Title: The quest of the Silver Swan: A land and sea tale for boys
Author: Foster, W. Bert (Walter Bertram)
Language: English
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[Illustration: “WELL, SHIPMATE, OUT GUNNING?”]



  THE QUEST OF THE
  SILVER SWAN

  A Land and Sea Tale for Boys

  BY
  W. BERT FOSTER

  Author of “In Alaskan Waters,” “With Washington at
  Valley Forge,” “The Lost Galleon,” “The Treasure
  of Southlake Farm,” etc.

  _ILLUSTRATED_

  NEW YORK
  CHATTERTON-PECK COMPANY
  PUBLISHERS



GOOD BOOKS FOR BOYS


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  The Quest of the Silver Swan. By W. Bert Foster. Cloth. Price, 75
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  Copyright, by Frank A. Munsey Co., 1894 and 1895, as a serial.

  Copyright, 1907, by Chatterton-Peck Company.

  THE QUEST OF THE SILVER SWAN.



CONTENTS


   CHAPTER                                                         PAGE

        I. THE RAFT AT SEA                                            9

       II. INTRODUCING BRANDON TARR AND UNCLE ARAD                   21

      III. AN ACCOUNT OF THE WRECK OF THE SILVER SWAN                34

       IV. BRANDON COMES TO A DECISION                               40

        V. UNCLE ARAD HAS RECOURSE TO LEGAL FORCE                    45

       VI. RELATING A MEETING BETWEEN UNCLE ARAD AND THE SAILOR      51

      VII. INTRODUCING “SQUARE” HOLT AND HIS OPINIONS                59

     VIII. SOMETHING ABOUT LEAVING THE FARM                          66

       IX. ANOTHER LETTER FROM NEW YORK                              72

        X. BRANDON’S ARRIVAL AT THE METROPOLIS                       79

       XI. THE FIRM OF ADONIRAM PEPPER & CO.                         85

      XII. IN WHICH BRANDON VENTURES INTO RATHER DISREPUTABLE
             SOCIETY                                                 90

     XIII. THE OLD SAILOR WITH THE WOODEN LEG                        98

      XIV. THE OLD SAILOR’S EXCITEMENT                              103

       XV. CALEB RECEIVES A STARTLING COMMUNICATION                 110

      XVI. TELLING HOW BRANDON BEARDED THE LION IN HIS LAIR         116

     XVII. HOW THE OMNIPRESENT WEEKS PROVES HIS RIGHT TO THE
             TERM                                                   123

    XVIII. BRANDON LISTENS TO A SHORT FAMILY HISTORY                130

      XIX. TELLING A GREAT DEAL ABOUT DERELICTS IN GENERAL          137

       XX. THE CONTENTS OF SEVERAL INTERESTING DOCUMENTS            144

      XXI. IN WHICH MR. PEPPER MAKES A PROPOSITION TO CALEB
             AND DON                                                151

     XXII. INTO BAD COMPANY                                         156

    XXIII. MR. ALFRED WEEKS AT A CERTAIN CONFERENCE                 163

     XXIV. HOW A NEFARIOUS COMPACT WAS FORMED                       171

      XXV. UNCLE ARAD MAKES AN ANNOUNCEMENT                         176

     XXVI. CALEB WETHERBEE OBSTRUCTS THE COURSE OF THE LAW          183

    XXVII. WHEREIN BRANDON TARR CONCEALS HIMSELF                    188

   XXVIII. THE DEPARTURE OF THE WHALEBACK, NUMBER THREE             197

     XXIX. THE STOWAWAY ABOARD THE SUCCESS                          208

      XXX. SHOWING WHAT MISS MILLY DOES FOR BRANDON                 217

     XXXI. WHEREIN NUMBER THREE APPROACHES THE SUPPOSED
             VICINITY OF THE SILVER SWAN                            224

    XXXII. RELATING HOW THE SILVER SWAN WAS HEARD FROM              229

   XXXIII. IN WHICH COMRADES IN COURAGE LAUNCH THEMSELVES
             UPON THE DEEP                                          234

    XXXIV. THE INCIDENTS OF A NIGHT OF PERIL                        240

     XXXV. SHOWING HOW CALEB APPEARED ON THE SCENE JUST
             TOO LATE                                               250

    XXXVI. THE CASTAWAYS ON THE BRIG SUCCESS                        257

   XXXVII. LEFT IN DOUBT                                            264

  XXXVIII. HOW THE ENEMY APPEARED                                   270

    XXXIX. SHOWING HOW MR. WEEKS MADE HIS LAST MOVE                 278

       XL. IN WHICH THE ENEMY IS DEFEATED AND THE QUEST OF
             THE SILVER SWAN IS ENDED                               286



THE QUEST OF THE SILVER SWAN



CHAPTER I

THE RAFT AT SEA


THE sun, whose upper edge had just appeared above the horizon, cast its
first red beams aslant a deserted wilderness of heaving billows.

Here and there a flying fish, spurning its usual element, cut the air
like a swift ray of light, falling back into the sea again after its
short flight with a splash that sent myriad drops flashing in the
sunlight.

There were not a few triangular objects, dark in color, and looking
like tiny sails, darting along the surface of the sea, first in this
direction and then in that. There was a peculiar sinister motion
to these fleshy sails, an appearance to make the beholder shudder
involuntarily; for these objects were the dorsal fins of sharks, and
there is nothing more bloodthirsty and cruel than these “tigers of the
sea.”

It was quite noticeable that these monsters had gathered about an
object which, in comparison with the vast expanse of sea and sky, was
but a speck. It labored heavily upon the surface of the sea, and
seemed to possess a great attraction for the sharks.

It was really a heavily built raft, more than twenty feet in length,
and with a short, stumpy mast lashed upright amidships. Near each end
was a long sea chest, both placed across the raft, and there were also
a broken water butt and several empty cracker boxes lashed firmly (as
were the chests) to the strongly built platform.

At one end of this ungainly craft, behind one of the chests, lay two
men; at the further side of the opposite chest reclined another.

One might have thought the sea chests to be fortifications, for all
three men were heavily armed, and each was extremely careful not to
expose his person to the party behind the opposite chest.

Between the two boxes lay the figure of a fourth man; but he was flat
upon his face with his arms spread out in a most unnatural attitude. He
was evidently dead.

Of the two men who were at the forward end of the raft (or what was the
forward end for the time being, the ocean currents having carried the
craft in various directions during the several past days), of these
two, I say, one was a person of imposing, if not handsome, presence,
with curling brown hair streaked with gray, finely chiseled features,
and skin bronzed by wind and weather; but now the features were most
painfully emaciated, and a blood stained bandage was wrapped about his
brow.

His companion was a hearty looking old sea dog, well past the half
century mark, but who had evidently stood the privations they had
undergone far better than the first named.

He was burned even darker than the other, was of massive figure and
leonine head, and possessed a hand like a ham. One leg was bent up
beneath him, but the other was stretched out stiffly, and it took only
a casual glance to see that the old seaman had a wooden leg.

Every few moments the latter individual raised his head carefully and
peered over the chest, thus keeping a sharp watch on the movements of
the single occupant of the space behind the other fortification.

This person was a broad shouldered, deep chested man, seemingly quite
as powerful as the wooden legged sailor. Privation and hardship had
not improved his appearance, either, for his raven black beard and
hair were matted and unkempt, and his bronzed face had that peculiar,
pinched expression with which starvation marks its victims; and this
look did not make his naturally villainous features less brutal.

In truth, all three of these unfortunates were starving to death; the
fourth man, who lay so still upon the rough boards between the two
chests, was the first victim of the hardships they had suffered for the
last ten days.

These four men had been members of the ship’s company of the good brig
Silver Swan, bound to Boston from Cape Town and Rio Janeiro. After
leaving the latter port three weeks before, several severe storms had
arisen and the brig was beaten terrifically by the elements for days
and days.

Finally, after having every stick wrenched from her and even the jury
mast the crew had rigged, stripped bare, the brig, now being totally
unmanageable, was blown upon a narrow and barren reef several leagues
to the south and west of Cuba.

The crew, who had ere this most faithfully obeyed the captain and mate,
Caleb Wetherbee, now believing the vessel about to go to pieces, madly
rushed to the boats, and lowering them into the heavy sea, lost their
lives in their attempt to leave the brig.

Captain Tarr and mate Wetherbee were able to save only two of the
unfortunates--Paulo Montez, a Brazilian, and Jim Leroyd, the latter the
least worthy of all the crew.

These four had built the rude raft upon which they had now floated so
long, and not daring to remain with the brig during another storm that
seemed imminent, they set sail in the lumbering craft and left the well
built and still seaworthy brig hard and fast upon the reef.

This storm, which had frightened them from the Swan, was only severe
enough to strip their rude mast of its sail and rigging and drive them
seemingly far out of the course of other vessels, for not a sail had
they sighted since setting out on the raft.

Slowly their provisions had disappeared, while the now calmed sea
carried them hither and thither as it listed; and at last the captain
and mate had decided to put all hands upon still shorter allowance.

At this, Leroyd, always an ugly and brutal fellow even aboard ship,
had rebelled, and had tried to stir up his companion, Paulo, to mutiny
against the two officers; but the Brazilian was already too far gone
to join in any such scheme (in fact, he died the next forenoon), and
Caleb Wetherbee had driven Leroyd to his present position behind the
further chest, at the point of his pistol.

Captain Tarr, who had received a heavy blow on the head from a falling
block at the time of the brig’s wreck, was far less able to stand the
hardship than either of his living companions, and, now that ten full
days had expired since leaving the Silver Swan, he felt himself failing
fast.

Alone, he would have been unable to cope with Leroyd; but Caleb
Wetherbee stood by him like a faithful dog and kept the villainous
sailor in check. As Leroyd had demanded his share of the water and
scanty store of provisions, the mate had, with careful exactness, given
him his third and then made hint retire behind his chest again; for he
could not trust the fellow an instant.

“The scoundrel would put two inches o’ steel between both our ribs for
the sake o’ gettin’ the whole o’ this grub,” declared Caleb, keeping a
firm grip upon his pistol.

“He’d only shorten my time a little, Cale,” gasped Captain Tarr, a
paroxysm of pain weakening him terribly for the moment. “I can’t stand
many such times as _that_,” he added, when the agony had passed.

“Brace up, cap’n,” said the mate cheerfully. “You’ll pull through yet.”

“Don’t deceive yourself, or try to deceive me, Caleb,” responded
Captain Tarr gloomily. “I know my end is nigh, though I’m not an old
man yet--younger than you, old trusty, by ten years. And my life’s
been a failure, too,” he continued, more to himself than to his
companion.

“Tut! tut! don’t talk like that ’ere. Ye’ll have ter pull through for
the sake o’ that boy o’ yourn, you know.”

“I shall never see him again,” declared the injured man, with
confidence. “And how can I die in peace when I know that I shall leave
my son penniless?”

“Penniless!” exclaimed Wetherbee. “Didn’t you own the brig, an’ ain’t
you been makin’ v’y’ges in her for the past ten year?”

“I _did_ own the Silver Swan, and I _have_ made paying voyages with
her,” replied the captain weakly; “but, shame on me to have to say it,
all my earnings have been swallowed up by a speculation which turned
out to be utterly worthless. A sailor, Caleb, should stick by the sea,
and keep his money in shipping; I went into a mine in Nevada and lost
every cent I had saved.”

“But there was the Swan,” said the dumfounded mate; “there’ll be the
int’rest money on her--and a good bit it should be, too.”

“Aye, _should_ be,” muttered Captain Tarr bitterly; “but the brig is on
that reef and there’s not a cent of insurance on her.”

“What! no insurance?” gasped Wetherbee.

“No. When I left port last time my policy had run out, and I hadn’t a
cent to pay for having it renewed. So, if the old brig’s bones whiten
on that reef, poor Brandon will not get a cent.”

“_If_ they do,” exclaimed the mate in wonder.

“Yes, _if_ they do,” responded Captain Tarr, rising on his elbow and
speaking lower, so that there could be no possibility of the man at the
other end of the raft hearing his words; “for it’s my firm conviction,
Caleb, that we’d done better to stick by the old Swan. This last storm
drove hard from the west’ard. Suppose she’d slipped off again into
deep water? She didn’t leak enough to keep her sweet, in spite of the
terrific pounding she got from waves and rocks, and she might float
for weeks--aye, for months--and you know she’d have plenty of company
drifting up and down the Atlantic coast.”

“But that ain’t probable, cap’n, though I’ll grant ye that we might
have done better by stickin’ by her a while longer.”

“Probable or not, Caleb, I _feel_ that it is true. You know, they say a
dying man can see some things plainer than other folks.”

Caleb was silenced by this, for he could not honestly aver that he did
not believe his old commander to be near his end.

“And we had a valuable cargo, too, you know--very valuable,” murmured
Captain Tarr. “I put every cent I received from the sale of the goods
we took to Cape Town into this cargo, and would have cleared a handsome
profit--enough to have kept both Brandon and me in good circumstances
for a year. And then, there is something else.”

“Well, what is it?” Caleb asked, after taking a squint over the top of
their breastwork to make sure that Leroyd had not ventured out.

“If I’d got home with the Silver Swan, Caleb, I should have been rich
for life, and _you_, old trusty, should have had the brig just as she
stood, for the cost of makin’ out the papers.”

“What?” exclaimed Caleb.

He looked at his commander for several moments, and then shook his head
slowly. He believed that the privation they had suffered had at length
affected even Captain Horace Tarr’s brain.

“I’m not crazy, Caleb,” said the captain faintly. “I tell you I should
have been immensely wealthy. Brandon should have never wanted for
anything as long as he lived, nor should I; and I had already decided
to give the brig to you.”

“What--what d’ye mean if ye _ain’t_ crazy?” cried Caleb, in
bewilderment.

“Do you remember the man who came aboard the brig at Cape Town, just
before we sailed?” asked Captain Tarr, in a whisper, evidently saving
his strength as much as possible for his story. “He was a friend of my
brother Anson.”

“Anson!” interjected Caleb. “Why, I supposed _he_ was dead.”

“He is now,” replied the captain; “but instead of dying several years
ago, as we supposed, he had been living in the interior of Cape Colony,
and just before he actually did die he gave a package (papers, this
man supposed them to be) to an acquaintance, to be delivered to me.
I happened to touch at Cape Town before the friend of my brother had
tried to communicate with me by mail, and he brought the package aboard
the brig himself.

“He did not know what he was carrying--he never would have dared do it
had he known--for with a letter from Anson was a package, done up in
oil silk, of--diamonds of the purest water!”

“Diamonds!” repeated Caleb.

“Yes, diamonds--thousands of dollars’ worth--enough to make one man,
at least, fabulously rich!” The captain slowly rolled his head from
side to side. “After all these years the luck of the Tarrs had changed,
Caleb. Fortune has ever played us false, and even now, just when wealth
was in our grasp, it was snatched from us again.

“After wandering up and down the earth for forty years, Anson finally
‘struck it rich,’ and am I, who was to profit by his good fortune, and
the son whom I love more than I do anything else on earth, to lose this
treasure after all?”

He fell back upon the raft, and the exertion set the wound in his head
to bleeding again. A dark stream appeared beneath the bandage and
trickled down his forehead, while he lay, gasping for breath, upon the
bit of sailcloth which served him for a bed.

“What did you do with the diamonds?” the mate asked, when the dying man
had again become calm.

“I--I have written a letter to Brandon, telling him all about it,”
gasped the captain. “That is what I wrote the second day we were on the
raft. I dared not take them with me from the brig, and they are hidden
in the cabin. I know now that we made a grave mistake in leaving the
Silver Swan at all, for she may hold together for months.

“Take--take the papers from my pocket, Cale,” he added, feebly
unbuttoning his coat, “and keep them. If you are saved I charge you to
give them to Brandon with your own hands, and I can trust you to assist
him in every possible way to recover his fortune, should such a thing
be possible.”

The mate bent over the unfortunate owner of the Silver Swan, and with
trembling hands removed several thick documents from his pocket and
thrust them into the breast of his flannel shirt.

As he did so and turned again, he saw the scowling visage of Jim Leroyd
peering at them above his chest. Quick as a flash he seized his pistol
and aimed it at the sailor; but Leroyd dodged out of view at once.
Without doubt, however, he had seen the papers passed from the captain
to mate Wetherbee.

“Take good care of them, Cale,” whispered Captain Tarr. “And let nobody
else see them. I believe that Leroyd suspected something back there at
Cape Town, for he came into the cabin on an errand just as that friend
of poor Anson gave the package into my hands, and I caught him snooping
about the companionway several times afterward. It was he I feared most
when we left the brig, and therefore dared not take the diamonds with
me.”

“I’ll shoot him yet,” muttered the old seaman fiercely, with his
weather eye cocked over the top of the chest. “I hated the sight o’
that fellow when he first boarded the brig at New York. His face is
enough to bring bad luck to any ship.”

But the captain was not listening to him. He had floated away into a
restless slumber, from which he only awoke once to whisper, “Remember,
Cale!” and then passed into a dreamless sleep from which there could
be no awakening in this world.

Caleb Wetherbee closed the captain’s eyes tenderly, wrapped him in the
bit of sailcloth which had served as his bed, and fastened his lifeless
body so that no unexpected roll of the raft would precipitate it into
the water. Then he took the scant share of food left of the captain’s
hoard, and religiously divided it into two equal portions.

“Jim!” he said, when this was done, allowing himself but a moment to
gloat over the pitifully meager supply which he laid on the chest lid.

“Aye, aye, sir!” responded the sailor gruffly, cautiously raising his
head from behind his fortification.

“Captain Tarr is dead, Jim, and I have divided _his_ share o’ the grub.
Put down your weapons and come forward to the chest and take your part.
Remember, no slippery business or I’ll bore a hole in ye! Step out now.”

Suddenly the sailor arose, his ungainly, dwarfish proportions being
more manifest now that he was on his feet, and approached his officer,
stepping over the body of Paulo without a glance at it.

His fierce eyes lighted eagerly as he saw the little supply of food (he
had already consumed all his own), and he seized it at once. While he
did so he looked at the wooden legged sailor with a crafty smile.

“Wot was it the old man give ye, Caleb?” he asked familiarly.

The mate scowled fiercely at him, and did not reply.

“Oh, ye needn’t act so onery,” went on Leroyd. “_I_ knowed there was
somethin’--money I bet--that was given to the old man at the Cape.
He’s acted like a new man ever since, and if there’s anything in it,
I’m goin’ ter hev my share, jest like this share o’ the grub, now I
tell ye!”

“You take that food and git back to your place!” roared Caleb, pointing
the huge “bull dog,” which had a bore like a rifle, at the fellow’s
head. “An’ let me tell you that I shall be on the watch, I shall, an’
it’ll be a long say afore you catch Caleb Wetherbee asleep. Ef I ain’t
saved, _you_ won’t be, let me tell you, for ef I feel myself a-goin’ to
Davy Jones, _you’ll go along with me_!”

Leroyd sneaked back to his place again, and crouched behind the chest.
In that position he could not see the movements of Caleb, who, after a
few moments’ thought, deposited the packet of papers where he believed
no one would think of looking for them.

“There!” he muttered grimly. “If I _do_ foller Cap’n Tarr, I reckon
these papers’ll never do that scoundrel any good, an’ he can throw this
old hulk to the sharks and welcome. If the cap’n’s boy don’t profit by
’em, _nobody_ shall.”

Then he folded his arms, the pistol still in his grasp, and continued
his task of watching for the rescuing sail, which it seemed would never
come.



CHAPTER II

INTRODUCING BRANDON TARR AND UNCLE ARAD


LEADING from the village of Rockland, Rhode Island, a wide, dusty
country road, deeply rutted here and there, winds up to the summit of a
long ridge, the highest land in that portion of the State, which past
generations have named Chopmist.

It is a drizzly, chilly spring day, the showers pattering down in true
April style, the sun promising to show his face every few minutes,
and then, when you are expecting his warming rays, down falls another
shower and Sol hides his face in despair.

Near the highest part of the ridge, on the easterly side of the road,
stood an old, gambrel roofed, weather beaten house, its end facing the
road and its front door at the side as though it, like its present
owner, had turned sourly away from the world, refusing even to look out
upon the highway which passed socially near it.

The rain dripped steadily into the moss covered water butt at the
corner of the house, and a bedraggled chicken, who seemed not to
possess enough energy to get under better cover, sat humped up in a
most dismal manner under the lilac bush at the other corner of the
house.

It was well nigh as dismal inside the house as out. A miserable little
fire of green wood sputtered and hissed in an even more miserable
stove, and the faded yellow cambric curtain at the little window, did
its best (with the aid of the dirt, which was considerable) to keep the
light from penetrating the panes.

At one end of the kitchen was a square deal table littered with soiled
dishes left from the morning meal; the two or three chairs about the
room were in a state of great dilapidation; and even the old clock on
the mantel shelf ticked with a sort of rasping groan, as though every
stroke put its rheumatic old wheels and springs in agony.

Before the stove, in a sadly abused, wooden bottomed armchair, and
with his back humped up a good deal like the chicken under the lilac
bush outside, sat an old man with weazened, wrinkled face, eyes like a
hawk’s, a beak-like nose, and a sparse settlement of gray hairs on his
crown and chin.

He leaned forward in his seat, and both claw-like hands clutching the
arms of the chair, seemed to be all that kept him from falling upon the
stove.

At the window, just where the light fell best upon the book in his
hand, sat a youth of sixteen years--a well made, robust boy, whose
brown hair curled about his broad forehead, and whose face was not
without marks of real beauty.

Just now his brows were knit in a slight frown, and there was a flash
of anger in his clear eyes.

“I dunno what’s comin’ of ev’rything,” the old man was saying, in a
querulous tone. “Here ’tis the first o’ April, an’ ’tain’t been weather
fit ter plow a furrer, or plant a seed, yit.”

“Well, I don’t see as it’s _my_ fault, Uncle Arad,” responded the boy
by the window. “_I_ don’t make the weather.”

“I dunno whether ye do or not,” the old man declared, after staring
across at him for an instant. “I begin ter believe yer a regular
Jonah--jest as yer Uncle Anson was, an’ yer pa, too.”

The boy turned away and looked out of the window at this mention of his
parent, and a close observer might have seen his broad young shoulders
tremble with sudden emotion as he strove to check the sobs which all
but choked him.

Whether the old man was a close enough observer to see this or not, he
nevertheless kept on in the same strain.

“One thing there is erbout it,” he remarked; “Anson knew _he_ was born
ter ill luck, an’ he cleared out an’ never dragged nobody else down ter
poverty with him. But your pa had ter marry--an’ see what come of it!”

“I don’t know as it affected _you_ any,” rejoined the boy, bitterly.

“Yes, ’t’as, too! Ain’t I got you on my hands, a-eatin’ of your head
off, when there ain’t a sign of a chance o’ gittin’ any work aout o’
ye?”

“I reckon I’ve paid for my keep for more’n _one_ year,” the other
declared vehemently; “and up to the last time father went away he
always paid you for my board--he told me so himself.”

“He did, did he?” exclaimed Uncle Arad, in anger. “Well, he----”

“Don’t you say my father lied!” cried the boy, his eyes flashing and
his fists clenched threateningly. “If you do, you’ll wish you hadn’t.”

“Well--I ain’t said so, hev I?” whined Uncle Arad, fairly routed by
this vehemence. “Ain’t you a pretty boy to threaten an old man like me,
Brandon Tarr?”

Brandon relapsed into sullen silence, and the old man went on:

“Mebbe Horace _thought_ he paid your board, but the little money he
ever give me never more’n ha’f covered the expense ye’ve been ter me,
Don.”

His hearer sniffed contemptuously at this. He knew well enough that
he had done a man’s work about the Tarr place in summer, and all the
chores during winter before and after school hours, for the better part
of three years, and had amply repaid any outlay the old man had made.

Old Arad Tarr was reckoned as a miser by his townsmen, and they were
very nearly correct. By inheritance the farm never belonged to him,
for he was the youngest son of old Abram Tarr, and had been started in
business by his father when he was a young man, while his brother Ezra
had the old homestead, as the eldest son should.

But reverses came to Ezra, of which the younger brother, being
successful in money matters, took advantage, and when Ezra died at last
(worked to death, the neighbors said) the property came into Arad’s
hands. There was little enough left for the widow, who soon followed
her husband to the grave, and for the two boys, Anson and Horace.

Anson was of a roving, restless disposition, and he soon became
disgusted with the grinding methods of old Arad, who sought to get
double work out of his two nephews. So he left the farm, and, allured
by visions of sudden wealth which led him all over the world, he
followed from one scheme to another, never returning to the old place
again, though his brother, Horace, heard from him occasionally.

The younger lad was not long in following his brother’s footsteps (in
leaving home, at least), and went to sea, where he rose rapidly from
the ranks of the common sailor to the post of commander.

He married a girl whom he had known in his boyhood, and Brandon, the
boy who was now left to the tender mercies of the great uncle, was
their only child.

By patient frugality Captain Tarr had amassed sufficient money to
purchase a brig called the Silver Swan, and made several exceptionally
fortunate voyages to South and West African ports, and to Oceanica.

But after his wife’s death (she was always a delicate woman) his only
wish seemed to be to gain a fortune that he might retire from the sea
and live with his son, in whom his whole heart was now bound. There was
a trace of the same visionary spirit in Horace Tarr’s nature that had
been the _motif_ of his brother Anson’s life, and hoping to gain great
wealth by a sudden turning of the wheel of fortune, he speculated with
his savings.

Like many other men, he trusted too much in appearances and was wofully
deceived, and every penny of his earnings for a number of voyages in
the brig was swept away.

His last voyage had been to Cape Town, and on the return passage the
good Silver Swan had struck on a rock somewhere off Cuba, and was a
total loss, for neither the vessel itself, nor the valuable cargo, was
insured for a penny’s worth.

This had occurred nearly two months before, and the first news Brandon
and Uncle Arad had received of the disaster was through the newspaper
reports. Two surviving members of the crew were picked up by a New York
bound steamship, from a raft which had been afloat nearly two weeks,
and but one of the men was in a condition to give an intelligible
account of the wreck.

From his story there could be but little doubt of the total destruction
of the Silver Swan and the loss of every creature on board, excepting
himself and the mate, Caleb Wetherbee, who was so exhausted that he had
been taken at once to the marine hospital. Captain Tarr had died on the
raft, from hunger and a wound in the head received during the wrecking
of his vessel.

It was little wonder, then, with these painful facts so fresh in his
mind, that young Brandon Tarr found it so hard to stifle his emotion
while his great uncle had been speaking. In fact, when presently the
crabbed old man opened his lips to speak again, he arose hastily, threw
down his book, and seized his hat and coat.

“I’m going out to see if I can pick off that flock of crows I saw
around this morning,” he said hastily. “If you _do_ get a chance to
plant anything this spring, they’ll pull it up as fast as you cover the
seed.”

“We kin put up scarecrows,” said Arad, with a scowl, his dissertation
on the “shiftlessness” of Don’s father thus rudely broken off. “_I_
can’t afford you powder an’ shot ter throw away at them birds.”

“Nobody asked you to pay for it,” returned the boy gruffly, and
buttoning the old coat about him, and seizing his rifle from the hooks
above the door, he went out into the damp outside world, which, despite
its unpleasantness, was more bearable than the atmosphere of the farm
house kitchen.

The farm which had come into Arad Tarr’s possession in what he termed a
“business way,” contained quite one hundred acres of cultivated fields,
rocky pastures, and forest land.

It was a productive farm and turned its owner a pretty penny every
year, but judging from the appearance of the interior of the house and
the dilapidated condition of the barn and other outbuildings, one would
not have believed it.

There was sufficient work on the farm every year to keep six hired
hands beside Brandon and the old man, himself, “on the jump” every
minute during the spring, summer, and fall.

In the winter they two alone managed to do the chores, and old Arad
even discharged the woman who cooked for the men during the working
season.

As soon as the season opened, however, and the old man was obliged
to hire help, the woman (who was a widow and lived during the winter
with a married sister in the neighborhood) was established again in
the Tarr house, and until the next winter they lived in a manner that
Brandon termed “like Christians,” for she was a good cook and a neat
housekeeper; but left to their own devices during the cold weather, he
and his great uncle made sorry work of it.

“The frost is pretty much out of the ground now,” Brandon muttered as
he crossed the littered barnyard, “and this drizzle will mellow up the
earth in great shape. As soon as it stops, Uncle Arad will dig right in
and work to make up for lost time, I s’pose.”

He climbed the rail fence and jumped down into the sodden field beyond,
the tattered old army coat (left by some hired hand and used by him in
wet weather) flapping dismally about his boots.

“I wonder what’ll become of me now,” he continued, still addressing
himself, as he plodded across the field, sinking ankle deep in the wet
soil. “Now that father’s gone there’s nothing left for me to do but to
shift for myself and earn my own living. Poor father wanted me to get
an education first before I went into anything, but there’ll be no more
chance for that here. I can see plainly that Uncle Arad means to shut
down on school altogether now.

“I’ll never get ahead any as long as I stay here and slave for him,” he
pursued. “He’ll be more exacting than ever, now that father is gone--he
didn’t dare treat me _too_ meanly before. He’ll make it up now, I
reckon, if I stay, and I just _won’t_!”

He had been steadily approaching the woods and at this juncture there
was a rush of wings and a sudden “caw! caw!”

Crows are generally considered to be endowed with a faculty for knowing
when a gun is brought within range, but this particular band must have
been asleep, for Brandon was quite within shooting distance as the
great birds labored heavily across the lots.

The rifle, the lock of which he had kept dry beneath his armpit, was
at his shoulder in a twinkling, there was a sharp report, and one of
the birds fell heavily to the ground, while its frightened companions
wheeled with loud outcry and were quickly out of view behind the woods.

Brandon walked on and picked up the fallen bird.

“Shot his head pretty nearly off,” he muttered. “I believe I’ll go
West. Knowing how to shoot might come in handy there,” and he laughed
grimly.

Then, with the bird in his hand, he continued his previous course, and
penetrated beneath the dripping branches of the trees.

Pushing his way through the brush for a rod or two he reached a plainly
defined path which, cutting obliquely across the wood lot, connected
the road on which the Tarr house stood with the “pike” which led to the
city, fourteen miles away.

Entering this path, he strolled leisurely on, his mind intent upon the
situation in which his father’s death had placed him.

“I haven’t a dollar, or not much more than that sum,” he thought, “nor
a friend, either. I can’t expect anything but the toughest sort of a
pull, wherever I go or whatever I take up; but it can’t be worse than
’twould be here, working for Uncle Arad.”

After traversing the path for some distance, Don reached a spot where
a rock cropped up beside the way, and he rested himself on this, still
studying on the problem which had been so fully occupying his mind for
several weeks past.

As he sat there, idly pulling handfuls of glossy black feathers from
the dead crow, the noise of a footstep on the path in his rear caused
him to spring up and look in that direction.

