracked!” cackled the commander of the Seamew. “Tell
him I wouldn’t do it for a hull barrel of greening apples.”

I reckon Mr. Barney put the refusal more briefly. But the Gullwing
continued to hang in the wind while another line of flags was run up
to her fore. The book told me that the signal read: “I’ll send boat
aboard.”

“No he won’t, by jinks!” crowed Cap’n Si. “Nor he wouldn’t wanter do it
if he warn’t so blamed short-handed. Stow your flags, Mr. Barney. Stand
by. Ready! haul sheet!” and he went ahead and gave swift orders to put
the Seamew about on the other tack.

But I was glad that those aboard the Gullwing knew that I was alive. I
could imagine Thank’s relief, and how surprised and--I hoped--glad, the
others would be to know that I had not found my grave in the ocean. I
even thought kindly of Bob Promise, the bully, and believed that he
was likewise thinking kindly of me at that moment.

“And to serve Cap’n Si out for not being willing to meet Cap’n Joe half
way, and let them take me aboard,” I muttered to myself, “I hope the
Gullwing beats the Seamew all to flinders!”

The Seamew, however, gained slowly upon her sister ship. On every tack
that day she made a better showing. Sometimes the Gullwing was below
the horizon; but whenever we sighted her she was dropping back a bit.
The wind remained steady and from a favorable quarter and by and by the
night dropped down and divided the two ships more effectually than the
sea itself.

As the light faded upon sea and sky we sailed under a vast,
black-velvet canopy embroidered upon which were the countless stars
and planets. Constellations that I knew nothing about glowed from the
depths of the firmament; and brighter than all was the Southern Cross.
The moon had dipped below the horizon and therefore the Cross and the
stars were the more brilliant. I paced the deck alone and thought of
my mother, and wondered what she was doing just then, and if Chester
Downes was still trying to circumvent me, and Mr. Hounsditch, and gain
control of the fortune, possession of which he so much begrudged my
mother and myself.

And a thought came to me from out the stillness and immensity of that
night--a thought that forever after seemed to haunt me; was there not
some curse upon my grandfather’s huge property, which had been willed
my mother and I under such wicked conditions? For that Grandfather
Darringford’s will had been inspired by hatred of Dr. Webb, my father,
one could not doubt.

Had my father not been drowned as he was off White Rock, that will
of grandfather’s would have been the source of heartburnings in the
family. Human nature is human nature; the time would have come when the
fact that Dr. Webb was a stumbling-block to his son’s advancement, or
his wife’s ease, would have been advanced. That is, if my father had
remained all these years a poor man. And what else could he have been
with his practice in Bolderhead?

Men get stunted in small towns--especially professional men. Dr. Webb
could never have made much more than a miserably poor living for
mother and I had he lived; and all that time the thought of the great
Darringford Estate would have been the skeleton in our closet!

It was better as it was, I suppose. It had been a dream that my father
was still alive. I believe I would have gladly given up my share of my
grandfather’s money to have found that the mysterious man aboard the
frozen ship was my father! I had been strangely drawn toward that man.

Besides, I felt now as though I were old enough and big enough to make
my own way in the world, and to keep my mother in comfort, if not in
luxury, as well.

Dawn drew near and the stars began to fade. Soon the deck would be
a-bustle with our watch washing down. We had probably crossed and
recrossed the way of the Gullwing during the night, but she had not
been hailed from the lookout.

As the light of day advanced the wind fell. We hardly made steerage-way
in the pearl-colored light of dawn. The coming day is heralded ashore
by hundreds of feathered trumpeters; but here on the open sea it
advances with silence.

Far, far out on the sea, where the gently swelling water seemed
buttoned to the rim of the sky, a sudden flush appeared. The hue lay
upon both sky and sea--indeed, it was hard to distinguish for a bit the
one element from the other. But I knew the sun was about to poke his
head up just there!

And as the glow grew, a ghostly figure drew across the pink patch.
I watched it eagerly. The sun, mist-shrouded and sleepy, was thrust
out of the sea; and across the red face of him sailed a four-stick
ship--the Gullwing! It did not need the man in the crow’s nest to hail
the officer of the deck and announce the fact. I could identify our
sister ship from where I stood.

Long red rays like pointing fingers played across the sea. The Gullwing
and the Seamew were several miles apart. The early rays of the sun
touched an object on the sea--at first merely a black spot--lying about
equi-distant of the two ships.

When I first saw this black thing I sprang into the shrouds. Mr.
Hollister hailed me:

“What do you see, Webb?”

“Something adrift--yonder, sir!”

“Lookout, ahoy!” bawled the mate.

“Aye, aye, sir! I sees it.”

“What d’ye make it out to be?” demanded the mate.

“It’s the black hulk of an open boat,” I cried, as the seaman above
hesitated. I expect the rising sun half blinded him. “There’s a stump
of a mast and she seems decked over forward--no! it’s an awning.”

“A ship’s boat?” cried the mate, eagerly.

“Aye, aye, sir!” came down the voice of the man in the top. “That’s
what she be. And wrecked. Not a sign of life aboard her.”

“How is it, Webb?” Mr. Hollister repeated.

“I see nothing moving,” I admitted, slowly.

Mr. Hollister sent down for his glass, and then joined me in the
shrouds. The deck was all a-bustle by now. Cap’n Si came up, rubbing
his eyes and yawning.

“What’s the matter with all you lubbers?” was his pleasant demand.
“What’s that--the Gullwing? Ain’t you never seen her before?”

“Drop your eyes a bit, Captain,” advised Mr. Hollister, swinging down
after a look through his glass.

“Huh!” exclaimed the skipper. “A boat.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Empty?”

“It looks so,” replied Mr. Hollister, and passed him the glass.

“Ain’t wuth picking up,” decided Cap’n Si, after a long look at the
drifting boat.

He closed the glass. Mr. Hollister waved me down and turned to order
the watch to work, when the man in the tops hailed again. He was in a
better position to see into the drifting boat than anybody else.

“I see something moving in that boat, sir!”

“What do you see?” bawled Cap’n Si.

“It’s something fluttering--a flag, or a rag. There it is!”

There were light airs stirring. Suddenly something upon the broken mast
moved. A flaw of wind fluttered something fastened there. Was it a
signal of distress? Was some poor creature adrift in the half wrecked
boat?

I wondered what Cap’n Si would do. To ignore a flag of distress--to
pass by the opportunity of rescuing a fellow-creature from death--would
be an awful thing. Yet there might be nobody in the boat. I could see
the old man doubted.

And then the lookout hailed again:

“The Gullwing’s dropping a boat, sir!”

“That’s enough!” roared Cap’n Si, all in a bluster at once. “I won’t
let Cap’n Joe do more’n me. Mr. Barney!” The second mate had followed
him on deck. “Call away a boat’s crew.”

“Aye, aye, sir!” was the second mate’s smart response.

“Beat the Gullwing’s boat to that barge. Understand me? You git there
first. I ain’t goin’ to let Joe Bowditch crow over me in Baltimore.
Mebbe the boat’s wuth savin’ after all.”

Before he had ceased speaking Mr. Barney had shouted down the fo’castle
hatchway and his watch tumbled up. I had slid down the stays to the
deck and was right beside the boat Mr. Barney had elected to launch. I
wanted to go in that boat, but I belonged to the mate’s watch and knew
I would not be selected.



CHAPTER XV

_In Which We Have a Good Race In Earnest_


And I had an idea that if I asked the captain to go in the boat, or
suggested it to Mr. Barney, I’d get an immediate refusal. I had a
decided belief that Captain Somes didn’t wish me to get aboard the
Gullwing again. Not that he needed my services particularly--although
my work was costing him nothing but my grub and the cast-off clothes I
had been given; but Captain Si feared that Captain Joe needed me, and
my remaining with the Seamew was crippling his rival. Which, by the
way, was likely to be the facts in the case.

So, with this scheme in my mind, I expect I was even more cautious than
was necessary. I might have been unnoticed had I jumped right into the
boat as it went overboard.

But when I heard Mr. Barney call off the men’s names, I noted that Job
Perkins was among the chosen. I had sized up Job for what he was. I
grabbed him as he passed me on the run and shot into his ear:

“Listen! ten dollars when we reach Baltimore if you’ll let me take your
place in the boat.”

“Huh?” said Job, wonderstruck for a moment. But it was only for a
moment. The old fellow had all his wits about him and in working order.

“It’s a bargain, boy,” he whispered, and the next moment he fell
sprawling over a coil of rope and scrambled up again right before Mr.
Barney.

“Hullo! what’s the matter with you, old man?” demanded the second
officer.

“Ow-ouch!” groaned Job, rubbing his arm.

“Hurt you?” snapped Mr. Barney.

“By gravey! I _did_ wrench my arm,” groaned Job, his face writhing with
an expression of pain.

I stepped in at once. “I’ll take his place, sir,” I said.

“All right!” cried the officer, without a glance, and I slid down the
falls and seized the bow oar.

In another moment the officer followed me, getting into the stern, and
we cast off.

“You git that boat for me, Mr. Barney!” bawled Cap’n Si, over our
heads. “Don’t you let them fellers from the Gullwing beat ye.”

“We’ll do our best,” responded Mr. Barney, waving his hand. Then to us
he said: “Give way, men! See what you can do. Bend the ash!”

Before we had left the deck of the Seamew we knew that the Gullwing’s
boat was off ahead of us. It looked as though the drifting boat was
about as far from one vessel as she was from the other. The air being
so light, we would have lost time trying to beat down to the spot. The
race was between the six-oared boats, and I do not believe any college
regatta was ever pulled amid more intense excitement.

At first, however, as we were so low in the water, we could not see our
rival. Nor could we scarcely observe the object of our race.

But over these gentle waves we could pull a mighty stroke, and I found
that the men with me at the oars were practiced hands. The strokeman
set a pace that made us bend our backs in good earnest. This was a race!

Mr. Barney was using a steering oar, and using it well. He stood up to
the work, and therefore he could see much farther than we at the oars.
By glancing now and then over my left shoulder, however, I could see
the black hulk of the drifting boat rising and falling upon the gentle
waves.

And at first I saw nothing about the boat to express life saving the
fluttering rag. It was a flag. After some minutes of hard pulling it
was revealed to us that it was a British flag, set union down.

As I pulled I saw that Mr. Barney was looking across at some other
object than the mysterious black craft. His eyes were squinted up as he
gazed into the rising sun, and the expression of his face was mighty
grim.

“He sees the Gullwing’s boat,” I thought.

“Pull, you fellows!” he suddenly barked at us. “Why don’t you pull?”

And we _were_ pulling. I could stand the pace for a bit longer, I
thought; but the stroke was certainly bending his back and driving his
oar with a vigor that left little more to be expected from mortal man.

“Pull!” yelled our mate. “Pull, or those lubbers will beat you to it.”

There was no feathering of oars, or any fancy work. This was just the
hard, deep pull of the deep-sea oarsman. We breathed heavily; the
sweat poured from our limbs; we neither spoke nor looked back over our
shoulders now. We became veritable pieces of mechanism, set to do this
certain stroke, and to do it until we broke down completely!

“Keep it up! Break your backs!” yelled the second mate.

I had an idea that there was an added incentive for Mr. Barney’s
excitement. His twin brother more than likely commanded the boat from
the Gullwing. But we at the oars could not see her yet.

Nearer and nearer we came to the drifting boat. Our craft sprang
through the sea at the end of every stroke. Had one of the oars broken
I believe we would have been capsized.

Once more I glanced around. Not a sign of life in that floating mystery
with its signal floating from the broken mast. But there _was_ a bit of
canvas spread forward of that mast, like an awning.

Mr. Barney saw me look back and he swore at me good and plenty.

“You want us to lose this race, you sawney!” he exclaimed.

I was convinced that, for his part, he was more anxious to beat the
Gullwing’s crew--and incidentally his brother--than to save any life
there might be remaining on the wreck.

But perhaps I misjudged Mr. Alfred Barney. We were all excited. Even
I, who had no reason for wishing to see the Seamew’s boat win, pulled
my oar with every last ounce of strength I possessed. Mr. Barney had
accused me without warrant of trying to throw the race.

The two racing boats were not head-on to each other, but were
approaching the wreck at an angle that now brought each in sight of the
other. When the Gullwing’s boat flashed into the range of my eyes I saw
half a dozen of the men I knew. There was Thankful Polk, heaven bless
him, and Mr. Jim Barney at the steering oar. The sight of them made me
feel good all over.

But I could not see the wreck now without twisting my head around. And
if I did that I knew I should bring the wrath of our second mate upon
me. The Gullwings cheered. For a moment I did not know what for. Could
they be winning?

And then Thank’s jolly voice reached me across the stretch of sea:

“Hurray, Clint! Go it, old boy! You’re a sight for sore eyes!”

But I had no breath with which to answer. And I reckon if he had been
pulling his oar as I was, he would not have been so boisterous.

The strain of the last few minutes of the race was terrific. My breath
came in great sobs, and I heard the other men with me groan as they
strained at the heavy oars. We were about all in.

“Pull, you tarriers!” barked Mr. Alf Barney again.

“Keep it up, boys!” yelled Mr. Jim Barney in the other boat.

I saw scowling looks exchanged between the twin brothers. It must be
true, as Job Perkins had said, the two Barney boys were deadly enemies!

Then suddenly our cox shouted: “In oars! Way all!”

I felt the nose of the boat bump something behind me. I dropped my oar
and turned to seize the broken gunwale of the drifting hulk we had
pulled so hard to reach. We of the Seamew had won the race.



CHAPTER XVI

_In Which I Return to the Gullwing--and With My Arms Full_


I hadn’t breath enough left at first to answer Thankful Polk’s hail.
And when my eyes fell upon the contents of the drifting boat that we
had pulled so far to reach, what I saw was not calculated to aid me to
easy breathing. Lying upon his back, face upwards, in the glare of the
morning sun, lay a man, bareheaded and barefooted, dead.

And such an awful death as he must have died! His face was quite black,
although he was a white man by nature, it was as though the blood had
been congested in his face. His tongue had protruded slightly from
between his firm, white teeth. His legs were drawn up as though in a
convulsion and the corpse had stiffened that way. His limbs had not
been composed by any kindly hand after the spirit had left its body.

He was a sailor. There was tattooing on his chest and arms. He had a
short, bushy beard. I believed at first glance that he was a British
seaman. And almost at this first moment of glancing into the boat I
made another discovery. I learned how the man had died.

His tongue was not black; and although he was much emaciated, neither
thirst nor hunger had hounded the sailor to his dreadful end.

He wore a gully slung by a lanyard around his neck. That knife was
twisted tightly in the cord, and the cord itself was imbedded in the
flesh of the dead man’s throat. Actually a tournequet had been made of
the knife and cord, and the sailor had been strangled. He was a horrid
sight, as he lay with his feet to the empty stern and his touseled head
thrown back over a seat.

Perhaps many of the details of this awful scene were a matter of later
observation; but it seems to me now as though everything about the dead
man was photographed upon my brain at the first glance.

And then my gaze roved beyond him. There was a piece of sailcloth laid
across the bow of the open boat beyond the stump of the mast. It was
dark under that awning. But right at the entrance lay something white
and gold.

Without waiting for any order from Mr. Barney, I stood up and leaped
into the half wrecked boat. I heard none of the other men speak a
word. All my attention was given to the object which my dazzled eyes
now rested upon.

A young girl--the prettiest, most appealing child I had ever seen--lay
under the awning. Her head was toward me. Her face was as white as
milk, and the blue veins showed plainly at her temples and were traced
along her throat. Her cheeks were without an iota of color.

She was all white--her face, her thin, ruffled dress--the bare arm from
which the sleeve had been pushed back to her elbow. All white, save
the great mass of her hair. That was gold--pure gold. Such a beautiful
child I had never imagined before. She was twelve or thirteen years old.

“What’s that you got there, Webb?” I heard Mr. Alf Barney shout.

I had dropped on my knees beside the unconscious girl. I saw that she
was only delicate and exhausted. There was a breaker of water lashed
to the gunwale right beside her, and a cup with water in it. I saw no
food; but I knew well enough that the girl was not dying of thirst. No
more than the sailor had died of thirst!

I gathered the girl up in my arms. She was a light weight. I thought
she sighed and her eyelids fluttered.

And then suddenly sounded a raucous bellow, in a strange tongue, from
within the decked-over portion of the boat. Something moved. I leaped
back and almost trod upon the dead man.