A man was coming down the path--a sinister faced, heavily bearded man,
who slouched along so awkwardly that Brandon at first thought him lame.
But the boy had seen a few sailors, besides his father, in his life,
and quickly perceived that the stranger’s gait was caused simply by a
long experience of treading the deck of a vessel at sea.

He was a solidly built man, not below the medium height, yet his head
was set so low between his shoulders, and thrust forward in such a way
that it gave him a dwarfed appearance. His hands were rammed deeply
into his pockets, an old felt hat was drawn down over his eyes, and his
aspect was generally seedy and not altogether trustworthy.

He started suddenly upon seeing the boy, and gazed at him intently as
he approached.

“Well, shipmate, out gunning?” he demanded, in a tone which was
intended to be pleasant.

“A little,” responded Brandon, kicking the body of the dead crow into
the bushes. “We’re always gunning for those fellows up this way.”

“Crows, eh?” said the man, stopping beside the boy, who had rested
himself on the rock again. “They’re great chaps for pullin’
corn--faster’n you farmers can plant it, eh?”

Brandon nodded curtly, and wondered why the tramp (as he supposed him)
did not go along.

“Look here, mate,” went on the man, after a moment, “I’m lookin’ for
somebody as lives about here, by the name of Tarr----”

“Why, you’re on the Tarr place now,” replied Brandon, with sudden
interest. “That’s _my_ name, too.”

“No, it isn’t now!” exclaimed the stranger, in surprise.

A quick flash of eagerness came over his face as he spoke.

“You’re not Brandon Tarr?” he added.

“Yes, sir,” replied Don, in surprise.

“Not Captain Horace Tarr’s son! God bless ye, my boy. Give us your
hand!”

The man seized the hand held out to him half doubtfully, and shook it
warmly, at the same time seating himself beside the boy.

“You knew my father?” asked Brandon, not very favorably impressed by
the man’s appearance, yet knowing no real reason why he should not be
friendly.

“Knew him! Why, my boy, I was his best friend!” declared the sailor.
“Didn’t you ever hear him speak of Cale Wetherbee?”

“Caleb Wetherbee!” cried Don, with some pleasure.

He had never seen his father’s mate, but he had heard the captain speak
of him many times. This man did not quite come up to his expectation
of what the mate of the Silver Swan should have been, but he knew
that his father had trusted Caleb Wetherbee, and that appearances are
sometimes deceitful.

“Indeed I _have_ heard him speak of you many times,” and the boy’s
voice trembled slightly as he offered his hand a second time far more
warmly.

“Yes, sir,” repeated the sailor, blowing his nose with ostentation,
“I’m an old friend o’ your father’s. He--he died in my arms.”

Brandon wiped his own eyes hastily. He had loved his father with all
the strength of his nature, and his heart was too sore yet to be rudely
touched.

“Why, jest before he--he died, he give me them papers to send to ye, ye
know.”

As he said this the man flashed a quick, keen look at Brandon, but it
was lost upon him.

“What papers?” he asked with some interest.

“What papers?” repeated the sailor, springing up. “D’ye mean ter say ye
never got a package o’ papers from me a--a month ergo, I reckon ’twas?”

“I haven’t received anything through the mail since the news came of
the loss of the brig,” declared Don, rising also.

“Then that mis’rable swab of an ’orspital fellow never sent ’em!”
declared the man, with apparent anger. “Ye see, lad, I was laid up
quite a spell in the ’orspital--our sufferings on that raft was jest
orful--an’ I couldn’t help myself. But w’en your father died he left
some papers with me ter be sent ter you, an’ I got the ’orspital nurse
to send ’em. An’ you must hev got ’em--eh?”

“Not a thing,” replied Brandon convincingly. “Were they of any value?”

“Valible? I should say they was!” cried the sailor. “Werry valible,
indeed. Why, boy, they’d er made our--I sh’d say _your_--fortune, an’
no mistake!”

Without doubt his father’s old friend was strangely moved by the
intelligence he had received, and Don could not but be interested in
the matter.



CHAPTER III

AN ACCOUNT OF THE WRECK OF THE SILVER SWAN


“TO what did these papers bear reference?” Brandon asked. “Father met
with heavy misfortunes in his investments last year, and every penny,
excepting the Swan itself, was lost. How could these papers have
benefited me?”

“Well, that I don’t rightly know,” replied the sailor slowly.

He looked at the boy for several seconds with knitted brows, evidently
deep in thought. Brandon could not help thinking what a rough looking
specimen he was, but remembering his father’s good opinion of Caleb
Wetherbee, he banished the impression as ungenerous.

“I b’lieve I’ll tell ye it jest as it happened,” said the man at
length. “Sit down here again, boy, an’ I’ll spin my yarn.”

He drew forth a short, black pipe, and was soon puffing away upon it,
while comfortably seated beside Don upon the rock.

“’Twere the werry night we sailed from the Cape,” he began, “that I
was--er--in the cabin of the Silver Swan, lookin’ at a new chart the
cap’n had got, when down comes a decently dressed chap--a landlubber,
ev’ry inch o’ him--an’ asks if this were Cap’n Horace Tarr.

“‘It is,’ says the cap’n.

“‘Cap’n Horace Tarr, of Rhode Island, U. S. A.?’ says he.

“‘That’s me,’ says the cap’n ag’in.

“‘Well, Cap’n Tarr,’ says the stranger chap, a-lookin’ kinder squint
eyed at me, ‘did you ever have a brother Anson?’

“Th’ cap’n noticed his lookin’ at me an’ says, afore he answered the
question:

“‘Ye kin speak freely,’ says he, ‘this is my mate, Cale Wetherbee, an’
there ain’t a squarer man, nor an honester, as walks the deck terday,’
says he. ‘Yes, I had a brother Anson; but I persume he’s dead.’

“‘Yes, he is dead,’ said the stranger. ‘He died up country, at a place
they calls Kimberley, ’bout two months ago.’

“That was surprisin’ ter the cap’n, I reckon, an’ he tol’ the feller
that he’d supposed Anson Tarr dead years before, as he hadn’t heard
from him.

“‘No, he died two months ago,’ says the man, ‘an’ I was with him. He
died o’ pneumony--was took werry sudden.’

“Nat’rally this news took the old man--I sh’d say yer father--all
aback, as it were, an’ he inquired inter his brother’s death fully.
Fin’ly the man drew out a big package--papers he said they was--wot
Anson Tarr had given him ter be sure ter give ter the cap’n when he
sh’d see him. Then the feller went.

“O’ course, the cap’n didn’t tell me wot the docyments was, but I
reckoned by his actions, an’ some o’ the hints he let drop, that they
was valible, an’ I--I got it inter my head that ’twas erbout money--er
suthin’ o’ the kind--that your Uncle Anson knowed of.

“Wal, the Silver Swan, she left the Cape, ’n’ all went well till arter
we touched at Rio an’ was homeward boun’. Then a gale struck us that
stripped the brig o’ ev’ry stick o’ timber an’ every rag o’ sail, an’
druv her outer thet ’ere rock. There warn’t no hope for the ol’ brig
an’ she began to go ter pieces to once, so we tried ter take to the
boats.

“But the boats was smashed an’ the only ones left o’ the hull ship’s
company was men Paulo Montez, and yer father, an’--an’ another feller.
We built the raft and left the ol’ brig, just as she--er--slid off er
th’ rock an’ sunk inter the sea. It--it mos’ broke yer father’s heart
ter see the ol’ brig go down an’ I felt m’self, jest as though I’d lost
er--er friend, er suthin!”

The sailor paused in his narrative and drew hard upon his pipe for a
moment.

“Wal, you know by the papers how we floated around on that ’ere raf’
an’ how yer poor father was took. He give me these papers just afore he
died, an’ made me promise ter git ’em ter you, ef I was saved. He said
you’d understand ’em ter oncet, an’,” looking at Brandon keenly out of
the corners of his eyes, “I didn’t know but ye knew something about it
already.”

Brandon slowly shook his head.

“No,” he said; “I can’t for the life of me think what they could refer
to.”

“No--no buried treasure, nor nothing of the kind?” suggested the man
hesitatingly.

“I guess not!” exclaimed Don. “If I knew about such a thing, you can
bet I’d be after it right quickly, for I don’t know any one who needs
money just at the present moment more than I.”

“Well, I believe I’ll go,” cried the sailor, rising hastily. “That
’orspital feller must hev forgotten ter mail them papers, an’ I’ll git
back ter New York ter oncet, an’ see ’bout it. I b’lieve they’ll be of
vally to ye, an’ if ye want _my_ help in any way, jest let me know.
I--I’ll give ye a place ter ’dress letters to, an’ I’ll call there an’
git ’em.”

He produced an old stump of a pencil from his pocket and a ragged
leather note case. From this he drew forth a dog eared business card
of some ship chandler’s firm, on the blank side of which he wrote in a
remarkably bad hand:

  CALEB WETHERBEE,
    NEW ENGLAND HOTEL,
      WATER STREET,
        NEW YORK.

Then he shook Don warmly by the hand, and promising to get the papers
from the “’orspital feller” at once, struck away toward the city again,
leaving the boy in a statement of great bewilderment.

He didn’t know what the papers could refer to, yet like all boys who
possess a good digestion and average health, he had imagined enough to
fancy a hundred things that they _might_ contain. Perhaps there was
some great fortune which his Uncle Anson had known about, and had died
before he could reap the benefit of his knowledge.

Yet, he felt an instinctive distrustfulness of this Caleb Wetherbee. He
was not at all the kind of man he had expected him to be, for although
Captain Tarr had never said much about the personal appearance of the
mate of the Silver Swan, still Don had pictured Caleb to his mind’s eye
as a far different looking being.

As he stood there in the path, deep in thought, and with his eyes fixed
upon the spot where he had seen the sailor disappear, the fluttering
of a bit of paper attracted his attention. He stooped and secured it,
finding it to be a greasy bit of newspaper that had doubtless reposed
for some days in the note case of the sailor, and had fallen unnoticed
to the ground while he was penciling his address on the card now in
Don’s possession.

One side of the scrap of paper was a portion of an advertisement, but
on the other side was a short item of news which Don perused with
growing interest.

  SAVANNAH, MARCH 3. The Brazilian steamship Montevideo, which arrived
  here in the morning, reports having sighted, about forty miles west
  of the island of Cuba, a derelict brig, without masts or rigging of
  any kind, but with hull in good condition. It was daylight, and by
  running close the Montevideo’s captain made the wreck out to be the
  Silver Swan, of Boston, which was reported as having been driven
  on to Reef Number 8, east of Cuba, more than a month ago. The two
  surviving members of the crew of the Silver Swan were picked up from
  a raft, after twelve days of terrible suffering, by the steamship
  Alexandria, of the New York and Rio Line. The Montevideo’s officers
  report the brig as being a most dangerous derelict, as in its present
  condition it may keep afloat for months, having evidently withstood
  the shock of grounding on the reef, and later being driven off by the
  westerly gale of February 13th.

  Her position, when sighted by the Montevideo, has been reported to
  the Hydrographic Office, and will appear on the next monthly chart.



CHAPTER IV

BRANDON COMES TO A DECISION


THE first thought which flashed across Brandon Tarr’s mind as he read
the newspaper item quoted in the previous chapter was that the story
of the wreck of the Silver Swan, as told by the old sailor, had been
totally misleading.

“Why, he lied--point blank--to me!” he exclaimed, “and with this very
clipping in his pocket, too.”

He half started along the path as though to pursue the sailor, and then
thought better of it.

“He declared that he saw the Swan go down with his own eyes; and here
she was afloat on the 13th of March--a month after the wreck. He must
have wanted to keep the knowledge of that fact from me. But what for?
Ah! those papers!”

With this Brandon dropped back on the rock again and read the newspaper
clipping through once more. Then he went over the whole matter in his
mind.

What possible object could Caleb Wetherbee have in coming to him and
telling him the yarn he had, if there was no foundation for it? There
must be some reason for the story, Brandon was sure.

Evidently there had been papers either given into the hands of the
mate of the Silver Swan, or obtained by him by dishonest means. These
papers must relate to some property of value which had belonged to
Anson Tarr, Don’s uncle, and, his cupidity being aroused, the sailor
was trying to convert the knowledge contained in them to his own
benefit.

There was probably some “hitch” in the documents--something the
rascally mate could not understand, but which he thought Brandon could
explain. Therefore, his trip to Chopmist from New York to “pump” the
captain’s son.

“Without doubt,” said the boy, communing with himself, “the papers were
brought aboard the brig just as this rascally Wetherbee said, and they
were from Uncle Anson. Let’s see, he said he died at Kimberley--why,
that’s right at the diamond mines!” For like most boys with adventurous
spirits and well developed imagination, Brandon had devoured much that
had been written about the wonderful diamond diggings of South Africa.

“Perhaps--who knows?” his thoughts ran on, “Uncle Anson ‘struck it
rich’ at the diamond mines before he died. There’s nothing impossible
in that--excepting the long run of ill luck which had cursed this
family.”

He shook his head thoughtfully.

“If Uncle Anson had owned a share in a paying diamond mine, this
rascally sailor would have known at once that the papers relating to
it could not benefit him, for the ownership would be on record there
in Kimberley. It must, therefore, be that the property--whatever
it may be--is in such shape that it can be removed from place to
place--perhaps was brought aboard the brig by the friend of Uncle
Anson who told father of his death.”

For the moment the idea did not assist in the explanation of the course
of Caleb Wetherbee in retaining the papers. But Brandon had set himself
to the task of reasoning out the mystery, and when one thread failed
him he took up another.

“One would think,” he muttered, “that if there had been any money
brought aboard the brig, father would have taken it on the raft with
him when they left; but still, would he?

“According to the report the brig grounded on Reef Number 8, and
perhaps was not hurt below the water line. The next gale from the
west’ard blew her off again. She is now a derelict, _and if the money
was hidden on board it would be there now_!”

At this sudden thought Brandon sprang up in excitement and paced up and
down the path.

He had often heard of the wrecks of vessels abandoned in mid ocean
floating thousands of miles without a hand to guide their helms, a
menace and danger to all other craft. The Silver Swan might float for
months--aye, for years; such a thing was possible.

“And if the money--if it _is_ money--is hidden aboard the brig, the one
who finds the derelict first will have it,” was the thought which came
to him.

“But why should the mate come to _me_ about it?” Brandon asked himself.
“Why need he let _me_ know anything about the papers, or the treasure,
if he wished to recover it himself? Didn’t he know where on the brig
the money was hidden? Or didn’t the papers tell that?”

He cudgled his brains for several minutes to think _where_ his father
would have been likely to hide anything of value on the brig. Was there
any place which only he and his father had known about?

This idea suggested a train of reminiscences. He had been aboard the
Silver Swan several times while she lay in Boston, and had been all
over her.

Once, possibly four years before (it seemed a long time to him now), he
had been alone with his father in the cabin, and Captain Tarr had shown
him an ingeniously hidden sliding panel in the bulkhead, behind which
was a little steel lined cavity, in which the captain kept his private
papers.

Perhaps Caleb Wetherbee did not know about this cupboard, and it was
this information that he wished to get from him. The idea seemed
probable enough, for if he did not know where the treasure was hidden
on the brig, what good would the papers relating to it be to him?

“There may be a fortune there, just within my grasp, and yet I not be
able to get at it,” muttered Don, pacing the rough path nervously.

“Despite his former confidence in this Wetherbee, father must have
doubted him at the last and not dared to take the treasure (if treasure
it really is) when he left the brig.

“Instead, he gave him these papers, hoping the fellow would be honest
enough to place them in my hands; but, still fearing to fully trust the
mate, he wrote his directions to me so blindly, that Wetherbee is all
at sea about what to do.

“Wetherbee knows that the brig is afloat--this clipping proves
that--and he hoped to get the information he wanted from me and then
go in search of the Silver Swan. _Why can I not go in search of it
myself?_”

The thought almost staggered him for an instant, yet to his boyish
mind the plan seemed feasible enough. He knew that derelicts are often
carried by the ocean currents for thousands of miles before they
sink, yet their movements are gradual, and by a close study of the
hydrographic charts he believed it would be possible to locate the
wrecked brig.

“I’ve got no money, I know,” he thought, “at least, not much; but I’ve
health and strength and an ordinary amount of pluck, and it will be
strange if I can’t accomplish my purpose if the old brig only holds
together long enough.”

He looked at the soiled card the sailor had given him.

“‘New England Hotel, Water Street,’” he repeated. “Some sailors’
boarding house, likely. I believe--yes, I will--go to New York myself
and see this scoundrelly Wetherbee again. He can’t do _much_ without
me, I fancy, and perhaps, after all, I can use him to my own benefit. I
ought to be as smart as an ignorant old sailor like him.”

He stood still a moment, gazing steadily at the ground.

“I’ll do it, I vow I will!” he exclaimed at last, raising his head
defiantly. “Uncle Arad’s got no hold upon me and I’ll go. I’ll start
tomorrow morning,” with which determination he picked up his rifle and
left the woods.



CHAPTER V

UNCLE ARAD HAS RECOURSE TO LEGAL FORCE


IN the several oceans of our great globe there are many floating
wrecks, abandoned for various causes by their crews, which may float on
and on, without rudder or sail, for months, and even years. Especially
is this true of the North Atlantic Ocean, where, during the past five
years, nearly a thousand “derelicts,” as these floating wrecks are
called, were reported.

The Hydrographic Office at Washington prints a monthly chart on which
all the derelicts reported by incoming vessels are plainly marked, even
their position in the water being designated by a little picture of the
wreck.

By this method of “keeping run” of the wrecks, it has been found that
some float thousands of miles before they finally reach their ultimate
port--Davy Jones’ locker.

The average life of these water logged hulks is, however, but thirty
days; otherwise the danger from collision with them would be enormous
and the loss of life great. Many of those vessels which have left
port within the past few years and never again been heard from, were
doubtless victims of collisions with some of these derelicts.

Several more or less severe accidents have been caused by them, and
so numerous have they become that, within the past few months, several
vessels belonging to our navy have gone “derelict cruising”--blowing up
and sinking the most dangerous wrecks afloat in the North Atlantic.

At the time of the Silver Swan’s reported loss, however, it was
everybody’s business to destroy the vessels, and therefore nobody’s.
At any time, however, the hull of the brig, reported by the steamship
Montevideo as floating off Cuba, might be run into and sunk by some
other vessel, such collisions being not at all uncommon.

Brandon Tarr realized that there was but a small chance of the Silver
Swan being recovered, owing to these circumstances; yet he would not
have been a Tarr had he not been willing to take the chance and do all
he could to secure what he was quite convinced was a valuable treasure.

Derelicts had been recovered and towed into port for their salvage
alone, and the Silver Swan was, he knew, richly laden. It might also
be possible to repair the hull of the brig, for she was a well built
craft, and if she had withstood the shock of being ground on the reef
so well, she might even yet be made to serve for several years.

These thoughts flitted through the mind of the boy as he slowly crossed
the wet fields toward the farm house.

“I’ll go tomorrow morning--Uncle Arad or no Uncle Arad,” he decided.
“It won’t do to leave the old fellow alone, so I’ll step down after
dinner and speak to Mrs. Hemingway about coming up here. He will have
to have her any way within a few days, so it won’t much matter.”

He didn’t really know how to broach the subject to the old man, for he
felt assured that his great uncle would raise manifold objections to
his departure. He had lived at the farm four years now and Uncle Arad
had come to depend on him in many ways.

They had eaten dinner--a most miserable meal--and Don was washing the
dishes before he spoke.

“Uncle Arad,” he said, trying to talk in a most matter of fact way,
“now that father is--is gone and I have nothing to look forward to, I
believe I’ll strike out for myself. I’m past sixteen and big enough and
old enough to look out for myself. I think I shall get along faster by
being out in the world and brushing against folks, and I reckon I’ll go
to New York.”

Uncle Arad fairly wilted into his seat, and stared at Don in utter
surprise.

“Go to New York?” he gasped.

“That’s what I said.”

“Go to New York--jest when yer gittin’ of some account ter me?”

“Oh, I’ve been of some account to you for some time, and any way father
always paid my board before last fall, you know,” said Don cheerfully.

Uncle Arad snorted angrily, and his eyes began to flash fire.

“Paid your board!” he exclaimed. “I dunno what put _that_ inter your
head.”

“Father put it there, that’s who,” declared Don hotly.

“_I_ never give him no receipts for board money,” cried the old man.
“You can’t show a one!”

“I don’t suppose you did,” returned Don, with scorn. “You never give
receipts for anything if you can help it. If you’d given receipts to
your own brother as you ought, you wouldn’t be in possession of this
farm now.”

“I wouldn’t, hey?” cried the old man, goaded to desperation by this
remark, which he knew only too well to be true. “You little upstart
you! Ye’ll go ter New York, whether ’r no, will ye?”

He arose in his wrath and shook his bony fist in Don’s face. The youth
looked down upon him scornfully, for the man would have been no match
for him at all.

“Now don’t have a fit,” he said calmly. “I’m going to step ’round to
Mrs. Hemingway’s after dinner, and get her to come up here and look
after you. You’ll need her any way, in a few days.”

“It won’t matter! it won’t matter!” shrieked Uncle Arad, exasperated
by the boy’s coolness. “It won’t matter, I s’pose, when I hev ter pay
three dollars--_three dollars_, mind ye--fur a hull week’s extry work!”

He fairly stamped about the room in his fury.

“It don’t matter, eh, when I’ll have ter hire a man ter take your
place? Be you crazy, Brandon Tarr?”

“Guess not,” responded Don, wiping the last dish and hanging up the
towel to dry. “You must think _me_ crazy, however. Do you s’pose I’d
stayed here this season without wages?”

“Wages!” again shrieked the old man, to whom the thought of paying
out a penny was positive pain, “Wages! an’ you a beggar--yes, sir, a
beggar!--’pendent upon my bounty, as it were.”

Don smiled at this.

“I’m a pretty sturdy beggar, as they used to call ’em in the old days,”
he said.

“Wal, any way, I’m your guardeen, an’ I’ll see if you’re goin’ jest
when you like.”

Don laughed outright now.

“My guardian!” he responded. “I’d like to know _why_ I should have any
guardian. I’ve no property, goodness knows. And as you said about the
board receipts, _where are your papers giving you any legal control
over me?_”

The old man was utterly taken aback at this and sat down again,
glowering at his nephew angrily, while the latter put on his hat and
coat and departed on his errand to Mrs. Hemingway’s.

But Arad Tarr was not the man to see either money or its equivalent
slipping his grasp without strenuous efforts to retain it. His nephew
represented to him just so much hard cash saved, for if Brandon went
away Uncle Arad realized that the hiring of an extra hand would be an
absolute necessity.

Therefore, the boy had not been gone long before the old man decided on
a line of action. He struggled into his own coat, locked up the house,
and harnessed a horse to a dilapidated light wagon. He was too careful
of his good vehicles to take anything but this out on such a nasty day.

“That boy is a-gettin’ too upstartish!” he declared, climbing into the
wagon and chirruping to the horse. “He’s jest like Anson an’ Horace.
There was no livin’ with _them_, an’ now _he’s_ got this fool notion
inter his head erbout goin’ away!

“But I’ll git _that_ aout o’ him,” he added, with emphasis. “If I
hain’t got no legal right ter his services, I _will_ have, now I tell
ye! Arter all I’ve done fur him an’ fur his shif’less, no ’count pa,
I ain’t goin’ ter let go o’ him till he comes of age--mos’ five years
yet.”

He shook his head slowly at that thought. Five years of Brandon’s
services on the farm would be worth all of twenty-five hundred dollars!

He clucked to the horse and drove on the faster at that. Suppose the
boy should take it into his head to go before he obtained the papers
which he was sure he could have made out? The idea was quite agonizing.

“I reckon Squire Holt kin fix it up for me in short order,” he
muttered, as he urged his horse into a faster trot. “I’ll show that boy
’t he ain’t his own master, by no means!”



CHAPTER VI

RELATING A MEETING BETWEEN UNCLE ARAD AND THE SAILOR


THE old man drove on through the mud and slush of the country road, the
wheels of the rickety vehicle first rattling over outcropping rocks and
boulders, and then splashing half way to their hubs in the yellow mire.

A mile beyond his own farm he turned into a broader highway which
trended to the right--the city “pike.” Woods bordered the way on either
side and although the rain had ceased, the drops fell in showers from
the trees. It was a nasty day and the horse splashed itself to the
belly with the mire.

Not many rods beyond the turn old Arad overtook a man walking in the
same direction that he was driving, and as the farmer rattled up, the
man stepped to one side and hailed him.

He was a bronzed and bearded fellow, dressed in garments about as seedy
as the miser’s own clothing, and although he lacked all of twenty years
of Arad’s age, his back, as he stood there beside the cart path, seemed
almost as bent.

“Hullo, shipmate!” was the man’s greeting, raising his hand for the
farmer to stop. “Goin’ toward the city?”

“Wal, I be a piece,” replied Arad grudgingly.

It was something of an effort for him to speak civilly to a casual
stranger. I presume he was afraid of wearing out the small stock of
civility he possessed.

“Ye’re goin’ in ballast, I see,” said the stranger. “Can’t ye stow me
away there?”

“Hey?” responded the farmer, who did not understand the other’s figure
of speech.

“I say ye’re goin’ in ballast,” repeated the man; “yer wagon’s empty,
ye know. Give me a ride, will ye?”

“Wal, I dunno,” said Arad slowly, with a sudden avaricious twinkle in
his eye. “I know the team’s empty, but th’ mare ain’t s’ limber ’s she
might be, an’ it’s hard trav’lin’.”

“Got an eye on the main chance, ain’t ye, ye old land shark?” muttered
the man. Then he said aloud: “How fur ye goin’ on this road?”

“’Bout three mile furder.”

“What’ll ye take me that fur, for?”

“Wall, I dunno,” began Arad.

“Come, I’ll give ye a quarter,” said the stranger, fishing a handful of
silver from the depths of his pocket.

The old man’s eyes flashed.

“Jump aboard,” he said briefly, and the black bearded man sprang to the
seat with great agility.

“Ye’re some limber,” said the old farmer, in admiration, pocketing the
quarter and starting up his horse again.

“_You’d_ be if ye’d shinned up as many riggin’s as I hev.”

“Ye’re a sailor, then?”

“I be. No landlubber erbout me, is ther’? I reckon ye don’t see many
sailors in these parts?”

“Ya-as we do,” snarled Arad impolitely; “more’n’ we wanter sometimes.
I got a nevvy who was a sailor--a cap’n. Lost at sea erbout two months
ergo. Lef’ me er great, hulkin’ boy ter take keer of.”

“Great Peter!” exclaimed the sailor, with some astonishment. “Ye don’t
mean Cap’n Horace Tarr?”

“Yes, I do mean Cap’n Horace Tarr,” growled Arad. “He was my nevvy, an’
it’s his no ’count, wuthless boy I’ve got on my han’s. My name’s Arad
Tarr--’n’ th’ only Tarr ’t ever knew ’nough ter make money an’ keep it.”

The sailor looked at the weazened old figure curiously.

“He didn’t favor you none,” he said.

“Who didn’t? Horace Tarr? I reckon he didn’t!” exclaimed Arad. “He
favored a ca’f more’n he did anything else, ’cordin’ ter _my_ notion.
Did ye know him?” added the old man curiously.

“In course I did. I sailed with him--er--lots. Why, I was with him this
’ere las’ v’y’ge o’ his.”

“Ye don’t mean it!”

“I guess I do.”

“Wal, wal!” exclaimed Uncle Arad, roused out of himself for a moment.
“So you was on that raf’ fur so long, eh? Must er been quite an
experience. An’ Horace is really dead, is he?”

“Dead’s a door nail,” the sailor declared. “Can’t be no mistake erbout
_that_. We had ter pitch him overboard--er--another feller and me;
’cause ’twas so all fired hot, ye know. Him and Paulo Montez both went
ter the sharks.”

The old man shuddered.

“An’ he died without leavin’ a cent, eh? Poor’s poverty! I allus
knew how ’twould be. ’N’ I s’pose Anson--fur he mus’ be dead by this
time--died poor, too.”

The sailor looked at the old man sharply out of the corners of his
eyes, and after a minute spoke again.

“Yes,” he said slowly, in confirmation of Uncle Arad’s remark. “I was
with the cap’n at the last.”

“What ye doin’ ’way up here?” inquired the farmer, with sudden interest.

“Well, I come up ter see Cap’n Tarr’s boy.”

“Hey?” ejaculated the farmer. “Come ter see Brandon?”

“That’s it,” said the sailor, nodding.

“But ye didn’t see him?”

“Yes, I did; over yonder in the woods.”

“Why, he didn’t say nothin’ erbout it ter me,” gasped the old man.

“Mebbe ye ain’t seen him since,” suggested the sailor.

“When was yer er-talkin’ with him?”

“Long erbout two hours back, ’r so.”

“’Fore dinner?”

“I reckon so. I seen him over in the woods yonder, an’ talked with him
quite a spell. I started ’long back towards the city a’gin, but I found
out I’d lost--er--somethin’, an’ went back ter hev er look fur it.”

“What was it ye lost?” asked Uncle Arad, with perhaps a momentary
thought that, if it was of value and had been lost on his farm, he
might be able to find it himself.

“Nothin’ but a piece of paper.”

“Find it?”

“Not me. Must ha’ blowed away. Howsomever, that ain’t ter the p’int.
It’s funny yer nevvy never tol’ erbout meetin’ me.”

Old Arad was silent for a minute.

“I wish ye hadn’t come ’round here, fillin’ up his head with fool
notions,” he grumbled. “Seein’ you must be what set him up ter leavin’
so sudden.”

“Goin’ to leave ye, is he?” asked the sailor quickly.

“He _thinks_ he is,” returned the farmer, with a snarl. “Th’ little
upstart! But I’ll l’arn him who’s who, now I tell ye? Goin’ ter New
York, is he? Wal, I reckon not.”

“To New York? What’s he goin’ there fur? I sh’d think ye’d want him
right here on th’ farm,” said the sailor, with a cunning smile.

“So I do--an’ right here is where he’s goin’ ter stay,” declared Uncle
Arad wrathfully. “I’m er-goin’ down ter Square Holt’s ter see erbout it
now. I’m either goin’ ter hev him bound ter me till he’s twenty-one, ’r
git p’inted him gardeen. _Then_, I reckon he won’t talk no more erbout
runnin’ off ter New York.”

“Yes, I reckon this place is the best fur a boy like him,” acquiesced
the sailor. “An’ then, ye orter be his guardeen. S’posin’ he had
prop’ty fallin’ to him now--you’d orter hev th’ handlin’ of it till
he’s of age.”

“Prop’ty! I guess ther’ won’t be none ter fall to him,” sniffed Uncle
Arad. “_I_ ain’t a dyin’ man, by no means, an’ his pa didn’t leave a
cent. Didn’t even hev that brig o’ his’n insured.”

“I dunno erbout that,” said the sailor shrewdly.

“What don’t ye know erbout?” demanded Arad suspiciously. “The Silver
Swan wasn’t insured, were she?”