Out from under the awning crept a tall, lean, lithe brown man, dressed
in torn sailor togs, but with a dirty turban around his head. He was a
wild-eyed, yelling fiend. In a moment there flashed out of his dress,
from some secret place, a long, glittering blade. With this raised
above his head he bounded in his bare feet the length of the boat after
me.

At that moment the boat from the Gullwing scraped alongside the wreck.
As I whirled to escape this murderer, this boat was nearest to me.
Thankful Polk, his red face transfixed with horror, shouted to me:

“Here, Sharp! Quick! This way!”

Their boat was really nearest me. I leaped into it. Thank shoved off
with his oar and the boat and the wreck were separated by a growing
streak of sea.

The men in both boats all talked at once; and the two Mr. Barneys
shouted; but above all the uproar I could hear the frenzied shrieks of
the brown man in the turban.

“Come back, here, Webb!” cried the second officer in the Seamew’s
boat. “We’ll take that child with us.”

“Sit down, Clint!” commanded Mr. Jim Barney, quietly. “You’ll have us
swamped.”

I obeyed him quickly. Thank smote me a hearty blow between the
shoulders.

“Sharp! you’re a daisy! I knowed they couldn’t never drown you,” he
declared.

But I couldn’t reply to him. I still held the girl in my arms. There
seemed to be no good place there in the stern to lay her down. And she
was so frail, and soft, and pretty! I had never seen such a delicate
creature before.

We were still moving from the wreck and the Seamew’s boat, the men
backing water. There was a splash and a louder yell from the Seamew’s
men. I glanced over my shoulder. I could see the turbanned head of the
wild man and his thin, bare arms beating the water. He was swimming
desperately after our boat.

“That monkey’ll be drowned,” Thank cried.

“We kin get away from him easy,” said another of the rowers.

“He’ll be drowned,” I said to Mr. Barney. “We’ll have to take him in.”

“I reckon that’s so, Webb,” said the second mate. “The Seamew is
welcome to the old tub--and the dead man.”

The brown man came to the side of our boat, panting and moaning. He was
near spent.

“I believe he belongs to this girl and he thinks we’re running off with
her,” said Mr. Barney.

“He’s crazy as he can be,” said Thank.

“Help him in. See that he doesn’t have that knife. If he doesn’t
behave, we can lash his wrists together,” said Mr. Barney.

The foreign looking man was hauled in. He lay panting on the bottom,
between Mr. Barney and I. We were being hailed from the other boat.

“Let that Webb come back with us, you fellows!” cried Mr. Alf Barney.
“Cap’n Si will be furious.”

“He belongs to the Gullwing,” said our Mr. Barney, promptly. “You can’t
have him.”

“We’ll see about that--”

“See about it, then,” said the officer, shortly. Then to his own crew
he said: “Give way, men! Altogether, now.”

We swept away on a graceful curve and headed for the Gullwing. Mr.
Barney nodded to me with a smile.

“You certainly had a close call for your life, Clint,” he said. “Luck
was with you when you went overboard from the Gullwing, after all.
Everybody gave you up for lost--save Thank there. He swore that if you
went to the bottom you could walk ashore, somehow.”

At that moment the brown man drew a longer breath and struggled to his
knees. Mr. Barney reached forward to seize him; but I saw that the
foreigner’s eyes glowed no longer with the wild light that had made him
look so savage.

“Sahib,” he said softly, “is Her Innocence safe? Is the Missee
unharmed? Is it well with her?”

I looked down at the child’s face. She was breathing quietly, but her
eyes were still closed.

“She is asleep. She does not seem to be harmed,” I said.

“Sahib! I was overcome. I had watched so long. Two long weeks have
we been in that boat. Water we had, but little food. That food I had
brought myself for Missee. One man become touched of the finger of the
gods and leaped overboard. The other desired the fragments of food
which only remained for Her Innocence. I felt myself fast losing the
thread of life. Then--the other man died.”

I knew what he meant. I understood how that man had been strangled by
the lanyard around his neck that the food might be saved for the girl.
I guess this strange man was pretty nearly a savage; but I believed
then--and I believe now--that he had done right.

“I--Dao Singh--then fell asleep, Sahib. I believed it was to be my last
sleep. But the Missee had her food and the water.”

“I see,” I said, for he spoke only to me, even ignoring Mr. Barney.
“Now you will both be saved. Our ship is at hand.”

“It is well, Sahib,” he sighed. “Dao Singh--is the Sahib’s--servant--”

He fell back into the bottom of the boat and his eyes closed. I feared
he had died then and there; but Mr. Barney bent over him, opened his
shirt, felt of his heart, and then nodded to me with encouragement.

“He’s asleep,” he said. “Just done up--plucky brown devil. A Hindoo,
I take it. These folks were from a British ship; but that boat had no
name on her.”

Half an hour later we pulled under the Gullwing’s rail. All hands were
there to eagerly welcome us. We caught the falls and they hauled us up
to the davits, heavy as the boatload was.

As we swung inboard I leaped down to the deck, still bearing the
unconscious girl in my arms.



CHAPTER XVII

_In Which We Learn the Particulars of the Wreck of the Galland_


Captain Joe Bowditch smiled down broadly at me from the poop as
I leaped to the deck; but when he saw the burden in my arms his
countenance changed queerly.

“What in the name o’ goodness you got there?” he barked.

“A little girl, Captain Bowditch,” I replied.

“A little--well! what d’ye think o’ that?” he gasped, waddling down the
ladder. “Ye didn’t git that aboard the Seamew? Nor out o’ the ocean
when ye went overboard, neither?”

“No, sir,” said Mr. Barney, who had followed me. “She is what we found
in that drifting boat--part of what we found, at least.”

“A gal! Moses ter Moses, and all hands around!” groaned the captain.
“Whatever will we do with a gal aboard the Gullwing?”

“I don’t see how we could have left her there, Captain,” laughed Mr.
Barney.

“Now, don’t ye cackle!” snapped the old man. “Why didn’t you leave her
for Cap’n Si? He’s a man that’s more used to female children than I be.
Why, Cap’n Si’s sister married a man whose brother got spliced to a
widder woman that had twin gal babies. He’s more fitten to take such a
responsibility than what I be.”

He looked as though he thought he had proved his case, too. But I was
too much worried over the condition of the pretty creature in my arms
to pay much attention to his growling.

And when the Hindoo was brought inboard, Captain Joe went off into
another fit. “Holy smoke!” he yelled. “Another useless critter to feed.
Didn’t you leave nothin’ in that boat for the Seamew?”

“We left a dead man,” chuckled one of the men.

“Well--we could have buried him easy,” grunted the old man. “Take that
nigger below and find out what seems to be the matter with him.”

But his bark was a whole lot worse than his bite. He hurried away
to open the spare cabin for the girl, and I followed him into the
afterhouse, still bearing her in my arms.

Mr. Bates, who had the deck, came to look down upon her pretty, white
face as I started below.

“Bless her!” he murmured. “Have a care with her, Clint. Glad to see you
again, boy. Ah! that pretty one ought to bring us luck, sure enough.”

“Come right this way, boy, and lay her in the bed,” ordered Captain
Bowditch. “My! she looks bad--but pretty! Sh! is she asleep?”

And then the trembling lids, with their long golden lashes, opened
slowly. With her complexion and hair, I had expected to look into blue
eyes. But I was astonished to find that the little creature’s orbs were
a beautiful, deep, deep brown, with golden sparks in their depths. My
face was so close to hers at the moment her lids parted that I could
see the reflection of my own countenance in the pupils.

“My soul!” murmured Captain Joe, looking over my shoulder, “she’s jest
the prettiest thing I ever see.”

Her wan face changed slowly. A faint color was breathed over it. She
gazed steadily into my countenance, and it was evident that I did not
frighten her. She put up one hand and touched my cheek. I tell you, the
touch thrilled me!

Then her eyes closed again, she sank deeper into the pillow, and was
again asleep.

“Here, boy!” croaked the master of the Gullwing, trying to speak
softly. “You run and tell the doctor to kill a chicken and make some
broth--strong broth, now. Don’t want no ‘phantom soup’--suthin’ that
tastes like a chicken did more than wade through a gallon of water on
stilts. If he don’t make it good I’ll be in his wool!”

I ran to do his bidding. I knew very well that the little girl would
have the very best of everything there was upon the big schooner.

In the dog-watch I held a regular reception. The men were eager to hear
the story of my adventure overboard, and old Tom Thornton declared I
might live to be “a second Methuserlum” and never experience a closer
call than that. Old Stronson shook his head.

“De poy iss fey,” he muttered, shaking his head.

“He’s sure a lucky youngster,” declared Bob Promise. “No wonder he got
the best of me when we had our set-to.”

Thank and I had much to talk over. I know my chum had suffered in
spirit when it seemed that I was drowned. He never would admit to the
others that he had given up hope of seeing me again. Now he clung close
around me and did not seem to want to let me out of his sight--not
even long enough for me to go down to take a look at Dao Singh.

“Let that Jasper be, Sharp,” Thank drawled. “You can’t kill a nigger
easy--sleep won’t hurt him. If he was pretty near two weeks on watch in
that boat, no wonder he’s all in.”

“He is a faithful creature,” I said. “And he must love his mistress.”

“That Jasper’s taken a fancy to you, too,” Thank said. “You’re ‘it’
with him.”

I did not realize at the time how very right Thank was, and what it
meant to be canyonized by Dao Singh.

The report came forward that the little girl had taken some of the
broth the cook had made, was seemingly satisfied with her surroundings,
and had gone to sleep again. Mr. Barney told me that Cap’n Bowditch was
peeking in at her every hour or so, and that it was plain the old man
was prepared to get down on the deck and let his little visitor walk on
him--if she so desired.

But in the morning watch they called me and I found that the girl
wanted to go up on deck, but had asked to be lifted by the boy who had
taken her from the wrecked boat. She remembered me, then! And I had not
really supposed she had seen me until after I had lain her down in the
berth and she had opened her eyes.

She had had some breakfast. There was a little flush in her face. She
looked much brighter, and when she saw me she smiled delightfully.

“I know your face!” she said, and although her voice was weak, it
was as sweet as a tinkling silver bell. “I was sure I could not be
mistaken.”

“Mistaken?” I asked, puzzled.

“Yes. You were the boy I saw before--oh, long, long before I came here.”

That puzzled me, and I suppose my face must have shown my surprise. She
laughed--a pretty, resonant chime. I fell for that voice of hers!

And then what she said about seeing me so long before got me going, too.

“Say, you never saw me before I got you out of that boat,” I declared.

“Oh, yes, I did,” she returned, confidently. “I haven’t been aboard
this big ship long, have I?”

“Only since yesterday,” I admitted.

“That is what the nice captain told me,” she returned, as though
satisfied.

“Then you’ve seen me just once before. When I brought you below
yesterday.”

“But you took me out of the boat?”

“Yes.”

“And held me all the time we were getting here?”

“Yes, ma’am!”

“I knew it,” she breathed, smiling up into my face again. “I knew it
couldn’t be all just a dream.”

The captain had fixed a chair himself, with blankets and the like, in
the shade of the afterhouse. There I laid her down and then, having no
further orders, would have gone forward to my own place. But she clung
to my hand.

“You sit down here on the deck beside me, tell me your name, and all
about you,” she said. “For although I saw you so long ago, I never
learned who you were.”

I looked up at Mr. Gates and the Captain and slyly tapped my forehead.
I believed she was lightheaded. The old man nodded and said, gruffly
enough, for he was deeply moved:

“You stay with her, Clint. Do jest what she wants ye to.”

“Clint?” she repeated, questioningly. “Is that your name?”

“Clinton Webb,” I replied.

“Clinton is pretty. You are English?”

“I should say not!” I exclaimed. “American.”

“Oh, yes! I am an English girl; but I have lived in British India most
all my life.”

“That’s it, Miss,” I said, knowing that the captain and mate were dying
to hear her story. “You tell us all about it. How did you come in that
boat? And what vessel was it that was wrecked?”

“We sailed in the Galland, a big steamship, from Calcutta,” said the
girl softly. “I was with friends. They were taking me home--‘home’
means England to all British India people who are white.”

“Then you were going to relatives?”

“I do not know. I am not sure. My father had some people--_once_. But
they treated him unkindly, I believe. He had not heard from them for
years. My father was Captain Erskin Duane. He died very, very suddenly.
My mother had been a long time dead,” and the tears now began to fill
her eyes and creep down her pale cheeks.

“Friends who were about to go to England took me on the Galland with
them. These were Mr. Suffix, and Mr. and Mrs. Traine, and Cecelia
Traverstone.”

“Were they saved?” asked Mr. Gates, quietly.

“I do not know. I think not. I think the steamer’s boilers blew up and
smashed most of the boats and liferafts, so that few were saved,” said
the girl, simply.

“You poor child!” breathed Captain Bowditch, blowing his nose right
afterward like a fog siren.

“I am Phillis Duane,” she said, after a moment. “I traveled with my
_ayer_ and Dao Singh, who would not leave me when father died. He had
always served the captain. We lived up country from Calcutta. I do not
think that my father was very well acquainted with the people I sailed
with, after all. I was alone, and they were just kind to me.”

“And you don’t know what you were going to do when you reached
England--whom you would meet?” queried Mr. Gates, gravely.

“No. It was all in the hands of my friends,” she said, shaking her
head. “And I am quite sure they never got away from the Galland. I
would not, had it not been for Dao Singh.”

“That nigger, eh?” grunted the captain.

“He is a Hindoo. He is a very intelligent man in his own language
and among his own people. I have heard my father say so. I fear he
sacrificed his caste by attending on the captain--and on me.”

“But he saved you from the wreck?” I urged, keeping her to the story of
the wreck.

“Yes. When the boilers blew up (the steamship had been afire all night)
Dao Singh ran into the cabin and hurried my _ayer_ and me out on the
deck. Some men were lowering a boat. It was damaged some.

“Singh tried to put the _ayer_ and me in it. But I believe she must
have fallen overboard, or been pushed overboard. There was much
confusion. I was scared and cried. When I understood a little better
about matters, we were in the boat, drifting without oars, and the
Galland, all a mass of flames, seemed to be going down, stern-foremost,
under the sea.”



CHAPTER XVIII

_In Which I Become Better Acquainted With Phillis Duane_


There was little more to be learned, it seemed, about the actual
tragedy of the burned steamship. How the fire had been started she
could not say. She had been asleep. Her nurse, or _ayer_ awoke her at
the height of the stampede of passengers for the deck. Whether the
officers and bulk of the crew had been killed by the explosion, or had
abandoned the ship and her human freight, she did not know.

The Galland had been some months on the voyage, having circumnavigated
the world, when Phillis Duane and her friends boarded her at Calcutta.
She had touched at Chinese ports, and again at Tahiti. She was a
British tramp steamship and Phillis seemed to think that her home port
was Edinburgh. It might be that the lost girl’s friends were Scotch,
and that the friends she traveled with were likewise Scotch, and that
is why they had selected the ill-fated Galland to get home on.

“Do you suppose that nigger knows?” demanded Captain Bowditch, of Mr.
Gates, in a whisper.

“Doubtful if you get anything out of him,” returned the mate.

“Understands English, doesn’t he?” growled the skipper.

“And speaks it. But these Hindoo servants don’t really know anything
about the English sahibs they serve. The Britisher governs India in a
boiled shirt and evening clothes. He is about as human to the natives
as one of their own cast-iron gods. That’s how Johnny Bull has been
able to boss the several million of blood-thirsty inhabitants of his
colonies. No. The nigger wouldn’t be likely to know anything.”

“But why did he follow the girl to wait on her, then, Mr. Gates?” I
asked.

“Because he’s a nigger--an inferior tribe. That’s the nature of ’em.”

I did not believe it. I had never read that the people of Hindoostan
were particularly inferior to the whites. And Dao Singh looked to me
as though he knew a whole lot more than the ordinary European. I was
mistaken if he was not the best educated person aboard the Gullwing at
that moment!

But it might be that the Hindoo knew nothing of the cause of the wreck
and of what had become of her other passengers and the crew. Unless
some other boats had been picked up from the lost Galland, her case
was likely to be another of those unexplained tragedies of the deep
which fill the columns of our newspapers for a few issues and then are
forgotten--so easily forgotten!

The officers and I had held the brief conversation noted above when we
had withdrawn out of earshot of the little girl. The cook had brought,
her a beaten egg to drink as a “pick-me-up” between breakfast and
dinner. When she had finished it she looked around for me again.

“Go on, boy,” said the captain. “Keep her amused. Poor little thing.”

“And encourage her to talk with you, Clint,” advised Mr. Gates. “Put
what she says down in your log. If you do that, you may gradually get
together a connected story of what and who she is. Such information
will be valuable in aiding her to find her friends.”

I thought well of that idea, and promised to do so; though I wondered
how the mate knew I kept a log. I had taken notes of my adventures ever
since I had been blown out to sea on my little sloop, the Wavecrest;
but at this time I did not know what an aid to memory a log--or
diary--would be. By the way, a seaman never calls it “logbook;” the
daybook of a ship at sea is merely a “log.” One of the most popular
magazines published has a correspondence department called “The
Logbook,” and that makes the sailor smile!

I had no objection to being attentive to our little passenger. I judged
her to be a mighty plucky little girl. Of course, her father had been
dead long enough for the first of her grief to have been assuaged
before she had sailed from India. And the friends she had sailed with
had won her heart; therefore she had not loved them enough to miss them
much now.

She had endured privations in the drifting boat remarkably well. She
told me of the man that had gone crazy and leaped overboard. She did
not seem to know that the men aboard the boat with her had had no food.
I began to have a remarkably high opinion of Dao Singh. Yet I knew very
well that he had strangled the man I had found dead in the boat and had
been unable to throw the heavy body overboard.

There’s a vast difference between the negro race and the Hindoo, I
thought, remembering Mr. Gates’ words, “This Dao Singh is a remarkable
man, or _I_ am much mistaken.”

Mr. Barney came along and spoke to the little one, and she seemed to
like him--as I had--at first sight. Afterward the young second mate
talked a little in private with me.

“Mr. Robbins says she takes to you and is willing to talk with you,
Webb.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you’re trying to draw out from her her history?”

“I am, sir.”

“It’s a good idea. There may be some difficulty in getting trace of her
friends.”

“Well, she sha’n’t suffer, if her friends don’t turn up,” I said, with
emphasis. “My mother is rich and she will be glad to take Phillis
herself, I have no doubt.”

“That’s a good thing, too,” said Mr. Barney, heartily. “But you
understand, my lad, that there may be friends expecting the girl in
the Old Country, that she knows nothing about. We shall have to report
the case to the British consul at Baltimore, and he will look up her
folks--if she has any. In case there should be none, somebody might
have to step in to save the child from being sent to an institution--in
England, I presume. They would scarcely send her back to India.”

“Not much, sir!” I exclaimed. “They will have to show pretty good
grounds for taking her from mother----”

“Why, you don’t know whether your mother will take her or not,” laughed
Mr. Barney.

“Yes she will,” I assured him. “She’d love to have a girl like Phillis.”

And I had no fear on that score. Mother couldn’t help but fall in love
with such a dear little thing as Phillis Duane. I was glad to see that
Phillis seemed fond of me, too. I had never had a sister, and it struck
me just then that a sister was what I had missed all my life!

We were getting on fine together and she was chattering to me just
as though she had known me for years, when I spied a figure coming
waveringly down the deck from the forward house.

“It’s poor Dao Singh!” exclaimed Phillis. And then she called to him in
her sweet voice; but what she said none of us could understand as it
was in his own tongue.

He glided rather than walked along the deck. Somehow he had obtained
clean garments; and he had washed his turban. Altogether he looked very
neat and trim. But he was very weak and cadaverous. That Hindoo had
come pretty near starving to death, and no mistake.

When he had spoken to the girl in reply, bowing low before her, he
turned quickly to me. I was not only astonished, but I felt mighty
foolish when he dropped gracefully on his knees and touched the deck
lightly with his forehead right at my feet.

“Dao Singh is the servant of Webb Sahib,” he said, softly.

“For the love of Mike, get up!” I gasped, and I heard Thankful Polk
giggling behind me, while Mr. Barney laughed outright. “You don’t want
to kneel to _me_.”

Singh arose and stood, with dignity, before me.

“Webb Sahib has but to command,” he said, quietly. “He is the friend
and protector of Her Innocence,” indicating Phillis with a scarcely
perceptible gesture. “His word is law to Dao Singh.”

“All right, if that is so,” I said, glad that he had spoken too low
for anybody else to hear. “If my word’s law, just you treat me with a
little less deference. I’m only a man before the mast on this ship,
and it won’t do to be kowtowing to me and treating me as you do the
Memsahib. That’s all right for _her_, Dao Singh; but I’m not used to
it.”

“It is as the Sahib pleases,” he replied, gravely. “He has but to
command.”

I began to wonder if a Hindoo, who was so enthusiastically my friend,
might not prove to be something of a nuisance in the end!



CHAPTER XIX

_In Which I Learn Something More About the Barney Twins_


The captain allowed Singh to wait upon his “Missee” to his heart’s
content, and I heard the two mates laughing over the fact that the
Hindoo insisted upon acting as steward and waiting upon the Captain
Sahib at table. The Old Man wasn’t used to having a man standing behind
his chair at meals and it near took his appetite away at first. But
Phillis being in the cabin and soon taking her meals at the first
table, pleased the officers immensely, I could see.

Forward, Singh was forever trying to do little things for me, and
learning that I thought a good deal of Thankful Polk, the Hindoo
included my chum in his voluntary services. He looked over our clothes
and mended them, and insisted upon doing our washing.

“That Jasper is just as handy as any house-broke nigger I ever saw,”
declared Thank. “My folks owned slaves before the war; but I don’t
know but being waited on by one is going to be too rich for my blood.”

Thank saw no difference between a Hindoo and a Negro; anything off
color was a “Jasper” to him. But it tickled him when Singh called him
“Polk Sahib.” With the other hands he was never familiar; but nobody
save Bob Promise treated him unkindly. Bob was a bully, and that mean
streak in him was bound to show on the surface every once in awhile.

Meantime the old Gullwing was snoring away up the coast of South
America. Not that the land was in sight, for we were miles and miles
off shore; but the course she followed was parallel to the coast. The
Seamew was not sighted for days at a stretch, and we did not know
whether she was ahead of us or astern. I had an idea, however, that
during the favorable weather she was walking away from us at a pretty
lively gait.

Since I had returned from my sojourn aboard the Seamew I thought that
Mr. Barney treated me differently. That is, when we were off duty and
chance threw us together. Before my accident I had put on the gloves
with him on several occasions, and he had been kind enough to say that
I was as good a sparring partner as he had ever had. We took up this
exercise again, as the weather remained so favorable.

He was curious about the attitude of the Seamew’s company toward us,
and whether they were as eager to win the race to Baltimore as were the
men aboard the Gullwing.

“More so,” I told him. “They mean to beat us if they can--from Cap’n
Somes all down the line.”

He threw off the gloves and said, with a side glance at me:

“My brother, too?”

“Yes, _sir_.”

“Just as eager as the others?”

“Just as eager, sir.”

He was silent a moment, as I got into my shirt, and then he shot at me:

“What did you think of my brother, Alf Webb?”

I was rather taken aback for a moment. Then I saw that he expected a
straight answer and I did not like to say that I did not like Mr. Alf
as well as I did him. So I stammered:

“I--I thought there was something troubling Mr. Alfred’s mind.”

“Aye?” returned Mr. Barney, cocking his eye. “There’s something
troubling both our minds, I reckon.” And then, after a moment’s
silence, he asked: “Will the Seamew beat us, Webb?”

“I hope not!” I cried. “But the spirit among the crew of the Seamew is
different from ours. Cap’n Somes would take any advantage he could to
beat us; so would Mr. Hollister and--and----”

“And my brother?”

“I--I am afraid so. That is the way it impressed me,” I admitted.

“Alf didn’t use to be like that,” said Mr. Barney, gravely. “But he and
I have been at outs for some time. It’s a bad, bad affair,” he added,
more to himself than to me. “And it’s Uncle Jothan’s fault. Confound
that old man, anyway!” he completed, with a good deal of emphasis.

Then it was just as Job Perkins had told me! The rivalry between the
Barney twins was fostered by their rich uncle. I had no comment to
make--it wasn’t my place. But Mr. Barney seemed to wish to talk to
somebody, and perhaps because I was so near his own age (he could not
have been twenty-three yet) and came from people who were more like his
own class, he warmed toward me for the moment. Perhaps, too, I am a
sympathetic listener.

“Alf and I,” said Mr. Barney, thoughtfully, “have always been more than
brothers. We’ve been _friends_. There’s a difference. We understand
each other fully--or always have until now. I never had any other chum,
nor did he. We have been just as close to each other all our lives as
the day we were born.

“I guess we had to be,” he added, thoughtfully. “There wasn’t anybody
else for us to get close to. Our mother died soon after we were born.
Father was lost in that old leaky bucket belonging to the firm, the
Timothy K.--named after T. K. Knight, who used to be head of Barney,
Blakesley & Knight before Uncle Jothan worked up in the firm.

“And that’s what makes the old man so crazy now. He wants a Barney to
take his place so that another Knight won’t boss things. He’s nutty on
it--that’s what he is!

“Uncle Jothan has had the care of us since we were small, you see. It’s
nothing to his credit, however. Father left some property--sufficient
to give Alf and me our education and set us out into the world with a
little something to rattle in our pants’ pockets besides a bunch of
keys!

“Old Uncle Jothan tried to set us boys at each other long ago. He tried
his best to set one off against the other--to make Alf sore on me, or
me sore on Alf. We didn’t see what he was getting at, at first.

“But he didn’t succeed very well. He made his favor, and his money, and
his influence an object for us to struggle for. As it happened, we just
wouldn’t struggle. We would not be rivals. What one had, t’other had.
And that satisfied us--until last year,” and Mr. Barney shook his head
dolefully.

“When we got our tickets the old man was crazy to find out if one of
us passed better than another. We were about equal, I reckon. What one
knows about seamanship, the other knows. In navigation I’m sure we
stood equal.

“That didn’t satisfy Uncle Jothan. The last day we saw Baltimore he had
us to breakfast with him. He was more ornery that morning than ever
before.

“‘You two boys make me sick!’ he said to us. ‘I believe you try your
blamedest to keep even in everything.’

“‘And what if we do?’ I asked him. ‘Ain’t that as it should be? We’re
twins.’

“‘You’re a pair of twin fools,’ says he, with his usual politeness.
‘One of you don’t know which side of his slice of bread the butter’s
on.’

“I looked at mine. ‘The top side,’ I says, ‘so far,’ and Alf laughed.

“‘And you’ll find it butter side down, if you don’t have a care,’
snarled Uncle Jothan. ‘I got about tired of waiting for one of you to
show some sense. I tell you there’s only room for one of you in the
firm, and that one is going to handle my money. The other is going to
be a poor man all his life.’

“‘Which one’s going to be poor, and which one rich?’ Alf asked him.

“‘You might as well tell us which will be rich, Uncle,’ I said,
laughing. ‘For if it’s Alf, then I can begin to borrow from him right
now.’

“‘That’s right,’ says Brother Alf. ‘What’s mine is yours.’

“That really made the old man mad, I expect. He pretty near gnashed his
teeth.

“‘I believe I’ve got a pair of totally condemned fools for nephews!’ he
yelled, only he put it even stronger.

“Oh, he was mad! I saw that we’d gone too far with him.

“‘Never mind, Uncle,’ I said, soothingly. ‘We’ll both do our best for
you----’

“‘And your “best” will be just exactly alike,’ he cried. ‘When you
get your mate’s tickets it will be the same, and in the end I’ll have
a couple of masters of windjammers as near alike as old Somes and
Bowditch. What one can do the other can do. Ye stood just the same in
your books at school, and you stand just the same in your rating at
sea.’

“I expect the old man was pretty well heated up. But we just laughed as
though it was a joke.

“‘I tell you what,’ says he, pushing back his chair. ‘You sha’n’t fool
me no more. One of you is going to take his place in the firm at the
end of this v’yge you are beginning. One of you will win and the other
will lose. And I’ll never let a penny of my money get into the hands of
the fellow that loses.’

“Oh, he was quite in earnest, we could see. Alf looked at me and shook
his head. It was past laughing at.

“‘The Gullwing and the Seamew,’ says uncle, ‘are putting to sea on the
same day. They will practically make the same voyage. Now listen to
me! Whichever of you boys steps ashore at Baltimore at the end of the
voyage, that boy will be my heir, and the other sha’n’t have a cent.
Now, that’s final. One of you has got to win, whether you want to, or
not. I’ll settle it myself.’

“And with that he walked off and left us, too mad to even bid us
good-bye,” said Mr. Barney.



CHAPTER XX

_In Which Phillis Tells Me of Her Dream_


I thought Mr. Barney had finished his story, he was so long silent. I
saw, however, that he was still thinking of his brother, and I was not
sure whether he was expecting a word of sympathy, or not. I reckoned he
had been talking more to relieve his mind than for any other purpose.
And finally he went on with it:

“Alf and I talked it over as we walked down to the docks. I told him
I was sick of Uncle Jothan’s nagging. I wished he’d pick the one he
wanted and close the discussion. I believed the price we’d have to pay
for his money was too great, anyway.

“‘But money’s a good thing,’ says Alf. ‘And Uncle Jothan has got a good
deal of it.’

“‘I believe too much money spoils folks, Alf,’ says I.

“‘We could stand some spoiling,’ he returns, laughing.

“‘Look at uncle himself,’ says I. ‘He’s spoiled.’

“‘I’m not afraid of being spoiled by it,’ says Alf.

“‘I believe it would hurt you as quick as anybody,’ I told him. And
that riled him, though I had no thought that it would.

“‘Speak for yourself, Jim,’ says he. ‘Money’s worth going after.’

“‘We’ve had everything equal so far, Alf,’ says I. ‘I’m not hungry for
his money.’

“‘And I suppose you think I am?’ and then I saw he _was_ miffed.

“‘The one that tries to get the best of the other for the sake of Uncle
Jothan’s money, will show he’s hungry,’ I said.

“‘Then call it what you like, Jim!’ he cries. ‘I’m going after it.’

“‘How?’ says I.

“‘I’m going to beat you back to Baltimore,’ says he.

“‘I’ll be hard to beat,’ I told him.

“‘Wait and see!’ cried Alf, and with that he flung off from me and went
his way to the Seamew alone.

“I had to do an errand. When I got aboard the Gullwing the two
schooners were just about to pull out. It was then old Cap’n Si made
his bet with Cap’n Joe. I believe Alf put him up to it. When I saw
Alf in Buenos Ayres I told him so, and he didn’t deny it,” said Mr.
Barney, sorrowfully.

“When we met in the other ports we had words. I’m blamed sorry now, but
it’s too late to patch it up. I’ll tell you honest, Webb, I don’t care
who gets Uncle Jothan’s money and the job with the firm; but I’m going
to not let Alf beat me to Baltimore if I can help it.”

He went aft then without another word; but I did a good deal of
thinking about the friction between the two Barneys. Privately I liked
Mr. Jim Barney the better of the two; but it was a wicked shame that
the head of Barney, Blakesley & Knight should have set the twins by
their ears in this way. Money was at the root of the trouble. Mr.
Jothan Barney seemed about to devote his wealth to as bad a cause as my
grandfather had tried to devote _his_ property.

The Gullwing struck a streak of headwinds soon after this and we
wallowed along without making much headway. That made us all feel
pretty sure. It was a chance that the Seamew might have forged so far
ahead of us that she had escaped these contrary winds entirely.

Captain Bowditch was on deck almost all the time. His better seamanship
began to be displayed now. He took advantage of every flaw in the wind.
He had us making sail, and reefing down, most of the time, and Bob
Promise grumbled that we topmen had better stay up there in the rigging
all the time, and have our meals brought to us by the cook.

We saw nothing of the Seamew, and that added to our anxiety, too. Days
passed and we crossed the line, under the heat of a tropical sun that
fairly stewed the pitch out of the deck planks. Dao Singh seemed the
only person aboard that accepted the heat with good temper.

We rigged an awning for our passenger, and Phillis lived under it
both day and night. She was getting plump and hearty, however; surely
the voyage was doing her no harm. And she was the sweetest tempered,
jolliest little thing one could imagine. It cheered a fellow up and
made him ashamed to be grouchy, just to be near her.

She liked Thankful Polk, and he amused her by the hour. The officers
were pretty easy on Thank and I as long as we were with her. To me she
clung as though I really was her brother--and I was proud that she so
favored me.

Phillis told me much of her life in India--as far back as she could
remember it. She had come out from England when she was very small. On
her last birthday she had been twelve. But little that she could tell
me would help in finding her relatives--if she had any.