“I reckon not.”

“Then what d’ye mean?”

Arad’s piercing eyes were fixed searchingly on his companion’s face,
but the sailor was not easily disturbed.

“Well, now, I’ll put a case to ye--jest a s’posin’ case, now mind ye,”
he said calmly, as Arad, now thoroughly interested in the matter, let
the old horse walk along the muddy highway. “S’posin’ now this ’ere
Cap’n Tarr had knowed erbout a buried treasure, ’r some sich thing, an’
he’d writ erbout it, an’ give the papers ter another man--his mate, fur
instance--ter be given ter his son.

“Now, nat’rally, if ther’ was any money in it fur this Brandon, _you’d_
orter know erbout it, hadn’t ye? You bein’ th’ boy’s guardeen, you’d
orter handle that money; un’ if _I_ could help you ter the gettin’ o’
that money, _I’d_ orter hev a part of it, eh?”

Old Arad stared at him with wide open eyes, and the hand which held the
reins trembled visibly.

“Now, s’posin’ the mate sends them papers to Brandon through the mail,
’r writes a letter erbout ’em--_you’d_ orter know it, hadn’t ye? You’d
orter see that letter, or them papers, an’ you’d jest drop me a line,
an’ _I_ c’d help ye get ’em, ’cause I know all erbout sich things,
bein’ a sea farin’ man fur thirty year.”

Uncle Arad moistened his trembling lips before he could speak.

“But this is only s’posin’,” he said quaveringly.

“But, _s’pose ’twas so!_ S’pose I seen them papers passed, an’ s’pose
I heered Cap’n Tarr say with his own lips ther’ was ’nough suthin ’r
other (I couldn’t ketch th’ word--gold, mebbe) there ter make a man
fabulously rich?”

“Fabulously rich!” repeated Arad.

“That’s it; fabulously rich, is wot he said. An’ if it’s so, _you_
orter to get the letters from the post office, an’ open every one of
’em, hadn’t ye?”

Uncle Arad nodded quickly.

“O course ye had; and if the letter or papers sh’d come from Caleb
Wetherbee--thet’s the mate’s name; he’s in the ’orspital yet--you’d let
me know, an’ then we’d see wot we sh’d see, eh?”

The sailor poked the old man familiarly in the ribs and slapped his own
knee.

“That’s wot we’d do, shipmate,” he said. “Wot say ye? Ye’ll need me,
fur I reckon wherever th’ money’s hid, ye’ll need a sailor ter go ’long
with ye--er ter git it fur ye.”

“I--I couldn’t go; my health ain’t good ’nough,” declared the farmer.
“Then--then--mebbe there ain’t nothin’ in it.”

“Well, mebbe there ain’t,” said the sailor calmly, preparing to
dismount as the old man pulled up before a house; “an’ then ag’in
mebbe there is. Leastways, I adwise ye ter jest keep yer eyes open
fur letters f’om New York. An’ when one comes from Caleb Wetherbee,
p’r’aps ye’ll want ter talk with me furder.”

“Where--where kin I find ye?” Arad asked, in a shaking voice.

“Jest write ter Jim Leroyd, New England Hotel, Water Street, New
York--that’ll fetch me,” declared the sailor briskly. “Now remember,
old feller,” he added meaningly, “ye won’t be able ter do nothin’ with
them papers ’thout me. If ye try it ye’ll be up a stump ter oncet. Now,
take keer o’ yerself!”

He turned away and rolled along the road toward the distant city, while
Uncle Arad climbed down from the wagon.

“Fabulously rich!” he muttered to himself, as he fastened the horse to
the hitching post with trembling hands.



CHAPTER VII

INTRODUCING “SQUARE” HOLT AND HIS OPINIONS


“SQUARE” HOLT, who was a justice of the peace as well as the judge
of the probate court of the town, was a very tall and very angular
individual with a massive development of nose (old Arad Tarr’s was
as nothing beside it) and a wide mouth continually drawn into a
grim line, as though such a thing as a smile had never crossed his
imagination--if, indeed, he had an imagination.

He had no children of his own (which was an exceedingly fortunate
thing for the unborn generations) and had apparently forgotten his own
boyhood. Boys, in his estimation, were made to work--the harder the
better. In this he was of the same opinion as Uncle Arad Tarr.

Old Arad was at once admitted to the front parlor of the house at
which he had stopped, which was used by the judge as his office when
he was not at the town hall. Here, seated in one of the prim hair
cloth chairs, with which his soiled and badly fitting garments hardly
harmonized, the old man told his story.

“That boy, square, comes o’ the shif’lessest kind o’ stock, ye know,
ef his gran’father _was_ my own brother,” he said, in conclusion. “You
’member Ezra?”

“Oh yes, I remember Ezra,” said the judge, grimly.

“Wal, then, ye know what a shif’less loose j’inted critter he was in
business matters, an’ Anson an’ Horace was as like him as two peas aout
o’ the same pod. An’ now this ’ere Brandon hez got th’ same traits o’
no ’count shif’lessness.”

“Very likely, very likely,” said the other, with sternness. “I’ve seen
the youth, I think, out gunning quite frequently--a most objectionable
practice.”

“Ye’re right, square,” old Arad exclaimed, with eagerness. “Jest er
firin’ erway good powder an’ shot ’t cost money. Thet boy hez airnt
money erhelpin’ of the neighbors lots o’ times, ter waste on powder an’
shot. He’s a dretful bad boy.”

“From what you say, neighbor,” said the judge, with confidence, “I
should say that the proper place for the young rascal was the State
reform school----”

“Oh, no, no, square,” exclaimed Arad, in sudden terror at the thought
of losing Don’s services in this way. “’Tain’t as bad as that. I kin
manage him, once give me legal ’thority.

“Ye see, his pa left him ’ithout a cent, an’ I thought it didn’t make
a bit er diff’rance ’bout his havin’ a guardeen--’twould er been some
expense, ye know, ter hev th’ papers made aout; but since he’s got this
’ere wild goose notion o’ leavin’ me, I begin ter see that I sh’d hev
some holt on him fur--hem!--fur his own good, as it were.”

“Quite right,” declared the judge confidently. “And so the boy--this
Brandon--proposes to go away at once, does he?”

“So he has th’ audacity ter tell me,” responded old Arad. “He declared
he was goin’ termorrer mornin’. Ye know, square, I’m too broke up ’ith
the rheumatiz ter tackle him as he’d orter be tackled. A good hidin’
would be th’ best thing fur him, in _my_ ’pinion.”

“And in my opinion, too,” quoth the judge. “Now, of course this matter
will have to be done when the court meets next week, Mr. Tarr; but I’ll
come up and see the youth tonight, and I think that between us we can
make him see that this is the place for him to stay, and that there
is to be no running away from it,” and the judge shut his thin lips
together very grimly.

“That’s it, square; thank ’ee,” said the old man, shambling out of the
house. “Dretful weather we been havin’, ain’t it?”

Then he climbed into his wagon and drove back toward home, chuckling as
he went.

“I reckon I’ve put a spoke in _his_ wheel,” he muttered, referring to
his nephew.

As he pursued his homeward way, however, thoughts of the sailor with
whom he had so recently conversed, and of that conversation itself,
filled his mind.

“I don’t persume thet ther’s anythin’ in it,” he muttered, thoughtfully
stroking the wisp of beard on his pointed chin. “Horace Tarr never had
no luck no-how, an’ I don’t see how he’d come ter know anythin’ erbout
this ’ere treasure. P’r’aps that sailor was jest a yarnin’ ter me.”

Still, the old man could not drive the thought out of his mind.

“Fabulously rich!” he repeated. “That’s what he heard Horace say. This
’ere mate of the Silver Swan was a chum er Horace’s, like ’nough, an’ I
s’pose if ther’ _is_ anythin’ in it, he’ll jes’ try ter git it himself.
An’ then--er--Brandon’ll never see a cent of it.

“It really is my duty ter look aout fur th’ boy’s int’rest,” continued
the old hypocrite. “’F I’m goin’ ter be his guardeen, I’d orter know
what’s goin’ on; an’ this _may_ mean money fur--fur Brandon.”

He wiped his wrinkled brow with a soiled handkerchief, the reins lying
idly on his knee the while. Somehow, despite the chilliness of the day,
the perspiration stood in great drops upon his forehead.

“S’posin’,” he thought, “ther’ should be a letter at Sam Himes’ fur him
now, f’om that Wetherbee feller? ’Twouldn’t no way do fur a boy ter git
letters that his guardeen didn’t know nothin’ erbout, an’ ther’ ain’t
no doubt thet, if Brandon got it, he wouldn’t show it ter me. I--I
b’lieve I’ll drive ’round thet way an’ see.”

He touched up the mare again and, upon reaching the forks of the road,
turned to the north once more and drove along the ridge until he
reached a little gambrel roofed cottage on the westerly side of the
highway.

This was the post office where Sam Himes held forth, and to which the
lumbering old stage brought one mail each day.

Here he dismounted from the wagon again, and went into the house, being
greeted at the door by the customary “Haow air ye?” of the postmaster.

“I was jes’ thinkin’ er sendin’ daown ter your haouse, Arad,” declared
the postmaster, who was no respecter of persons, and called everybody
by his first name, being familiar with them from the nature of his
calling. “Here’s a letter fur yeou an’ one fur th’ boy--Don.”

He thrust two missives into the old man’s hand, and Arad stumbled out
to his wagon again, his fingers shaking with excitement. Glancing
at the two envelopes he recognized one at once, and clutched it
avariciously. It was from a brokerage firm in New York, and contained
his monthly dividend for certain investments which he had made.

The other letter, however, he did not look at until he had turned his
horse about and started her jogging along toward home again. Then he
drew forth the envelope and studied it carefully.

It was addressed in a big, scrawling hand to: “Master Brandon Tarr,
Chopmist, Rhode Island,” yet, despite the plainness of the address, old
Arad, after a hasty and half fearful glance around, broke the seal and
drew forth the inclosed page.

He looked first at the signature, and finding it to be “Caleb
Wetherbee,” he began to peruse the epistle, looking up from time to
time to glance along the road, that nobody might catch him in the act
of reading the letter intended only for his nephew’s eye.

Uncle Arad’s sight was not so keen for written words as it once had
been, but he managed to stumble through the document, which read as
follows:

                                               NEW YORK MARINE HOSPITAL,
                                                 April the 2d, 1892.

  MASTER BRANDON TARR,

  SIR:--As I am laid up in dry dock, as you might say, and can’t get up
  to see you right off as I promised your poor father, I am taking the
  first chance these swabs of doctors have given me, to write this.

  Me and another man was all that was saved off the raft, as you
  probably know now, for your father was hurt so bad that there wasn’t
  any chance for him. He died ten days after we left the brig.

  I want you should pack up your togs, leave that farm where no son of
  Captain Horace Tarr ought to dig all his life, and come down here to
  New York to see me. I shall be out of this hospital before long, and
  then we’ve got some work to do, like I promised your father before he
  died.

  Captain Tarr put some papers in my hands which is of great value,
  providing they can be used at once. It seems your uncle Anson died
  several months ago in Kimberley, South Africa, and while he was at
  Cape Town loading up the brig, a fellow come aboard and told your
  father about it, and brung these papers.

  Among the papers (though the fellow didn’t know it, so I understood
  from the few words poor Captain Tarr let drop) was a package of
  diamonds which he hid aboard the old brig, and was afraid to take
  with him on the raft for fear of the sailors that was with us. These
  papers I’ve got he said would tell where the diamonds was hid. I
  ain’t opened them yet, so I don’t know.

  Now you may think this here is no use because the Silver Swan is
  wrecked; but I don’t believe she has gone to pieces yet; nor your
  father didn’t think she would right off. We would have done better
  by sticking to her, any way, I reckon. She was driv upright onto the
  reef, and I’ll bet she’s sticking there yet.

  If you come down here to once, and I can get onto my old timber leg
  again, we’ll charter a boat and go down there and see about it. If
  it is as your father said--and I believe it--there’s enough of them
  diamonds to make you another Vanderbilt or Jay Gould.

  Just you leave the land shark of an uncle that you’re staying with,
  and trust yourself to
                                          Your true friend,
                                                     CALEB WETHERBEE,
                                                Mate of the Silver Swan.



CHAPTER VIII

SOMETHING ABOUT LEAVING THE FARM


CERTAINLY Uncle Arad Tarr had never been so filled with astonishment in
his life as he was upon reading the letter of the mate of the Silver
Swan to the captain’s son.

Diamonds enough to make Brandon a second Vanderbilt! The thought almost
made Arad’s old heart stand still.

“Who’d er-thought it--who’d ever er-thought it?” he muttered weakly,
folding the letter once more, and thrusting it into the pocket of his
patched coat.

Then he picked up the reins and drove on, shaking his head slowly.

“Diamonds enough ter make him rich!” he murmured, with an avaricious
contortion of his face. “Jest ter think o’ Anson Tarr ever gittin’
more’n his bread and butter. It don’t seem ter me he c’d ha’ got ’em
honest.”

He was very ready now, considering the guilty thoughts there were in
his own heart, to declare the fortune gained by his nephew Anson to be
dishonestly obtained.

“It jest stands ter reason,” he went on, “that this ’ere Caleb
Wetherbee isn’t er--er trustworthy person to hev charge o’ Brandon--or
them di’monds either. I mus’ hev them papers made out jes’ as soon as
th’ square kin do it, an’ then I kin find that ’ere wreck--er hev it
found--m’self.”

His mind at once reverted to Jim Leroyd, the sailor with whom he had
entered into a compact to “divide the spoils,” and he shook his head
again doubtfully.

“He ain’t jes’ th’ man I’d er chosen ter do th’ work fur me,” muttered
the old sinner; “but then, he’s the old sailor I know, an’ it’s got ter
take a sailor, I s’pose, ter go ter them furrin parts.

“He knows suthin’ erbout it already, too, an’ it wouldn’t do ter let
him git mad an’ go an’ tell this ’ere Wetherbee; then mebbe I couldn’t
git th’ papers from him. But th’ fust thing is ter hev thet ’p’intment
as guardeen fixed up.”

Brandon was in the yard when he arrived, and good naturedly put up the
horse for him.

“I’ve seen Mrs. Hemingway, uncle,” he said cheerfully, “and she’ll
be up here tomorrow morning. I shall take the stage to town in the
morning, and go to New York on the evening train, I guess.”

“Ye will, eh?” returned Uncle Arad, showing his teeth.

“Yes. Now you mustn’t get uppish, uncle. You didn’t suppose I would
stay here very long any way, did you?”

“I s’pect ye’ll stay here a spell,” replied the old man, with a cunning
leer. “I ain’t fed an’ su’ported ye in lux’ry fur nigh four year fur
nothin’. Ye’ll stay here as my ward fur yer minor’ty, now I tell ye.”

But Brandon was laughing over the thought of Uncle Arad’s “luxury,”
and did not hear the last of his speech.

He did the most of the chores about the house and barn, as was usual,
and helped prepare the extremely frugal meal which Uncle Arad’s larder
afforded.

“By George!” he thought, as he set about this latter task, “if I was in
the forecastle of some old ‘hooker’ I shouldn’t have worse fare than
this. I declare I’ll go off tomorrow before breakfast. This will be my
last meal at Uncle Arad’s table for one spell at least.”

But he said nothing further about going away, knowing that it would
only anger the old man. Before the dishes were cleared away after
the meal, there was the sound of wheels at the gate, and in a moment
somebody knocked sharply.

Old Arad himself arose and hobbled to the door, admitting “Square”
Holt into the miserable den of a kitchen. If it had been the President
himself, the old man would not have opened the “best room.”

“Go aout an’ take the square’s boss ’roun’ ter the shed,” harshly
commanded Uncle Arad, and Brandon did as he was bidden, vaguely
suspecting that something was brewing.

When he came into the kitchen again after doing the errand, the parrot
beaked judge was ready for him.

“Young man,” began the judge severely, “your uncle, Mr. Tarr, who has
done so much for you for the past four years, tells me that you have
made a sorry return for all his kindness and bounty.”

“In what?” demanded Brandon rather sharply, for he considered this
interference on the justice’s part as wholly uncalled for.

“Is _that_ the way you speak to your elders, young man?” cried the
judge, aghast. “Have you no respect for gray hairs?”

“I do not see why I should respect _you_, Mr. Holt,” replied Don,
with some temper. “You’ve never given me cause to and I consider that
your questions and remarks are entirely unwarranted. I propose to go
away from my uncle’s house (to whom, by the way, my father paid three
dollars per week board for me up to last fall, and for whom I have done
the work of a regularly hired hand during most of the time I have been
here) I propose to go away, I say, and nothing _you_ or uncle can say
will stop me!”

“Hoighty toighty, young man!” cried the judge; “do you realize to whom
you are speaking?”

“Yes, I do,” responded Brandon hotly. “To one who is known, far and
wide, as the meanest man in Scituate!”

The judge’s ample nasal organ flushed to the color of a well grown
beet; but before he could reply old Arad put in _his_ oar:

“What d’ye mean, ye little upstart?” (Fancy his calling Brandon
_little_, who already stood a good three inches taller than himself!)
“What d’ye mean, sayin’ that I was ever paid fur yer keep? Ye’ve been
nuthin’ but an expense an’ trouble ter me ever since ye come here.”

“That’s an untruth, and you know it,” declared Don, who had quite lost
his temper by this time, and did not behave himself in just the manner
I should have preferred my hero to behave; but Brandon Tarr was a very
human boy, and, I have found, heroes are much like other folks and not
by any means perfect.

“Young man, mark my words!” sputtered “Square” Holt, “you will yet come
to some bad end.”

“I’ll git all this aout o’ ye, afore I’m done with ye, Brandon Tarr,”
declared Uncle Arad, “if I hev ter hire somebody ter lick ye.”

“You wouldn’t do that--you’re too stingy to hire anybody to ‘lick’ me,”
responded Don tartly. “Now I don’t propose to listen to any more of
this foolishness. I’m going away, and I’m going away tomorrow morning.
I’ve eaten my last meal at this house, Uncle Arad!”

“Is that the way to speak to your guardian?” said the judge, with
horror in his tone. “Mr. Tarr, you are too lenient with this young
scoundrel. He should be sent to the State reform school as I suggested.”

“But then I wouldn’t get no work aout o’ him,” the farmer hastened to
say. “I--I’ve got ter git the money back I’ve spent on him, ye know.”

Brandon laughed scornfully.

“I should like to know by what right you call him my guardian, Mr.
Holt?” he asked.

“Wal, I’m goin’ ter be yer guardeen--right off,” Arad hastened to
inform him, before the “square” could reply. “The square’s goin’ ter
make the papers aout ter oncet.”

“They’ll be funny looking documents, I reckon,” said Don, in disgust.
“I understand that Mr. Holt has done several pretty crooked things
since he’s been in office, but this is going a little too far.”

“Young man!” cried the judge, trying to wither the audacious youth with
a glance.

But Don didn’t “wither” at all.

“If you know anything at all about law,” he said to the judge, with
sarcasm, “you know that a guardian can’t be appointed in an hour.
Legal notice must be given and reason shown _why_ a guardian should be
appointed. I’ve no property, and Uncle Arad only wants to control me so
as to have my work. And, besides all that, I am old enough to choose my
own guardian, and you can bet your last cent that I shouldn’t choose
Arad Tarr.”

“It ain’t so! ’tain’t no sich thing, is it, square?” cried old Arad,
in alarm. “Ain’t I th’ proper person to be ’p’inted over my own nevvy?
Ther’ ain’t nobody else got anythin’ ter do with it.”

“He can tell you what he likes,” responded Brandon quickly; “but I’ve
given you the facts. Now I’ve heard enough of this, and I’m going to
bed.” Then he added, turning to Holt: “When you go out to fleece a lamb
next time, Mr. Holt, be pretty sure that the lamb is just as innocent
as you think it.”

He turned away without another word then and left the kitchen, mounting
to his bedroom in the second story of the old house, leaving the
baffled conspirators in a state of wrathful bewilderment.



CHAPTER IX

ANOTHER LETTER FROM NEW YORK


“MR. TARR,” declared the judge, when Brandon had, for the moment, so
successfully routed them and retired, “you are doing a very wrong thing
in shielding that young reprobate from the reform school. That’s where
he belongs. Send him there, sir, send him there!”

“I never thought he’d ha’ shown disrespect fur the law,” gasped Uncle
Arad weakly.

“Disrespect!” cried the judge, “I never was so insulted in all my life.
That boy will be hung yet, you mark my words!”

“I never thought it of Brandon,” said the farmer, shaking his head.

He seemed quite overcome to think that his nephew had dared defy the
law, or its representative. To Uncle Arad the law was a very sacred
thing; he always aimed to keep within its pale in his transactions.

“You’ll never be able to do anything with that boy here,” declared
“Square” Holt. “A strait jacket is the only thing for him.”

“But if he goes there what’ll be the use o’ my bein’ his guardeen?”
queried Arad.

Then he hesitated an instant as a new phase of the situation came to
him.

“If Brandon was under lock an’ key--jes’ where I c’d put my han’ on him
when I wanted him--I c’d go right erbout this ’ere treasure business,
an’ git it fur--fur _him_,” he thought, yet shivering in his soul at
the thought of the wrong he was planning to do his nephew.

“I--I dunno but ye’re right, square,” he said quaveringly. “I--I don’
wanter see th’ boy go right ter perdition, ’fore my very eyes, as ye
might say, an’ if ye think the reformin’ influences o’ the institution
is what he needs----”

“The best thing in the world for him,” declared the judge, drawing on
his driving gloves. “The _only_ thing, I might say, that will keep him
out of jail--where he belongs, the young villain!”

“But--but haow kin it be fixed up?” asked Arad, in some doubt.

“You leave that to me,” said the judge pompously. “I’ll show that young
reprobate that he has defied the wrong man when he defies _me_. I’ll
give him all the law he wants--more, perhaps, than he bargained for.”

“But s’pose he tries to run away in th’ mornin’, as he threatened?”

“All you’ve got to do, Mr. Tarr,” said the judge, shaking one long
finger at the farmer, “is to keep a close watch on that young man.
Don’t give him a chance to run away. Lock him into his room tonight
and keep him there till we can--er, hem!--straighten this out. I think
it will be a very easy matter to place the case before the court in
such manner that the necessity for immediate action will be at once
admitted.

“Why,” declared the judge, warming up to his subject, “I wonder, sir,
how you--an old man” (Uncle Arad winced at that), “and in feeble
health--have been able to remain here alone with that young scoundrel
all this winter. I wonder that he has not laid violent hands on you.”

“Wal, he _has_ been some abusive, square, but I wouldn’t say nothin’
erbout that,” said Uncle Arad hesitatingly.

“Don’t compound villainy by shielding it,” responded the judge, with
righteous indignation. “This matter has already gone too far. When our
quiet town is to be aroused and made a scene of riot, such as has been
enacted--er--_here_ tonight, sir, it is time something was done. Such
young hoodlums as this Brandon Tarr should be shut up where they will
do no harm to either their friends or neighbors.

“If I had _my_ way,” added the judge viciously, “I’d shut up every boy
in town in the reform school!”

Then he marched out to his carriage, and Uncle Arad, after locking the
door, sat down to think the matter over.

If he was successful in his nefarious plan of shutting Brandon up in
the reformatory institution of the State, the getting of the diamonds,
which Captain Tarr had hidden aboard the Silver Swan, would be all
plain sailing.

Of course he would have to lose Brandon’s work on the farm; but he
had seen, by the boy’s open defiance of “Square” Holt, that he cared
nothing for the law or its minion--and Uncle Arad dared not allow his
nephew out of his sight for fear he would run away.

To _his_ mind there was very little doubt that the attempt to shut
Brandon up would be successful. Judge Holt was a most powerful man
(politically) in the town, and he would leave no stone unturned to
punish the youth who had so fearlessly defied him.

Judge Holt, although disliked by many of his townsmen who realized that
some of his methods and actions were illegal, still swayed the town on
election days, and carried things with a high hand the remainder of the
year. Old Arad chuckled to think how easily Brandon’s case would be
settled by the doughty “square.”

Then, remembering the suggestion the judge had made just before his
departure, he rose hastily from his chair and quietly ascended to the
floor above. Here Brandon and himself slept in two small bedrooms on
opposite sides of the hall.

The doors were directly opposite each other, and, although such things
as locks were unknown in the house on any except the outside doors, the
old man quickly lit upon a scheme that he thought remarkably clever.

He obtained a piece of stout clothes line and fastened it back and
forth from handle to handle of the two bedroom doors, which, opening
into their respective rooms, were now arranged so that the occupants of
neither apartment could open the portals.

Then, chuckling softly over his sharp trick, the old farmer crept
down the stairs once more to the kitchen, feeling moderately sure of
finding Brandon in his room in the morning.

But one narrow window, looking out upon the barnyard, was in his
nephew’s apartment, and as the sash had long since been nailed in, and
the shutters closed on the outside, Uncle Arad felt secure on this
score.

“I’ll starve him inter submission, ef I can’t do it no other way,” he
muttered angrily.

Seating himself once more in his old armchair, he drew forth the two
letters obtained that day at the post office, adjusted his steel bowed
spectacles which, in a moment of extravagance, he had purchased of
a traveling peddler, and opened the epistle from his brokers which,
heretofore, he had not read.

He slit the envelope carefully with the blade of his jack knife. More
than one man had torn or otherwise mutilated a check by opening an
envelope too carelessly.

But instead of the printed form and generous draft which was the
usual monthly inclosure of the firm, all the envelope contained was
a typewritten letter, which the old farmer read with something like
horror:

                                           Office of
                                         BENSELL, BENSELL & MARSDEN,
                                               513 Wall St., New York,
                                                          April 2, 1892.

  MR. ARAB TARR,
  CHOPMIST, RHODE ISLAND.

  Dear Sir:

  We beg to announce that owing to several accidents, causing a large
  loss of rolling stock of the road, the B. P. & Q. has dropped
  several points on the market and has passed its monthly dividend.

  We would suggest that you hold on to your stock, however, as this is
  a matter which will quickly adjust itself.

                                    Yours sincerely,
                                             BENSELL, BENSELL & MARSDEN.

The letter fluttered to the floor from Uncle Arad’s nerveless
fingers. To lose money was like losing his very life, and this was no
inconsiderable sum that had gone. He had invested a large amount in B.
P. & Q. stock, and up to the present time it had paid large interest.

“Them brokers air thieves! I know they be,” cried the old man, breaking
forth into vituperations against the innocent firm of Bensell, Bensell
& Marsden. “Ye can’t trust ’em--not an inch! I don’t b’lieve none o’
their lyin’ stories erbout the railroad’s passin’ its div’dend. I--I’ll
go ter New York m’self, I declare I will!”

He got up and paced the floor wrathfully.

“Jes’ as soon as I git this matter o’ Brandon’s settled, an’ git th’
farm work started with Jim Hemin’way fur foreman, I’ll go. I ain’t
er-goin’ ter be cheated bare faced like this ’ere.”

Then he thought a moment, and pulling Caleb Wetherbee’s letter from its
envelope again, read it once more carefully.

“I--I might look inter this w’ile I was there too,” he muttered slowly.
“I reckon I kin fin’ thet feller I saw terday--Leroyd, his name was,
an’ his address was New England Hotel, Water Street. I shan’t furgit
thet right off.”

He shook his head slowly, thrust both letters into his pocket, and then
shambled off to bed in the room off the kitchen as, having locked his
nephew in, he had also locked himself _out_ of his usual bed chamber.



CHAPTER X

BRANDON’S ARRIVAL AT THE METROPOLIS


LONG habit had made Uncle Arad Tarr an extremely early riser, and it
had been his custom to arouse Brandon as early as half past three or
four during the summer months, and never later than five-thirty in
winter. On the morning after he had fastened the door of his nephew’s
room, however, the old man did not seek to disturb the boy, but rising
himself before five he went about the customary duties of the house and
barn.

In this work he missed Brandon sadly; but having made up his mind that
the boy was bound to leave him any way, old Arad was determined that he
should go to the reform school, and therefore he would have to learn to
do without his valuable services.

To his unsophisticated mind, it seemed a very simple matter indeed for
a powerful local politician like “Square” Holt to send his nephew to
the State reformatory institution, “and no questions asked.”

But under our present system of humane laws, and with our enlightened
legal executives, an undeserved incarceration in prison or reform
school is seldom known--outside of story books. Judge Holt was a large
man in his own community (and in his own estimation) but he had never
been beyond that community far enough to learn how very small a man he
really was.

After the arduous labor of feeding the stock and poultry, drawing water
and bringing in wood, old Arad hardly felt equal to either the task of
preparing breakfast, or eating the same; but he did at last sit down to
what he termed “a cold snack” about seven o’clock.

“That ’ere boy sleeps like a pig,” he muttered, with a groan, twisting
about in his chair to get an easy position for his rheumatic limbs. “I
wonder he hain’t begun er-kickin’ on th’ door, er suthin’, yit.”

At that moment there was a noise behind him, and turning about he
beheld the subject of his thoughts standing in the doorway leading to
the floor above.

Uncle Arad gave a shout expressing surprise and anger, and sprang to
his feet. Brandon had been surveying him coolly, with a smile on his
face, and now he laughed outright.

“Good morning, uncle,” he said.

He was fully dressed in his best suit, hat, overcoat and all, and
carried a traveling bag in his hand.

“How--how did ye git aout?” sputtered Uncle Arad, in wonder.

“How did I get out?”

“Yes--haow did ye git aouto’ yer room?” cried the old man.

“I wasn’t in, therefore I didn’t have to get out,” responded Brandon
calmly.

“Ye warn’t in?” repeated his bewildered relative.

“That’s what I said. I wasn’t in. When you crawled up stairs last
night and took all that trouble with the clothes line, I wasn’t in my
room at all. I expected some such delicate attention as that on your
part, uncle, so I took the trouble to remove my things to the spare
room at the other end of the hall, and slept there.”

The farmer fairly gnashed his teeth in rage.

“Where be yeou goin’?” he demanded, planting himself between his nephew
and the door.

“Why, uncle, I thought you knew that,” said Brandon, raising his
eyebrows in apparent surprise. “I told you last night that I was going
to New York. I haven’t changed my mind since then, though I’ve modified
my plans somewhat. It’s such a pleasant morning, I believe I’ll walk
down to Rockland, take the stage from there to Hope, and go to town on
the train.”

“Yeou will, hey? Wal, I guess not!”

Old Arad backed up against the door as though to guard that way of
escape. His lean form was trembling with excitement, and he was really
in a pitiable state for so old a man.

“Think not, eh?” said Brandon coolly.

He came into the kitchen and deposited his traveling bag on a chair,
and then stepped across the room and took his rifle down from the two
hooks upon which it rested.

Old Arad uttered a shout of alarm and darted away from the door to the
opposite side of the table.

“Goodness me! would you shoot me?” he gasped, fairly white to his lips.