Her father, Captain Erskin Duane, had not been in active service. Not
as far as she knew, at least. He had been an invalid for months; but
had died very suddenly. There seemed to have been few army friends, and
the people she had sailed with from Calcutta she had hardly ever seen
before the captain’s death.

I had tried pumping Dao Singh about the private history of the little
girl; but either he knew nothing about the captain’s affairs, or he
would not tell me. He was as simple, apparently, as a child about his
own expectations. He had insisted upon accompanying the little Memsahib
in her voyage “because she needed him.” _Why_ he thought she needed him
he could not, or would not, explain.

For my part I told Phillis everything about myself, and recounted, from
time to time, all the adventures through which I had been since leaving
Bolderhead. I told her much about my mother, too, and about Darringford
House, and our summer home on Bolderhead Neck.

I assured her that I should take her at once to my mother when we
landed and that I knew my mother would be delighted to give her a home
with us. This seemed to please the little girl greatly.

“Then we shall really be brother and sister, sha’n’t we?” she cried.

“Of course,” I said.

“That will be splendid! For, do you know, Clinton, I think you are the
very nicest brother I could have picked out. You are just as nice as I
dreamed you would be.”

“There!” said I. “You have said that before. How do you mean, that you
_dreamed_ about me?”

“So I did. Only it was a dream that came true.”

“You mean that you dreamed of me when you were aboard that boat?”

“Oh, no! it was long before that. It was soon after we left Calcutta
that I saw you,” she said, confidently.

“Why, Philly!” I exclaimed. “That’s impossible, you know.”

“But I _did_ dream about you,” she returned, seriously. “I knew that I
was in a little boat. I thought I was all alone on the great ocean. And
I was frightened, and sick--just as I _was_ frightened and sick when
the time came. But you came to me, and told me you would save me, and
you held me in your arms just as you _did_ hold me afterward all the
way to this ship.”

She was so positive that she had dreamed it all before, that I saw
it was no use to gainsay it. And then, why should I contradict her?
Perhaps she had had some secret and wonderful assurance that she would
be saved from the wreck. I did not understand the clairvoyant part of
it, or whatever it might be; so I did not touch upon the subject again.

It was after that that the great gale struck us and the staunch
Gullwing was battered continually for a week. We ran almost under bare
poles for a time, and fortunately the gale favored us. But we lost our
mizzen topmast completely and some of our other rigging was wrecked.

Phillis had to remain below during this storm, and she was sick again.
She cried so for me that the captain--kind old man that he was--let
me go down to her whenever I could be spared from the deck. The child
seemed to feel that she was perfectly safe if I was with her.

Her constant trust in me made a strong impression upon my mind. Nor was
it an unpleasant impression. Nobody had ever leaned before on me as
this child did--not even my mother. It made me feel more manly and put
me on my very best behavior.



CHAPTER XXI

_In Which the Sister Ships Once More Race Neck to Neck_


That gale hit the Gullwing harder than any blow she had been through
(so Mr. Barney said) since she had left Baltimore. We could not do much
toward making repairs until the gale had blown out; we only cleared
away the wreckage aloft, reefed everything snug, and let her drive.

Captain Bowditch worried like an old hen with a mess of ducklings. I
don’t know when the old man slept. He was on deck every moment of his
own watch, and I could hear him often roaring orders during our watch
below.

This was the time when the fact that the Gullwing was short-handed made
the crew groan. It was up and down at all hours for us. If there was a
lull in the gale we were yanked out and sent aloft to risk an inch more
canvas. Cap’n Joe coaxed her along every chance he saw. The thought of
getting ahead of the Seamew obsessed the Old Man’s mind while he _was_
awake, that was sure!

We discussed our chances forward with much eagerness, too. The Seamew
had left us behind during the fair weather; we could make up our minds
to that. But now we had a better chance. The Gullwing was better
worked, short of hands as she was, than the Seamew.

I remembered vividly how Cap’n Si Somes hopped about, and bawled
orders, and seemed to get in his own way when a squall came up, or the
weather was unfavorable. He was a more nervous man that our skipper;
and, I believed, he was nowhere near so good a seaman. At least, I had
got that idea in my head, and comparing the actions of the two skippers
in a squall, I guessed any unprejudiced person would have accepted my
view as correct.

We came out of this blow at last, fair weather returned, and Phillis
had her awning re-rigged, and was able to come on deck again, although
the Atlantic billows were tumbling heavily.

All hands were busy on the new rigging. The captain had got up a spare
spar and Old Tom Thornton and Stronson, went to work on that. The
captain was determined to get up a new mizzen topmast and bend on new
sails. Every square inch of canvas spread to the favoring breeze would
aid us in the race home.

We had gotten now into the greatest ocean current in the world--the
Gulf Stream. Ocean currents are mysterious phenomena. The source of
energy required to set and keep the vast masses of water in motion has
been productive of endless discussion.

Temperature, barometric pressure, attractive force of the moon, have
all been advanced as bringing about ocean currents. Seamen believe that
it is the wind that brings about certain oceanic movements. But the
winds do not explain the reason entirely--not even in any single case.
As to the direct action of the wind on the surface of the sea alone,
it has been shown that with a wind blowing at twenty-five miles an
hour the surface water would have a movement of not more than fifteen
miles in the twenty-four hours! The Gulf Stream is the greatest of the
Atlantic currents, if not the greatest current on the wet portion of
the globe. It is really a wonderful river--a river flowing through an
ocean. Its temperature is different from the surrounding waters, it is
of a different color, and the edge of it can be noted almost exactly
wherever a ship crosses into or out of the Gulf Stream.

This warm current starts between the coast of Cuba and the Florida
reefs, and certainly with this mighty current the wind has absolutely
nothing to do. The force of the current is at its maximum strength
when it emerges from the Bemimi Straits, between the Bahama Bank on the
east and the coast of Florida on the West. Between Fowey Rocks and Gun
Gay Light the average depth of the Gulf Stream is 239 fathoms, and it
runs at a speed of fifty miles in the twenty-four hours. Occasionally,
under particular circumstances, it will speed up to a hundred miles in
the twenty-four hours. Little wonder that homeward bound windjammers
are glad to strike the Gulf Stream. After we crossed into the clear
azure of that current there was a steady tug on the Gullwing’s prow.

“The women-folks are pullin’ her home with their apron strings,”
chuckled Captain Bowditch.

I rigged fishing tackle for Phillis and she caught some of the smaller
fish of the Gulf Stream--fish which cannot be caught in the waters
even a short distance outside of the line of the current. They were
brilliant trunk-fish, and angel-fish, and the like; not edible, but
interesting to look at.

Shark were plentiful, too, and followed the ship like dogs, to fight
for the scraps the cook flung overboard. Thank got a big hook and about
a pound of fat pork (he could wheedle anything out of the black cook)
bent on a strong line, and we trolled for shark.

We caught one about eight foot long; he was an ugly beast, and fought
like a tiger when we got him onto the deck. He would snap at a
broomstick and bite it through as neatly as we could have cut it with
an axe. A sailor hates a shark just as the ordinary man ashore dislikes
a snake.

“I tell you what we’ll do with him,” said Bob Promise, chuckling. “I
seen it done on the old Beatrix two years ago. We ‘belled the cat’
with an old he shark, and it’s an all right trick to play on the dirty
critters.”

“How d’ye do it?” asked Tom Thornton.

“Lemme have that broken broomstick,” said Bob, grabbing it. “Now
watch--when he snaps at me.”

The huge fish, lying on its side, with its wicked eye watchful of us
all, opened wide his jaws when Bob Promise approached. The bully was a
reckless fellow, and as the shark snapped open his jaws he thrust his
hand and arm into the cavity and thrust the stick upright, far back in
the beast’s throat.

Thank actually screamed aloud, and I felt sick--I thought sure the
foolish fellow’s arm would be snapped off between the closing jaws.

But the shark couldn’t close his jaws! That was the trick of it. The
stick was thrust upright, sticking into the roof of the great mouth and
into the root of the tongue. The fish was “belled” indeed.

There it writhed upon the deck, thrashing its strong tail about, its
wicked eyes rolling, and evidently in awful agony.

“Now pitch him overboard,” laughed Bob Promise. “He’ll live some time
that way--mebbe till he starves to death or until some of the smaller
fish pitch upon him and eat his liver out. Ugh! the ugly beast!”

Somebody took a turn of the rope around the fish’s tail and in a moment
the shark was swung up by the falls we had rigged. But while he hung in
the air and was about to be swung over the rail, Phillis ran up to us.

“Don’t!” she cried. “Don’t do it! I saw you! How could you be so
dreadfully mean--Oh! Clint! how could _you_ do such a cruel thing?”

I had been thinking all the time that it was a blamed mean piece of
business; but I hadn’t had the pluck to say so!

“You stand away, Missee,” laughed Bob. “He’s all right. Overboard he
goes--plop into the sea--and it will be one murderin’ old shark fixed
jest right.”

“You shall not do it!” she cried, and she was so earnest and excited
that she stamped her little foot upon the deck. “It is wicked and
cruel.”

“Why, it ain’t nothin’ but an old shark, Missee,” growled Tom Thornton.
“He ain’t fit for nothing better.”

“He’s God’s creature. God made him,” declared the child. “You’ve no
right to maltreat him. It’s wicked. I won’t have it.”

She was so excited I was afraid she would get sick. I put in _my_ oar:

“That’s all right, Philly. None of us stopped to think of that side of
it. Lower away here, boys, and we’ll knock that prop out of his mouth
again.”

“No you won’t!” exclaimed Bob Promise.

I stopped and looked at him. “Why, sure, Bob, you don’t mind. If the
little girl doesn’t want us to do it----”

“Stow that,” said Bob, in his very ugliest tone. “That shark ain’t
hers. I put that stick there. I want to see the man that’ll pull it
out,” and he swelled up like a turkey-cock and acted as though he
thought he was the biggest man who ever stepped on the Gullwing’s deck.

But if he had been twice as big I reckon I should have stepped up to
him! To have anybody speak before Phillis as he did was not to be
endured. Thankful Polk flamed up, too, until you could have touched off
a match on his face. Old Tom Thornton reached an arm across and put me
back as lightly as though I had been a feather, and seized the rope
above Bob’s hand.

“Drop it, you landcrab!” he growled. Old Tom seldom got angry; when he
did we knew enough to stand from under!

And then appeared Dao Singh. How he had heard the racket I do not know.
Light as a panther, and with an eye wickeder than the shark’s own, he
slid along the deck and stood right at the other elbow of the bully.

“Let the rope go, as Webb Sahib say,” he hissed into Bob’s ear.

The bully was as amazed as he could well be and keep on his pins. He
stepped back and glared from Thank and me to Old Tom, and then around
at Singh.

“Holy mackerel!” he murmured. “Do the hull of ye’s want the blamed
fish? Then, take him!”

The watch burst out laughing. Mr. Barney had himself come forward, and
now he spoke.

“Get a harpoon, Webb, and kill the beast at once. That will settle the
controversy. I’m not sure that the little one isn’t right. We’re all
too big to torture even such a beast as a shark.”

That was the kind of influence Phillis Duane had over all of us. The
captain had her on the bridge with him and showed her everything he
did when he took the sun’s altitude, and all that. Mr. Gates talked
with her by the hour. Mr. Barney was forever finding something new with
which she could amuse herself. And the black cook and Dao Singh almost
came to blows over who should wait upon her the most.

Then came the day when, off Hatteras, we sighted another four-masted
ship. She crept out of a fogbank to leeward of us and it was some time
before we saw her clearly enough to be sure. That she was tacking
northward was the main fact at first which urged us to believe it was
our sister ship.

But in an hour it came clearer, and we could be sure. It was the
Seamew, standing in very prettily, and it was plain she had sighted us,
too. We tacked and her course brought her across our stern. We ran so
near the captains could hail each other. Old Cap’n Si waved his glass
and shouted:

“We’re about to bid you a fond farewell, Joe! Next tack will put us
ahead of you. That apple’s mine, by jolly!”

“Seems to me if I had such a great craft as the Seamew, I’d have got
farther ahead than you be now,” returned our skipper, with scorn. “I
reckon the race ain’t over yet.”

“It’s pretty near over. We got good weather comin’. The Seamew can walk
away with you in a fair wind.”

“All right. Brag’s a good dog, but Holdfast’s a better one,” said Cap’n
Joe. “Wait till we sight the Capes o’ Virginia.”

She was too far away from us then for Cap’n Si to shout again. The
rest of us had grinned or scowled at the men aboard the Seamew, as our
natures dictated. I had noticed that the boat found adrift with Singh
and Phillis in it, had been hoisted aboard the Seamew and was lashed
amidships.

Away we went on our tack, came about, and again neared our rival. The
Seamew was not pulling away from us much; the wind was heavy. The
Gullwing crept up on her and, finally, when the Seamew tacked again, we
did the same and she had no chance to cross our bows, even had she been
able to.

So we sailed, neck and neck, not half a mile from each other, both
ships plunging through the swells with a line of white foam under
their quarters, and well heeled over to the wind. Whichever won the
race--whether the Gullwing or the Seamew--it would be a good fight.



CHAPTER XXII

_In Which the Capes of Virginia Are In Sight_


We had a stiff wind blowing--half a gale, indeed--and when we raised
other sailing ships, their canvas was clewed down and some of them were
running under little more than stormsails. But neither the captain of
the Seamew nor of the Gullwing had any intention of losing a breath of
such a favorable breeze.

Our ship heeled over until her rail was under water; and she was laden
so heavily that this sort of sailing was perilous. Suppose some of the
cargo should shift? Where would we be? Well, just about there, I guess!

“Some day the old man will carry the sticks out of her completely,”
growled Mr. Gates to Mr. Barney.

“Well, let him!” exclaimed the second mate. “We’ve got to win this
time.”

“What for?” I heard the other ask, curiously. “Just so Cap’n Joe will
win his greening apple?”

Mr. Barney cursed the captain and his apple.

“You want us to win anyway, eh?” pursued Mr. Gates, in his slow,
thoughtful way. “No matter what happens to the Gullwing?”

“She’s insured; so’s her freight,” snapped Mr. Barney.

“It doesn’t matter if both good ships should founder and be lost?”

“I don’t give a hang!” exclaimed the younger man, bitterly, “as long as
the Gullwing goes down fifty fathoms nearer Baltimore than the Seamew.”

“And how about the crews?”

“Who’s thinking of men--or ships--just now?” demanded Mr. Barney.
“Aren’t both captains risking lives and property for a silly
competition? I’m no worse than they are.”

“And so, the rivalry of Cap’n Joe and Cap’n Si will excuse your own mad
determination to get to port first?” suggested Mr. Gates, quietly. “I
don’t believe you’ll feel that way, young man, twelve months from now.
And how about the little girl?”

“Pshaw! there’s no danger,” said Mr. Barney, lightly.

“I hope there will be no danger--no more than there is now, at least,”
said the mate, significantly. Then he saw me on lookout and said,
irritably: “Come away! This is no place to talk.”

I wondered what the mate thought Mr. Barney would do for the sake of
helping the Gullwing to win the race; but I heard nothing more of their
conversation. This occurred in the evening when we could just see the
ghostly sails of the Seamew as she stood on for us. Mr. Barney soon
after took the wheel himself, it being the captain’s watch. From that
point on to the end the second mate was more frequently at the wheel
than at any previous time during the cruise.

Day and night the two huge schooners ran almost even. Our skipper was
seldom off the deck. I don’t know when he found time to sleep. He never
lost a chance to make the most of a puff of wind. The men worked for
him eagerly and well; but they stood double watches.

Some of the small sails Cap’n Joe even had us dip overboard so that,
well wetted, they would better hold the wind. It was four bells in the
morning watch when the Seamew crossed our bow. She had been trying for
it for twenty-four hours, or more. And when she cut us off and we had
to take her white water, a groan of derision was raised by her crew.

We were sore--every man Jack of us. Cap’n Joe and Cap’n Si had it hot
and heavy from their respective stations.

“Better give us a line aboard so’t we can tow ye in, Joe!” bawled Cap’n
Si.

“You air mighty willin’ to give a helpin’ hand jest now, Si,” returned
our skipper, with scorn. “But it warn’t allus so.”

I saw Mr. Alf Barney at the Seamew’s wheel. He handled the ship
splendidly. When the Seamew came about on the other tack, her helmsman
met the waves just right and swung her over so that the sails scarcely
shook at all. She reared up on one tack, turned as it were on her heel,
and swept away on the other tack at a speed that sent the spray flying
high above her rail. It was a pretty sight.