“Don’t be a fool, uncle,” responded Brandon with asperity, opening
the hall door again and bringing in a gun case which had been standing
in the corner of the other apartment. “The rifle isn’t loaded, and,
besides, what do you suppose I’d want to shoot you for?”

“Oh, you young villain, you!” groaned old Arad, paying for his agile
movements of the moment before by several rheumatic twinges.

“Thanks! Well, uncle, I guess I’ll be off. I don’t suppose you’ll shake
hands with a fellow?” and Brandon stopped, with his hand on the door
latch.

“I’ll have ye a’rested afore ye git ter Rockland!” the old man shouted,
shaking his clenched fist at him.

“You’d better not try it,” the boy declared, with flashing eyes.

Arad followed him outside, sputtering.

“Ye’ll live ter rue this day, ye young villain!” he cried. “I’ll show
ye no mercy.”

“All right; it’s all the same to me,” Brandon returned, and whistling
cheerfully, he went out of the gate and started down the road with his
burden of traveling bag and gun case.

It was a beautiful morning, despite the rain of the day before.
True, there were puddles of muddy water standing in the road and
patches of dirty snow in the fence corners and under the hedges. But
these drawbacks did not serve to cloud either the clear azure sky or
Brandon’s bright hopes.

Looking back at the old farm house once, before turning the bend in the
road, he had a glimpse of old Arad driving furiously out of the yard.

“He is going to see his familiar spirit, Holt,” muttered Don, with a
smile, “and lots of good may it do him. I’ll be in town before they
catch me, and Judge Ebenezer Holt isn’t anywhere near as big a man in
town as he is here. I’ll risk all the harm they can do me now.”

He arrived at Rockland in time for the stage to Hope, and at the latter
village took the train for Providence. Neither his uncle nor Holt had
appeared, and he made up his mind that he was well rid of them.

Once aboard the cars he settled himself back in his seat, and drew
forth the scrap of newspaper which had dropped from the old sailor’s
note case the day before. He read it through again carefully.

“I’ve got nearly fifty dollars (wouldn’t uncle be crazy if he knew it?)
and although that isn’t a fortune, still it ought to keep me for some
time,” he thought. “But, the question is, after I pump all I can out of
that Wetherbee, what had I better do?”

He mused a moment in silence, and then took up the connected train of
his reflections again.

“Fifty dollars ought to last me quite a spell--and take me quite a way,
too. Of course, I can’t hire a boat in New York to go in search of the
Silver Swan with it; but I can watch the Hydrographic Office reports,
and find out in what general direction the brig’s headed. Then I’ll get
as near to her as possible and see--what I shall see!

“I’d give a cent” (probably he would have given a good deal more) “if
this Wetherbee was a different sort of a man. It’s a mystery to me how
father ever trusted the fellow. I always supposed that father had a
keen insight into human nature; but a man will be deceived at times, I
suppose.

“But I won’t let this treasure idea keep me from going to work, and
working hard, too. If I don’t get the money, why I don’t want to be
roaming about the world like Uncle Anson, with nothing to do in life
but hunt for wealth. I believe I’ll get a place on some vessel any way,
for there’s a good deal of the sailor in me as there was in father. We
get it from grandfather’s folks--the Brandons--I suppose.”

He arrived at Providence before noon, and spent the time until evening
in looking about the business portion, of the city, and especially
about the wharves. Then late in the afternoon he took the cars for New
York, arriving in the metropolis at such an hour that to go to a hotel
near the station seemed necessary.

Although a country boy by bringing up, Brandon was not easily disturbed
by the magnitude of life in the great city. In fact, he rather enjoyed
it, and after retiring to his room at the hotel, he went to sleep
without one apprehensive thought of what the morrow might bring forth.

[Illustration: “GOODNESS ME! WOULD YOU SHOOT ME?”]



CHAPTER XI

THE FIRM OF ADONIRAM PEPPER & CO.


LEAVING his bag and gun case at the hotel. Brandon Tarr started out by
nine o’clock on the following morning, his first aim being to find and
interview the sailor who had already visited Chopmist for the purpose
of seeing him.

“Caleb Wetherbee, New England Hotel. Water Street,” was the address,
and after considerable inquiry he found the street in question.

It was, however, the Battery end of it and no one seemed to know
anything about the New England Hotel. Still, Don was not dismayed and
pursued his way, keeping his eyes open and himself alert among the many
new sights and sounds of the metropolis.

The locality grew worse as he pursued his way, but he was not to be
frightened off by gangs of street gamins, or crowds of half drunken
men. Still, in these days, Water Street isn’t as bad as it was once--at
least, not by daylight.

As he wandered along he could see down the cross streets to the wharves
and water beyond, where all sorts and conditions of seagoing craft were
gathered from all parts of the world. He sniffed the sea breeze, too,
which, to him, killed all the odor of the filth about him.

“That’s what I want to be--a sailor,” he muttered.

Just then something caught his eye and he stopped motionless on the
sidewalk.

On the opposite side of the street (the river side) as though crowded
off Front Street by its more pretentious neighbors, was the office of a
shipping firm. It was in a low brick building, dingy and dirty as were
the structures about it, and a much battered sign over the door read:

  ADONIRAM PEPPER & CO.,
  SHIPPING MERCHANTS.

The name was what attracted Brandon’s attention first. He had heard his
father speak of it and of the man who was “Adoniram Pepper & Co.,” and
from his description he had a desire to see this eccentric personage.

Perhaps, also, Mr. Pepper would know the locality of the New England
Hotel, and therefore Brandon crossed the street and entered the dingy
little front office.

On a high stool by a high desk just beside the window, sat a man with
a wonderful development of leg, a terrific shock of the reddest hair
imaginable, and a shrewd, lean face, lit up by sharp, foxy eyes.
His face was smoothly shaven and the yellow skin was covered with
innumerable wrinkles like cracks in the cheeks of a wax doll; but
whether this individual was twenty-five, or fifty-five, Brandon was
unable to guess.

The man (a clerk, presumably) looked up with a snarl at Brandon’s
appearance.

“Well, what do _you_ want?” he demanded.

“Is the firm in?” asked Don, almost laughing in the other’s face, for
the red haired clerk had a huge daub of ink on the bridge of his nose
and another on his shirt front.

“_I’m_ the firm just now,” declared the man, glowering at him as though
he was a South Sea Islander with cannibalistic tendencies.

“Oh, you are, eh?” returned Brandon. “Well, I want to see Mr. Pepper.”

“You do, eh?” The clerk eyed him with still greater disfavor. “You do,
eh? Well you can’t see Mr. Pepper.”

“Why not?”

“Well, for one reason he isn’t here--he ain’t down yet--he’s gone
away--he’s _dead_!”

He slammed down his pen and jumped off the high stool.

“Git out o’ here you little rapscallion!” he roared, evidently
expecting Brandon to be frightened by his vehemence. “We don’t allow no
loafing ’round this office. Git, I say, or----”

At that instant the street door behind the amused Brandon was opened,
and with one glance at the newcomer the clerk’s jaws shut together like
a trap, he turned about and bounded to his seat on the stool with great
ability, and seizing his pen went to work on his books with monstrous
energy.

Brandon turned about also, surprised at these proceedings, and found
a short, pudgy looking little man standing in the doorway of the
office, gazing at the clerk with a broad smile on his red face; but
upon looking closer the boy discovered that, although the mouth was
smiling, the gentleman’s eyes were very stern indeed behind the gold
rimmed eye glasses.

“What is the meaning of this unseemly conduct, Weeks?” he asked in a
tone of displeasure.

“I--I was just showin’ this--this young friend of mine how--how a
feller up to the Bow’ry acted t’other night,” murmured the clerk, a
sort of ghastly red color mounting into his withered face beneath the
parchment-like skin.

“The Bowery?” repeated the gentleman, severely, and Brandon decided
that this was no other than Mr. Adoniram Pepper himself.

“Yes, sir; Bowery Theater, you know,” responded the clerk glibly,
with an imploring side glance at Brandon. “’Twas in the play, ‘The
Buccaneer’s Bride,’ you know.”

“No, I _don’t_ know,” replied Mr. Pepper, in disgust. “So this is your
friend, is it?” and he turned his gaze upon Brandon genially.

“Our friendship is of rather short duration,” said Don, smiling.

“So I presume,” returned Mr. Pepper. “Did you wish to see me?”

“Just a moment, sir.”

“I’ll give you two moments if you like.” Then he turned again to
the clerk and shook one fat finger at him. “One of these days I’ll
discharge you, Weeks,” he said sternly.

“I expect so,” groaned the clerk. “And then what’ll I do?”

Mr. Pepper looked at him a moment silently.

“Then you’ll go and lie somewhere else, I suppose. You _will_ lie,
Alfred Weeks, and I suppose I might as well keep you here and let you
lie to me, as to turn you loose upon your fellow men. Well, well! Now,
young man;” he turned with a sigh from the clerk and again looked at
Brandon.

“I suppose you are Mr. Pepper?” began Brandon.

“I--sup--pose--I--am,” replied the gentleman, with great care,
scrutinizing the face of the captain’s son with marked interest.

“Let’s see, what is your name?” he said: “or, no, you needn’t tell me.
I know it already. Your name is Tarr, and you are Captain Horace Tarr’s
son!”

“Yes, sir, I am,” Brandon replied in surprise.

“I knew it, I knew it!” declared Mr. Pepper, shaking both the boy’s
hands so violently that the eye glasses, which had a hard enough time
generally in staying on the little man’s nose, tumbled off, and were
only caught and saved from destruction by great agility on Mr. Pepper’s
part.

“My dear boy! I’d have known you if I’d met you in Timbuctoo!” he
declared. “Come into my office and tell me all about yourself. I’ve
been thinking about you ever since--er--your poor father’s death. I’ve
got something to tell you, too.”

He led Brandon toward the inner door, marked “Private,” and opening it,
disclosed a comfortably furnished room with a fire in the grate, and a
general air of cheerfulness about it.

“Come right in,” he repeated, and then shut the door behind his visitor.

But no sooner was the door closed than the acrobatic clerk was off his
stool, and had his ear fitted to the keyhole with a celerity which
denoted much practice in the art of eavesdropping.



CHAPTER XII

IN WHICH BRANDON VENTURES INTO RATHER DISREPUTABLE SOCIETY


“MY dear boy, sit down!” exclaimed Mr. Pepper, motioning Brandon to a
chair. “Sit down and let me look at you.”

He himself took a chair at a desk by the window and studied the boy
intently for several moments. Meanwhile Brandon was making a mental
examination of the shipping merchant as well.

Adoniram Pepper was a little, rotund man with a good deal of color
in his face and very little hair on his head. His mouth was always
smiling, but at times, as Brandon had already seen, the gray eves could
be very stern indeed behind the gold rimmed glasses, which latter had
such hard work remaining upon Mr. Pepper’s squat nose.

“Yes, sir, you are the perfect picture of your father,” declared the
shipping merchant at last. “I thought when I read of his death that we
should never see his like again; but you have the promise of all his
outward characteristics, at least. I hope you’ve his inner ones, too.”

“I hope so,” replied Brandon, pleased indeed at such praise of his
father.

“He was a good man,” continued Mr. Pepper ruminatively. “By the way,
what’s your name?”

“Brandon, sir.”

“Oh yes, I remember now. Your father talked to me of you. He wanted you
to follow the sea, too, and I suppose that is what you’ve come down
here to New York for, eh?”

“Yes, I hope to go to sea,” responded Brandon slowly.

Had he not remembered his experience with Caleb Wetherbee, without
doubt Brandon would have opened his heart to the eccentric merchant and
told him all; but bearing in mind the (to him) evident treachery of the
mate of the Silver Swan, he was not ready to take into his confidence
every friend of his father who happened to turn up.

“I thought so, I thought so!” exclaimed Mr. Pepper, rubbing his fat
hands softly together. “The sea, by all means, my boy. That’s where
I’ve obtained my living--and something beside--for many years, though
in a little different way from your father. Captain Tarr commanded one
of my vessels before he purchased the Silver Swan.”

“Yes, so he has told me,” responded Brandon.

“It was a sad thing--his loss at sea,” said Mr. Pepper.

He still smiled, but there was moisture on his eye glasses, and he
removed and wiped them gently on a silk handkerchief.

“And he left you hardly a penny’s worth?” he continued interrogatively.

“I have only about fifty dollars,” Brandon replied briefly.

“Only fifty dollars,” repeated the shipping merchant softly. “Not
much--more than I had, though, when I went out to seek my fortune; but
I had friends--powerful friends--and so have you, Brandon.”

“Not many of them, I fancy,” Don returned, smiling.

“Not many, perhaps: but _some_,” the other declared with confidence,
“and one of them is Adoniram Pepper.”

“Thank you, Mr. Pepper,” said Don. “I hope I shall be worthy of your
kindness.”

“No doubt of that--no doubt of that,” rejoined the merchant, beaming
upon him benignantly. “But to _talk_ isn’t enough for Adoniram Pepper;
I want to _do_ something for you, my boy.”

“I--I don’t know just what you can do for me, sir,” said Brandon
doubtfully.

“Don’t know? Why, you want to go to sea, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir; I think I do.”

“Then I _can_ help you,” declared the merchant. “I’ve several
vessels--three are in port at the present time--and it will be strange
indeed if I can’t find a berth on one of them for you.”

“But I’m no sailor yet; I’ve got to learn,” objected Don.

“So I suppose; but I’ll risk your learning fast enough. Now, where
would you like to go, and what position shall I give you?” and Mr.
Pepper settled himself deeper into his chair, and looked as though he
was prepared to offer Don any position he craved, from cook’s assistant
to captain.

Brandon felt just a little bewildered by all this, and probably showed
his bewilderment on his face.

“I’ll tell you what I have now,” went on Mr. Pepper. “There’s the brig
Calypso, loading for Port Said--she sails tomorrow; and the clipper
ship Frances Pepper (my sister’s name, you know) unloading from Rio,
and bound back there and to Argentine ports in a fortnight; and then
there’s the whaleback, Number Three.”

“The whaleback?” queried Brandon in perplexity.

“Yes, sir, whaleback; a whaleback steamer, you know. Didn’t you ever
see one?”

Brandon shook his head.

“Well, you’ll have a chance to,” declared Mr. Pepper. “These whalebacks
are something new. Lots o’ folks don’t believe in ’em; but I do. I
bought the third one the company ever built, and it lies at one of my
wharves now, being fitted up.”

“But where will _that_ go?” Brandon inquired with interest.

Mr. Pepper rubbed his bald pate reflectively.

“Well,” he said, “that I don’t know yet. I haven’t decided. I’ve got a
scheme, but whether ’twill work or not, I can’t say. I must find a man
to command her first. I don’t suppose _you’d_ feel like doing that,
would you?” and the ship owner laughed jollily.

“I’m afraid not; perhaps, though, there’d be some other place on her I
could fill with satisfaction to you.”

“Perhaps so. If I put her in the passenger trade, how would you like
to be purser--assistant purser, of course, till you learn the duties?”

“I think I should like it,” replied Brandon, with some hesitation,
however; “provided, of course, that I could take it at all.”

“Eh? Not take it? Why not?” demanded Mr. Pepper.

“Well, first I want to see my father’s old mate--one of the men saved
from the raft, you know--about--well, about a matter concerning the
wreck. Perhaps, then, if you can give me a berth, I’ll be able to
accept it.”

“Going over to the hospital to see him, eh? I know Caleb Wetherbee.”

“No, he’s out of the hospital now. He gave me his address--New England
Hotel, on this very street--and hunting for the place is what brought
me here.”

“Bless my soul!” cried the ship owner; “Caleb out of hospital? Why, I
didn’t expect he’d be ’round for some time yet. The papers said he was
pretty nearly done for when he got to New York. It went harder with him
than it did with the other sailor--a good deal harder.”

Brandon looked at him curiously. If Caleb Wetherbee was a particular
friend of Mr. Pepper, the captain’s son began to feel some doubt as to
the latter’s sincerity.

“Perhaps you can tell me where the New England Hotel is?” he asked.

“Yes, it’s right along here on this side of the street; several blocks
away, perhaps. But,” he added, “you don’t tell me that Caleb is
_there_? Why, he must be ’way down on his luck. I must see about this.”

Mr. Pepper wrinkled his brow nervously and Brandon rose.

“Where are you going?”

“Up to see this man--this mate of the Silver Swan.”

“Oh yes. Well, you tell him I’m coming up to see him myself, today.
It’s a mystery to me why he should go to _that_ place. I don’t
understand it. How was he looking when you saw him--for I take it you
_have_ seen him?”

“How do you mean--sick or well?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, he appeared in pretty fair health, I should say,” replied Brandon,
beginning to think that there was something queer about it all.

“Well, I’ll see him myself,” declared the merchant, rising and giving
the boy his hand. “I tell you what we’ll do, Brandon. If you don’t get
back here by noon, I’ll step up and get you, and we’ll go to lunch
together; then afterward we’ll take a look at the whaleback, if you
like.”

Brandon thanked him and opened the door into the outer office, almost
falling over Mr. Alfred Weeks, who had his head suspiciously near the
keyhole.

“Lo--looking for my ruler that I dropped,” declared the red haired
clerk, as his employer’s eyes rested sternly upon him.

But as he passed out, Brandon noticed that the ruler was on the high
desk holding open the leaves of a much tattered paper novel.

“Funny sort of fellow for a respectable ship owner to employ,” Brandon
decided, as he made his way along the crowded thoroughfare. “In fact, I
guess I’ll withhold my opinion of all three of these people till I know
’em better--Wetherbee, Pepper, and his clerk.”

By closely scanning the signs on the buildings as he passed, the
captain’s son finally discovered the place he sought. He came within an
ace of not doing so, however, for the words “New England Hotel” were
simply painted on a small strip of tin on one side of the doorway, the
rest of the sign space being devoted to the words: John Brady, Wines,
Liquors, and Cigars.

Brandon hesitated a moment before entering the place. It was plainly
a saloon of the worst type, the “hotel” part evidently being but a
“blind” by means of which the bar could be kept open all night.

Two or three disreputable men--sailors or longshoremen by
appearance--were hanging about the door, but Brandon Tarr had a good
deal of confidence in his ability to take care of himself, and finally
ascended the steps.

A sickening odor of stale tobacco smoke and bad liquor assailed his
nostrils as he stepped within the room, and he was almost tempted to
back out and give up his intention of seeing Wetherbee. But the man
behind the bar--a villainous looking fellow with a closely cropped head
and red face--had seen him and came briskly forward.

“Well, young felley, what kin I do fur ye?” he asked, in what was
intended as a pleasant tone.

Deciding that he was in for it, the captain’s son walked forward to the
bar and replied:

“Nothing to drink, thank you. I’m looking for a man who’s stopping
here--Caleb Wetherbee.”

The bartender eyed him curiously and repeated:

“Caleb Wetherbee, eh? Well, I’ll see ’f he’s here.”

He stepped back to a door leading into an inner room and, opening it a
crack, called to somebody inside. There was a whispered conversation
between the men, and the bull necked individual came back to the bar.

“All right, m’ duck; he’s in dere,” he said, with a grin, and a motion
of his thumb toward the inner door. “Yer don’t have ter send in no
kyard.”

Taking this as a permission to enter, Brandon walked across the long
saloon, littered with tables and chairs, and its door covered with
sawdust, and opened the door.

The apartment beyond was as badly furnished as the outer room, there
being only a square deal table and several wooden bottomed chairs. In
one of these chairs before the table, with his head bowed upon his
arms, was the sailor whom Brandon had seen two days before in the woods
on his uncle’s farm back in Chopmist, the only occupant of the place.



CHAPTER XIII

THE OLD SAILOR WITH THE WOODEN LEG


IT was only in the country--in the woods and sheltered fence
corners--that the patches of snow still remained on this sixth day of
April. In New York the sun shone warmly upon the sidewalks, washed
clean by the shower of the night before, and the tiny patches of grass
in the parks and squares were quite green again.

About the middle of the forenoon a man stumped along a street leading
to what remains of the Battery park--a man dressed in a half uniform of
navy blue, and with a face (where the beard did not hide the cuticle)
as brown as a berry.

At first glance one would have pronounced this person to be a sailor,
and have been correct in the surmise, too.

The man’s frame was of huge mold, with massive development of chest and
limbs, and a head like a lion’s. But his bronzed cheeks were somewhat
hollow, and his step halting, this latter not altogether owing to
the fact that his right leg had been amputated at the knee and the
deficiency supplied by an old fashioned wooden leg.

Still, despite his evident infirmity, the old seaman looked cheerfully
out upon the world on this bright April morning, and pegged along the
sidewalk and into the park with smiling good nature.

Not a beggar had accosted him during his walk down town without having
a nickel tossed to him, and it was with vast contentment that the
wooden legged sailor at length seated himself upon a bench, from which
vantage point he could overlook the bay and its multitudinous shipping.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, sniffing the air which blew in from the sea, like a
hungry dog. “This is _life_, this is! Thank heaven I’ve got away from
them swabs of doctors at last. Another week at that ere hospital would
ha’ been the death o’ me. Still, I reckon they meant well ’nough.”

He sat there for some time in cheerful silence, and drank in the
exhilarating air, his pea cloth jacket thrown open to the breeze,
baring the broad expanse of flannel shirt beneath.

“A few days o’ this’ll put me right on my feet,” he said, with delight,
“better’n all the tonics the old sawbones ever invented. Lord! if I’d
had this breeze a-blowin’ inter my winder up there to the hospital, I’d
been out a fortnight ago.

“The old man ain’t dead yet. It was a pretty hard tug, I admit; but
here I be!”

He slapped his leg with such vigor that a flock of sparrows flew up
with sudden affright from the path; but this energetic gesture was
taken in another sense by the group of urchins which had gathered
near by to talk and fight (much after the manner of their feathered
prototypes, by the way) over the morning’s sale of papers.

At the old man’s motion half a dozen of these sharp eyed little rascals
broke away from the group, and ran shrieking toward him, wildly waving
their few remaining wares in his face.

“’Ere you are, sir! _Tribune_, _Sun_, _World_!”

“_Tribune_,” said the old sailor, laughing heartily as though he saw
something extremely ludicrous in their mistake.

“My last ’un, sir. Thankee!”

The successful Arab pocketed his money and went back to his friends,
while the sailor slowly unfolded the sheet and took up the thread of
his reflections again.

“Once I get my sea legs on,” he thought, fumbling in his pocket for
a pair of huge, steel bowed spectacles, which he carefully wiped and
placed astride his nose “once I get my sea legs on, I’ll take a trip up
ter Rhode Island and see the cap’n’s boy, unless he turns up in answer
to my letter.

“Poor lad! he’s doubtless heart broken by Cap’n Horace’s death, and
won’t feel much like goin’ into this ’ere treasure huntin’ business;
but for his own good I’ll have ter rouse him up. It would be what the
cap’n would wish, I know.”

He let the paper lie idly on his knee a moment, and a mist rose in his
eyes.

“Never mind if the old brig _has_ gone to pieces before we get there,”
he muttered. “I’ve got a little shot in the locker yet, an’ the boy
shan’t come ter want. I’ll do my duty by him as though he was my own
son, that I will!”

He picked up the paper again, and turned naturally to the shipping
news, which he ran over carelessly, smiling the while. Finally his eye
was attracted by something near the bottom of the column.

“Eh, what’s this?” he exclaimed. “What’s this about the Silver Swan?”

With great excitement he read the following news item, following each
line of the text with his stumpy forefinger:

  Captain Millington, of the English steamer Manitoba, which arrived
  here yesterday from Brazil, reports that he passed a very dangerous
  wreck in latitude 22:03, longitude 70:32. It was the hull of a brig,
  apparently in good condition, but with her masts snapped off close to
  the decks, and all her rigging carried away. The name on her stern
  was Silver Swan, Boston.

  This is the same derelict reported by the steamer Montevideo at
  Savannah several weeks ago. According to Captain Millington, the
  wreck of the brig is a great menace to all vessels plying between
  this and South American ports, as its course seems to be right across
  the great highway followed by most of the steamship lines.

  It will be remembered that the Silver Swan was wrecked over two
  months ago on Reef Eight, southwest of Cuba, grounding, according to
  the report of the survivors of her crew, upright on the rock. The
  captain of the Montevideo sighted her not far from the reef, from
  which she was doubtless loosened by the westerly gale of February
  13th; but since that time she has floated some distance to the north
  and east, and if she follows the same tactics as many of her sister
  derelicts, she may zigzag across the course of the South American
  steamers for months.

  The cruisers Kearsarge and Vesuvius are both lying in port at
  present, and it will be respectfully suggested to the Navy Department
  that one or both of those vessels be sent to destroy this and several
  others of the most dangerous derelicts now floating off our coast.

“Shiver my timbers, sir!”

With this forcible and exceedingly salty ejaculation, the old sailor
with the wooden leg dropped the newspaper to the walk, and his
spectacles along with it, and springing up, trampled upon them both.

But in his great excitement he noticed neither the torn paper nor the
ruined glasses. He stumped up and down the walk for several moments
before he became calm enough to think coherently.

In fact, the blue-coated policeman on the corner had begun to eye him
suspiciously.

“The Silver Swan afloat--a derelict!” he muttered. “This ’ere is a
sitiwation I didn’t look for. An’ then, them blasted cruisers are
liable to go down there and blow her into kingdom come any minute. The
Silver Swan on Reef Eight was bad enough, but the Silver Swan afloat,
at the mercy of the gales as well as other vessels, is worse!

“Now, what in creation’ll I do about it? I haven’t heard from the boy
yet, and there’s little enough time as it is. Why, she might sink ’most
any time with all them di’monds the cap’n told about aboard her!

“I’ll take a steamer to get down there ahead of them confounded
iron pots” (by this disrespectful term did he designate Uncle Sam’s
cruisers), “but who under the canopy’s got a steamer to charter?

“By the great horn spoon, I have it!” he exclaimed, after a moment’s
thought. “Adoniram Pepper is just the fellow.”

With this declaration he jammed his hat on his head, and stumped off as
rapidly as one good leg and one wooden one could carry him, toward the
shipping merchant’s office on Water Street.



CHAPTER XIV

THE OLD SAILOR’S EXCITEMENT


AS the old sailor hurried along the street toward the ship owner’s
office he became calmer, and, being a person who had all his life been
taking greater or less chances in his business of seagoing, he began to
look at the situation more composedly.

The Silver Swan was without doubt in far greater danger of destruction
now than she had been while hard and fast on the reef, but no amount
of worrying would better the matter, and therefore one might accept
the fact coolly. Then, besides, she had floated unmolested for over
six weeks already, and there was a big chance for her doing so for six
weeks or more to come.

“Blast these navy vessels any way, I say!” the old man muttered,
stumping along now at a moderate gait. “They probably won’t be able to
find her. And if nothing collides with her, I reckon she’ll keep afloat
for one while, for I can swear myself that the old brig warn’t injured
none below the water line--she went on that reef jest as easy!

“She’s got the same chance o’ staying above board--the Silver Swan
has--as any other craft that’s become a derelict. Look at the schooner
W. L. White, abandoned by her crew during the great storm of ’88. She
floated about the North Atlantic for the better part of a year, before
she went ashore at last on the Hebrides.

“An’ then there was the Weyer G. Sargent, mahogany laden, floated
fifty-five hundred mile, or more, ’cording to the pilot chart,
a-swingin’ ’round the Atlantic from New Foundland to the Azores for
two years. An’ there may be many another good ship that’s got a bigger
record ’n that at this very day, down in the Sargasso sea. Oh, it might
be worse.”

Nevertheless, despite this cheerful view, the old sailor’s forehead was
knotted into a scowl as he opened the door of the ship owner’s dingy
office and entered. The red haired clerk was alone at the desk and the
door of the private office was shut.

“Well, you jail bird, are you here yet?” demanded the visitor
impolitely, eying the clerk with exceeding disfavor.

“Oh, is that you, Mr. Featherbee----”

“Wetherbee, you scoundrel!” roared the sailor, in a voice like a bull.

“Oh, yes! I should say Wetherbee--er--that’s what I meant,” the clerk
hastened to say.

It was remarkable to notice the difference between the greeting
accorded to Caleb Wetherbee and that given young Brandon Tarr shortly
before.

“So you haven’t managed to get at Pepperpod’s till and clear out, yet,
eh?” demanded Caleb jocularly.

Mr. Weeks scowled and grinned at the same time, a feat that very few
men can perform; but he made no verbal reply to the question.

“Where is he?” queried the sailor, nodding toward the inner office. “In
his den?”

“He’s busy--engaged,” Mr. Weeks hastened to say.

“I believe you’re lying to me, Weeks,” returned the sailor, after eying
the fellow a moment. “You’d rather lie than eat. Where’s Pepperpod?”

“He--he really _is_ engaged, sir,” declared Weeks, who stood in mortal
fear of the brawny sailor. “That is, he told me to say so to anybody
that called----”

“I don’t doubt it--that’s what’s taught you to lie,” cried Caleb, in
disgust. “Well, I’m going to see him if he’s engaged fifty times. Cut
along now and tell him I’m here.”

Mr. Weeks slowly descended from his stool, evidently unwilling to
comply with the request.

“Get a move on you,” the sailor commanded. “If you don’t I’ll roast you
over a slow fire. I’m just out of the hospital and I’ve got an appetite
like an ostrich--or I’d never think of eating _you_.”

Mr. Weeks unwillingly went to the inner door and rapped on the panel.
Then he turned the knob and went in, remaining a few moments, and on
making his appearance again, held the portal open for Caleb.

The sailor entered without a word and the clerk closed the door behind
him; then, as on the former occasion, he applied his ear to the keyhole
with a diligence worthy of a better cause.

Mr. Pepper was sitting before his desk, which was piled high with
papers and letters. The day’s mail had just been sent up from the
wareroom office by Mr. Marks, the ship owner’s trusted manager, or
“steward,” as Adoniram was in the habit of calling him.

Beginning business life more than fifty years before in this very
office, Mr. Pepper could not bring himself, as his trade increased,
to leave his old quarters, and having found his manager to be a most
trustworthy man, he had shifted the burden of the more arduous duties
upon his younger shoulders, and himself reposed contentedly amid the
dust, the gloom, and the cobwebs of the Water Street office.

Thus it was that few people ever saw “Adoniram Pepper & Co.” to know
him; but to his old friends, those of his boyhood and young manhood,
Adoniram was always the same.

Naturally his acquaintance was mostly among seafaring people, and it
was no uncommon sight to see old hulks of sea captains and ship owners,
long past their usefulness, steering a course for the Water Street
office on pleasant days, where they were sure to receive a pleasant
word from the little old gentleman, if he was in, and not uncommonly
a bit of silver to spend for luxuries which “sailors’ homes” do not
supply.

The old gentleman sprang up at once at Caleb’s appearance, the
unfortunate eye glasses jumping off the chubby little nose as though
they were endowed with life. Mr. Pepper gave both his hands to the huge
sailor, who indeed looked gigantic beside the little man, and begged
him to sit down.

“Well, Pepperpod, how are ye?” cried the sailor, in a hearty roar that
shook the light pieces of furniture in the room, just as his bulk shook
the chair he had seated himself in.

“First rate, old Timbertoes!” declared the old gentleman, laughing
merrily. “So you’re out of the hospital, at last?”

“I be, Adoniram, I be!” cried Caleb with satisfaction. “Never was so
glad o’ anythin’ in my life. Them sawbones would have killed me if
they’d kep’ me there much longer.”

“Well, well, Caleb, you was a mighty sick man--a mighty sick man.”

“I reckon I was,” responded the sailor reflectively.

“The doctor wouldn’t let me come in to see you,” said the merchant,
smiling jovially; “so I had to content myself with sending up things.”

“Yes, you did,” said Caleb, turning on him sternly. “I _did_ think,
Adoniram, that you wouldn’t waste your money on such truck as
that--a-sendin’ me white grapes, an’ jellies, an’ bunches o’ posies.”

He snorted in veriest scorn.

“Well, er--er--you see, Caleb, I told Frances about you and she took
over the things herself,” said Adoniram hesitatingly.

“Hem!”

The old sea dog flushed up like a girl and mopped his suddenly heated
face with a great bandanna, finally saying gruffly:

“You tell your sister, Miss Frances, that I am mightily obleeged for
’em, Adoniram. They--er--jest went to the right spot, you tell her;
jest what I needed to tone me up!”

“You’d better come up and tell her yourself, Caleb,” said the merchant,
with a sly smile.

“Well--er--mebbe I will. Thankee, Adoniram.”

He was silent a moment, and then, suddenly bethinking himself of the
errand which had brought him there, he turned upon the little merchant
with a slap of his knee which sounded throughout the office like a gun
shot.

“But this ’ere ain’t what brought me here--not by a long chalk. Ye know
the Silver Swan, Adoniram? Cap’n Horace Tarr’s brig ’t I was with when
she grounded on Reef Eight, two months and more ago?”

Mr. Pepper nodded.

“Well, sir, she’s afloat.”

“Afloat!”

“That’s what I said; afloat! A-f-l-o-t-e,” responded the sailor,
spelling the word very carefully, if a trifle erratically.

“How--how can that be?”

“Well, ye see she went aground jest like she was goin’ inter stocks for
repairs, and if we’d stuck by her, it’s my opinion Cap’n Tarr’d ha’
been alive now.” He stopped and blew his nose hastily. “Well, what is,
can’t be bettered, so we’ll say no more o’ that.

“But what I’m gettin’ at is this: she went aground all standin’, an’
the storm wot come up right arterwards, blew her off ag’in. She’s been
floating, according to this morning’s paper, ever since.”

“Well, well!” exclaimed Adoniram. “It’s too bad her hull can’t be
secured for the boy. If it’s still sound----”

“Sound as a dollar!”

“Where is it floating?”

“’Cordin’ to the report of a cap’n wot sighted her, she’s somewheres
about latitude 22, longitude 70.”

“A pretty valuable derelict, eh, Caleb?” said the merchant,
reflectively.

“Valible? Well, I should say!” The old sailor looked at his friend
curiously a moment, and then leaned forward and rested his huge hand on
Adoniram’s knee. “Besides a valible cargo wot we took on at the Cape
and Rio, _there’s enough diamonds hid aboard that brig to make the boy
a second Vanderbilt_!”

“Mercy me!” exclaimed the merchant, and this time the eye glasses
leaped off their insecure resting place and fell with a crash to the
floor, the splintered crystal flying in all directions.

“Now you’ve done it, Adoniram!” ejaculated Caleb in disgust. “What
under the canopy a man like you--with no nose to speak of--wants to try
to wear such tackle as them for, is beyond me.”

“Well--er--Frances thinks they look better on me than other kinds of
glasses,” remarked the merchant meekly.

“Well--hem!--I s’pose they _do_ look some better on ye,” declared Caleb
loyally, and then a slight noise from the other side of the door caused
him to jump up and spring hastily to it.

When he flung the door open, however, the red haired clerk was astride
his high stool with a look of perfect innocence on his face; but Caleb
was not reassured. He shook his huge fist at the fellow, and then shut
the door again, turning the key in the lock and hanging his hat upon
the door knob for further precaution.



CHAPTER XV

CALEB RECEIVES A STARTLING COMMUNICATION


“SOME of these days,” said Caleb, with decision, when he had taken
these precautions, “I shall wring that scoundrel’s neck, Adoniram. I
wonder at your keeping him here.”

“Well, you see, nobody else would have him,” responded the merchant, as
though that fact was reason enough for _his_ keeping the objectionable
Mr. Weeks.

“Ya-as--one o’ your blasted philanthropic notions,” declared Caleb,
with a snort denoting disgust. “Well, he’ll rob and murder you some day
and then you’ll wish you’d heard to me. If ‘jail bird’ ain’t written on
_his_ face, then I never saw it on no man’s.”

“But, Caleb, what do you mean by the astounding remark you just made
about the Silver Swan?” asked the merchant, drawing the sailor’s mind
away from the subject of Mr. Alfred Weeks and his frailties.

“I’ll tell you about it,” said Caleb, in a lower tone, seating himself
by the desk again. “What I said is straight, Pepper. There is hidden
inside that hulk of the Silver Swan, a lot o’ di’monds--how many, I
don’t know--but enough, according to Cap’n Horace’s own words to make a
man fabulously rich. They belong to his boy, Brandon, and _we_ must get
’em for him.

“I never knew a word about the stones till we was on the raft. Cap’n
Horace was pretty fur gone--any one with half an eye could see
_that_--and when we’d been out several days an’ hadn’t sighted no ship,
he wrote a long letter to Brandon an’ give it to me with a package of
other papers.

“I’ve got them papers right here at this identical minute; but I ain’t
opened ’em, ’cause it ain’t my place to do so. They tells all about the
di’monds an’ how they come into Cap’n Horace’s han’s.

“It seems that just afore we left the Cape a man come aboard the Silver
Swan and brought a package of wot _he_ thought was papers, to Cap’n
Horace, from his brother Anson.”

“Why, Anson was dead long ago, I thought,” interrupted Mr. Pepper.

“So did everybody else think so; but he wasn’t. He was dead, though,
when this feller seed Cap’n Horace, for he’d give the package into the
man’s hands when he was dying, for _him_ to send to Cap’n Tarr. But we
put into the Cape afore the man got ’round to sendin’ ’em to the States.

“_He_ never knew what a valible thing he was a carryin’ ’round; but
when the cap’n come to open the package he found a lot o’ di’monds done
up in a separate wrapper. These he hid somewhere about the brig--he
tells about it in this letter to Brandon, I b’lieve.

“I wanted to know why he didn’t take ’em on the raft when we left the
brig, but it seems he misdoubted himself about a rascally sailor we had
with us--one Jim Leroyd.

“This ’ere Leroyd had been snoopin’ around the cabin when the cap’n was
given the diamonds, and he thought the feller suspected something. So,
not knowing how it might go with any of us, he left the gems on the
brig, preferring to risk losin’ ’em altogether, rather than to cause
strife an’ p’r’aps bloodshed on that raft.

“An’ I reckon ’twas lucky he did so, fur we had trouble enough with
that swab Leroyd.”

“Why, wasn’t he the man who was saved with you?” asked the merchant.

“That’s who.”

“Tell me, Caleb,” said Mr. Pepper earnestly, “why was it he stood the
experience so much better than you? Why, he was discharged from the
hospital in a week, so I understand, while you show traces of the
suffering you underwent even now.”

Caleb closed his lips grimly and looked at the little man in silence
for several moments. Then he leaned further forward and clutched his
arm with one great brown hand.

“He had food that I didn’t have,” he whispered hoarsely.

“What!” cried Adoniram, shrinking back, his eyes abulge.

Caleb nodded slowly.

“There were four of us on that raft. Paulo Montez--he went first. We
divided the food and water, an’ that villain Leroyd ate his all up.
Then we had ter drive him behind his chest at the other end of the
raft, an’ keep him there at the point of our pistols.

“Then the cap’n went, an’--an’--_I had to throw him to the sharks to
keep him out o’ the clutches o’ that cannibal Leroyd!_”

“Great heavens!” exclaimed the ship owner, shrinking back into his
chair, his face the picture of horrified amazement.

“Yes, sir,” whispered Caleb; “he dragged poor Paulo’s body back o’ that
chest--an’--well, ’taint no use talkin’! I ain’t said a word about it
before to any living creature. It’s only my word ag’in his, at best.
But I swear, Adoniram, I’d kill the hound with as little compunction as
I would a rat.

“He’s been sneaking ’round the hospital, inquiring about me, too,”
continued the sailor. “He’s got his eye on these papers, for he see
Cap’n Horace give ’em to me. I reckon he don’t know what they’re about,
but he suspects there’s money in it. He was ’round to the hospital only
last night, so the doctor told me.

“And now, Adoniram, wot I want o’ you is to help me find this derelict
before some o’ Uncle Sam’s blasted iron pots go out after her. We must
get the boy down from that uncle’s place in Rhode Island----”

“Why, didn’t you see him this morning?” asked Mr. Pepper, in surprise.

“See who?”

“Why, the boy--Captain Tarr’s son, Brandon?”

“What?” roared the sailor. “Then he’s here in New York, is he?”

“Why--of--course,” responded the merchant, in bewilderment. “I thought
you’d seen him again. He started out to call on you not two hours ago.
He said you’d given him your address--at the New England Hotel, just
below here.

“And what I want to say, Caleb is that I don’t consider it a great
proof of friendship on _your_ part, for you to go to such a place as
that, even if you were low in finances. I’d only be too glad to have
you come to my house and stay the rest of your natural life--and so
would Frances.”

“Me!--at the New England Hotel!--why the man’s crazy!” declared Caleb.

“Ain’t you stopping there?” gasped the merchant.

“Am I? Well. I guess not! I ain’t but just got out o’ the hospital this
blessed morning.”

“Why, he said he’d seen you once, and you’d told him to call at the New
England Hotel.”

“Who?” roared Caleb.

“Brandon Tarr.”

“Why, man alive, I never saw the lad in all my life!”

“Then,” declared Adoniram with energy, “there’s foul play about it.
When I came down this morning I found the captain’s son waiting to see
me. He’d just come down from Rhode Island, I believe, and he’d got your
address--said he’d already seen you once, mind you--and was going up to
this place to see you again.

“I thought ’twas funny you should put up at such a house, Caleb; but I
didn’t know but perhaps you were ‘on your uppers’” (Caleb snorted at
this), “and had gone there for cheapness. I told Brandon I’d come up
after him this noon and take him to lunch.”

But Caleb was on his feet now, and pacing the floor like a caged lion.

“I see it all--I see it all!” he declared. “It’s some o’ that swab
Leroyd’s work. Why, man alive, do you know what the New England Hotel
is? It’s one o’ the wickedest places in New York. I know the den well,
and the feller as runs it, too. Why, the boy’s in danger every moment
he stays there!”

He seized his hat and jammed it on his head again.

“Ef anything’s happened to that boy, I’ll break every bone in that
scoundrel’s body!” he exclaimed, seizing the door and throwing it wide
open without the formality of unlocking it.

The splintered wood and broken lock flew in all directions as he dashed
through the doorway and flung himself into the street, while Mr. Pepper
remained weakly in his chair, too utterly bewildered to move, and the
festive Mr. Weeks dodged behind the high desk with alacrity, as the
sailor went through the outer office like a whirlwind.



CHAPTER XVI

TELLING HOW BRANDON BEARDED THE LION IN HIS LAIR


AS Brandon Tarr entered the apartment behind the bar room of the New
England Hotel, the man at the table raised his head and surveyed him
surlily. Evidently he had been drinking, and the liquor had changed
his mood greatly from that of the affable sailor who had accosted the
captain’s son in the Chopmist woods.

“Well, how came _you_ here?” inquired the sailor, in no very friendly
tone, gazing at Brandon, with bloodshot eyes.

“I came down on the train.”

“Ain’t you lost?”

“Guess not,” responded the boy.

The man shifted his position uneasily, keeping his eyes fixed upon his
visitor.

“Can’t say as I expected to see you--just yet, any way.”

“No?” returned Brandon coolly.

“Say! wot the blazes do you want, any way?” demanded the sailor
fiercely, after an instant’s silence. “It won’t pay you to be sassy
here, my lad, now I can assure ye.”

“Think so? Seems to me you’re not as glad to see me as I reckoned you
would be. It didn’t exactly pay you to come ’way up to Rhode Island to
pump me, did it?”

The fellow hissed out an oath between his teeth and clinched his fist
angrily.

“You’re too fresh, you are!” he declared.

“Maybe.”

“So I went up there to pump you, eh?”

“I reckon.”

“And what did _you_ come down here for?”

“To pump you,” responded the captain’s son, laughing.

The sailor stared at him in utter amazement for a moment.

“Of all the swabs----” he began, but Brandon interrupted him.

“See here, Wetherbee, I’ve come here for a purpose. My father intrusted
you with some papers for me (though why he ever did so _I_ don’t see--I
mistrusted your ugly face the first time I ever saw it), and now you
are trying to play me false.”

“You know too much!” roared the sailor, rising and thumping the table
with his clenched fist.

“Yes, I _do_ know too much for your good--or for the success of your
plot,” Brandon replied, with cool sarcasm. “See this?”

He took the bit of newspaper from his pocket and tossed it upon the
table before the man.

“What is it?” demanded the sailor, clutching at the clipping.

“The newspaper item stating that the Silver Swan is a derelict, instead
of being sunken, as you declared to me. Had I not found it in the
woods after you left, I might have still believed your lying yarn,
Wetherbee.”

The sailor crumpled the bit of paper in his fist and shook the clenched
member in the boy’s face.

“Young man,” he said with emphasis, “ye think ye’re smart; but do ye
know that ye’re likely ter git inter trouble ’fore ye get out o’ this
place? I don’t ’low no boy ter sass me.”

“I’m sorry for that,” said Brandon, thinking the fellow’s threat but
mere bombastic eloquence; “for I reckon you’ll have to stand it.”

His very fearlessness caused the man to hesitate ere he used
violence, for it _might_ be that the boy had friends within call. The
sailor therefore bit his thick lip in fury, and poured a shower of
vituperations upon his visitor’s head.

“Let me tell you something else, also,” continued Brandon. “I propose
to have those papers that father gave you.”

“Oh, you do?” half screamed the man, stamping up and down the room in
ungovernable rage.

“Yes, sir; and no amount of swearing will scare me. Those papers are
mine and if you won’t give them up peaceably, the law will make you.”

Suddenly the man stopped storming and became more tranquil.

“So you’re goin’ ter law erbout it, be ye?”

“No, I don’t think I’ll have to; I think you’ll see plain enough that
it will be best for you to give them up. By your own confession you
don’t know where the treasure is hid; _but I do_. Somehow I’m going
to find the wreck of the brig and get--whatever it was father hid. But
first, I want those papers that I may know _what_ the--the treasure
consists of.”

“Oh, ye do? Well, how be ye goin’ ter prove that I’ve got the
docyments?”

“Very easily indeed,” Brandon responded frankly. “I’m going to look up
the sailor who was with you on the raft. If father gave you the papers
_he_ doubtless knows it, and I don’t believe that there are _two_ men
as dishonest as you, Wetherbee.”

“So you know where the old man has hid the stuff, hey? An’ yer goin’
ter see th’--th’ other sailor an’ git his evidence, be ye?”

The man’s ugly face turned a deep reddish hue and he reached out
his hands and clutched the empty chair as though he were strangling
somebody. The gesture was so terribly realistic and the man’s face so
diabolical, that Brandon involuntarily shrank back.

“You little fool!” hissed the other slowly. “You’ve put yourself right
inter my han’s an’ let me tell ye I’m a bad man ter monkey with. I’ve
let ye hev it all your own way so fur, but now ’twill be _my_ turn, an’
don’t you forgit it! Ye know where thet treasure is hidden aboard the
brig, hey? Then, by the great jib boom, ye’ll tell me or _ye’ll never
git out o’ here alive_!”

As he uttered the threat he sprang upon the boy so suddenly that
Brandon was totally unprepared for the assault. His victim was no match
for his great strength, and was borne to the floor at once.

The villain’s hand upon his throat deprived the boy of all power of
utterance, and he felt himself being slowly choked into insensibility.

Suddenly the door between the apartment and the bar room was flung wide
open as though a small hurricane had descended upon the establishment
of the New England Hotel. Don’s villainous assailant--big and burly
though he was--was seized in a grip of iron, pulled from his victim,
and thrown bodily to the other side of the room.

“You scoundrel!” roared Caleb (for it was he) in a voice that made the
chandelier tremble. “Would you kill the lad?”

But Brandon, now that the pressure was removed from his throat, was
on his feet in a moment, staring curiously at the big, wooden legged
sailor.

“Just saved you from adding murder to your other sins, did I?”
continued the mate of the Silver Swan. “Did he hurt you, lad?”

“Guess I’m all right,” responded Brandon, feeling of his throat as his
assailant arose to his feet, scowling ferociously at the newcomer.

“I’ll live to see you hung yet, Jim Leroyd!” Caleb declared, shaking
his huge fist at the sailor.

“Great Scott!” exclaimed Brandon; “is _that_ his name? Why, he told me
he was Caleb Wetherbee!”

“He did, eh? Blast his impudence! Let me tell you, lad, if Cale
Wetherbee looked like that scoundrel, he’d go drown himself for very
shame. _I’m_ Caleb Wetherbee, myself, and _you_, I reckon, are Brandon
Tarr.”

Brandon was fairly stupefied by this announcement.

“But what about the--the papers father put into his hands for me?” he
asked, breathlessly.

“Your father give _him_ papers, lad? Well, I reckon not! He’s lied to
ye.”

“Then he hasn’t them?”

“Not he. I’ve got ’em myself, safe and sound.”

“You have them?” repeated Brandon.

“That I have,” replied the mate confidently, “and what’s more, I’ve got
’em right here!”

At this juncture the door behind them opened and the red faced
barkeeper came into the room.

“Look er-here, wot’s de meanin’ of all dis, hey?” he demanded, eying
Caleb with disfavor.

“Oh, it’s you, is it?” said the wooden legged sailor, in disgust. “I
know _you_, Jack Brady. Get out here, you walking beer keg! I’m having
a private seance with this gentleman,” intimating the cowed Leroyd.

A quick look of intelligence passed between Leroyd and the bartender.

“Ye’re tryin’ ter kick up a shindy in dis place, dat’s wot ye’re at!”
declared the latter, rolling up his sleeves, belligerently.

“Yes, and I’ll kick up a bigger row before I’m through,” Caleb replied
threateningly. “Now you run out and play, sonny, while I talk to my
friend, Mr. Leroyd, here.”

This so angered the pugilistic looking man that he made a dash at the
big sailor; but the consequences were exceedingly unpleasant.

Caleb’s hammer-like fist swung round with the force of a pile driver,
and an ox would have fallen before that blow. As Mr. Brady himself
would have put it, he was “knocked out in one round.”

But the treacherous Leroyd, taking advantage of his friend’s attack on
the mate, sprang upon Caleb from the other side. This flank movement
was totally unexpected, and, weakened by his long confinement in the
hospital, the mate of the Silver Swan could not hold his own with his
former shipmate.

Both went to the floor with a crash, and as they fell Leroyd tore open
his antagonist’s coat and seized a flat leather case from the mate’s
inside pocket. Dealing one heavy blow on the other’s upturned face, the
scoundrel sprang up and disappeared like a shot through the door at the
opposite end of the apartment.

“Stop him!” roared Caleb, and Brandon, who had stood utterly bewildered
and helpless throughout the scene, sprang forward to the door.

“The papers! He’s stolen the papers!” he gasped, seizing the knob and
trying to pull open the door.

But the key had been turned in the lock and the stout door baffled all
his attempts upon it.



CHAPTER XVII

HOW THE OMNIPRESENT WEEKS PROVES HIS RIGHT TO THE TERM


HAMPERED as he was by his wooden leg, it was several moments before
the old sailor could get upon his feet, and the festive Mr. Brady,
maddened and almost blinded by the blow he had received in the first of
the fracas, would have pitched into him had not Brandon threatened the
fellow with one of the heavy chairs with which the room was furnished.

“I’ll make dis the sorriest day er your life, ye bloomin’ big brute!”
declared Mr. Brady, holding one hand to his bruised face, and shaking
the other fist at the sailor. “I’ll have ye jugged--that’s wot I’ll
do----”

And just then he stopped, for in the doorway leading to the bar room
stood Adoniram Pepper, flushed and breathless, and behind him the burly
forms of two blue-coated policemen.

“Thank goodness, the boy is safe!” gasped the little merchant. “Are
_you_ hurt, Caleb?”

“Some shaken up, but that’s all, shipmate,” declared the mate of the
Silver Swan. “I got here just in time to keep that brute Leroyd from
choking the lad to death.”

“Mercy! and where is he now?”

“Skipped, I reckon,” responded Caleb briefly, brushing the sawdust off
his clothing.

“But he’s stolen the papers,” said Brandon.

“Not the papers your father gave Caleb?” cried the little man. “He must
be captured at once!”

“Yes, he robbed me,” said Caleb slowly; “but whether he got anything o’
much value or not is another question. Let’s get out o’ here, ’Doniram,
and take account o’ cargo.”

Just here the policemen crowded into the room.

“Has your man got away, sir?” one of them asked Mr. Pepper.

“I’m afraid he has, officer--unless you want this fellow arrested,
Caleb?” indicating the saloon keeper.

At this Brady began to storm and rave disgracefully.

“Come, quit that, Brady!” commanded officer Mullen. “You’re deep in
this, I’ve no doubt. You want to walk a chalk line now, or I’ll have
your license taken away. D’ye understand?”

Mr. Brady subsided at this threat, and the party filed out.

“It’s all right now, officer,” said Adoniram, slipping something into
Mr. Mullen’s hand. “We won’t trouble you further. If anything more
comes of it, I’ll step around and see the captain myself.”

The two policemen nodded and Mr. Pepper led his friends back to his
office.

On the way Brandon explained his previous connection with the villain
Leroyd, and recounted what had occurred at the New England Hotel before
Caleb’s timely appearance.

“Well, I reckon you were just what Leroyd told you--a little too
fresh,” was the comment of the mate of the Silver Swan. “’Twas only by
luck that ye warn’t garroted by that scoundrel. There’s been more than
one man gone into that dive that never come out arterwards, now I tell
ye.”

“You are wrong, Caleb,” declared Mr. Pepper confidently “It was not
luck--’twas Providence.”

“Mebbe you’re right, old man,” returned the mate. “Now, lad, come in
here and tell us all about yourself before we do anything further. We
want to get a thorough understanding o’ the case.”

They had arrived at the shipping merchant’s office, but it was locked
and Mr. Pepper had to use his own private pass key.

“Weeks has gone out,” the old gentleman explained, ushering them in.
“It’s his dinner hour.”

“I’m glad the swab’s out of the way,” growled the sailor. “I don’t see
what you keep that prying, sneaking rascal about here for any way.
He’ll do you some damage some time, ’Doniram.”

“I--I should dislike to discharge him,” said the old gentleman gently.
“He--he is an unfortunate fellow----”

“Unfortunate!” snorted the mate in disgust.

“Yes, unfortunate, Caleb. Even his face is against him. Who would want
such a looking fellow around an office? And office work is all he knows
how to do. Marks wouldn’t keep him down to the other office, so I _had_
to take him up here.”

“Had to!”

Caleb stared at his old friend in pitying surprise.

“’Doniram,” he said, “you--make--me--weary!”

Then he shook his head sadly and dropped heavily into a chair he had
formerly occupied near the merchant’s desk.

“Come,” he said, turning to Brandon, holding out his hand
affectionately, “come and sit down here beside me, my lad. We want to
know each other better--you and I--and I’ve got a good deal to say to
ye.

“Your father’s last words to me was ‘Remember, Cale!’ an’ they referred
to the fac’ that he’d left me in charge o’ you--an’ of your property.
An’ I’m rememberin’, though that hospital business delayed me a good
bit.”

“But, Caleb,” said the merchant nervously, “what will you do about
those--those diamonds,” and he looked at Brandon smilingly, “now that
that scamp has stolen the captain’s papers?”

“Diamonds?” echoed Brandon.

“Aye, diamonds--lashin’s of ’em!” the sailor declared earnestly. “If
yer father was ter be believed--an’ _you_ know whether or not to
believe him as well as _I_--there’s di’monds hid aboard that brig,
enough to make you a rich man, my lad.”

“But the papers?” repeated Mr. Pepper.

“Blast the papers!” exclaimed the sailor, slapping his thigh
impatiently. “They don’t amount to a row of pins.”

“But they’ll tell that Leroyd all about the treasure and just where to
find it,” said Brandon.

“And you won’t know _where_ to look for it aboard the Silver Swan,” Mr.
Pepper chimed in.

“I won’t hey?” responded Caleb with a snort of disgust. “Sure of that,
be ye?”

“I think I know where father would place the gems for safe keeping,”
said Brandon, slowly.

“Yes, an’ I reckon _I_ know, too,” the mate declared. “There’s a
sliding panel in the cabin--eh, lad?”

Brandon nodded acquiescence.

“Yes, that’s it,” went on the sailor; “it come to me just now when I
was a-thinkin’ of the matter. We useter keep our private papers in that
’ere hole in the bulkhead. It’s the third panel on the port side front
the companionway.”

“Sh!” exclaimed the merchant, “suppose somebody should overhear you.”

“Oh, that sneak Weeks isn’t here,” replied Caleb carelessly. “You don’t
have anybody else working for you here who would snoop like him, do
you, ’Doniram?”

The merchant shook his head with a mild smile.

“Well, then,” said the mate of the Silver Swan, “we can get down to
business. We understand each other, eh, lad? Ye’ll put yourself under
our care, an’ ’Doniram an’ I’ll see you through this thing.”

“I’m only too glad to have your help,” cried Don warmly. “Alone I can
do nothing; but with you to help me, Mr. Wetherbee----”

“Drop that!” thundered Caleb. “Don’t you ‘mister’ me, blast yer
impudence! I’m Cale Wetherbee to _you_, as I was to yer father.”

Then he added more mildly:

“You can count on me, Don. And you can count on Pepperpod, here, every
time, eh?” and he nodded to the ship owner.

“That you can, Don,” rejoined Mr. Pepper. “And already I have a vessel
I can place at your disposal. It is the whaleback steamer I spoke of
this morning. You shall have her and go in quest of the Silver Swan.”

“A whaleback, hey?” repeated Caleb quickly, with a doubtful shake of
his head. “I don’t know much about them new fangled things.”

“Well, you shall before long,” Mr. Pepper declared. “With her you can
beat any of these cruisers to the brig, and get the diamonds before
they blow her sky high.

“Now, let us go out to lunch; it is long past my regular hour,” he
continued. “I will close the office for the day and you must both go
home with me. Wait, I’ll telephone to Marks.”

“Let me git my clo’es brushed before we go up town, ’Doniram,”
exclaimed Caleb, in sudden haste. “I’ve got sawdust all over me.”

“All right,” the merchant responded, giving the call for the wareroom
office (it was a private line); “you’ll find a whisk broom in that
wardrobe there. Don can brush you.”

The sailor arose and walked over to the wardrobe.

“Dem the thing! how it sticks,” he remarked impatiently, tugging at the
handle.

Then he exerted his great strength and the door flew open with
surprising suddenness, and with it, to the startled amazement of the
entire party, came the red haired clerk, Alfred Weeks, clinging vainly
to the inner knob.

The momentum of his exit fairly threw him across the small room, where
he dropped into a chair which happened to stand handy, gazing, the
picture of fright, at the infuriated sailor.



CHAPTER XVIII

BRANDON LISTENS TO A SHORT FAMILY HISTORY


“WEEKS! Weeks! I wouldn’t have thought it of you,” exclaimed Adoniram
Pepper sorrowfully, turning away from the ’phone to gaze sternly at the
rascally clerk.

“Wouldn’t have thought it of him?” roared Caleb. “’Doniram, you’re
a fool! It’s just exactly what you might have expected of him. Oh,
you--you swab, you!” he added, shaking his fist at the trembling
culprit. “I wish I had you aboard ship. If I wouldn’t haze you!”

Then he sprang at the fellow, and seizing him ere he could escape,
tossed him face downward over his knee, and, while he held him with one
hand, delivered a most energetic spanking with the other huge palm, to
his squirming prisoner’s manifest discomfort.

“Oh! oh! oh!” roared Weeks, almost black in the face. “Oh, he’s
a-murderin’ me I Let me go! Oh! oh!”

“Stop your bawling, Alfred,” Mr. Pepper commanded, as the breathless
sailor released the scamp and placed him upright with no gentle force.

Brandon, who had been well nigh convulsed with laughter at the mode of
punishment the clerk had received, had not thought it possible for the
jolly Adoniram to ever appear so stern as he did now.

“Weeks,” continued the merchant, the customary smile totally eradicated
from his features, “Weeks, I have done my best for you for ten years.
I’ve helped you the best I know how. I have shielded you from those who
would have given you over to justice more than once, for your petty
crimes. Now, sir, I am through with you!

“This offense is unpardonable. You may go down to the other office and
draw your salary to the end of the month, and never let me see you
again until you have become a respectable member of society, and shown
by your actions, not by words, that you are such. Go at once, sir!”

Weeks hesitated an instant as though he contemplated making an appeal
to his old employer for mercy; but the look on Mr. Pepper’s face
forbade that. The old merchant was an embodiment of justice now; mercy
for the rascally clerk had flown.

Picking up his hat, he limped silently to the door, but ere he
disappeared he turned and looked at Brandon, who, in spite of himself,
was unable to keep his face straight. He glared at the laughing youth
an instant, and then the real nature of the fellow flashed out from
beneath the veneer of apparently harmless impudence and cunning.

His dark, old looking face flushed deeply red, his narrow eyes flashed
with sudden rage, and he shook his clenched fist at Brandon Tarr with
insane fury.

“I’ll even things up with _you_, you young whelp!” he hissed, and in
another moment limped out of the place.

“A nice fellow you’ve harbored, there, ’Doniram, just as I told you,”
Caleb declared. “He’ll knife you some dark night, if you’re not
careful.”

But Adoniram only shook his head sadly and returned to the telephone.
After talking to his manager several minutes, he picked up his hat and
gloves and led the way out of the office, locking it behind him.

“Adoniram Pepper & Co. will take a holiday today,” he said, his old
jovial smile returning. “First let us go to lunch.”

They were all too hungry by this time to go far before attending to the
wants of the inner man; but notwithstanding that they were so far down
town, Adoniram was able to introduce them to a very comfortable looking
little chop house. He also, despite their protestations, settled the
checks himself, and then telephoned to Brandon’s hotel and to the
Marine Hospital for the luggage of both his guests to be sent to his up
town residence.

“We’ll go up leisurely and give the baggage a chance to get there
before us,” said the merchant, as they left the restaurant; “then
Frances will know that company is coming.”