Our Mr. Barney stood right beside me as I manipulated the Gullwing’s
helm. He watched the handling of our rival with lowering brow.

“Gimme that wheel!” he snapped, pushing me away and seizing the spokes.
The Gullwing was right in the eye of the wind. Cap’n Bowditch was
shouting his orders. If the Seamew had rounded prettily, the Gullwing
went her one better. We wasted less time hanging in the wind than the
Seamew.

“That’s the way to do it!” bawled our skipper, dancing on the quarter.
“By jinks, Mr. Barney, you handled that wheel well. Keep her so!
Steady.”

The second mate let me take the wheel again after a minute or two;
and his face had remained unsmiling all the time. He had merely been
determined to show them all that he could handle the big ship’s helm as
well in every particular as did his brother.

Our course was west-northwest now to the Capes of Virginia. The fresh
gale was out of the same quarter. Therefore we had to beat to windward
all the remainder of the race, and although the Seamew had gotten
a little the start of us, the Gullwing had a slight advantage. She
handled better to windward than her sister ship.

The Seamew stood off on one tack, we on the other. She disappeared
beyond the sea line, but standing in some hours later we found her
again--and finding her were pleased more than a little in seeing that
we had made something up on her. Our skipper’s shrewdness was telling.

I knew how it was with Cap’n Si; when things broke wrong for him he
paddled about the deck, cursing the hands and the wind and various
other things, altogether irrational. Whereas our skipper never lost a
trick, kept his head, and never gave an order he was sorry for--and
that last is saying a good deal.

We filled away once more and stood back to her. We were making distance
fast. Had we held on this time we should have crossed her wake almost
under her stern. The man aloft suddenly sang out:

“Land, ho!”

I heard the cry repeated in the Seamew’s tops.

“Cape Henry, sir!” shouted our man to the skipper.

“Aye, aye,” said Cap’n Joe, eagerly. “And when we tack back again we’re
going to cross ahead of the Seamew’s bow--and the race will be over.”

He said it with enormous satisfaction. He believed it, too.

“Why will the race be over, Clint?” asked Phillis, who stood beside
me at the moment. “I looked at the chart. We’re a long way yet from
Baltimore. We are not in sight of the opening into Chesapeake Bay.”

“There are tugs waiting up there in the roads for us,” I told her.
“You’ll soon see their smoke. _They_ will race out for us, as we race
in for the port. We shall go up to Baltimore under steam.”

And my statement was scarcely made ere we saw in the far distance the
pillars of smoke from the stacks of the ocean-going tugs. The land
that had been merely a hazy line, grew more clearly defined, although
we were not approaching it directly. Soon I could point out to my
little friend the other cape guarding the mouth of the Chesapeake--Cape
Charles.

The tugs steamed out to meet us under forced draught. More quickly to
get in tow of the tug nearest us, which was coming already hooked up,
Cap’n Bowditch put the Gullwing about earlier than he had originally
intended. As we tacked, so did the Seamew.

“She’s afraid to give us an inch,” laughed Mr. Barney, taking his place
beside the wheel again, and looking up at Mr. Gates.

“It’s nip and tuck,” returned the first mate. Then to the skipper he
said: “Shall I make ready to take the tug’s hawser, sir?”

“Right-oh!” declared Captain Bowditch. “And be lively with it. We’re
too close to fool away a moment. I hope we get the fastest tug.”

“She’s the Sea Horse, Cap’n!” bawled down the man aloft.

“Smart tug, she is,” agreed the skipper.

“And I believe that’s the Comet makin’ to meet the Seamew.”

“Both Norfolk Tug Company’s craft--and good ones. I wouldn’t give a
dollar bonus either way on ’em, would you, Mr. Gates?”

“They’re just as near alike as the Seamew and the Gullwing are alike,”
agreed the mate, and went forward.

We were standing in now directly for the channel. The Seamew was headed
likewise. We were bound to pass close to our sister ship--so close
that, as the moments slipped past, I began to feel some disturbance of
mind.

Heaven knows the ocean was broad enough; but the two skippers were
obstinate and eager. One would not be likely to want to give way to the
other. And moment after moment the two great ships, their canvas filled
and the white water split in great waves from their prows, rushed
closer and closer together.



CHAPTER XXIII

_In Which We Face Death by the Breadth of a Hair_


I had walked forward, anxious over the situation of the sister ships.
Tom Thornton was right by my side, for Mr. Barney had taken the wheel
himself.

“In case of doubt,” I asked Tom, “who gives way--the Seamew or the
Gullwing?”

“Why, the Seamew, of course,” growled Tom.

“Are you sure?”

“I be,” he said, emphatically. “No gittin’ around it. It has to be her
gives way--not us. Both of us are close-hauled, that’s a fact; but we
on this tack has the right of way. The Seamew’s got to come about and
give us the road.”

“She don’t look like she would,” I said, gravely.

“Of course she will!”

“Then she’ll miss meeting the other tug this time. It will give us a
big advantage.”

“Don’t ye suppose our skipper knows that?” returned Tom, with a wide
grin. “That’s what he aimed to do. Oh, Cap’n Joe is a cleaner, now I
tell ye!”

It did look to me as though the two great ships were rushing together.
If they had been two old-time frigates, aiming to come to a clinch and
the crews ordered to “board with cutlass,” the appearance of the two
could have been no more threatening.

The Seamew’s men were grouped along her rail and swinging in her lower
shrouds, watching us; and every person aboard the Gullwing, including
the cook, was on deck. I heard Captain Bowditch growling to himself:

“What does that lobster mean? Ain’t he goin’ to give us no seaway?”

Mr. Barney had taken the wheel of the Gullwing. I saw that his brother
was already glued to the spokes of the Seamew’s wheel.

“’Ware what ye do there, Mr. Barney,” sang out Captain Bowditch.

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“Keep her steady.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

I caught old Tom by the sleeve of his jumper again.

“Cap’n Si don’t mean to give way!” I gasped.

“Wal,” said the old seaman, reflectively, “it’ll be up to him if he
doesn’t.”

“But----”

“It ain’t our place to give that blamed Seamew the whole ocean.”

“But if the Seamew _won’t_ give way?” I repeated, vainly.

“What! Not give way! That’d be foolish,” growled old Tom. “A man can go
bullying his way ashore, pushin’ folks inter the gutter and all that,
if he’s big enough--like Bob yonder. But a captain can’t do that at
sea. He’d only git what’s due him. He’ll _have_ to give way.”

Yet no order was given from the Seamew’s quarter; nor did our skipper
say a word. I could not believe that Captain Bowditch, even with the
sea-law on his side, would risk his beautiful ship and the lives of her
crew. Yet if the Seamew continued to run in on us much longer we would
have to fall off, or collide with her.

Little Phillis was sitting calmly under her awning, busied with some
pieces of sewing--for she was a housewifely little thing. It struck me
that an awful death was threatening the innocent child, and I moved
toward her. Thankful Polk was working his way along the deck in the
same direction, too.

Captain Bowditch glanced at the child under the awning. If he had had
any desperate intention of keeping on, whether or no, so as to pick up
his tug ahead of the Seamew, I believe the presence of Phillis Duane
restrained him. His hard old face changed.

The Seamew was holding on. She was going to force us. The old man
jumped to the rail and motioned with his arm for the helmsman of the
Seamew to keep off. But Mr. Alf Barney’s gaze rested only on the face
of his brother at _our_ wheel; and Captain Somes never gave an order.

Captain Bowditch turned and yelled:

“Keep off! keep off, I say! D’ye wanter wreck us?”

He started for the wheel. I do not know whether our Mr. Barney obeyed
the order--or tried to obey it. The two great ships, their canvas
bellied with the strong gale, seemed to sweep together as though they
were magnetized!

It may have been explained by the fact that we were so near each other
that one took the wind out of the other’s sails. At least, the two huge
ships were no longer under control.

“I’m hanged if she ain’t got away from him!” I heard Tom Thornton
yell; but which ship he meant I did not know.

The Gullwing took a shoot. The Seamew took a shoot. Then the two ships
clinched!

Talk about a smash! It was the most awful collision one could imagine.
Two express trains on the same track, coming head-on, could have made
no greater explosion of sound. And it did seem as though no other kind
of a collision could have resulted in so much wreckage.

I grabbed up Phillis just before the ships came together, and dashed
for the companionway. But as I gained its shelter I saw the spars
raining from aloft on both vessels, with the canvas and cordage in a
perfect jumble.

It fairly shook the spars out of the Seamew. I believed, at the last
moment, that the Gullwing had sheered off. At least, she had taken the
blow on more of a slant. The wire stays upon our sister ship had been
torn away and her foremast came down and hung over the rail a complete
wreck.

Her other masts wavered. I could see that she was shaking like a
wounded thing; I believe she was settling even then. She had opened a
great hole in her hull forward. I could see the ragged, splintered ends
of the planks.

Our own damage and peril I could not gauge until I had set Phillis down
and rushed back to the deck. The old Gullwing was hobbling away from
her sister ship. Captain Bowditch was bawling orders from the bridge;
but I heard nothing but screams of rage and fear from the Seamew. _And
Captain Si Somes was no longer in sight._

“Axes, men!” roared our skipper. “Get aloft there! Cut away wreckage!
Clew up everything that ain’t torn away. Look alive, up there, Mr.
Gates.”

“Aye, aye, sir!” responded the mate from forward.

“Keep her steady, Mr. Barney!” commanded the captain.

I heard no response. I glanced aft as I worked my way up the backstays.
Mr. Jim Barney still stood at our wheel. He hung to the spokes and held
the ship steady. But a whiter face and a more miserable face I had
never seen upon mortal man.



CHAPTER XXIV

_In Which the Tragedy of the Racing Ship Is Completed_


League upon league of the sea--across and again across two oceans--the
sister ships had raced, to fall afoul of each other here almost within
sight of port!

While we aboard the Gullwing were cutting adrift the wreckage for dear
life, another mast--the mizzen--fell across the Seamew. She was down
dreadfully by the head. We could hear the roar of the water pouring
into the hole stove in her hull.

I knew Mr. Hollister’s voice, and he was shouting orders to the crew.
But nobody heard Cap’n Si speaking; nor was he in sight. I knew as
well then as I did afterward that, at the moment of the collision, the
master of the Seamew went overboard, sank, and never came up again!

Down came the aftermast of the Seamew; the mainmast was swaying. I
reckon the crew responded to Mr. Hollister’s orders not at all. I
heard the wail of:

“Boats! boats! take to the boats!”

But when they took another look at the wabbling masts, they waited to
launch no boat. With a few words but much action the crew went over
her rail, now almost even with the sea, and one after the other began
to claw out for the Gullwing which lay to not two cable’s lengths away
from the sinking ship.

But Mr. Alfred Barney held to the spokes of her wheel; he made no offer
to leave the Seamew, although Mate Hollister, like the men, was already
in the sea.

As I hacked at the steel cordage and broken spars I heard Captain
Bowditch shouting directions to the men below, and to the men in the
water. Ropes and life-buoys were flung to the seamen from the sinking
ship. In this comparatively quiet sea there was little likelihood of
any of them being drowned.

Mr. Hollister waited to see his hands drawn over the rail of the
Gullwing before he came inboard himself. But while this was going on
Captain Bowditch discovered the missing second mate still on the wreck.

“Come away from that!” he shouted to Alfred Barney. “Come on! Jump in!
We’ll haul you out.”

The young man made no reply, nor did he move from the wheel.

“Come away, you fool!” roared Captain Bowditch.

But Alfred Barney, like Jim Barney, seemed frozen to the spokes of
the wheel. The thought in my confused mind was: _Had the two brothers
deliberately wrecked the sister ships?_

The Gullwing had recovered from the shock of the collision. She was not
going to sink--at least, not right away. All her crew were inboard now,
and Mr. Hollister followed. Nobody spoke of poor Cap’n Si. We all knew
that he was missing. But there was a great to-do about Alfred Barney.

“What does that etarnal fool want to stay over there for?” yelled
Captain Joe to Mr. Hollister. “Is he a dummy?”

“He iss _fey_,” whispered old Stronson in my ear.

“Looks like it was his fault the ships came together,” said Bob Promise.

We had descended to the deck again now. Our upper works were in an
awful tangle; but we could do no more at present. The tug was steaming
in near to us now and it did not matter if we did drift.

All our eyes were fastened upon the Seamew. She was going down
steadily, head-on. Already her bows were being lapped by the waves
clear to the butt of the jib-boom.

Mr. Hollister sent another wailing cry across to the second mate at the
Seamew’s wheel; but the figure did not move, nor did Alf Barney make
any reply.

Suddenly our Mr. Barney left the helm. He just motioned to me, and I
grabbed the spokes. He sprang to the rail and held out both his arms to
his brother.

“Come! Alf, Alf! Come!”

Then it was that Alfred Barney turned his head and looked across at us.
His face, white as his brother’s had been, broke into a frosty smile.
He raised one hand and waved it to his twin. And then----

There was a roar of sound, a rush of wind, a yell in chorus from all
hands aboard the Gullwing, and the mainmast of the Seamew came rushing
down, astern! The great spar had been shaken loose and it fell with all
its weight along the deck of the laboring schooner. The topmast broke
off and sprang into the air, along with a tangle of steel cable and
shredded sails.

And when that topmast struck the deck again it wrecked the Seamew’s
wheel and pinioned Mr. Alfred Barney beneath its wreckage!

A general shout of horror arose from the Gullwing; but above it rang
the clarion tone of Jim Barney’s voice:

“Boat! Boat! Launch the quarterboat!”

Our men sprang to their stations; the young second mate gave his orders
quick and sharp. Captain Bowditch did not gainsay him. Mr. Jim Barney
had it all his own way.

His crew--the same that had manned the boat when she had picked up the
castaways--quickly took their places in the craft. She was lowered with
a plop into the sea.

“Give way, men!”

They bent to the oars like giants. The boat shot across the sea to the
fast sinking Seamew. I held the spokes of the Gullwing’s wheel idly and
watched. Indeed, the tug coming up to hook us attracted no attention
from anybody aboard our ship at that moment.

The Seamew was wallowing deep in the water now. Her head was under and
her stern was kicking up. She was about to dive like a duck to the
bottom.

Suddenly the air-pressure below blew off her forward hatch. Instantly
the waves broke across the deck and the water poured into the open
hatchway.

Swiftly and more swiftly she sank. When our boat came to the hulk, she
presented a steep side for one to mount from the small boat.

“Alf! Alf!” we heard our second mate yell. We could not hear that there
was an answer from the man under the wreckage of the topmast.

“Hold her in close, boys!” commanded Mr. Jim Barney. “Give me that
boathook!”

“You’ll be drowned, sir!” I heard Thankful Polk cry.

“She’s going down--she’ll suck us all under,” declared Bob Promise.

“Stand by, as I tell you!” commanded the second mate again.

In a moment he had fastened the boathook somehow, and went up hand over
hand. He seized the rail of the sinking ship. The small boat backed
away. I believe Bob Promise thrust her off with his oar.

“Look out there!” bawled Captain Bowditch, from our poop. “You’re
taking your life in your hand, lad!”

Mr. Jim Barney merely waved his hand, notifying the master of the
Gullwing that his warning had been heard. But he crawled right up to
the stern over that wreckage. He did not look back once.

And down settled the Seamew, lower and lower. She was under seas as
far back as the stump of the mainmast. The water boiled around her.
There was good reason for our men in the quarterboat to back off. Once
caught in the suck of the sinking ship, our men and their craft would
go under, too!

I saw Mr. Jim Barney spring over a pile of debris. He stooped, tore
away some of the wrecked stuff, and then stood up with his brother’s
body clasped in his arms.

For an instant I saw the white face of the unconscious man. There was
a streak of crimson on his forehead. Jim Barney looked down into the
countenance of his brother and the men in our quarterboat uttered in
chorus a long-drawn cry. The Seamew was going down.

Slowly, the eddying water seething about her wounded hull, the ship
settled.

“Jump!” shouted Cap’n Bowditch, leaning over the rail, his own face
pallid and his eyes aglare.

But that would not have saved them. Mr. Barney could not have leaped
far enough with his burden to have overcome the suck of the maelstrom
forming about the wreck. And it was right for the men in the small boat
to sheer off.

The wreck slid under the surface. Almost the last thing we saw was Mr.
Barney, holding his burden in his arms, his own face still bent above
the unconscious countenance of his brother.



CHAPTER XXV

_In Which a Very Serious Question Is Discussed_


The boat from the Gullwing was so near the maelstrom caused by the
sinking of the ship that her bow was sucked under and she shipped a lot
of water. We saw the boys bailing energetically.