So they saw a bit of New York for Brandon’s benefit, arriving at the
large, though plain looking house in which the merchant resided, just
before six o’clock.

Brandon noticed, as they neared their destination, that the old sailor
seemed ill at ease, and that the conversation was being mostly carried
on by Mr. Pepper and himself. He did not understand this until they
were in the house, and the old merchant had gone to summon his sister
to meet his guests.

Caleb seemed terribly nervous. He sat on the edge of the substantial,
upholstered chair and twisted his hat between his huge hands, his face
and neck of flaming hue, while his eyes were downcast, and he started
at every sound.

Finally, as the merchant did not return at once, Caleb drew forth his
bandanna and blew his nose furiously.

“This ’ere is terrible, isn’t it, lad?” he muttered hoarsely, to
Brandon, who had been eying him in great surprise.

“What is, Caleb?”

“This ’ere meeting ladies, ye know,” responded the mate of the Silver
Swan in a mild roar, laboring under the delusion that he was speaking
very low indeed.

“There isn’t but one, Caleb,” replied Don encouragingly.

“I--I know it,” said Caleb, with a groan; “but she’s--she’s th’
spankin’est craft ever yer see! Sails allus new and fresh, riggin’ all
taut--I tell ye, lad, it allus rattles me for fear I ain’t all trim.”

“You look first rate, Caleb,” Brandon assured him, stifling a desire to
laugh as the old seaman evidently considered the occasion so serious.
“I wouldn’t worry.”

“That’s easy enough for _you_ to say,” returned Caleb, with another
shake of his head. “You wouldn’t be Cap’n Horace’s son if ye didn’t
find it all plain sailin’ in a city droorin’ room, same’s on th’
ship’s deck; but with me it’s different. Oh, Lordy! she’s hove in
sight.”

There was a rustle of silken skirts, and Brandon looked up to see Miss
Frances Pepper entering the room.

She was short and plump like her brother, though of considerable less
weight, and she smiled like him. But otherwise Miss Pepper was rather
prim and exact in her appearance, manner, and dress. As the sailor had
said “her rigging was all taut,” and she looked as though she had just
stepped out of a bandbox.

“My old friend. Mr. Whitherbee!” she exclaimed, holding out her hand to
Caleb with unfeigned warmth.

“Wetherbee--Caleb Wetherbee, ma’am,” responded Caleb, in a monotone
growl, seizing the tips of the lady’s fingers as though they were as
fragile as glass, and he feared to crush them in his calloused palm.

“Oh, yes--Mr. Wetherbee,” she replied brightly, gazing frankly into the
old seaman’s face, which naturally added materially to poor Caleb’s
confusion. “I was very sorry to hear about your illness, and am glad
you have at length been released from the hospital ward.”

Then she turned to Brandon who had also risen. She went up to him, and
seizing both his hands imprinted a motherly kiss upon his forehead.

The youth saw that her soft brown eyes, which could not possibly look
stern as could her brother’s gray ones, were filled with tears.

“God bless you, my boy!” she said, in a low tone. “I knew your father,
Captain Tarr, and a very nice man he was. You are like him.

“And now, brother,” added Miss Frances briskly, “if you will take Mr.
Wetherbee to his room to prepare for dinner, I will show Brandon to
_his_ apartment. Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes.”

Mr. Pepper, who had entered behind his sister, bore Caleb off as she
had commanded, to a room on the lower floor, while Brandon was led up
stairs by Miss Frances. The house was nicely though plainly furnished,
evidences of comfort rather than of great wealth being apparent.

Everywhere, on mantel and table, and in the niches of the hall, were
innumerable curiosities in the line of shells and coral brought from
all parts of the world.

Miss Frances ushered Brandon into a very prettily furnished chamber on
the second floor--almost too daintily furnished for a boy’s room, in
fact. Innumerable bits of fancy work and the like, without doubt the
work of feminine fingers, adorned the place: yet all was fashioned in a
style of at least twenty years back.

Above the bed, in a heavily gilded frame, was a large portrait of a
young woman--not exactly a beautiful woman, but one with a very sweet
and lovable face--which smiled down upon the visitor and attracted his
attention at once.

Miss Frances noticed his glance, and lingered a moment at the door.

“It was our little sister Milly,” she said softly. “This was her room
years ago. She was more than twenty years younger than Adoniram and I.”

“Then she died?” queried Don softly, still gazing up at the smiling
face.

“No, she married against father’s wishes. Father was a very stern,
proud man; not at all like Adoniram, who, I am afraid, is not stern
enough for his good,” and she smiled a little; but there was moisture
in her eyes as she gazed up at the portrait.

“She was a lovely girl--at least _we_ thought so--and she was father’s
favorite, too. But she married a poor sea captain by the name of Frank,
in direct opposition to father’s command, and so he cast her off.

“He forbade Adoniram or me having anything to do with her, or to help
her in any way, and she herself put it out of our power to do so, by
going to the other side of the world with her husband. Several years
later we heard of her death, and were told that there was a child; but
although Adoniram has done all he could he has never been able to find
this Captain Frank.”

The old lady wiped her eyes before continuing.

“After father died we had this room fixed just as she used to have it,
and had that picture hung there.

“Now, Brandon, I won’t bother you longer. There is your satchel, which
the expressman brought an hour ago. If you want anything, please ring.”

Then she departed, and left the captain’s son to make ready for dinner.



CHAPTER XIX

TELLING A GREAT DEAL ABOUT DERELICTS IN GENERAL


ALTHOUGH there seemed to be everything for comfort about the Pepper
mansion, the habits of the household were most simple. Miss Frances was
evidently a woman of very domestic tastes, and had a vital interest
in all her household arrangements. Yet there appeared to be plenty of
servants about.

When dinner was over, the merchant had a short conference with his
manager, Mr. Marks, who always came to report on matters at the close
of the day; after which he took his two guests into the library, and
the all absorbing topic of the search for the Silver Swan was broached
by Caleb, who had now regained some of his wonted confidence.

“This ’ere delay is a bad thing,” the old sailor declared, when Miss
Frances had left them to talk the matter over. “If I hadn’t been
laid up all these weeks in the hospital, I sh’d ha’ follered up the
brig long before, and had the di’monds. Now we’ve got two--yes,
three--circumstances against us.

“First and foremost is the fact that the Swan has already been afloat
’most two months, an’ that’s longer than the majority of derelicts
last. Then these confounded cruisers may get after her any minute,
which will be remarkably bad for our plans. And thirdly, as the
parsons say, there’s that rascal Leroyd. He’s not the man I think him
if he doesn’t make a break for the wreck at once.”

“And he’s got the papers, too,” interjected Mr. Pepper.

Caleb smiled at this, but said nothing in reply, continuing his remarks:

“Now, I’ve seen a good many derelicts in my time--a good many--but if
the Silver Swan is in the shape I think her, she’s liable (setting
aside accident) to float for months. And she’s got lots of company,
too.”

“I should think these derelicts would be dreadfully dangerous,”
suggested Brandon, with all the curiosity of a boy about anything
pertaining to sea and sea going.

“They are,” declared Caleb; “more dangerous, it’s likely, than anybody
dreams of. Many a good ship--steamers and sailing vessels both--has
doubtless gone to Davy Jones’ Locker because of them. Take one o’ these
’ere European steamships making time across the ocean; she strikes a
derelict--a coal laden one, mebbe; they’re the most dangerous--and we
never hear of her again.

“I’ll never forget something that happened when I was mate of the
American bark Neptune, several years ago. The Neptune were a mighty
speedy craft, an’ Cap’n Tollman was a terror for crowding on all sail.

“We was scuddin’ along one dark night before a stiff easterly gale,
an’ I had the deck. It was just before eight bells--half past three
o’clock, mebbe--when all to onct the man on lookout gave a yell that
fairly riz my hair on end.

“‘A wreck! dead ahead!’ he yelled. ‘Down with your helm! hard down!’

“I jumped to the wheel myself an’ helped the helmsman swing ’er over.
Right up before us loomed the dim, black form of a vessel--her stern
under water, an’ her bowsprit straight up. I tell ye, for about two
minutes I was dead sure ’twas all day with the old Neptune, and us
along with her.

“However she did it I dunno, but she answered her helm quicker ’n she
did afore or since. She jest shaved the wreck, some of the cordage
fastened to the upright bowsprit catching in our spars an’ being torn
away, an’ we slipped by without any damage. But I don’t want to have a
closer shave than _that_.”

“That was a close call, Cale,” said Mr. Pepper reflectively. “I’ve a
man in my employ--Richards his name is; he sails this trip as captain
of the Calypso--who came originally from New Brunswick. A regular
‘blue-nose’ he is, and a good sailor.

“Well, he was one of the crew of the ‘Joggins raft’ as it was called,
that left the Bay of Fundy for New York several years ago.”

“And a mighty foolish thing that was, too,” interrupted Caleb, shaking
his head. “It’s a merciful Providence that that thing didn’t occasion
half a dozen wrecks; but it didn’t, as far as anybody knows.”

“Richards tells a pretty thrilling story of his experience,” the
merchant continued, seeing that Brandon was interested in the tale.
“Lumber and coal laden derelicts are considered the most dangerous,
eh, Caleb? And this Joggins raft was probably the most perilous object
that was ever set afloat.

“The raft was composed of 27,000 great tree trunks, bound together
with chains, and it weighed something like eleven thousand tons. The
hawsers by which it was towed, parted in a hurricane, and the raft went
to pieces south of Nantasket. For a good many months the logs were
reported as scattered over a great portion of the North Atlantic. As
Caleb says, however, they did no damage, but the hydrographic charts
during the time were plentifully decorated with them.”

“What are these hydrographic charts?” asked Brandon, with interest.
“That clipping Leroyd lost and which I found, mentioned the matter of
the Swan’s being reported to the Hydrographic Office at Washington.
What did it mean?”

“Well,” responded Mr. Pepper, while Caleb, at the little merchant’s
request, filled and smoked his evening pipe, “when these abandoned
wrecks are sighted by incoming steamers, they are reported at once to
the Hydrographic Office at the capitol, the latitude and longitude,
name of the vessel if known, and her position in the water, being given.

“As fast as messages of this kind are received at the office they are
posted on a big blackboard on which is inscribed an outline map of the
North Atlantic. The position of each derelict is indicated by a pin
stuck into the board, and thrust at the same time through a square
scrap of paper.

“On this bit of paper is inscribed in red ink the name of the deserted
craft, if it is known, together with a minute picture showing the
attitude of the vessel, whether bottom up, sunken at the stern, or
what not.

“These little pictures are reproduced on the next pilot chart (which is
a monthly publication), and changes are made in the chart as frequently
as the derelicts are reported.”

“Seems to me, ’Doniram,” remarked Caleb, puffing away with vast content
at the pipe--“seems to me you know a good deal about this derelict
business.”

The little man seemed strangely confused at this, and his jolly face
blushed a deep red as he shifted his position restlessly.

“Well,” he said slowly. “I _have_ been looking it up lately. I--I had
an idea--a scheme, you know--that caused me to study the matter some.
Seems odd, too, doesn’t it, with the matter of the Silver Swan coming
right on top of it?”

But here Brandon, whose thoughts had been wandering a little,
interrupted any further questioning on the sailor’s part.

“I’m dreadfully sorry that that rascally Leroyd got away with the
letter father wrote me,” he said reflectively.

Caleb looked at him with a smile, and removed his pipe from between his
lips.

“Did I say he _had_ got away with it?” he said.

“Eh?” interjected Adoniram, quickly.

“What do you mean?” queried Brandon.

“See here,” said Caleb, enjoying their surprise, “You’ve been running
this pretty much by yourselves. _I_ haven’t said that the swab got away
with the papers, have I?”

“For pity’s sake, what _did_ he steal then?” demanded Brandon,
springing to his feet.

“Well,” returned the mate of the Silver Swan, “by my reckoning he got
an old pocketbook with some worthless bills of lading in it and about
ten dollars in money--an’ much good may it do him.”

“Why--why--” sputtered Mr. Pepper, staring at the smiling sailor in
amazement.

“Now, don’t be in a hurry,” urged Caleb. “I _didn’t_ say the papers
were stolen, so don’t ye accuse me o’ that. Ye both jumped at that
conclusion and I let you think so, for as I’d made a fool of myself
once by lettin’ folks know I had ’em, I reckoned I wouldn’t do it again.

“But now,” he added, “if ye think this is the time and place to see
them papers, I can perduce ’em ter oncet.”

“Where are they? Let’s see ’em,” urged Brandon, in excitement.

“All right, my lad. If you says the word, why here goes.”

The old sailor laid his pipe down, and coolly began to unstrap his
wooden leg. The implement was an old fashioned affair, consisting of
a smoothly turned stick at the lower end hardly larger than a broom
handle, but swelling as it rose, to the semblance of a leg.

In a moment he had it off and to the surprise of his two friends this
swelled portion of the imitation limb was hollow. From this cavity he
drew forth first a bulky wallet and then a package of papers wrapped in
oiled paper.

“There ye be,” he declared, with satisfaction. “If _I’d_ known about
them di’monds afore we left the brig, I sh’d have had the cap’n let me
hide ’em in this ’ere timber leg. Then we’d have been saved a mighty
sight o’ bother.”



CHAPTER XX

THE CONTENTS OF SEVERAL INTERESTING DOCUMENTS


“WELL, of all things!” ejaculated Mr. Pepper, as the old sailor
produced the papers from their queer repository, while Brandon burst
out laughing.

“There’s some reasons for being grateful for even a wooden leg,”
remarked Caleb grimly. “I hid those papers there when I was aboard the
raft, and if I’d passed in my checks I reckon papers an’ all would have
gone to the sharks, for Leroyd would never have thought to look there
for ’em.”

Then he strapped the artificial limb in place again, and gravely handed
the package to Brandon. The boy had lost all desire to laugh now, for
he was in possession of the last written words of his father, and for a
moment his hands trembled and his eyes filled with tears.

“Open it, my lad,” said the sailor. “I haven’t touched the wrapper
since Cap’n Horace gave it to me.”

Brandon untied the string which bound the package, and removed the
oiled paper. There were several folded documents within and one was
marked:

  “To my son, Brandon,
              Horace Tarr.”

Don quickly opened the paper, recognizing the chirography of the dead
captain at once, although much of the writing was blurred and illy
formed, showing how great a tax the effort had been for the injured and
dying man. It read as follows:

                                                 ON BOARD THE RAFT,
                                                           TUESDAY NOON.

  MY BELOVED SON:

  We have now been on this raft two days, and I feel that my end is
  drawing near, although my companions will doubtless escape. But I
  have received a terrible blow on the head, and my sufferings at times
  are frightful; therefore I know I am not long for this world.

  Oh, that I might see you again, my son! That I might be spared to
  reach you, and to put into your hand the power to make you the
  wealthy man I should have been had I lived. But no; it could not be.
  Fortune has at last come to the Tarrs, but I shall not share it; your
  uncle Anson was not benefited by it, and death will overtake me soon,
  too. But you, my son, I pray may regain the fortune which I have
  hidden aboard the brig.

  We committed a grave error in leaving the wreck; I know that now.
  The hull of the Silver Swan was uninjured, and she may outlast many
  gales. I shall put these papers into Caleb Wetherbee’s hands ere I
  am called, and he, I know, will help you to regain the fortune which
  first belonged to Anson. Be guided by him, and trust him fully.

  The letter from your uncle will explain all about the diamonds, and
  how he came in possession of them. I dared not take the gems with
  me from the brig, for Leroyd knew about them, or suspected their
  presence, and he would have killed us all for them, I fear.

  But they are hidden in the steel lined closet--the one I showed you
  in the cabin. Caleb knows where it is. Go to the reef at once and
  get the jewels, before some one else gets there. There are diamonds
  enough to make you fabulously rich, if Anson appraised them rightly.

  I am so weak that I cannot write longer.

  These will probably be my last words on earth to you, my son. Live
  uprightly; fear God; and hold sacred your mother’s memory. God bless
  you, my boy! Farewell!
                                           Your loving father,
                                                            HORACE TARR.

Tears fairly blinded Don’s eyes as he finished reading the missive. He
passed it to Mr. Pepper, who, in turn, passed it to Caleb.

“He was a good man,” declared Adoniram softly, while the old sailor
blew his nose loudly, and wiped the suspicious moisture from his eyes.

“That he were!” responded the latter. “Cap’n Horace were all that he
tells you to be, Don.”

“Please God, I’ll be worthy of his memory,” said Brandon quietly. “If
we are fortunate enough to obtain any of this treasure he speaks of. I
hope I shall use it wisely, and as he would wish.”

“Don’t you fear--we’ll get it, lad,” Caleb assured him earnestly. “I
feel it in my bones we will.”

“What else was there in the package?” asked the merchant curiously.

“There were two other papers,” Brandon replied. “One is my father’s
will.”

He picked that up from his lap and opened it.

“Why,” he exclaimed, “you are named as executor, Mr. Pepper.”

He passed the legal document to Adoniram who adjusted the eye glasses
(of which a new pair had been purchased), and examined it with manifest
surprise.

“This is a legal will, as sure as I am alive!” he exclaimed. “It was
drawn up at Rio by an American lawyer--a Mr. Bromley. Properly signed
and witnessed.”

“Well, you’ll look out for it, won’t you?” said Caleb, who was eager to
hear the other paper--the letter from Anson Tarr to his brother--read.

“Of course. But let me tell you its contents,” replied the merchant.
“It is short and to the point, Caleb. _You_ are given the Silver Swan,
in fee simple, and everything else goes to Brandon, here.”

He read the paragraph which secured all the property of which Captain
Tarr had been possessed, excepting the brig, to Brandon, including
“certain uncut diamonds, roughly estimated at two hundred thousand
dollars.”

“Two hundred thousand!” repeated Brandon, in bewilderment.

“Quite a pile, my boy,” said Caleb. “That is, if we get ’em.”

“And you and I, Caleb,” concluded Mr. Pepper, “are joint guardians of
Don.”

“All right, all right,” cried the impatient sailor. “But let’s hear the
other letter, my lad. Read it out.”

Thus urged, Brandon unfolded the third paper, and read its contents
aloud:

                                             “KIMBERLEY, SOUTH AFRICA,
                                               “November the 27th, 1891.

  “BROTHER HORACE:

  “Probably you have long since believed me dead, and I have given
  you good reason for that belief, for, if I am not mistaken, it was
  eight years ago, after my miserable failure at the Australian gold
  diggings, that I last wrote to you.

  “I intended then that you should never hear from me again. I was a
  failure--a complete failure, I believed--and I determined to tempt
  fortune no further. With this intention I went to an island in the
  Pacific, and buried myself there, with only natives and one other
  white man for company, for six years.

  “Then the old roving spirit awoke in me again, and I longed to try my
  luck once more where other men were gaining wealth. The news of the
  rich finds here in the diamond fields reached even our lonely isle,
  and finally I could not resist the temptation longer, and came here,
  leaving my companion to dwell alone among the natives. I have been
  here now the better part of a year and, at last, have been successful!

  “Two months ago I struck a pocket in the hills, and out of a trench
  less than two rods in length, I have dug what I believe to be at
  least forty thousand pounds’ worth of diamonds of exceptional purity.
  But the diggings have now petered out.

  “I kept the find a secret, and got all there was myself, excepting a
  small number which my black digger ran away with, and now I am afraid
  I shall not live to enjoy my riches.

  “Perhaps it is as well. You know that riches have ever taken wings
  with us, and I should probably lose all in some other venture. I
  hope that you, Horace, will do better with them than I, for to you,
  brother, and to your boy, if he has lived, I bequeath the gems.

  “I have been very ill now several days and the physician tells me
  that I am in a very bad way. Exposure to all sorts of weather in
  every kind of climate, is telling on me. Therefore I do write this
  to you, my brother, and take precaution to have the letter and the
  package of uncut stones sent to you.

  “Nobody here knows of my find. It is safest to trust nobody in such
  a place as this. I propose to give the letter and the gems, all in a
  sealed packet, to a friend, who is the most trustworthy man I know,
  and have him give them to you. He will believe the package to contain
  nothing but papers, and therefore you will stand a good chance of
  getting the diamonds safely.

  “Good by for this world, Horace. May the luck of the Tarrs be changed
  with this find of mine.

                                                “Your brother,
                                                           “ANSON TARR.”

“Well,” exclaimed Caleb, with a sigh, as Brandon folded the document,
“we’ve got the rights of it at last. Two hundred thousand dollars wuth
o’ di’monds--for that’s what forty thousand pounds mean, I take it, eh,
’Doniram?”

“About that,” said the merchant. “You will be a very rich man, Don.”

“Let’s not count our chickens too soon,” said the youth, trying to
stifle his excitement. “It seems too bewilderingly good to be true.”

“That’s a good idea about not countin’ our chickens,” said Caleb. “But
we’ll have a whack at ’em just as soon as possible, my lad.”

“And you’ll let me furnish the vessel,” the merchant added.

“Let’s see,” said the old sailor. “You was saying something about
havin’ one all ready. ’Doniram, wasn’t you?”

“One that can be ready in a week’s time, any way; and the craft you
want, too--a whaleback.”

“I dunno,” said Caleb slowly. “I don’t fancy them new fangled things.
What under the sun did you ever get a whaleback steamer for?”

Mr. Pepper looked at his old friend curiously, and his little eyes
twinkled.

“Well,” he said reflectively, “oddly enough, I purchased Number Three
from the American Barge Company for the very purpose for which you wish
to use it.”

“What?” shouted Caleb.

“Not to go in search of the Silver Swan?” cried Brandon, in wonder.

“No, not exactly that; but to go in quest of derelicts in general.”

“Another of your crazy ideas, ’Doniram!” Caleb declared finally.

“Perhaps; but I notice that most of my ‘crazy ideas’ turn out pretty
successfully, old Timbertoes,” said the little merchant jovially. “If
you’ll give me a chance, though, I’ll explain how I came to think of
_this_ ‘crazy idea.’”



CHAPTER XXI

IN WHICH MR. PEPPER MAKES A PROPOSITION TO CALEB AND DON


“YOU see,” the ship owner began, as soon as he was assured of the
attention of his audience, “I have had my eye on these whaleback
steamers from the start. Three years ago, you know, nobody but Captain
Alexander MacDougall, the inventor, knew anything about them.

“We are altogether too conservative here in the East,” continued
Adoniram warmly. “It takes the Westerners to get hold of new things,
and practically test them. These whalebacks are a Western idea and were
first used and tested on the Great Lakes.

“You don’t seem to realize, Caleb, that the boat was never built which
could sail as easily as those whalebacks. In the heaviest gales they
only roll slightly, as a log would at sea. The waves can beat against
the curved steel sides of the craft as much as they like, or wash clean
over her; but the boat is not affected by them in the least.”

“It’s the most wonderful thing I ever heard of,” Brandon declared.

“They _are_ wonderful boats, as you will declare, yourself, when you
see Number Three, tomorrow,” Adoniram returned. “My whaleback is 265
feet long, 38 feet beam, and 24 feet deep. She is warranted to carry
3,000 tons of grain on a sixteen and one half foot draft. You see, for
her size, she carries an enormous cargo, for between the collision
bulkhead forward, and the bulkhead in front of the engine room aft, the
whole inside of the craft is open for lading.

“But my scheme--the reason I bought this vessel, in fact--is this,”
went on Mr. Pepper.

He hesitated a moment, and looked just a little doubtfully at Caleb.

“I presume this _is_ what you will call a ‘crazy idea,’ Caleb,” he
said. “Several months ago my attention was drawn to the fact that great
numbers of these derelicts now afloat in the Atlantic, north of the
equator, are richly laden merchant vessels on whose cargoes and hulls a
large salvage might be demanded by any vessel towing them into port.

“Now and then, you know, it happens that somebody _does_ recover
a derelict with a valuable cargo. In these times, when the crews
of American ships, and even many of the officers, are ignorant and
untrustworthy fellows, lacking altogether the honor arm perseverance
which were characteristics of sailors forty years ago (I don’t say that
_all_ are so, but many) under these circumstances, I say, many a vessel
which might be worked safely into port, is abandoned in mid ocean by
the frightened crew.

“With a vessel like Number Three one could recover and tow into port
many of these hulks, and net a large salvage from the owners. Vessels
which would not be worth saving themselves, might still contain
articles which it would pay to transfer to the hold of the whaleback,
before they were sunk; for it was my intention to have Number Three
destroy all the wrecks which are not worth saving.

“I have even sounded the Washington officials in the matter of aiding
me in the work of destroying these derelicts; but I find that the
Hydrographic Office is trying to get an appropriation from Congress to
build a vessel of about 800 tons burden, especially for the work of
blowing up these wrecks. Until that matter is decided, of course I can
get no bonus on what I do.

“Nevertheless,” Mr. Pepper continued, “I believe that there is money
enough in it to amply reward me for my outlay. Why, look at that New
England whaler which found the British ship Resolute fast in the ice of
Melville Bay in the summer of ’55.

“She was one of three vessels sent out by the British government to
find Sir John Franklin. She was ‘nipped’ by the ice in the winter
of ’51 and was abandoned. The whaler brought her to New London, and
Congress bought her for $200,000 salvage and sent her to England. Of
course, I shouldn’t expect to get many such prizes as that,” and the
little man laughed, “but I do expect to make a handsome profit on the
venture.”

“Take, for instance, the case of the Silver Swan. I’ll make you a
proposition, Brandon, and you see if it isn’t a fair one. Caleb shall
judge himself. I’ll send the whaleback out after the brig at my own
expense. If we are successful and find the derelict and tow her to
port, I will take the cargo (I know it to be a valuable one) for my
pains--of course, not including the diamonds, which are your own
personal property, my boy. The brig herself is Caleb’s, any way,
according to the terms of your father’s will. Now what do you say?”

“I say it’s a good offer!” exclaimed Caleb, slapping his thigh
heartily. “You’re a man and a gentleman, Adoniram. And far from
thinking this scheme of yours crazy, I think well of it--mighty well.”

“That’s because it ‘hits you where you live,’ as the saying is,”
returned Mr. Pepper, smiling slily.

“Oh, I don’t know anything about whalebacks,” began Caleb.

“But you will,” the merchant declared, interrupting him. “I haven’t got
through with my proposition yet.”

“Fire ahead, old man,” said Caleb puffing steadily on his pipe.

“Well, then, first I want you for the captain of the steamer, Caleb.”

“Yes, so I supposed,” remarked the mate of the Silver Swan
imperturbably. “What else?”

“I want Brandon for second mate.”

“Me?” exclaimed Don. “Why, I never was aboard a steamship in my life.”

“Oh, that doesn’t make any difference, Don,” returned Caleb
sarcastically. “It would be just like him (if he wanted to) to send the
vessel out with every blessed one of the crew landlubbers. It don’t
make a particle o’ difference.”

“Now, Caleb,” said the merchant deprecatingly.

“No, Adoniram, we can’t do it. The boy knows nothing at all about a
steamship, and I know but little more.”

“You’ve been mate on a steamer, Caleb.”

“On a dredger, you mean,” returned the old sailor, in disgust.

“There’s no reason why you can’t do it--both of you,” the ship owner
declared. “If I’m satisfied, _you_ ought to be. I’ve already engaged
Lawrence Coffin for mate.”

“Coffin!” ejaculated Caleb, his face lighting up, as he forgot to
pull on his pipe in his interest. “Got _him_, eh? Well, that puts a
different complexion on the matter. I could sail the Great Eastern with
Lawrence Coffin for mate.”

“I thought so,” said Mr. Pepper, laughing gleefully. “Then I’ve got
a man by the name of Bolin for third. He’s a good man, and knows his
business, too.”

“That would make Don’s duties pretty light,” said Caleb reflectively.

“Of course. I shall put in rather a larger crew than a whaleback
usually carries--fourteen at least,” Mr. Pepper added; “to handle the
cargoes I shall expect the steamer to recover.”

“Well, well,” said Caleb, rising; “let’s sleep on it. It’s never best
to decide on anything too quickly.”

“If you’ll take up with my offer,” concluded the merchant, rising, too,
“the craft can be made ready, and you can get away this day week.”

“Let’s think it over,” repeated the old sailor, bound not to be hurried
into the business; but Don went to bed so excited by the prospect that
it was hours before he was able to sleep.

“Did a fellow _ever_ have a better chance for fun and adventure?” was
his last thought as he finally sank into a fitful slumber.



CHAPTER XXII

INTO BAD COMPANY


IF I were to follow up my own inclinations I should much prefer to stay
in the company of Brandon Tarr and of his two good friends, the honest,
hearty old seaman, Caleb Wetherbee, and the jovial, philanthropic ship
owner, Adoniram Pepper. And I feel sure that the reader, too, would
much prefer to remain with them.

But, for the sake of better understanding that which is to follow, I
shall be obliged for a short time to request the company of the reader
in entirely different scenes, and among rather disreputable characters.

Mr. Alfred Weeks, who had been in receipt of so many favors in times
past from the firm of Adoniram Pepper & Co., is the first person who
will receive our attention.

Weeks was “an effect of a cause.” He was of the slums, his ancestry
came from the slums; he was simply, by accident of education
(compulsory education, by the way) once removed from the usual “gutter
snipe” of the city streets.

Who his parents were, he could not, for the life of him, have told.
I do not mean to suggest for an instant that Weeks was not to be
pitied; but that he was deserving of pity I deny. He had been saved
from the debasing influences of the reform school in his youth by
a philanthropic gentleman (who might have been the twin of Adoniram
Pepper), and sent to a Western State where he was clothed, fed, and
educated by a kind hearted farmer, whom he repaid by theft and by
finally running away.

Then he went from one thing to another, and from place to place,
and you may be sure that neither his morals nor his habits improved
during the progression. Finally at twenty-five, he drifted back to the
metropolis, and quickly found his old level again--the slums. Here he
likewise discovered many of the acquaintances of his youth, for he had
been a boy of twelve when he had been sent West.

Among these old friends he was known as “Sneaky” (a very appropriate
appellation, as we have seen), “Alfred Weeks” being the name given him
by his Western benefactor. The fellow was a most accomplished hypocrite
and it was by the exercise of this attribute that he had obtained
the situation as Adoniram Pepper’s clerk, and kept it for ten years,
despite many of his evil deeds coming to the knowledge of the shipping
merchant.

Not one of the three persons who had been in the office that afternoon
when his presence in the wardrobe was discovered, realized how
thoroughly bad at heart Weeks was, or how dangerous an enemy they had
made. Even Caleb Wetherbee did not fully recognize it.

But they _had_ made an enemy, and within twenty-four hours that enemy
was at work to undermine and thwart their plans.

Weeks had overheard enough of the story of the Silver Swan and her
valuable cargo to make it an easy matter for him to decide on a line
of action which might lead to his own benefit, as well as to the
compassing of his much desired revenge.

He solaced his wounded feelings the evening after his dismissal
from the ship owner’s office by a trip to his favorite resort--the
Bowery Theater--where he again drank in the highly colored sentences
and romantic tableaux of that great drama “The Buccaneer’s Bride.”
Unfortunately, however, he was forced to remain standing during the
play for obvious reasons; the seats of the theater were not cushioned.

The next forenoon he adorned himself in the height of Bowery style, and
strolled down past the scene of his former labors and on toward that
rendezvous known as the New England Hotel. He had his plans already
mapped out, and the first thing to do was to join forces with Jim
Leroyd, whom he knew very well by reputation, at least, as did a great
many others among the denizens of lower New York.

But as he strolled along Water Street he discovered something which
slightly changed his plans. Perhaps, to be exact, I should say that he
discovered _somebody_.

On the opposite side of the thoroughfare was a weazen faced old man,
with bowed shoulders, and not altogether steady feet. He was dressed in
rusty black clothes of a pattern far remote from the present day.

Evidently he was quite confused by his surroundings and by the crowd
which jostled him on the walk.

“What a chance for a ‘bunco man,’” exclaimed the festive Alfred, under
his breath. “That’s country, sure enough. I wonder how it ever got
here all alone,” and the philanthropic ex-clerk crossed the street at
once and fell into the old man’s wake.

Despite his countrified manner, however, there was an air of shrewd,
suspicious intelligence about the man of the rusty habiliments.
Fortunately for the success of his further plans, Weeks did not seek to
accost him at once.

Had he done so he would have aroused the countryman’s suspicions. The
latter had come warned and forearmed against strangers who sought his
acquaintance.

As they went along, the old man ahead and Weeks in the rear, the latter
discovered that the countryman was seeking for something. He went along
slowly, with his eyes fixed on the signs on either side, studying each
new one as it came in view with apparent interest.

Finally he stopped on the corner of a cross street and looked about him
at the rushing, hurried life in perplexity. Now was Mr. Week’s chance.

He strolled slowly along toward the old fellow, the only person without
an apparent object, in that whole multitude.

As the ex-clerk expected, the countryman accosted him.

“Say, mister,” he said, in his harsh, cracked voice, which rose plainly
above the noise of the street, “kin you tell me the whereabouts of the
New England Hotel?”

“Whew!” thought Mr. Weeks. “Pretty shady locality for a respectable
farmer. Wonder what the old fellow wants _there_?”

Then aloud he said:

“I’m going along there myself, sir; it is several blocks yet.”

“Wal, ’t seems ter me,” snarled the other, taking his place by the side
of Weeks, “thet this ’ere street hain’t got no end, nor no numbers ter
speak of. I looked in one o’ them things over at the hotel--a d’rectory
I b’lieve the clerk called it--but I don’t see as it helped me any.”

“It’s pretty hard for a stranger to find his way about New York, that’s
a fact.”

The old fellow flashed a sudden look at his companion, which was not
lost on the sly Weeks. The farmer had “read up” on “bunco men” and
their ways, and expected that the polite stranger would suggest showing
him about the city a little.

But Weeks didn’t; he wasn’t that kind.

Finding that the fellow seemed totally uninterested as to whether he
found his way about the metropolis or not, the countryman gained a
little confidence in his new acquaintance.

“New York streets hain’t much like Providence streets,” he said. “Ye
_kin_ find yer way ’round them; but I defy any one ter know whether
they’re goin’ straight here, or not.”

Mr. Weeks smiled and nodded, but let the other do most of the talking.
He went on the principle that if you give a fool rope enough he’ll
hang himself; and although the old fellow thought himself exceedingly
shrewd, and took pains to dodge the real object of his visit to New
York, in seeking to be pleasant to his new acquaintance he “gave the
whole thing dead away,” as the astute Alfred mentally expressed it.

“Ye see,” said the old man. “I’m down here a-lookin for my nevvy,
Brandon, who’s run away from me. Nothing else would ha’ got me down
here right in the beginnin’ of the spring work.”

Weeks started slightly, but otherwise showed no signs of special
interest; but as the old fellow ran on about the terrible state he
expected his affairs would be in because of his absence, Mr. Alfred
Weeks did some pretty tall thinking.

“Brandon is no common name,” so the ex-clerk communed with himself. “I
bet there hasn’t been _two_ Brandons come to New York within the past
few days--both from Rhode Island, too.

“This is the old uncle I heard the young chap mention. He’s down here
after the boy, eh? But I’m betting there’s something else behind it.
Now, let’s see; what does he want at the New England Hotel?

“Leroyd, so young Tarr said, had been up to Rhode Island to see him.”
Weeks thought, continuing his train of reasoning. “Passed himself off
to _him_, at least, as old Wetherbee. Oh, Jim’s a keen one, he is!
Now Leroyd’s at the hotel--at least, he _has_ been. What is this old
scarecrow going there for?

“There’s a great big rat in the toe of this stocking,” Mr. Weeks
assured himself. “This uncle is an old scamp, that’s _my_ opinion.”
(Mr. Weeks knew a scamp when he saw one--excepting when he looked in
the glass.) “I’d wager a good deal that he and Jim understand each
other pretty well.

“Probably Jim has let the old fellow into the fact that there’s
treasure aboard that brig, hoping to get him to back him in an attempt
to find it. By the cast in the old man’s eye, I reckon he’s always on
the lookout for the almighty dollar. Now, he and Jim are going to try
and hitch horses together, I bet. And am I in this? I betcher! with
both feet!”

With this elegant expression, Mr. Weeks drew up before the uninviting
resort known as the New England Hotel.



CHAPTER XXIII

MR. ALFRED WEEKS AT A CERTAIN CONFERENCE


“HERE we are, mister,” said the ex-clerk; “see, there’s the sign--New
England Hotel. Did you expect to find your runaway nephew here?”

“No-o,” replied old Arad Tarr, eying the place with a good deal of
disfavor.

“See here,” said Weeks slowly, “I’ve been trying to remember
whereabouts I’ve heard that name ‘Brandon’ before. It’s not a common
name, you know.”

“No, ’taint common. D’ye thing ye’ve seen Brandon since he’s been here
in New York? He’s only been here two days, I reckon,” said old Arad
eagerly.

“Perhaps.”

“Where was he?” queried the old man. “I’m his lawful guardeen, an’ I’m
a-goin’ ter hev him back, now I tell ye!”

“Let’s see; his name is Brandon Tarr, isn’t it?”

“That’s it; that’s it,” Arad declared.

“And he came from Chopmist, Rhode Island?”

“Sartin. You must have seen him, mister.”

“I guess I have,” said Weeks reflectively. “He was the son of a Captain
Horace Tarr, lost at sea on the Silver Swan not long ago, eh?”

“The very feller!” cried Arad, with manifest delight.

“Then I guess I can help you find him,” declared Weeks cheerfully.
“Let’s go inside and I’ll tell you how I happened to run across him.
It’s not a very nice looking place, this isn’t; but they know me here
and it won’t be safe for them to treat any of my friends crooked.”

The old man, who had forgotten all about bunco men and their ilk in
his anxiety to recover his nephew, followed him into the bar room. The
place was but poorly patronized at this hour of the day, and with a
nod to Brady, who, his face adorned with a most beautiful black eye,
was behind the bar, Weeks led the way to an empty table in the further
corner.

“What’ll you an’ your friend hev ter drink?” inquired Mr. Brady, with
an atrocious grin.

“Oh, a bottle of sarsaparilla,” responded Weeks carelessly, and when
the bull necked barkeeper had brought it, the ex-clerk paid for the
refreshment himself.

Old Arad had looked rather scared at the appearance of the bottle. His
mind at once reverted to the stories he had read in the local paper
at home (which paper he had borrowed from a neighbor, by the way) of
countrymen being decoyed into dens in New York and treated to drugged
liquor.

But as Weeks allowed the bottle to stand on the table between them
untouched throughout their conference, the old man felt easier in his
mind.

“Ye say ye’ve seen Brandon?” inquired Arad, when Jack Brady had
returned to his position behind the bar, and there was nobody within
earshot.

“Yes. I’ll tell you how it was. You see, Mr. Tarr--that’s your name,
isn’t it?--I have a position in a shipping merchant’s office as clerk.
The office is--er--closed today, so I am out. This office is that of
Adoniram Pepper & Co. Ever hear of them?”

Old Arad shook his head negatively.

“Pepper was a great friend of this Brandon’s father, so I understand.”

“Mebbe,” snarled the farmer. “Cap’n Tarr’s friends warn’t _my_ friends.”

“No? Well, your nephew steered straight for Pepper’s office, and I
believe that he’s staying at the old man’s house now--he and a man by
the name of Caleb Wetherbee.”

“Caleb Wetherbee? Gracious Peter!” ejaculated the old man. “Hez he
found _him_ so soon.”

Mr. Weeks nodded briefly.

“This Wetherbee was mate of the Silver Swan.”

“That’s the man,” muttered Arad hopelessly.

“I take it you didn’t want your nephew and this Wetherbee to meet?”
suggested Weeks shrewdly.

“No--o----well, I dunno. I--I’m erfraid ’twon’t be so easy to git
Brandon back ter the farm ef he’s found this mate.”

“Perhaps we can fix it up,” said Weeks cheerfully.

“D’ye think so?”

“Let’s see; are you his legal guardian?”

“Yes, I be,” declared Arad savagely; “on’y the papers ain’t made aout.”

“I don’t really see, then, how you can bring it about until you are
appointed,” said Mr. Weeks slowly.

“I jest kin!” asserted Arad, with confidence. “I gotter warrant here
for him.”

“Whew!” The astute Weeks looked at the old sinner admiringly. “Well,
well! you _are_ a smart one. What’s the charge?”

“Robbing me,” responded the old man. “The day he run away he took ’most
fifty dollars outer a--a beury droor. Dretful bad boy is that Brandon.”

“Yes, I should think so. Well, with that warrant I should think you had
him pretty straight.”

“D’ye think I kin find him all right?” asked Arad anxiously.

“If you can’t, I can,” responded Weeks. “I know where to put my hand on
him.”

At that moment a door at the rear of the room (within a few feet of the
table at which they were seated, in fact) opened, and a man entered.
Weeks recognized him at once as Jim Leroyd; he had seen him before,
although he could claim no speaking acquaintance with him.

Old Arad also saw and recognized the newcomer, and as the sailor passed
along the room, he caught sight of the old farmer.

“Why, dash my top lights!” he exclaimed, in surprise. “Ef here ain’t
Mr. Tarr!”

He stepped back to the table and grasped the old man’s hand most
cordially, at the same time casting a suspicious glance at Weeks. He
knew the ex-clerk by reputation, as Weeks knew _him_.

“Don’t ye be up ter any funny biz with this gentleman, Sneaky,” he
said, with a scowl. “He’s my friend.”

“Don’t you fret,” responded Weeks. “He and I were talking about his
nephew, Brandon Tarr, who was up to see you yesterday----”

Mr. Leroyd uttered a volley of choice profanity at this, and Arad was
greatly surprised.

“Came ter see yeou?” he gasped. “Er--erbout that matter we was
a-talkin’ of, Mr. Leroyd? Ye know I--I’m his legal guardeen----”

“Don’t ye be scared, Mr. Tarr,” said Weeks, who understood the
circumstances pretty well, “I can vouch for Jim, here, not playing you
false.”

“What do you know about it, anyway?” growled Jim uglily.

“Now, sit down and keep cool, Leroyd,” urged Weeks. “I know _all_ about
it. I know about your little scheme to gobble the--the _treasure_
aboard the Silver Swan----”

“Sh!” exclaimed Leroyd fiercely. “You know too much, young feller.”

“No, I know just enough, and I’ll prove it to you.”

“I s’pose ye think ye kin force yer way inter this, but ye’re mistaken.
This is the private affair o’ Mr. Tarr an’ me, an’ I warn ye ter keep
yer nose out.”

He arose as he spoke, his fierce eyes fixed threateningly upon Weeks’
impassive face.

“You come with me, Mr. Tarr, where we can talk the matter over
privately. We don’t want nothin’ o’ that swab.”

The red headed ex-clerk fairly laughed aloud at this.

“See here, Leroyd,” he said, still coolly: “you made a break for those
papers yesterday, I believe. What did you get?”

“Hey?” roared the sailor.

“I said that you made a break for those papers of Cale Wetherbee’s
yesterday,” repeated Weeks, slowly and distinctly. “Now, what did you
get?”

“Not a blamed thing,” responded the sailor frankly, after an instant’s
hesitation.

“That’s what I thought. I thought Cale Wetherbee took it altogether too
coolly if you _had_ made a haul worth anything. Now, I could tell you
something, if I thought ’twould be worth my while.”

“What is it?”

“Do you know what the treasure hidden aboard the brig consists of?”

“No,” replied Leroyd shortly, while old Arad gazed from one to the
other in bewilderment.

“Well, I do,” declared Weeks.

“Ye do?”

“Sure. I heard that Wetherbee and the boy and old man Pepper talking it
over.”

“Who’s Pepper?” growled Leroyd.

“He’s the feller who is going to back ’em in this hunt for the brig.
He’s going to furnish the vessel and all.”

“Curses on the luck!” growled the sailor again.

Here old Arad interposed. The old man’s hands were trembling violently,
and his face was pale with excitement.

“We--we must stop ’em--they ain’t got no right ter do it,” he
sputtered. “Horace Tarr was my nevvy, an’ I’m the guardeen o’ that
boy. There hain’t nobody else got no right to go arter them di’monds.”

“Diamonds!” exclaimed Leroyd. “Is _that_ the treasure?”

“Ye--es,” replied Arad hesitatingly, looking at Weeks. “I--I found a
letter from this Wetherbee, the mate of the Silver Swan, an’ it says
so. Horace’s brother Anson got ’em in South Afriky.”

“Good for you, old feller,” said Leroyd admiringly. “Ye did take my
advice, didn’t ye?”

Old Arad rubbed his hands together as though washing them with
imaginary soap, and grinned.

“Yes, diamonds is the treasure,” Weeks rejoined calmly. “Now, you’ll
start right off to find the brig with Mr. Tarr here to back you with
money, eh, Leroyd?”

“Never ye mind _what_ I’ll do,” returned Jim, uglily. “I tell ye this
hain’t none o’ your funeral, so you keep out of it, Sneaky.”

“Are you sure?” asked Weeks, with a tantalizing smile.

“Yes, I’m sure!” roared the enraged sailor.

“Well, don’t holler so loud,” the red haired one admonished him. “But I
think you’re mistaken.”

Leroyd glared at him like an angry bull dog but said nothing.

“Now I s’pose,” continued Weeks, cocking his eye at the smoke begrimmed
ceiling of the bar room, “that you expect to get a vessel an’ go in
pursuit of the Silver Swan; and that when you’ve got her you’ll tow her
in port, an’ you’ll have the salvage--that’ll be a pretty good sum.”

“And the di’monds,” interjected Arad, with an avaricious chuckle.

“Oh, will you?” said Weeks with cool sarcasm. “That remains to be seen.
You’ll have the brig fast enough: but how’ll you get the stones?”

“Why, ef we git the brig won’t the diamonds be aboard her?” queried
Arad.

“Yes, they will; but _where will they be_, aboard her? Can you tell me
that?”

Arad’s jaw fell and he stared blankly at the shrewd Weeks. Even Leroyd
was visibly moved by this statement.

“You don’t know where the diamonds are hidden,” continued Weeks,
pursuing his advantage. “You might tear that whole brig to pieces an’
not find ’em, _but I know just where they are and I can put my hand
right on ’em_!”

“You kin?” gasped old Arad.

“Is that straight, Sneaky?” demanded Leroyd, with interest.

Weeks nodded calmly.

“I believe you’re lying,” the sailor declared.

“Well you can think so if you want to,” said the ex-clerk, rising, “and
I’ll go now and find somebody to go in with me on this scheme, and I’ll
run my chances of getting to the brig first. You can have the old hulk
and welcome after I’ve been aboard her five minutes, Leroyd.

“But, if you’ll let me in on the ground floor of this,” he continued,
“and give me one third of all there is in it, why all right. If you
don’t, probably you’ll get nothing, while me and the other fellow’ll
get it _all_,” and Mr. Weeks smiled benignantly upon his audience.



CHAPTER XXIV

HOW A NEFARIOUS COMPACT WAS FORMED


“BUT yeou can’t do that!” cried old Arad Tarr, the first to break
the silence after Mr. Weeks had delivered what might be termed his
“ultimatum.” “There hasn’t anybody got airy right ter go arter them
di’monds, but them I send.”

“That is where you make an error, Mr. Tarr,” responded Weeks
cheerfully. “This is what is called ‘treasure trove;’ the fellow who
gets there first has the best right to it.”

“It ben’t so, is it?” whined the old man, appealing to Leroyd.

“Yes, I s’pose it is,” admitted the sailor, with a growl. “He’s got us
foul, old man.”

“Now, don’t talk that way, Leroyd,” exclaimed Weeks briskly. “We three
must strike hands and share evenly in this thing. You need me, any way,
though I can get along without either of you; for you know it wouldn’t
take me long to find a man to back me with a couple of hundred dollars
against the chance of winning thousands.”

“Well, you’re right,” said the sailor, seeing that it would be for his
advantage to make terms with “Sneaky Al,” as the red haired Weeks was
familiarly called.

“Two hundred dollars is an awful lot of money ter risk,” muttered old
Arad, knowing that he was the one who would be expected to furnish the
“sinews of war.”

“’Tain’t much compared with mebbe three hundred thousand dollars. I
heered Cap’n Tarr say, myself, that there was enough o’ them di’monds,
ter make a man fabulously rich,” responded Leroyd quickly. “That’d be a
clean hundred thousand for each of us.”

“But ef I furnish the money I’d oughter hev more o’ th’ returns,”
declared the farmer, who was quite as sharp as either of his companions.

“Come, we won’t quarrel over that,” the sailor declared, rising again.
“But we want to talk this matter over where it’s more quiet like. I’ve
got a room here. Let’s go up to it, where we shan’t be disturbed.”

“Now you’re talking sense,” Weeks declared, rising gingerly from the
chair in which he had again seated himself.

At that instant Mr. Brady, who had been kept busy at the bar by
transient customers for the past half hour, called Leroyd over to him.

“Now, look a-here, Jim,” he said, in a hoarse aside, “wot be you
an’ Sneaky Al up to? Dere ain’t goin’ ter be no game played on dat
countryman here, see? Ye got me inter ’nough trouble yest’day. Ef I
hadn’t a pull in dis ward, dey’d er--nabbed me, sure.”

“Don’t you fret, Jack,” responded Leroyd reassuringly. “We ain’t inter
any bunco business. The old man knows what he’s about, ef he _does_
look like a hay-seed. Ef he don’t do _us_, it’ll be lucky.”

“Well, what’s de game?” Brady demanded.

“Never you mind, old man. We’re just going up stairs for a private
confab, an’ ef things turn out right, I kin promise a cool hundred for
keeping your mouth shut. Savey?”

Brady nodded.

“I’m mum,” he said, with satisfaction. “On’y I don’t want dem cops down
on me ag’in, so mind yer eye.”

Armed with a bottle and glasses, Leroyd led the way into a small room
a good deal nearer the roof of the building, in which the New England
Hotel was located. His two companions, however, left the sailor to
dispose of the refreshments alone; the old farmer because he had never
used liquor in any shape at home, and Weeks because he proposed to keep
his brain perfectly clear that he might be sure to retain the “whip
hand” of the other conspirators.

It is not my purpose to report verbatim the plans of the three
villains. Let it suffice to say that after much discussion, and by
virtue of coaxings, threatenings, promises, and what not, the sailor
and Weeks (who saw at once that it would be for their mutual advantage
to play into each other’s hands) obtained old Arad Tarr’s consent to
furnish them with the sum of over two hundred dollars (and more if it
was found to be actually needed) with which to charter the vessel.

You may be sure that the two rascals never worked harder (with their
tongues) for two hundred dollars in their lives, for the amount looked
as large to old Arad as ten thousand would to almost any other man.

The plot of the conspirators likewise included the discovery of
Brandon’s whereabouts and his arrest on the charge of robbery, as set
forth in the warrant with which Arad supplied himself before he left
Rhode Island. This part of the scheme Weeks proposed to attend to.

Then, with a great deal of flourish and legal formula, the astute Mr.
Weeks drew up a most wonderful document (he was well versed in legal
phrases), which bound each of the three, Arad Tarr, James Leroyd, and
Alfred Weeks, to a co-partnership, the object of which was to seek and
obtain the floating hulk of the Silver Swan, and the treasure thereon,
the profit of the venture to be divided equally between them, excepting
the sum of one thousand dollars which was to go to Arad Tarr under
_any_ circumstances. And, of course, the document wasn’t worth the
paper on which it was written.

But the old man didn’t know this. He was a great worshiper of the
law, and he trusted in the legality of the paper to hold his partners
to their promises. He lost sight, however, of the fact that the two
men were going together on the quest for the Silver Swan, and that
he--well, _he_ was to stay at home, and _wait_. Waiting isn’t very hard
work, to be sure; but it is terribly wearing.

These several things having been accomplished, and it being long past
noon, the conspirators went their different ways--old Arad to interview
the brokerage firm of Bensell, Bensell & Marsden, which, he was sure,
was cheating him out of his dividends: Weeks to hunt up a scaly friend
of his to serve the warrant upon unsuspicious Brandon; and Leroyd to
look about for a vessel which could be converted to their purpose in
the shortest possible time.

And now, let us return to Brandon and his two good friends, Caleb
Wetherbee and Adoniram Pepper, and find out how much progress _they_
have made in the quest of the Silver Swan.



CHAPTER XXV

UNCLE ARAD MAKES AN ANNOUNCEMENT


IF Caleb Wetherbee passed as sleepless a night as did his young friend,
Brandon, he showed no signs of it when he appeared the next morning.
They were a very jolly party indeed at the breakfast table, for the old
sailor had recovered, to some extent at least, his equanimity when in
the presence of Miss Frances.

“Now, Caleb, have you decided to accept my offer of last evening?”
Adoniram inquired, as they arose after the meal.

“Let’s see the steamer,” returned the sailor, noncommittally; so the
merchant and his two guests went down to the docks at once.

To a person who has never seen a whaleback steamer, the first view of
one is certainly a most surprising sight. He is at once reminded of
Jules Verne’s great story of the Nautilus, the wonderful steel ship
which could sail equally well below and upon the surface of the ocean.

Number Three was more than two hundred feet in length, and was shaped
like a huge cigar, the blunt end, oddly enough, being the bow. This
blunt “nose” is what suggested the term “pig,” as applied to the
whalebacks when first they appeared on the Great Lakes.

At the forward end of the steamer a turret arose from the curved deck,
furnished with one of the American Ship Windlass Co.’s steam windlasses
(with the capstan above), and with hand steering gear, the shaft and
hub of the wheel being of brass to avoid affecting the compass.

The cabin aft, which was fifteen feet above the deck, and therefore
presented a most astonishing appearance, was supported by two turrets,
and several strong ventilating pipes, the latter connecting with the
engine room, fire hold, and cargo hold.

A low rail ran from bow to stern of the steamer, on either side,
inclosing the turrets within its shelter, thus making it possible for
the crew to go from the aft to the forward turrets.

The deck, however, was so curved that the feat would not be easy to
perform in rough weather, if the whaleback _did_ roll as do other
vessels.

“Ye call that a steamer, do ye?” demanded Caleb, in disgust, when he
first caught sight of Number Three; but after he had gone aboard, and
seen and understood the advantages the whaleback possessed over the
other seagoing craft, he no longer scoffed.

Adoniram first led them to the officers’ quarters. These were finished
in oak, and furnished almost as sumptuously as the cabin of a fancy
yacht. The suite contained a dining room of comfortable size, and a
chart room and offices on the port side of the cabin.

Below deck were the quarters of the crew, forward and aft, and they
were as comfortable as those on a palatial ocean steamship.

“It’s a wonderful boat,” Brandon declared, as they examined the engine.

“It is that,” the ship owner assented. “I paid a pretty penny for her,
but she’s worth it--every cent. She’ll outride any gale that ever blew,
as long as you keep her in deep water. ’Twould be hard to sink her.

“In the matter of ballast,” he continued, “there are arrangements for
carrying eight hundred ton of water--water is used altogether for
ballast in these whalebacks. Then the engines are of the newest build,
too, you see.

“The steam is generated from these two steel boilers, each eleven and
a half feet in diameter by the same in length, possessing a working
pressure of one hundred and twenty-five pounds. If the engine goes back
on you, you will have to get out the oars and row ashore, for there is
no chance for raising a sail,” and the jolly ship owner laughed good
naturedly.

“Well, I’ve been to sea on a good many craft--most anything that would
float, in fact, from a torpedo boat to a Chinese junk--but this takes
the bun,” Caleb declared as they stepped upon the dock again.

“Then I take it you’ll try your hand at this?” Adoniram asked slily.

“Oh, yes, I s’ppose so, Pepperpod--and the boy, too. By the way, does
Lawrence Coffin know anything about this craft?”

“He went to West Superior (where she was built) and came down in her,”
declared the merchant.

“It’s all right, then. He’ll know what to do if we get to sea and the
blamed thing should roll over.”

But despite the fact that he scoffed at the vessel, Caleb set to work
with his customary energy to make ready for the voyage.

The ship owner gave him _carte blanche_ to provision the whaleback and
secure the crew. The engineers and firemen were already engaged and the
work of making ready for sea went on rapidly.

Caleb being a worker himself, expected a good deal of everybody about
him and Brandon found himself with plenty to do during the next two
days. He ran errands, and bought provisions under the old sailor’s
directions, and saw to the storing away of the articles purchased.

On the morning of the third day, however, came an interruption, and one
which promised to be most serious.

In these times of hurried preparation Caleb and his young second
mate made the Water Street office of Adoniram Pepper & Co. their
headquarters. They were in and out of the place a score of times a day
to the satisfaction of Adoniram, but, if the truth were told, to the
great annoyance of the solemn faced young man whom Mr. Marks had sent
up from the other office to take the place of the departed Weeks.

About ten o’clock on this forenoon Brandon ran in to see if he could
find Caleb, as that individual was not at the dock where lay the
whaleback, and where the boy had expected to meet him.

“Where do you suppose he has gone?” Don asked of Mr. Pepper, who, good
soul, seemed to have no other business on hand but the getting ready of
the steamer.

“I don’t know, I’m sure. You’d better sit down, my boy, and wait for
him,” advised Adoniram kindly. “He’s sure to turn up here, first or
last.”

So Brandon sat down, striving to stifle his impatience. He had not
waited ten minutes, however, when the door of the outer office was
opened, and somebody entered.

“Here he is now,” exclaimed the youth, thinking he heard Caleb’s voice.

He threw open the door between the two offices, gave one glance into
the apartment beyond, and staggered to the nearest chair in utter
amazement.

“Great Peter! it’s Uncle Arad!” he gasped, in answer to Adoniram’s
questioning exclamation, and the next instant Uncle Arad himself
appeared at the open portal of the private office.

“Thar ye air, ye young reskil!” exclaimed the old man, shaking his bony
forefinger at the youth.

Behind him was another man--a clean shaven, foxy looking fellow, who,
when old Arad had pointed the boy out, stepped quickly into the room.

“Well, well!” exclaimed Brandon, recovering in part from his surprise.
“Who’d have thought of seeing _you_ here, Uncle Arad!”

“Not yeou, I warrant!” cackled the old man shrilly. “I s’pose ye
thought ye c’d git off scott free with yer ill gotten gains, didn’t ye?”

“What?”

Brandon’s face flamed up redly, and he sprang to his feet in rage.

“What do you mean?” he demanded.

“Don’t ye let him escape, officer!” the farmer exclaimed, shrinking
back. “He’s quick’s a cat.”

But here Adoniram took a hand in the proceedings.

“I should like to know, sir, what you mean by this?” he said, his gray
eyes flashing behind the tip tilted eye glasses. “Brandon is under _my_
care, sir, and I will not allow such remarks to be addressed to him.”

No one would have believed that it was the jolly Adoniram, to see his
face now. The habitual smile had disappeared entirely.

“I dunno who yeou be,” Arad replied defiantly; “but I kin tell ye who I
be, purty quick. I’m Arad Tarr; this young reskil here is my nevvy; an’
I’m his nateral an’ lawful guardeen.”

“Ah!” said Mr. Pepper, with quiet sarcasm. “So you are his guardian,
are you? How long since?”

“How long since?” repeated the old man, in a rage. “I’ll show ye! I’ve
_allus_ been his guardeen--leastways, since his pa died.”

“Which occurred a little over two months ago,” said Adoniram briefly.
“Now, Mr. Tarr, for I suppose that is your name, where are your papers
making you this lad’s guardian? Who appointed you?”

“I’m his nateral guardeen now,” old Arad declared slowly; “but I’m
goin’ to be ’p’inted by the court.”

“What court?”

“The Court o’ Probate, o’ Scituate, R. I.,” responded the farmer
pompously.

“Well, I think not,” said Adoniram, who was probably never more angry
in his life than at that moment. “You have made a slight mistake, Mr.
Tarr.”

“Hey?” returned the farmer, growing red in the face, and looking
daggers at the little merchant.

“I say you have made a slight mistake. You will _not_ be appointed
guardian of Brandon, by any court in the land. Did it ever occur to you
that Captain Horace Tarr might have made a will?”

“A will?” gasped the old man.

“Yes, sir, a will.”

“But he didn’t hev nothin’ ter will, ’ceptin----”

“Well, excepting what?” Mr. Pepper demanded, as the other hesitated.

“Nothin’.”

“Well, he _did_ have something to will, and he appointed me joint
guardian, with another gentleman, and _you_, Mr. Tarr, are _not_ the
party named to assist me. We have already made application in the New
York courts to have the appointment allowed and the will has been
presented for probate.”

“I--I don’t believe it!” shouted Arad.

“You’re not obliged to. But that doesn’t affect the facts of the case,
just the same.”

For a moment the farmer was quite nonplussed: but then he looked at the
man he had brought with him again, and his faith revived.

“Ye can’t escape me this way, ye young varmint!” he exclaimed, turning
upon Brandon as though he were some way at fault for the wrecking of
his plans. “Mebbe I hain’t your guardeen, but I’ve power ’nough right
here ter lug ye back ter Scituate an’ put yer through fur stealin’ that
money.”

“What money?” demanded Brandon, white with rage. “To what do you refer?”

“That fifty dollars ye stole f’om me--that’s what I mean,” old Arad
declared. “Th’ money ye stoled f’om my beury droor. I gotter warrant
right here fur ye, ’n’ this officer ter serve it!”



CHAPTER XXVI

CALEB WETHERBEE OBSTRUCTS THE COURSE OF THE LAW


BRANDON was fairly paralyzed by Uncle Arad’s announcement. He had
realized that the old man was sorely disappointed at his inability to
keep him on the farm. He had not, however, believed he would follow him
clear to New York, and hatch up such a scheme as this to get him again
in his power.

“You old scoundrel!” he exclaimed, too enraged for the moment to
remember that he was speaking to a man whose age, if not his character,
should command his respect.