Then Thank stood up and cast off his outer clothing and his shoes.
Bob Promise, who pulled the bow oar, followed suit. They each took
the precaution to lash the end of a line to one wrist before going
overboard. Where the Seamew had sunk was a circle of tossing waves, and
broken bits of wreckage were popping up from below in a most dangerous
fashion.

The suspense aboard the Gullwing and in the boat was great indeed as
the two young fellows went down. If the Barneys had been entangled in
any wreckage on the lost vessel, Thank and Bob would never be able to
reach them, for the sea at that spot is very deep, and the hulk of the
schooner would finally rest upon the bottom.

Mr. Gates had run back to the stern and stood beside me, gazing off
across the tumbling sea.

“God help the boy!” he muttered, and I knew he referred to our Mr.
Barney. “I doubt now he’d rather be under the seas than above after
this day’s work.”

“Do you believe it was Mr. Barney’s fault?” I whispered.

He started and looked around at me. I repeated my question.

“Was it Jim Barney’s fault?” he returned. “What do you think?”

“I don’t believe it. He sheered off----”

“Too late,” muttered Mr. Gates.

“Just as soon as the captain ordered him to,” I declared eagerly. “When
Captain Bowditch ordered him to ‘Keep off’ he swung her over. I saw
him.”

“It was too late then, I tell you,” declared the first mate of the
Gullwing.

“But how about Mr. Alf Barney?” I cried. “He held on to the course all
the time till she hit us.”

Mr. Gates said nothing.

“If it was anybody’s fault it was Mr. Alf Barney’s,” I repeated,
stubbornly.

“No. It cannot be laid to his fault in any case,” said the mate,
sternly.

“Why not, sir?” I asked.

“Because his captain gave no order. Captain Si had the deck. He was in
command.”

“Then Captain Bowditch is at fault, too,” I declared. “He did not speak
quick enough.”

“He gave the order quick enough,” returned Mr. Gates, gloomily, “but
Jim Barney hesitated. That’s where the fault lies. Jim Barney hated to
give the Seamew right of way, and he held us onto the course after he
was ordered to keep off. That’s where the fault lies, my boy--that’s
where it lies.”

At another time I do not suppose the mate would have discussed the
point with me, I being merely a foremast hand. But we were all stirred
up and for the moment quarterdeck etiquette was forgotten.

But in a moment there was a cheer raised in our little boat, dancing
out there on the swells. Thank’s head appeared, and one hand grasped
the gunwale of the boat. He dragged into view the two Barney’s, locked
in an embrace that could not be broken.

Bob Promise came to his help instantly. Together they held the twins
up. Both the Barneys were unconscious. Mr. Jim must have had a
frightful fight down there under the sea to hold to his brother and get
out of the strong suck of the settling wreck.

The brothers were hauled into the small boat, and then Thank and Bob
followed. As quickly as possible she was rowed back to the Gullwing.

Meanwhile the big tug Sea Horse had steamed up to us and rounded to
under our bows. The hawser was passed and Mr. Gates took charge of the
rigging of the bridle. Our skipper himself went to the rail to meet the
incoming boat.

“Good boys,” he said, warmly. “It’s a pity poor old Si warn’t found,
too.”

I wondered if that was so. It seemed to me that Captain Silas Somes was
the man mainly to blame for the tragedy. I could not believe that the
onus of it would be heaped upon our second mate.

The boat was hoisted in. Both the Barneys remained unconscious; but Mr.
Hollister and the captain declared they would be all right soon. Mr.
Alf Barney had not been seriously injured by the falling of the mast.
They were taken below and Mr. Hollister took charge of them, with one
of his own hands to help in bringing the brothers back to their senses.

The Gullwing quickly felt the tug of the hawser binding her to the Sea
Horse and with her sails clewed up she wallowed on through the choppy
seas into the broad mouth of the Chesapeake.

No need of aiding the steam-tug by hoisting sail. The race was over.
The Seamew had run her course and the Gullwing was the winner. But a
sorry winning of the race it proved to be.

Mr. Gates kept both watches at work for a time making the loose spars
secure. The steel stays that had been broken had to be reset, or we
might have one of our masts coming down as the Seamew’s had.

The work was done before the second dog-watch and then we had a chance
to sit down and fraternize with the men from the Seamew.

“What gave the old Seamew her ticket,” said Job Perkins, “was our
changing a live man for a dead one. When Clint, here, went over the
side and a man that had been garroted came back inboard, I knowed
we was in for trouble. And that ten dollars you’re to pay me at
Baltimore,” he whispered in my ear, “ain’t going to pay me for the
dunnage I lost.”

“How d’ye s’pose that feller got strangled with his lanyard?” demanded
another of the Seamew’s men.

“Ask that nigger they’ve got aboard the Gullwing here,” growled
another. “He knows. And he’ll hafter tell it to the consul.”

But I made up my mind that, if it were possible, Dao Singh should not
be obliged to go before any court, or any consul, to explain that
matter. The fact was, there wasn’t anything he could explain. Under a
dreadful provocation he had killed the sailor. But I doubted if his
excuse for committing the act would be accepted by the law.

The men were mainly interested, however, in the circumstances
surrounding the collision of the sister ships and the sinking of the
Seamew. The great question was: Who was at fault? But we conducted
the discussion in very low tones, that the officer on deck might not
overhear us.

“Talk as ye please,” grunted Job Perkins. “If two other men--men that
warn’t Barneys--had been at the helm of the two ships, there wouldn’t
never been no trouble.”

“Well,” declared I, “_our_ Mr. Barney sheered off.”

“Not soon enough,” said Tom Thornton, shaking his head.

“Just as soon as the order was given!” I cried. “And it wasn’t our
place to give way, at that.”

“Oh,” said Job, “we’ll all grant the old man--Cap’n Si--was the main
one to blame. Leastways, he’s the one dead, and the dead man is always
blamed. But Mr. Alf Barney never got no word to change his helm--and
yours did.”

“The ships come together; they was bound to do so, sooner or later,”
said old Stronson, shaking his head. “It iss not de men iss to
blame--no! You remember the Chieftain and de Antelope? Dey was sister
ships, too. Dey could not be anchored within a cable’s length of each
odder, or dey come togedder.”

“By jings! the old man’s right,” declared Tom Thornton. “I sailed on
the Antelope once. There seemed to be magnets drawin’ them two ships
together. Gettin’ under way at Savannah we bumped the Chieftain and
tore away her fore chains and made a mess of our own bows.”

“I heered if the two craft was anchored full and plenty apart, and in
no tideway, they’d rub sides within twenty-four hours,” said another
man.

“And das iss de trut’,” declared Stronson. “Dey wass sister
ships--like das Seamew and Gullwing. Nopoty can keep dem apart when dey
gets jest so near to each odder.”

“That’s so! I bet that was what did it more than the Barney boys,”
agreed Job Perkins.

“Sich things happen, as we knows,” said Tom Thornton.

And I declare, all the old fellows went off on this tangent and
accepted this idea as the true explanation for the sinking of the
Seamew. They talked it over and became more and more positive that it
was so. The superstition that the sister ships had a natural attraction
for each other took a firm hold upon their minds. I could see plainly
that if the firm had any of these old barnacles into court, they would
swear to this ridiculous idea. At least, it might throw a bit of weight
against the idea that the Barney boys had deliberately wrecked the two
ships.

“Jest the same,” observed old Tom, slowly, “study on it as we may,
there’s one place where it’ll be decided for sure, as far as the legal
end of it goes. The insurance court will have the last say.”

“Wrong you be, Tom,” declared Job, “wrong you be. The final settlement
of the hull matter will be in the offices of Barney, Blakesley &
Knight. Never mind what the court says, nor how the insurance is
adjusted; them two boys will hafter go before the firm.”

“By mighty! that’s so,” agreed Tom.

“And the way it’s turned out,” pursued Job, “it looks like Mr. Jim
Barney would have the best of it.”

“How so?” we asked.

“Don’t you see that he’s bound ter be first ashore at Baltimore?” and
the Seamew’s oldest hand chuckled. “He’s come through on his ship and
will stand first in the old man’s estimation--no matter how he done it.
Ye know Jothan Barney.”

“By crackey! will Mr. Jim beat Mr. Alfred, then, and be boss of the
firm?” Thankful Polk demanded.

“That’ll be the end of the story, son,” said Job, turning his cud in
his cheek. “Old Jothan sent ’em out, one ter beat the other. By jinks!
one _has_ beat the other. No matter how he’s done it. It’s done, and so
old Jothan will agree, I reckon.”

“But won’t the firm punish Mr. Jim?” I asked.

“I wanter see the firm do anything that old Jothan don’t want it to
do,” scoffed Job.

“And that’s so, too,” agreed old Tom.

“Then, believing that Mr. Jim Barney deliberately wrecked the Seamew so
as to beat his brother into Baltimore, you fellows think his uncle will
receive him with open arms?”

“That’ll be about it,” said Job. “Jothan Barney is that way. He wanted
one of his nephews to show what they call ‘initiative’ and all that.
Jim Barney’s showed it----”

“And risked drowning a whole ship’s crew--two ships’ crews, in
fact!--including his brother?” I cried. “You believe he did that just
to get ahead and win his uncle’s approval?”

“That’s it,” said Job.

“Then if he hated his brother so,” I demanded, raising my voice in my
earnestness, “why did he risk his own life to save him?”

The men were silent for a moment. Then Mr. Gates’ voice came booming
forward from the quarter:

“You men stow your jaw-tackle. You’re gassin’ too much.”

That ended the discussion. But I was by no means convinced that the
seamen understood the two Barneys. I had an entirely different idea of
how the matter would fall out in the end.



CHAPTER XXVI

_In Which Is Told How the Barney Boys Go Ashore_


Of course, the sinking of the Seamew would be reported by the tug
Comet, that had gone out to meet her, and the news would be telegraphed
to Baltimore long before we reached the port. The owners would know all
about the trouble, and I reckon Captain Joe Bowditch had pretty serious
thoughts that night as we were towed up the bay.

It was a lovely evening and Phillis came out on deck and begged me to
sit with her. She had not been so greatly frightened when the two ships
collided, because I had been right with her and the trouble was over so
quickly. I hated to think of what might have happened, however, if it
had been the fate of the Gullwing to sink instead of her sister ship.

Since they have been carried below, unconscious, none of we foremast
hands had seen the two Barney boys. We only knew that they had both
recovered and were none the worse for their ducking.

It was now the captain’s watch, however, and Mr. Jim Barney came up
and paced the larboard side of the deck, aft. It was not long before
I caught sight of a similar figure pacing the starboard side of the
house, and knew that Mr. Alf Barney had come up, too.

Philly and I had been whispering together under her awning and suddenly
she put her finger on my lips to enjoin secrecy, and tripped away to
Mr. Jim Barney’s side.

She tucked her hand in his, I could see, and walked beside him. I am
not sure whether she said anything to him, or not; but I know he did
not send her away from him, although he was on duty.

Then, after a bit, I saw Philly go to the other side of the deck and
join Mr. Alf Barney. She must have got acquainted with him below deck,
for he welcomed her warmly. They talked earnestly for a few moments,
and then the little girl ran back to me.

I had been gazing idly off over the rail, watching the lights ashore,
and thinking of my home-coming. In this land-locked bay I could be
pretty safe in believing that I would soon be with my mother.

Of course, through the machinations of my cousin I had been kept from
coming directly home when I was at Punta Arenas. But Paul Downes would
not be in Baltimore when we landed, to trouble me in the least. Once
I got ashore with Phillis and Thank, I was determined to hike for
Darringford House in short order.

I had enough money to pay two railroad fares home--the little girl’s
and my own. Thank and I were to receive no wages for our work aboard
the Gullwing. But I would leave Thank enough money to keep him until I
could telegraph him more from Darringford.

He proposed to go home himself for a time--back to Georgia. He had a
half sister there that he wanted to see. Then he was to join me for
the balance of the summer on the Massachusetts coast. We had already
planned great fun at Bolderhead, despite the fact that my bonnie sloop,
the Wavecrest, was far, far away--at Buenos Ayres.

The matter of Dao Singh was not so easily adjusted. I knew very
well that Captain Bowditch would insist upon reporting the case of
Phillis to the proper authorities at Baltimore. That would include the
examination of the Hindoo on the details of the wreck of the Galland.
And just as sure as they got the man into court I knew he would convict
himself.

I was not willing to see the examination dragged on for weeks, perhaps
months. And the end was not sure, either. I did not want Dao Singh
punished; and I knew that it would trouble Philly greatly if the man
was not at her beck and call most of the time.

However, if Dao Singh, as a pertinent witness in the case, was not to
be found, I believed I could get any fair-minded court to place Phillis
in the care of my mother until the matter was concluded. That was the
scheme I had in mind.

Therefore, when we landed I proposed that Dao Singh should disappear. I
had already sounded him. I had no money to spare, but he seemed to have
worn a belt about his waist under his clothing, in which he told me he
carried valuables. Money I supposed.

Nor was he ignorant of the port to which we were bound. He had studied
the geography of the world and he had corresponded in some way with
members of his own race located in Baltimore.

“To them will I go, Webb Sahib, directly the ship docks. If there
is hue and cry, they will not find me. When your augustness and the
Memsahib en train for your home, I shall en train likewise. I shall not
be far from you.”

“But you will not know when we go,” I cried.

“Let not the Sahib fear for that. Dao Singh will have means of knowing.
Your movements, Webb Sahib, will be learned, although I be afar. Fear
not.”

And this is all he would tell me. Rather a rare bird, was Singh. He
treated me always with immense deference, waited on me when I would let
him, hand and foot, yet always retained an air of being upon a mental
or spiritual plane immensely removed from my own. And I’m not at all
sure that he was not possessed of intelligence far above the order of
the European or American.

But I have got away from my text. Philly and I were sitting watching
the lights on shore. As we were under towage, the watch on deck had
little to do. Therefore the captain did not mind being aft with the
little lass.

Suddenly I saw the two Barney boys cross the deck and stand together
under the break of the quarter. It was dark there and I could not see
how they looked at each other, nor could I hear what they said. But
they stood there for some minutes and, when they separated, and Mr. Jim
went back to his duty, I hoped that they had not parted in anger.

It seemed a dreadful thing if either, or both, of the twins should be
accused of losing one ship and all but wrecking the other. As young
merchant officers, just starting out in life, the affair would about
ruin them. And if old Jothan Barney stuck to his word and took Jim
Barney into the firm, and gave him all his money, what would become of
Mr. Alfred?

At midnight I turned in; Philly had sought her cabin long before. She
wished to be up bright and early to see the Gullwing docked. But I
could not sleep for mulling over the case of the Barney boys in my mind.

My watch was called at eight bells to wash down and make the deck as
tidy as possible for the docking, although we were not yet far north
of the mouth of the York river. The best we could do, however, our
beautiful Gullwing looked like a drunken old harridan that had been out
all night!

The day was beautiful. As the shores and islands were more clearly
revealed, Philly’s delight knew no bounds.

“Oh, the land! the beautiful land!” she sighed. “I want to jump for
joy.”

“Have you got enough of the sea for all time?”

“I do not think I am afraid of the sea--not as afraid as I was once,”
she replied. “But think how good it will be to step ashore! I really
don’t feel, Clint, as though I would care to sail again right away.”

And despite the sorry story we had to tell of the Seamew, there was a
briskness in everybody’s movements that told of shore leave, and most
of the men’s faces were agrin. Those forward were making up parties for
certain pleasures and entertainments which had been denied them for so
many months.

Old Stronson was going immediately to the Bethel, there to pay Captain
Sowle the dollar he had owed the good superintendent for five years and
more.

“I do that chob at vonce,” said the old man, “pefore somet’ings happen
to me. Meppe Captain Sowle vill take my moneys for me and find me a
goot berth aboard some gentleman’s yacht. Das berth I like, I t’ank.”

I knew he wanted to get away from the drink and I hoped with all my
heart that the old man would be able to do so.

Tom Thornton had a married sister in Baltimore, over to whom the bulk
of his paycheck was always paid by Barney, Blakesley & Knight. He would
be put up by her, and cared for, and kept straight as long as possible;
then the old man would go to sea again--in the Gullwing if possible.

As for Bob Promise and some other of the younger men, they were all for
“the sporting life.”

“I’m goin’ to tog meself up in decent clothes,” said Bob. “No slops
or sheeny hand-me-downs for me. You watch my smoke, boy, when I get
ashore. I ain’t sure that I won’t go up to some swell hotel and stay
for a week. I reckon my bunch of coin will stand for it.”

Never a word about salting some of the money away for some worthy
object. Jack Tar of the merchant marine has only two states of
existence--slavery aboard ship and license ashore. There seems to be no
happy medium for him.

The Sea Horse towed us into our berth. The hawsers went ashore and we
were warped in beside the dock amid a deal of clatter and confusion.

There was a crowd to receive us. Some of these people were newspaper
men. The story of the wreck of the Seamew had appeared in the Baltimore
morning papers and reporters for the afternoon sheets were here for the
particulars at first hand. Nobody was allowed aboard, however, although
the quarantine officers had given us a clean bill of health down the
bay.

I saw standing upon the dock a tall, withered old man, with a very
sharp face and white hair and mustache. He looked like a hawk, and was
dressed all in shabby black. Without asking, I knew this to be old
Jothan Barney, the head of the firm that owned the Gullwing.

I did not see either of his nephews greet him from the ship. Mr. Jim
had plenty to do while the ship docked, and Mr. Alf was not far from
his brother at any time. Indeed, I was not the only person who noticed
that the Barney boys stuck together.

A section of the rail had been removed amidships. A narrow gangway was
run out from the dock, the ropes were caught by two of the seamen, and
the plank made fast.

“First ashore!” sang out the old man and looked from our Mr. Barney to
his brother.

We all fell back for a moment. It was evident that the Barneys would go
ashore even before Cap’n Joe. They approached the plank and both smiled.

“All right, Alf?” I heard Mr. Jim say.

“I’m with you, Jim,” was the reply.

And with their arms locked, the twin brothers walked ashore together
and went straight to stand before old Jothan Barney!



CHAPTER XXVII

_In Which I Receive a Telegram That Troubles Me_


For a moment there was a dead silence among the crews of the sister
ships. Then Captain Bowditch himself took off his hat and started the
cheering.

And how he did yell! If both vessels had come home safely we could not
have given tongue more joyfully. For in that moment every man of us
knew that whatever friction there had been betwixt Jim and Alf Barney,
they were once more brothers and friends!

Of course, the crowd ashore thought we were just glad to get home
again--that we were expressing our satisfaction upon getting to
Baltimore, safe and sound. But the Barneys knew what it meant and both
of them waved their hands in response to our hearty hurrah.

As the newspaper reporters crowded aboard to interview Captain Bowditch
I saw that the three Barneys walked away. The old man did not even
speak to the skipper of the Gullwing. I reckoned any comment upon the
skipper’s actions by the members of the firm of Barney, Blakesley &
Knight would be postponed until some later time.

The newspaper fellows were eager for a story; but Mr. Gates and Mr.
Hollister “shooed” them away from the foremast hands. The men would
not be discharged until the next day, when they would be taken to the
offices of the firm for a settlement of their accounts, and to receive
their discharges. Until that time they must remain aboard and continue
under the discipline of the officers.

“If you writer chaps,” said Mr. Gates, with a grin, “want to get these
old hardshells to spinning yarns, you’ll have to wait till they lay
their course for Front Street. You’ll have to be contented with facts
from Captain Bowditch just now.”

So the stories of the Seamew’s tragedy were not very ornate in the
afternoon papers after all; and public interest in the affair was soon
quenched.

When my watch was piped to dinner the doctor gave me the tip to wait on
deck and in a few minutes Mr. Gates beckoned me to the afterhouse.

“Quarterdeck etiquette is busted all to flinders, Clint,” he said, in
an unusually jolly tone, for he was naturally a grave man. But the fact
that we were in the home port after so many months was bound to thaw
the iciest manner. “You’re to dine with the old man and Miss Philly.”

It was a shame the way I looked! My second suit of slops from the
chest were pretty well worn out and my head was a regular mop. I had
reckoned on seeing a barber about the first thing I did when I went
ashore; and I hoped to squeeze out money enough for a cheap suit, too,
in which I might make a more presentable appearance going home.

“Never mind your clothing, Clinton,” said Captain Bowditch, when I made
some remark of this kind. “We’ll excuse your looks.”

“And I’m not much better off than you,” laughed Philly. “I have to go
to bed when Singh washes this dress.”

“By the way, where _is_ Singh?” demanded the captain. “After dinner I
want we should all go up to the British consul--and I want Singh to go
to.”

But Dao Singh was not to be found. I said nothing about my talk with
the Hindoo. I knew that nobody had seen him after we got into our
berth. He might, even, have gone ashore ahead of the Barneys. However,
gone he was and the captain was quite put out.

“That’s the trouble with these natives,” he growled. “Can’t trust ’em.
I’d ought to put him in irons----”

“What for, Captain? What has poor Singh done?” asked Philly.

And then the captain took a tumble to himself. The little girl knew
nothing about the man murdered in the boat from the wreck of the
Galland.

“Well, it’s a serious thing--for me--to have let him get away without
his going before the authorities,” Captain Bowditch growled.

That was not exactly true however. Nobody would blame him because the
Hindoo had departed. But the old man said he would take us both up
town right after dinner. I begged for a little time to make myself
presentable and was given an hour’s leave ashore. I found a barber and
got my hair trimmed properly and then went to a second hand shop and
got an outfit of coat, pants and shoes, with a new hat for six dollars.
Nothing very fashionable, you may be sure; but I reckoned the butler
would let me into the house with ’em on--by the side door, at least!

So the captain and Philly and I walked over to the British consulate
and saw a young man with eyeglasses and something of a lisp, dressed in
clothes that could not possibly be made so badly anywhere else but in
London. He was a nice young man, though; and he insisted upon making
tea for Philly when he heard that she had been two weeks in an open
boat, as though she might still need a “pick-me-up” because of that
adventure.

It seemed that he had already heard of the loss of the Galland. Her
burned hull had been sighted by two steamships and reported before
the Gullwing arrived in port. But none of the crew or passengers of
the ill-fated ship, until Phillis Duane came, had been reported as
saved. The Galland had been posted as a complete loss, with crew and
passengers.

“What puzzles me,” said the English official, “is the distance the
Galland and the boat you found drifted apart. Her bulk was reported as
sighted only a day or two after your Gullwing picked up the little girl
and the Hindoo.” The captain had already explained about Dao Singh.
“Yet,” continued the consul, “the Galland had drifted far up the coast
in the steamship route--she’s a dangerous derelict, and has been so
reported to the Hydrographic office at Washington, and to Lloyds in
London.

“Whereas, Captain, the latitude and longitude you give is far, far to
the south. South of the Straits, in fact.”

“Three hunder’ mile sou’east of the Capes of the Virgin, sure enough,”
admitted Captain Bowditch.

“Yes. The Galland had come through the Straits and must have met with
her accident not far outside. It seems strange that only one boat got
away from her--and that one improperly manned.”

“As near as we can find out, sir,” said the skipper, “she had but two
seamen in her beside the Hindoo and the little girl here.”

He had taken the captain and I into his private office while he
examined us regarding the particulars of the affair. I told him frankly
about the dead man in the boat.

“I must find this Dao Singh,” he said. “Until I get him I cannot call
the case closed, of course. And then, there’s the little girl.”

Captain Bowditch spoke up for me, then. He had had a good report of me
from Captain Hiram Rogers of the Scarboro, and he believed what I had
told him about my folks. He would go bail for my appearance, and the
production of Philly safe and sound, whenever we should be wanted.

“A very good arrangement,” agreed the consul, seemingly mightily
relieved regarding the girl. He was a bachelor himself. “Meanwhile I
will do my best to locate her people. Of course, she must have been
consigned to somebody in England, even if she does not know who.
It seems to me as though the name of Captain Erskin Duane is not
unfamiliar to me.”

So we got away from there after a while. When I had gone ashore to get
my fancy rigout I had sent a telegram to Ham Mayberry. I did that so as
not to startle my mother, believing that Ham would know how to break
the news of my arrival to her better than anybody else. Ham had been
with us so many years that he was like one of the family.

And having telegraphed him I was mighty anxious for a reply that all
was well.

Captain Bowditch left us to report at the offices of the ship owners
and Philly and I went back to the Gullwing where Ham was to send his
message. It had arrived while we were at the consul’s and Mr. Gates
handed the envelope to me the moment I came aboard.

With some perturbation, I broke the seal, and to say the least I was
amazed when I read Hamilton Mayberry’s telegram:

“I will meet every train. Speak to nobody until you see me.--H. M.”



CHAPTER XXVIII

_In Which My Homecoming Proves To Be a Strange One Indeed_


Naturally I thought that Ham’s telegram spelled trouble; but I kept my
thoughts to myself. I did not feel like discussing the matter even with
Thankful Polk.

We had begun to break out the Gullwing’s cargo and worked until dark.
The next day the roustabouts would come aboard and relieve us of that.
All hands (save Thank and I) would go up to the office to be paid off.

We in the forecastle heard nothing about the Barneys that day, nor
did Mr. Jim return to the ship. We spent the evening skylarking on
the forward deck. A man had come aboard with an accordion and the men
danced, and sang, and had a general rough-and-tumble jollification.
But I only looked on. Tomorrow would close such scenes for me--perhaps
forever.

In the morning a lawyer and his clerk came aboard to take testimony
regarding the loss of the Seamew. Just as I had supposed, the men
who talked most were the old fellows who believed that the two ships
had come together because of some supernatural attraction. The real
incidents of the collision were buried under a heap of rubbish,
testimony that would help the courts and the insurance people mighty
little in getting at the facts of the case.

I was thankful that the lawyer did not put many questions to me. I
stuck to my belief that Mr. Jim Barney had obeyed Captain Bowditch’s
order to change the course of the Gullwing as soon as the order was
given.

When the examination was over there was a deal of bustle in preparation
of all hands going ashore. I paid Job Perkins the ten dollars I had
promised him and lent Thank all I could spare after saving out enough
for the tickets for Philly and myself to Darringford.

I suppose I might have borrowed a little money from Captain Bowditch;
but Thank could get along until I could telegraph him a hundred from
home. He had agreed to accept that much from me, and promised to join
me at my mother’s summer home later.

Then we bade the men good-bye, and shook hands with the skipper and Mr.
Gates and Mr. Hollister. Thank went with Philly and me to the railroad
station. There I hoped to find Dao Singh--and Philly was anxious about
him, too. But the Hindoo did not appear.

We could not wait for him; nor did I know how to find him in Baltimore.
But I told Thank to keep a watch out for him, and if he saw Singh to
let me know at once by telegraph.

We took the fast express for Boston and only had to transfer at one
point. From that point I had engaged seats in the chair car and berths
for both Philly and myself. There was but one day coach attached to
the train when we changed, and we were scarcely aboard when a tall,
turbanned figure appeared at the window beside my seat.

“Oh, Dao Singh!” cried Philly, and then rattled away to him in his own
tongue.

He made me a low obeisance. “I have come, Sahib, as I promised,” he
said, softly. “I take train here with you and the Memsahib. I ride
forward in the other coach;” and bowing he left us.

I saw that he had a complete new outfit--a costume of his own country.
He was a strange looking object as he stalked away to take his place in
the day car.

I sent Ham another wire to say what hour we would arrive at Darringford
station. I was sincerely worried about my mother. Perhaps she was ill.
Perhaps--I dared not ruminate farther on that subject.

Phillis was greatly interested in the country through which the
train flew. We looked pretty shabby--both of us--to be riding in a
first-class coach, and the other passengers were curious about us. But
we made no acquaintances on the way.

We arrived safely in Boston in the morning, and crossed the city to the
other station. We had not long to wait for a local train that stopped
at Darringford. It was not long after nine o’clock when the train
stopped and we disembarked.

I saw Ham instantly; but he did not have our carriage. There was nobody
else to welcome me--there was nobody about the station, indeed, who
recognized me. I had changed a good deal during the twenty-two months I
had been away.

But old Ham knew me. He rushed at me and wrung my hands and sputtered
something at first that I could not understand. At last he said:

“And ye couldn’t have timed it better, Master Clint. You’re just in the
nick of time. The court sits in ha’f an hour.”

Then he caught sight of Phillis and Dao Singh right behind me.

“What’s all this?” he muttered.

“I’ll tell you later,” I said. “It’s too long a story to give you now.
Besides, you’ve got to tell me things first. Isn’t the carriage here?
Can’t we all go right to Darringford House? Haven’t you told mother?”

He shook his head slowly.

“Can’t take you home, jest yet, Master Clint,” he said.

“But mother! is----?”

“She ain’t sick, and she ain’t well. Only poorly. Nothing to be worried
about. And now that you’re here I reckon things will be straightened
out all right.”

“Chester Downes!” I ejaculated.

“Yes. He’s cutting up didoes,” grunted Ham.

“But where is Lawyer Hounsditch?” I cried.

And then Ham _did_ amaze me--and startle me, too.

“Old Mr. Hounsditch died a month ago, Clint,” he said. “It was sudden.
He was an old man, you know, and there is nobody to take his place.”

“My guardian is dead, then!” I exclaimed.

“He was co-trustee with your mother, Clint. That’s where the trouble
lies. Chester Downes is riggin’ to get appointed in his place. It comes
up before the Judge of Probate this morning. You ain’t but jest in
time.”

_That_ woke me up, now I tell you! All my wits were working in a
minute. Ham needed to make little more talk about it for me to fully
understand what was threatening.

“And mother didn’t object?” I asked.

“You know what a holt Downes has over her,” Ham said gravely. “She
_did_ want him to wait until you came home. We got your letter from
Valpariso and we knew the Gullwing was about due in Baltimore. But
Chester Downes--you know him!”

“Let us take my little friend and Dao Singh to the hotel,” I said.
“They can wait for us there. I must have a lawyer, Ham.”

“I got you one,” said the old man, quickly. “We’d have gone before the
court if you hadn’t come in time and tried to get a stay.”

“Who is he?”

“Colonel Playfair.”

I knew him by reputation. A better man didn’t live in Darringford, nor
a better lawyer--now that Mr. Hounsditch was dead. And it seemed to me
that I remembered something about Colonel Playfair and my grandfather
having once been close friends.

“Have you got any money, Ham?” I asked him. “For I haven’t a cent.”

“Plenty,” he replied.

“Get a carriage, then, and drive us to the hotel first; then to Colonel
Playfair’s office.”

“Aye, aye, sir!” returned Ham and in a few moments we were off in a
station hack, Ham on the seat with the driver.

Mr. and Mrs. Bramble kept the Darringford Hotel, and I left Philly in
the good lady’s care. Dao Singh remained with her, of course. Then Ham
and I raced to the office of the lawyer.

It was already half past nine. There was no time to lose if the matter
of an appointment of a new trustee for the Darringford estate was the
first item on the docket.

I knew Colonel Playfair by sight--a soldierly, white haired veteran
with one arm. His shabby offices were in a brick building near the
courthouse. I don’t suppose he would have known me in my present guise
had not Ham Mayberry vouched for my identity.

“A close call, young man,” he said. “I understand you object to this
Chester Downes being appointed in the place of Mr. Hounsditch?”

“I more than object,” I cried. “I won’t have it!”

“Hoighty-toighty!” he said. “That’s not the way to go into court. You
have a choice, of course; but don’t speak that way to Judge Fetter.”

“No, sir,” I said, restraining myself.

“And you must have somebody else in mind to suggest for the
appointment.”

“You are familiar with the situation, Colonel?” I asked. “You knew my
grandfather, and you know how he made his will?”

“Humph! I know all about it,” he returned, grimly.

“You are the man to take Lawyer Hounsditch’s place. The co-trustee
should be a lawyer, anyway.”

“Well, well, I don’t know about this,” he said, slowly. “You really
should have another attorney, then, to appear before Judge Fetter.”

“Jest git it put over, Colonel,” said Ham, eagerly. “Then we kin settle
about the trimmings afterward.”

The colonel laughed and took up his hat.

“All right,” he said. “We’ll go across to the judge’s chambers and see
what we can do,” and he led the way out of his office.



CHAPTER XXIX

_In Which Mr. Chester Downes and I Again “Lock Horns”_


This had not been the home-coming I had looked forward to. I had not
desired to take up the old fight with my uncle, Mr. Chester Downes.
But it seemed as though circumstances were forever opposing us in some
wrangle or other!

We three, with the old Colonel leading, went quietly into the room
where Judge Fetter held his court. Nobody noticed us and Colonel
Playfair motioned Ham and I to seats well back in the room. There
were maybe a score of people on the benches. The lawyers and those
individuals who were pertinently interested in the matters to be
arranged, were allowed inside the rail before the Judge’s desk. Colonel
Playfair went up there and the justice nodded to him. Nobody knew whom
he represented, or in what matter he was interested.

I saw Mr. Chester Downes at once; but my uncle did not see me. He sat
with his back to me, in fact, and beside him was a slim and sleek
looking man with a green bag before him on the table.

“That’s Jim Maxwell,” whispered Ham. “And he’s the kind of a lawyer
that Chester Downes would cotton to, all right. I ain’t got no manner
o’ use for Jim Maxwell. He’s one o’ them landsharks, he is.”

The proceedings droned along for a time. Two matters of probate were
settled before our case came up. Then his clerk handed Judge Fetter
some papers, he put on his nose glasses, glanced at them, and said:

“In the matter of the appointment of Mr. Chester Downed as co-trustee
with Mrs. Mary Webb, Widow--the Darrington Estate. There is a minor
child, I believe? You speak in this matter, Mr. Maxwell?”

“I have the honor to do so,” said the sleek man.

“There is no objection to the appointment, I understand?” pursued the
Judge. “The widow is satisfied?”

“Very much so,” declared the lawyer.

“She is not here present?”

“Ill health, your honor,” said Maxwell, briskly! “But Mr. Downes, who
is her brother-in-law, has been her man of business for years. Mr.
Hounsditch, lately deceased, although appointed under the will, was
merely a figure-head in the affairs of the estate.”

“And this minor child--how old is he?”

“Seventeen.”

“Ah. He has no choice, then? He does not object to his uncle as a
trustee?”

“The boy has run away from home, your honor. He is a little wild----”
began Mr. Maxwell.

I was so enraged that I could not keep my seat; but Ham pulled me back.
“Take it easy, Clint,” he whispered.

“In that case,” the judge mooned along, rustling the papers, “there
being no objection, and Mr. Chester Downes’ bond being entirely
satisfactory----”

Colonel Playfair arose. The Judge looked at him in surprise.

“I beg pardon, Brother Playfair,” he said, politely. “You surely do not
appear in this matter?”

“Yes, your honor, I do,” said the Colonel.

“You represent anybody interested?”

“I most certainly do,” said the Colonel. “I represent the minor child,
Clinton Webb.”

Mr. Chester Downes leaned forward and whispered to his lawyer. The
latter sprang up again.

“I beg Colonel Playfair’s pardon,” Maxwell said. “Does he state that he
has been engaged directly by the boy mentioned to represent him before
this court?”

Colonel Playfair was silent for a moment, and the other lawyer went on:

“For if not, I object. No engagement of an attorney by outside parties
will stand, your honor. We expected some interference by officious
friends of the misguided boy. His mother is his legal guardian, Mr.
Hounsditch being dead----”

“Wait,” said the Judge, patiently. “Colonel Playfair knows the law as
well as any man here,” and he smiled and bowed. “State your position,
sir,” he said to the Colonel.

“I represent the minor, your honor,” he said, quietly. “If it becomes
necessary application will be made for the appointment of both a
guardian as well as co-trustee of the estate, on behalf of Clinton
Webb.”

“But the boy has run away! He is incorrigible,” cried Lawyer Maxwell.

“Brother Maxwell is misinformed,” said the Colonel, suavely, “If he
does not know the truth, his client does. Clinton Webb did not run away
from home. He was blown out to sea in a little sloop from Bolderhead.
It is a matter of record--newspaper record, your honor. He was picked
up by a vessel bound for the South Seas. From that distance he has only
lately been able to get a ship homeward bound.”

Chester Downes was whispering again to his lawyer. The eyes of the
sleek Mr. Maxwell snapped.

“Your honor!” cried he, interrupting Colonel Playfair.

The colonel politely gave way to him. The Judge looked puzzled.

“Your honor! The fact of his having left home in the first place
involuntarily is admitted. But he has refused to return. His mother
sent money for his passage to Buenos Ayres. He supposedly wasted the
money and remained wilfully out of her jurisdiction.”

“Colonel Playfair?” queried the Judge.

“If Brother Maxwell is quite finished,” said the colonel, “I would like
to state our side of the argument.”

“Continue,” said the Judge.

“I am sorry to wash dirty linen in court,” Colonel Playfair said,
quietly. “These family troubles would better be settled outside of
the courtroom. But it seems necessary to place the full facts before
your honor. It is not only a proven fact that Clinton Webb left home
involuntarily; but there was a crime attached to his adventure. He was
nailed into the cabin of his boat and the boat was cut adrift at the
beginning of the September gale, two years ago this coming fall.”

The spectators began to sit up and take notice. The affair was assuming
a serious hue.

“The person who committed this dastardly crime is known--known to
Brother Maxwell’s client. This person, afraid of being arrested for his
deed, actually _did_ run away from home, went to Buenos Ayres, there
represented himself as Clinton Webb and obtained the money sent there
by Mrs. Webb for her son, and is now, I understand, a member of the
crew of the whaling bark, Scarboro, in the South Pacific.

“These final facts are proven by a letter from the American consul at
Buenos Ayres, sent to Mr. Hounsditch, deceased, together with the
amount of money which had been given to the false claimant by a clerk
in the consul’s office. Does Mr. Maxwell wish me to state the name of
the person who committed these criminal acts?”

My uncle’s lawyer was evidently in a fine flurry. He jumped up to say:

“We let the point pass for the present. But we claim that the minor
child, Clinton Webb, has no standing in this court. He is on the high
seas----”

“Wrong, Brother Maxwell,” said the colonel, very sweetly. “He is here.”

I saw Mr. Chester Downes start from his seat. He cried out something,
but the Judge rapped his desk for order.

“You say your client is present in court, Colonel?” he asked.

“Clinton Webb! Come forward!” commanded my lawyer, and that time Ham
did not try to keep me in my seat.

I marched down the aisle. Mr. Chester Downes saw me coming. His dark
face never paled; the blood flooded into it, darkening it until his
cheeks and brow were almost black.

We looked at each other. There was no need for either to threaten the
other. As of old, we were sworn enemies. And I believed that I had
again crossed him in his most precious project.

The colonel let me into the enclosure through the gate.

“You recognize your nephew, do you, Mr. Downes?” asked the Judge.

Chester Downes nodded. He could not speak.

“And I understand that Clinton Webb, here before us, objects to the
appointment of his uncle as co-trustee of the estate?” he asked the
colonel.

“He does,” was the brief reply.

“What is your wish, then, Colonel?” asked Judge Fetter. “This matter,
evidently, is not ready for closing to-day?”

“No, your honor. We ask for a postponement--that is all.”

“Do you agree, Brother Maxwell?” asked the judge.

Maxwell looked at his client. There was nothing else to do but to agree
and Downes knew it as well as the lawyer.

“Oh, yes!” snarled Chester Downes. “We will have to fight, I see.”

He and I had locked horns again; but he would not admit then that he
was worsted.

Colonel Playfair had a few moments’ whispered conversation with Judge
Fetter, and then we went back to the lawyer’s office. Chester Downes
and Maxwell had hastened away from the courthouse. My uncle did not try
to speak to me--and I was glad. I am afraid I could not have controlled
myself just then.

There were some papers to sign and more discussion in Colonel
Playfair’s office. He called in a brother practitioner, Mr. Charles
Ahorn, and the matters were turned over to him. Colonel Playfair
agreed to step into poor Mr. Hounsditch’s shoes, and be my guardian
and co-trustee with my mother, if the other side could come to an
agreement. I believed, when I had talked with my mother, that she would
make no objection.

Crafty as I knew my uncle to be, I could not believe that he had so
succeeded in warping my mother’s judgment that she would believe
everything ill he had said of me. And I counted on her love as a surety.

Much as she might disregard my personal opinion of Chester Downes, I
was sure she would welcome me with open arms!



CHAPTER XXX

_In Which My Welcome Home Is a Real Welcome, After All_


Ham and I went back in the hack to the hotel, where we had dinner with
Phillis, Dao Singh standing behind my chair, and waiting at table. I
had an idea right then and there that James, the butler, would find his
job in danger when we got settled at Darringford House.

Briefly, while we ate, I related some of my adventures to my old
friend. Particularly those that had to do with Philly and the Hindoo.

“It beats all--it sure does!” Ham kept repeating, and could scarcely
keep his eyes off the turbanned servant.

When we drove through the wide gateway to the grounds surrounding
Darringford House, I saw the flutter of a light dress upon the
verandah. When we rounded the turn in the drive and the shrubbery was
past, I knew my mother was standing there. But I certainly _was_ amazed
to see Chester Downes sitting in one of the arm chairs. No matter what
happened, he never owned up beat! I had to hand it to him there.

But I saw what he was up to immediately. He had hurried ahead to break
the news of my coming to my mother, and to lay plans for his continued
influence in the house. My mother and the estate were practically his
bread and butter. I knew that well enough.

But nothing then could spoil the joy of my home-coming. I tore open the
door of the hack before it stopped and leaped out. Mother rushed into
my arms as I came up the step and I swung her up off the ground--she
was such a little, dainty woman!--and I knew that she had never ceased
to love me.

“Clint! Clint!” she sobbed. “My dear, dear boy!”

“Hug me again, mother!” I returned, trying to laugh, but making a poor
mess of it. “This is the happiest minute I’ve seen for two years.”

“And how you’ve grown!” she gasped, pushing me off a bit so that she
could look me over better.

“And you haven’t grown a bit!” I laughed, and swung her again until she
was breathless.

“And I hope you have got enough of the awful sea and sea-going!” she
cried. “Oh, Clint! You will stay at home now?”

“I certainly hope to,” I returned, casting a meaning glance at Chester
Downes, who had risen, with a false smile on his face, and his hand
outstretched.

But in spite of the fact that at that moment I meant all that I said,
and had not the remotest idea that I should ever go to sea again,
circumstances not then dreamed of changed my intentions later; and the
reader who so desires may follow my further course afloat in the fourth
volume of this series, entitled: “The Ocean Express; or, Clint Webb
Aboard the Sea Tramp.”

Then my mother caught sight of Philly and Dao Singh. They had stepped
out of the hack and the tall Hindoo, in his oriental costume, stood
gravely behind the little golden haired beauty. She looked like a story
out of some Eastern Fairy Tale, and Dao Singh just set her off nicely.

“The pretty child!” mother murmured, clasping her hands, and I know
that at that instant her heart went out to Phillis Duane.

Philly was looking up at her with a bashful little smile; yet the
golden lights in her brown eyes were dancing. She had laughed to see
how I had caught my little mother up off the ground.

“Who is she, Clinton?” mother asked.

“My sister,” I told her, proudly.

“What?” gasped mother, and I saw Chester Downes echo the word, but in a
whisper. I could imagine the start my announcement gave him. And yet,
my statement could not explain all that I saw in my uncle’s face as he
glared at little Phillis. It was not until afterward, however, that I
remembered how startled Chester Downes was.

“That’s what we’ve agreed to, mother,” I said, smiling, too, at my
pretty little friend. “We have adopted each other. Now it remains with
you to take Phillis Duane right into your heart along with me.”

“The dear, dear child!” mother murmured, and went down the verandah
steps to meet the girl.

“I know I shall love you, dearly! dearly!” cried Philly, and put her
arms around mother’s neck as the latter stooped over her.

Dao Singh made a low obeisance. Mother looked rather startled at him
and then turned to me.

“Dao Singh,” I explained, “has had much care of Phillis since she was
little. He insists upon attending upon her----”

“And upon the Webb Sahib,” concluded the Hindoo, gravely. “It is
well that the little Memsahib and Webb Sahib, come in health to Her
Ladyship, on whom be peace and health. Dao Singh is her servant.”

He bent low again, took up the hem of my mother’s voluminous summer
dress, and pressed it to his forehead. Mother looked amazed, and well
she might--a new daughter and such a kingly serving person thrust upon
her so unexpectedly. I had to laugh.

“Your Ladyship will get used to it in time. As a man before the mast
in an old windjammer, being served by an oriental prince has its
drawbacks; but you’ll get used to it, Little Mum!”

But mother’s interest was soon fixed entirely upon Phillis, and with
her hand upon the child’s shoulder, she urged her up the steps. There
Chester Downes was hanging about, eager to be noticed, anxious to come
into the picture.

“Your Uncle Chester, Clinton,” said mother, “has been so kind to me
while you were away.”

I said nothing. She glanced from my face to his, and then back again,
and her lips began to tremble.

“Oh! I hoped that you would meet him differently now, Clinton,” she
said.

“I am sorry if I consider Mr. Downes just what he was before I went
away. Any house would be uncomfortable if both of us remained in it.
Can I speak plainer?”

“You don’t need to, boy!” snarled Mr. Downes, his face reddening again.

“Colonel Playfair will probably see you at any time you wish to call on
him--either he or Mr. Charles Aborn,” I said, pointedly. “They have my
affairs in charge.”

Mother did not hear. She was talking with Phillis. And Mr. Downes,
after a brief hesitation, went down the steps and through the shrubbery
to the street.

I took the chair upon the other side of Philly and Dao Singh, like
a gaily painted life-size statue, stood at a respectable distance.
Briefly we told mother the story of the little girl’s adventures; and
as I well knew mother received the waif with joy.

“It has been a great sorrow all his life, my child,” mother said,
drawing Philly upon her lap, “that Clint had no sister. A boy is a
great comfort to a widowed woman; but he cannot take the place of a
daughter. Love me, my child, if you can.”

And I knew by the way that the child threw her arms about mother’s
neck and sobbed upon her breast, that she had already begun to love my
mother. Philly’s heart had been sore for just the sort of protective
care my mother could give her. I saw that my scheme was going to be a
huge success!

With Chester Downes out of the way my home-coming was all that I could
have hoped for. The help around the house welcomed me with delight,
too. Even my mother’s French maid, Marie Portent, gave me a wintry
smile--and I had never been a favorite with her.

The neighbors came in to see me, too, for the news had spread all over
town that I had come back from my wanderings. Mr. Chester Downes had
not succeeded in turning everybody against me.

But you may believe I got into some decent clothes before I held any
reception. Then I went down town and wired Thankful Polk a hundred
dollars and the news that everything was O. K. with me.

“Now we will go to Bolderhead and open the house for the rest of the
summer,” mother said that very evening. “I could not bear to open it
without you, dear boy.”

We kept off the subject of the Downes just then; but I might as well
state right here that Mr. Chester Downes was not appointed by the court
co-trustee with my mother. Colonel Playfair _was_, and that before we
closed Darringford house and went to live in mother’s summer villa on
Bolderhead Neck.

Thankful Polk came north to visit us, too; and mother was greatly
pleased with him. Dao Singh, as I foresaw, soon made it advisable for
us to find another situation for James, our butler. Singh actually,
when we got to Bolderhead, took the entire responsibility of the
housekeeping upon himself, and mother thankfully declared that she had
never had so easy a time before, nor had the household been run so
smoothly.

For the first time since I could remember Mr. Chester Downes did not go
to Bolderhead with us. I had no friction over it, and mother was not
troubled. Colonel Playfair knew how to bring things about. I liked him
a whole lot better for a guardian than I had Mr. Hounsditch.

As for my cousin Paul, when he returned home--if he ever did--I knew I
had a method of keeping him at a distance. The threat of punishment for
what he had done to me still hung over him like a sword of Damocles.

It was not many weeks before I had a letter from Mr. Jim Barney. Among
other interesting items of news, he stated that both he and his brother
had been exonerated together with Captain Bowditch in the matter of the
collision and the sinking of the Seamew. If blame lay anywhere it was
upon poor Captain Somes, who had gone down with his ship.

As to the Barney brothers’ private affairs, they had both refused their
uncle’s offer of money and position. As long as the old man would not
divide his wealth between them and give both of them an opportunity of
entering the shipping firm, Jim and Alf had resigned and were going to
sail upon ships belonging to other owners. That seemed to them to be
the best and final settlement of the matter.

I often thought of my long cruise in the Windjammer, and I could
not say that I was sorry for having gone through those adventures.
I certainly was not sorry that they had brought about the coming of
Phillis Duane to our house. For, as the weeks flew by, the British
consul heard nothing regarding the girl’s friends or relatives.

It looked as though she was ours “for keeps,” as Thank said; and both
my mother and I were satisfied.


THE END.



TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:


  Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

  Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

  Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

  Archaic or alternate spelling has been retained from the original.



*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "From Sea to Sea: Or, Clint Webb’s Cruise on the Windjammer" ***

Copyright 2023 LibraryBlog. All rights reserved.