“Hush, Don,” commanded Adoniram Pepper admonishingly. “It will not
better matters to vituperate. Mr. Tarr,” he added, turning to the
farmer, “do you realize what a serious charge you have made against
your nephew?”

“I reckon I do,” Arad declared with vigor. “I got it all down here on
er warrant--Squire Holt made it aout hisself. I’m er-goin’ ter hev that
boy arrested for burglarizing me. Now you go erhead, Mr. Officer, an’
arrest him.”

“Wait a moment,” and Adoniram stepped quickly in front of Don before
the foxy looking man could lay his hand upon the boy’s shoulder.

“Let me see that warrant?” he said.

The officer passed the paper over with a flourish, and Adoniram
examined it closely.

“Why,” he exclaimed, shortly, “this is returnable to the Rhode Island
courts.”

“Of course it is,” snarled old Arad.

“But do you propose taking the boy back to Rhode Island?”

“Yes, I do.”

“But can’t this be settled here, officer?” asked Adoniram nervously,
knowing that any such delay as this would ruin their plans for an early
start after the Silver Swan.

“No, sir; the robbery was committed in Rhode Island--it must be tried
there,” replied the officer, with a crafty smile.

Adoniram handed the warrant back in utter bewilderment; but at that
juncture the door opened again, and Caleb Wetherbee himself stumped in.

“Hey! what’s this?” the old seaman demanded, seeing instantly that
something was up.

Old Arad tried to shrink out of sight behind the officer’s back as he
viewed Caleb’s fear inspiring proportions.

“This is my _dear_ Uncle Arad, Caleb,” Brandon hastened to say, “and he
has come all the way from Rhode Island to arrest me and take me back.”

“For what?” cried Caleb, aghast.

“For robbing him; so he says. Isn’t he kind?”

Brandon was fairly furious, but he trusted in the old seaman to get him
out of his relative’s clutches.

“Robbing him!”

Caleb’s face grew red with rage.

“What d’ye mean, ye old scamp?”

“He _hez_ robbed me,” Arad shrieked.

“See here,” Caleb said coolly, “this looks to me like petty
persecution, don’t it to you, ’Doniram? I reckon the courts would see
it that way, too.”

“The courts’ll send that reskil ter the State reform school--that’s
what they’ll do,” Arad declared.

“So it’s locking him up you’re after, eh?” returned Caleb. “Now,
Brandon, don’t you worry about this. We kin have it fixed up in no
time.”

“But the boy’s got to be taken to Rhode Island,” exclaimed Adoniram.
“It will be a matter of weeks.”

“Weeks?” roared Caleb. “Why, the steamer sails Tuesday. He can’t go.”

“I guess, mister, that you won’t have much to do with it,” remarked the
man with the warrant officiously. “This warrant is returnable to the
Rhode Island courts, and to Rhode Island he must go. If the boy had
wanted to go on a voyage he shouldn’t have stolen the money.”

Caleb actually roared at this and shook his huge fist in the fellow’s
face. Adoniram hastened to keep the peace.

“How do we know you are an officer?” he demanded sternly. “This is a
most atrocious action on Mr. Tarr’s part, and for all we know you may
be party to it.”

The officer smiled slily, and throwing back his coat showed his badge.

“I’m a dep’ty sheriff an’ don’t you fear,” he said. “The boy must come
along.”

But as he reached out to clutch Don, the big sailor seized the youth
and whirled him in behind him, placing himself between the officer and
his prisoner.

“Don’t be too fast,” he said.

“Do you dare resist arrest?” the officer demanded angrily.

“Nobody’s resisted you, yet.”

His huge bulk, however, barred all approach to Don, who was now between
all the others and the outer door.

“If you arrest this boy you’ll seriously inconvenience our plans, an’
we’ll make you sweat for it, now I tell ye.”

“I don’t care; I’m er--goin’ ter hev him took up!” shrieked old Arad,
to whom all this delay was agonizing.

“You shut that trap of yours!” roared Caleb, turning upon the old man
in a fury. “Don’t ye dare open it ag’in w’ile ye’re here, or there’ll
be an assault case in court, too.”

Old Arad dodged back out of range of the sailor’s brawny fist with
great celerity.

“Do----don’t ye let him tetch me, officer,” he implored, jerking his
bandanna from the pocket of his shiny old black coat, and wiping his
face nervously.

With the handkerchief came forth a letter which fell at Mr. Pepper’s
feet; but for the moment nobody but the merchant himself saw it.

Brandon, who was directly behind the seaman, leaned forward and
whispered something in Caleb’s ear. The old seaman’s face lit up in an
instant, and he changed his position so that his burly form completely
blocked the doorway leading into the outer office.

“So you won’t settle this thing out o’ court, eh?” he demanded.

The officer shook his head.

“It’s gone too far,” he said.

“It has, hey?” Caleb exclaimed in wrath. “Well, so’ve _you_ gone too
far.” Then he exclaimed, turning to Don: “Leg it, lad! We’ll outwit the
landlubber yet.”

“Hi! stop him! stop him!” shrieked Uncle Arad, for at the instant Caleb
had spoken, Don had darted back to the street door and thrown it open.

“Good by, Uncle Arad!” the captain’s son cried mockingly. “I’ll see you
when I’ve returned from the West Indies.”

He was out in a moment, and the door slammed behind him.

The deputy sheriff sprang forward to follow, but Caleb managed to get
his wooden leg in the way, and the officer measured his length on the
office floor, while Uncle Arad, fairly wild with rage, danced up and
down, and shrieked for the police.



CHAPTER XXVII

WHEREIN BRANDON TARR CONCEALS HIMSELF


THE doughty deputy sheriff was on his feet in an instant, and with a
wrathy glance at Caleb, dashed out of the office after the fleeing
Brandon. If he did not make the arrest he would fail to get his money,
and he did not propose to lose that.

But Uncle Arad could not get to the door without passing Caleb and he
hardly dared do that. Just then the big seaman looked in no mood to be
tampered with. The farmer, however, _did_ sputter out something about
having the law on everybody in general.

“Bring on all the law you want to, you old scarecrow,” responded Caleb,
vigorously mopping his face. “I reckon we kin take care of it. What ye
got there, Adoniram?”

Mr. Pepper had picked up the letter which had fallen from old Arad’s
pocket, and was looking at the superscription in a puzzled manner.

Arad caught sight of the epistle as quickly as did Caleb.

“That’s mine! give it here!” he cried, making a snatch at the paper.

But Adoniram held it out of his reach.

“I don’t see how you make that out, Mr. Tarr,” he said quietly. “This
letter is not addressed to you. It is in _your_ handwriting, Caleb,
and is addressed to ‘Master Brandon Tarr, Chopmist, Rhode Island.’”

“Oh, you swab!” exclaimed the old tar, with a withering glance of
contempt at old Arad, as he seized the letter. “This ’ere’s what I
wrote the boy w’en I was in the hospital--w’ich same he never got. Now,
how came _you_ by it? You old land shark!”

Arad was undeniably frightened. Although he might explain the fact of
his opening Don’s letter as eminently proper, to himself, he well knew
that he could not make these friends of his nephew see it in the same
light.

“I--I--it came arter Brandon went away,” he gasped in excuse.

“It did, hey?” exclaimed Caleb suspiciously.

Mr. Pepper took the envelope again and examined the postmark critically.

“Hum--um,” he said slowly, “postmarked in New York on the third;
received on the afternoon of the fourth at the Chopmist post office.
I’m afraid, my dear sir, that that yarn won’t wash.”

Uncle Arad was speechless, and looked from one to the other of the
stern faced men in doubt.

“He--he was my nevvy; didn’t I hev a right ter see what he had written
ter him?”

“You can bet ye didn’t,” Caleb declared with confidence, and with a
slight wink at Adoniram. “Let me tell ye, Mr. Tarr, that openin’ other
folks’ correspondence is actionable, as the lawyers say. I reckon that
you’ve laid yourself li’ble to gettin’ arrested yourself, old man.”

“Ye--ye can’t do it,” sputtered Arad.

“If that monkey of a sheriff finds Brandon (w’ich same I reckon he
won’t), we’ll see if we can’t give _you_ a taste of the same medicine.”

The old man was undeniably frightened and edged towards the door.

“I guess I better go,” he remarked hesitatingly. “I dunno as that
officer’ll be able ter ketch thet reskil.”

“No, I don’t b’lieve he will myself,” Caleb declared. “And if you want
to keep your own skin whole, you’d best see that he doesn’t touch the
lad.”

Old Arad slunk out without another word, and the two friends allowed
him to depart in contemptuous silence.

When he had disappeared Adoniram turned to the sailor at once.

“Where has Don gone, Caleb?” he asked anxiously.

“You’ve got me. He told me he was goin’ to skip, and for us to go ahead
with the preparations for getting off next week, just the same. He’d
lay low till the old scamp had given it up, and then slip aboard the
steamer. Oh, the boy’s all right.”

“He is, if that sheriff doesn’t find him,” said the merchant doubtfully.

“I’ll risk that,” responded Caleb, who had vast confidence in Brandon’s
ability to take care of himself.

But Adoniram shook his head.

“New York is a bad place for a boy to be alone in. Where will he go?”

“Down to the pier, I reckon, and hide aboard the steamer. I’ll agree to
put him away there so that no measly faced sheriff like _that_ fellow
can find him.”

“It’s a bad business,” declared Mr. Pepper, shaking his head slowly.
“If he hadn’t run off there might have been some way of fixing it up so
that he wouldn’t have had to go back to Rhode Island, and thus delay
the sailing of the steamer. We might have scared the uncle out of
prosecuting him. He was badly frightened as it was.”

Caleb gazed at his friend for several moments with a quizzical smile
upon his face.

“Do you know, Adoniram,” he said at length, “I b’lieve you’re too
innocent for this wicked world.”

“How do you mean?” asked the merchant, flushing a little, yet smiling.

“Well, you don’t seem to see anything fishy in all this.”

“Fishy?”

“Yes, fishy,” returned Caleb, sitting down and speaking confidentially.
“Several things make me believe that you (and me, too) haven’t been
half awake in this business.”

“I certainly do not understand you,” declared Adoniram.

“Well, give me a chance to explain, will you?” said the sailor
impatiently. “You seem to think that this old land shark of an uncle of
the boy’s is just trying to get him back on the farm, and has hatched
up this robbery business for that purpose? I don’t suppose you think
Don stole any money from him, do you?” he added.

“Not for an instant!” the merchant replied emphatically.

“That’s what I thought. Well, as I say, you suppose he wants Brandon
back on the farm--wants his work, in fact?”

“Ye--es.”

“Well, did it ever strike you, ’Doniram,” Caleb pursued, with a smile
of superiority on his face--“did it ever strike you that if he was
successful in proving Brandon guilty, the boy would be locked up and
then _nobody_ would get his valuable services--nobody except the State?”

“Why, that’s so.”

“Of course it’s so.”

“Then, what is his object in persecuting the poor lad? Is he doing it
just out of spite?”

“Now, see here; does that look reasonable? Do you think for a moment
that an old codger like him--stingy as they make ’em--d’ye think he’d
go ter the expense o’ comin ’way down here to New York out of revenge
simply? Well, I guess not!”

“Then, what is he up to?” demanded Adoniram, in bewilderment.

“Well, of that _I’m_ not sure, of course; but,” said Caleb, with
vehemence, “I’m willing to risk my hull advance that he’s onter this
di’mond business.

“Why, Pepper, how could he help being? Didn’t he get that letter of
mine, an’ didn’t I give the hull thing away in it, like the blamed
idiot I was? Man alive, a sharper like that feller would sell his
immortal soul for a silver dollar. What _wouldn’t_ he for a big stake
like this?”

“But--” began Adoniram.

“Hold on a minute and let me finish,” urged Caleb. “That scoundrel
Leroyd was up to Chopmist, mind ye. Who knows but what he an’ old Arad
Tarr have hitched hosses and gone inter this together? I haven’t told
either you or Brandon, for I didn’t want to worry you, but I learned
yesterday that Jim is tryin’ ter charter a craft of some kind--you an’
I know what for.

“He’s got no money; what rascal of a sailor ever has? He must have
backing, then. And who is more likely to be the backer than the old
sharper who’s just gone out of here! I tell ye, ’Doniram, _they’re
after them di’monds_, and it behooves us ter git up an’ dust if we want
ter beat ’em.”

The ship owner shook his head unconvinced.

“You may be right, of course, Caleb; I don’t say it is an
impossibility. But it strikes me that your conclusions are rather far
fetched. They are not reasonable.”

“Well, we’ll see,” responded the old seaman, pursing up his lips. “I
shall miss Brandon’s help--a handier lad I never see--but he will have
to lay low till after the whaleback sails.”

He went back to the work of getting the steamer ready for departure,
expecting every hour that Brandon would appear. But the captain’s son
did not show up that day, nor the next.

Monday came and Number Three was all ready for sailing. Her crew of
twenty men, beside the officers, were aboard.

The first and third mates were likewise present, the former, Mr.
Coffin, being a tall, shrewd looking, pleasant faced man, who eternally
chewed on the end of a cigar (except when eating or sleeping) although
he was never seen to light one; and Mr. Bolin, the third, a keen,
alert little man who looked hardly older than Brandon himself.

But Brandon did not come. The new captain of the whaleback, and the
owner himself, were greatly worried by the boy’s continued absence.

They had already set on foot inquiry for the youth’s whereabouts, but
nothing had come of it.

They did discover that Uncle Arad had gone back to Rhode Island, and
gone back alone. The “scaly” ward politician who held the onerous
position of deputy sheriff, and who had sought to arrest the boy, had
not been successful, Brandon’s friends knew, for the man haunted the
pier at which the whaleback lay, day and night.

“If he don’t come tonight, Adoniram,” Caleb declared, “we shall sail
in the morning, just the same--and that by the first streak of light,
too. _You_ will be here, and I can trust you to look out for the lad.
_I_ must be away after those di’monds. Don’ll turn up all right, I know
right well; and we mustn’t let them swabs get ahead of us, and reach
the brig first.”

He had taken the precaution ere this to have his own and Brandon’s
effects brought down to the boat. He was ready, in fact, to cast off
and steam away from the dock at a moment’s notice.

As the evening approached Caleb ordered the fires built under the
boilers, and everything to be made ready for instant departure.
Adoniram Pepper came down after dinner and remained in the whaleback’s
cabin, hoping to see Brandon once again before the steamer sailed.

Caleb was too anxious to keep still at all, but tramped back and
forth, occasionally making trips to the wheelman’s turret in which he
had stationed Mr. Coffin and one of the sailors, so as to have no delay
in starting, no matter what should happen.

“By Jove, this beats blockade running at Savannah in the sixties,”
muttered the first mate, after one of his commander’s anxious trips to
the forward turret to see that all was right. “This youngster they’re
taking all this trouble for must be a most remarkable boy.”

“There’s two fellows watching the steamer from the wharf,” Caleb
declared, entering the cabin again.

Just then there was a sound outside, and a heavy knock sounded at the
cabin door. Caleb pulled it open in an instant.

Without stood three burly police officers.

“Well, well!” exclaimed Mr. Pepper, in wonder.

“What do _you_ want?” Caleb demanded, inclined to be a little combative.

“Beg pardon, sir,” said the spokesman of the two, nodding respectfully
to Mr. Pepper, “but we’ve been sent to search the steamer for a boy
against whom this man holds a warrant,” and the officer motioned to a
third individual who stood without. It was the deputy sheriff.

“Very well,” said Mr. Pepper quietly.

“Search and be hanged,” growled Caleb, glowering at the man with the
warrant. “If you can find him you’ll have better luck than we.”

He refused to assist them in any way, however, and Mr. Bolin politely
showed the party over the whole steamer. But of course, they found not
a sign of Brandon.

After nearly an hour’s search the officers gave it up and departed,
Caleb hurling after them several sarcastic remarks about their
supposed intellectual accomplishments--or rather, their lack of such
accomplishments.

The deputy sheriff, whose name was Snaggs, by the way, would not give
it up, however, but still remained on the wharf.

Mr. Coffin, who had begun to take a lively interest in the proceedings,
was pacing the inclined deck of the whaleback on the side furtherest
from the pier, a few minutes past midnight (everybody on board was
still awake at even this late hour) when his ear caught the sound of a
gentle splash in the black waters just below him.

He stopped instantly and leaned over the rail.

“Hist!” whispered a voice out of the darkness. “Toss me a rope. I want
to come aboard.”

Mr. Coffin was not a man to show his emotions, and therefore, without a
word, he dropped the end of a bit of cable into the water, just where
he could see the faint outlines of the owner of the voice.

Hidden by the wheelhouse from the view of anybody who might be on the
wharf, he assisted the person aboard, and in a minute the mysterious
visitor stood upon the iron plates at Mr. Coffin’s side.



CHAPTER XXVIII

THE DEPARTURE OF THE WHALEBACK, NUMBER THREE


NO emergency was ever too great for Lawrence Coffin. The appearance of
the stranger whom he had lifted over the rail to the steamer’s deck may
have surprised him; but he gave no visible sign.

The instant the fellow was on his feet, Mr. Coffin slid open the door
of the wheelhouse and pushed the newcomer in.

“Jackson,” he said sharply, to the man inside, “go for Captain
Wetherbee.”

Then he turned to the dripping figure that stood just within the door
of the turret.

The stranger was a youth of fifteen or sixteen, with a sharp,
intelligent face, and his saturated clothing was little more than rags.

“Hullo!” said the mate, “_you’re_ not Brandon Tarr, I take it.”

“You kin bet on that, mister,” responded the youth grinning. “An’ you,
I reckon, ain’t Cale Wetherbee. He’s got a wooden leg.”

“I’ve sent for Mr. Wetherbee,” replied Mr. Coffin. “What do you want?”

“I’ll tell th’ boss, wot I was told ter see,” declared the fellow
shrewdly.

The youth was evidently of that great class of individuals known as
“street gamins” who, in New York City, are numbered by the thousand.

He was thin and muscular, quick in his movements, and his eyes were
shifty and uneasy, not from any lack of frankness or honesty, perhaps,
but because his mode of life forced him to be ever on the watch for
what might “happen next.”

Mr. Coffin had hardly made this mental inventory of the fellow, when
Caleb, accompanied by Mr. Pepper, came forward. The strange youth
evidently recognized the captain of the whaleback at once as the
individual he wished to see.

“You’re Captain Wetherbee,” he said quickly fumbling in the inside of
his coarse flannel shirt (the shirt and trousers were all he had on) “I
got somethin’ fur you from Brandon Tarr.”

“Where is he?” cried Mr. Pepper, in great excitement.

“He’s gone to sea, boss,” responded the boy calmly.

“Hey!” roared Caleb, and then the messenger brought forth that which he
was fumbling for--a little waterproof matchbox.

“Gone to sea?” repeated Adoniram, in bewilderment.

“Dat’s it,” said the boy. “He went day ’fore yest’day mornin’ in de
Success.”

But Caleb had opened the matchbox and drawn forth the folded paper it
contained.

“It’s a letter--the young rascal! Why didn’t he come himself?”

“Didn’t I tell ye he’d gone ter sea?” demanded the youth in disgust.

“Listen to this,” exclaimed Caleb, paying not the least attention to
the messenger’s words, and he read the closely written page aloud:

  “DEAR CALEB--Swivel is going to make a break with this letter for me,
  although the Success sails, we understand, in an hour or two. He can
  tell you how I came aboard here, so I won’t stop to do that.

  “What I want to say is, that Leroyd is aboard and that the brig will
  touch at Savannah for Mr. Pepper’s old clerk, Mr. Weeks, who is in
  the plot to find the Silver Swan, too. I shall leave her at Savannah
  if it is a possibility.

  “If you get into Savannah while she is there, however, and I don’t
  appear, try to find some way of getting me out. I’m afraid of
  Leroyd--or, that is, I should be if he knew I was here.

  “I’ve got enough to eat and drink to last me a long time and am
  comfortable. I can make another raid on the pantry, too, if I run
  short.

  “Look out for Swivel; he’s a good fellow. He can tell you all that I
  would like to, if space and time did not forbid.

                                              “Yours sincerely,
                                                          “BRANDON TARR.

  “P. S. We’ll beat these scamps and get the Silver Swan yet.”

“Well, well!” commented Mr. Pepper, in amazement. “What will that boy
do next?”

“The young rascal!” Caleb exclaimed in vexation. “What does he mean by
cutting up such didoes as this? Aboard the very vessel the scoundrels
have chartered, hey?”

“But how did he get there?” cried Adoniram wonderingly.

“This young man ought to be able to tell that,” suggested Mr. Coffin,
referring to the dripping youth.

Caleb looked from the open letter to the boy.

“So you’re Swivel, eh?” he demanded.

The lad grinned and nodded.

“Well, suppose you explain this mystery.”

But here Adoniram interposed.

“Let us take him to the cabin, and give him something dry to put on.
He’ll catch his death of cold here.”

“’Nough said. Come on,” said Caleb leading the way.

Fifteen minutes later the youth who rejoiced in the name of Swivel was
inside of warm and dry garments, several sizes too large for him, and
was telling his story to a most appreciative audience.

I will not give it in detail, and in Swivel’s bad grammar; a less
rambling account will suffice.

When Brandon Tarr had made his rapid retreat from the office of
Adoniram Pepper and Co. he had run across the street, dodged around the
first corner, and then walked hastily up town. He determined to keep
away from the office for the remainder of the day, hoping to tire out
both Uncle Arad and the deputy sheriff.

Finally he took a car and rode over to Brooklyn, and it was there that
he fell in with Swivel, who was a veritable street gamin--a “wharf-rat”
even--though a good hearted and not an altogether bad principled one.

It being a time in the day when there were no papers to sell, Swivel
(wherever the boy got the name he didn’t know, and it would have been
hard to trace its origin) was blacking boots, and while he shined
Brandon’s the two boys scraped up an acquaintance.

Fearing that Uncle Arad or the officer, or perhaps both, would be on
the watch about the shipping merchant’s office, or the steamer dock,
Brandon decided that Swivel would be a good one to have along with him
to send ahead as “scout,” and for a small sum the gamin agreed.

Brandon was a country boy, and was unfamiliar with city ways or
city conveniences. It never crossed his mind to use the telephone
communicating with his friends, and Swivel knew very little about
telephones, any way.

So they waited until toward evening and then came back to New York.

Water Street and its vicinity, and the docks, were as familiar to
Swivel as were the lanes and woods of Chopmist to Brandon. By devious
ways the gamin led the captain’s son to the ship owner’s office, but it
was quite dark by that time and the place was closed.

So they went to the pier at which the whaleback lay, and here Swivel
showed that he was of great use to Brandon, for had it not been for
him, his employer would have run straight into a trap. The deputy
sheriff, Snaggs, was watching the steamer, and no less a person than
Mr. Alfred Weeks himself, was talking with him.

By careful maneuvering the two boys got into a position from which they
could hear some of the conversation of the two rascals; but the way to
the steamer was right under Snaggs’ eye, and Brandon dared not attempt
it.

By intently listening, the captain’s son heard several important items
of news, and, greatly to his astonishment, discovered that Uncle Arad,
Leroyd, and Mr. Weeks himself were playing right into each other’s
hands, and that their object was to keep Brandon from getting back to
his friends, and thus delay the sailing of the whaleback so that the
craft on which the plotters expected to sail might get away first.

Snaggs was to keep a sharp lookout from the shoreward side of the
whaleback and there was already a man in a boat patroling the riverside
that Brandon might not return from that direction, and a third person
was “shadowing” Adoniram Pepper’s residence. The ship owner’s office
would be watched during the day.

As soon as Brandon made his appearance he was to be seized at once on
the strength of the Rhode Island warrant and sent back to Chopmist.
This, the conspirators hoped, would keep Caleb Wetherbee from sailing
for several weeks, and by that time Leroyd and the ex-clerk expected
to overhaul the Silver Swan--that is, this is what Weeks and Leroyd
themselves were planning to do; but the former took care to say nothing
about the Silver Swan to the deputy sheriff.

Finding that there was no chance to get aboard the whaleback just then,
and having heard Weeks say that he was going to meet Leroyd and that
they two were to go that night and see the vessel and her commander,
Brandon decided to follow them, and find out the name of the craft and
where she lay, believing that the information would be of value to
himself and to his friends.

Piloted by Swivel, Brandon followed “Sneaky Al” to the New England
Hotel and while the ex-clerk went inside for Leroyd the two boys waited
without, and then took up the trail again when the two conspirators
appeared.

The sailor and Weeks went over to Brooklyn and after two hours’ dodging
and running and hiding, they tracked the rascals to the brig Success,
lying at a Brooklyn wharf.

Brandon decided that it would never do to be so near and not hear the
plans the villains made with the captain of the Success, so he rashly
crept aboard and listened to the conversation at the cabin skylight.
And this was when he got into trouble.

He heard the two plotters agree with the captain of the vessel (who was
not in the scheme at all) to pay two hundred dollars for six week’s use
of the brig, providing the Success put to sea at once.

She already had a very fair cargo for Savannah, and the agreement was
that she should put in at that port for the time necessary for the
cargo to be landed.

Thus, of course, the captain, who was the owner as well, was going to
make a very good thing out of it, indeed. He asked no questions as to
what use the brig was to be put to; and he agreed to allow Leroyd to
accompany him to Savannah, where Weeks would meet them.

Brandon made a shrewd guess that the ex-clerk was to remain in New York
until he was certain of _his_ capture and incarceration; then he would
reach Savannah by steamer.

It was quite evident that the two rascals had managed to “boil” more
money out of old Arad Tarr than they had first expected, and could
afford to be more lavish with their funds.

But, as I said, the boys, by venturing aboard the Success, got into
trouble. Somebody came aft while they were listening to the conference
below, and to escape discovery, they dodged down the after hatch.

The crew of the Success were already aboard, and the two men who
constituted the “anchor watch” remained near the open hatchway (the
other hatches were battened down), and the two boys were unable to
leave the hold.

Morning came, and found them still there. The cargo was nearly all in,
and the crew went to work to finish the lading by daylight. Brandon and
Swivel retreated into the bows of the vessel, and managed to remain
hidden all day.

They did not dare leave the hold, although they suffered extremely from
lack of food and water, for Leroyd had come aboard to superintend the
work, and would have seen them.

At evening the hatches were battened down, and the unintentional
stowaways were left in darkness. But Swivel, who a shrewd and sharp
eyed lad, had noticed a small door in the cabin bulkhead by which the
cook doubtless entered the hold for provisions from time to time.

With their pocket knives they forced the fastenings of this door and
Swivel made a raid into the pantry, which was left unguarded, and
returned laden with provisions enough to last them a week if need be.
He secured a big “beaker” of water, too.

Brandon also discovered the ship’s provisions stored near the bows, and
was sure that he could stand a siege.

Leroyd, they ascertained, hardly ever left the cabin or deck of the
Success, and Brandon dared not venture out. At last, after talking the
whole matter over, Swivel agreed to take the risk of giving himself up
as a stowaway, and thus get put ashore before the brig started.

Then he was to make his way to the whaleback and explain Brandon’s
situation to Caleb.

The captain’s son wrote his letter and placed it in the matchbox, which
Swivel in turn had hidden in the breast of his shirt. Then the gamin
pounded on the hatch until the crew heard him and let him out.

Naturally the captain of the Success was angry enough, for the brig
was already to sail, and they were getting the lines cast off, so he
summoned a night watchman from the dock, who took the unlucky Swivel in
charge and handed him over to a policeman.

This was a phase of the situation which neither of the boys had
considered. But there was no way out of it, and the gamin spent the day
in the police station, for it was Sunday.

He was brought before the magistrate the next morning, but of course
there was nobody to appear against him, so he was discharged with a
reprimand. The police captain, however, kept him busy about the station
until late in the afternoon, before he would let him go.

“He kep’ me jugglin’ wid er mop er wipin’ up de floor,” as the gamin
expressed it to his hearers.

As soon as he was free he had hurried to the New York side; but upon
reaching the vicinity of the whaleback he discovered that the “patrol
line” was drawn even closer than before.

Snaggs and two of his friends were on duty, for as the time approached
for the sailing, they decided that if Brandon came back he would do so
very soon.

Swivel had seen the raid the policemen made under the deputy’s
instigation, and after the bluecoats were safely out of the way, he had
slipped into the water and made for the steamer.

“An’ here I is,” he said, in conclusion. “Dey didn’t ketch me, nor dat
Brandon Tarr, nuther. We’s too fly for ’em.”

“Of all the scrapes I ever heard of, this is the worst,” Adoniram
exclaimed in comment.

But Caleb, now that his fears for Don’s safety were somewhat allayed,
seemed rather to enjoy the situation.

“Oh, that boy’s smart,” he declared, with a chuckle. “I’ll risk him
even if he is in that vessel’s hold. Leroyd won’t get the best of
_him_. Probably, too, the captain of the Success is not a bad sort of a
fellow, an’ he won’t see the boy maltreated.

“I feel better, ’Doniram, and with your permission we’ll get under way
at once.”

“But what shall we do with this lad?” asked the little merchant,
nodding and smiling at Swivel. “He’s deserving of much praise for his
honesty and faithfulness.”

“Oh, take me along, will yer?” exclaimed the gamin, with eagerness.
“I’ll work _hard_ ef ye will! I jest wanter see dis thing out, I do! I
like dat Brandon Tarr, an’ I wanter see him git the di’monts wot he
said was on dat wreck yer arter. Say, lemme go, will yer?”

Caleb looked at the ship owner in perplexity.

“Oh, take him, Caleb,” said Adoniram quickly. “It may be the making of
the lad to get him off the city streets. He deserves it.”

“So be it then,” said Caleb, rising. “Now, Mr. Coffin and Mr. Bolin--to
work! You’ll have to go ashore at once, Adoniram. I shall have Number
Three out of her berth in half an hour.”

Steam was got up, the crew flew about their several duties under
the energetic commands of the officers, and within a short time the
whaleback, to the manifest disappointment of Mr. Snaggs, who watched
proceedings from the shadow of the wharf, cast off her lines and
steamed down the bay into the darkness of the night.

Thus did she begin the voyage whose object was the finding of the wreck
of the Silver Swan.



CHAPTER XXIX

THE STOWAWAY ABOARD THE SUCCESS


AS we know, Brandon Tarr had no intention of remaining long away from
his friends when he slipped out of Adoniram Pepper’s office to escape
arrest on the fraudulent charge of robbery, concocted by Uncle Arad.

The events which followed, however, made it necessary for him to remain
away, and, finally, to go to sea as a stowaway in the hold of the
Success, the vessel chartered by the conspirators to make search for
the Silver Swan.

After the friendly street gamin, Swivel, left him in the hold, in
the early hours of Sunday morning, Brandon of course had no means of
knowing what had become of him--whether he had accomplished his purpose
of getting away from the brig before she sailed, or whether, because
she was short handed, the captain of the Success had retained him.

After Swivel was let up on deck, and the hatch closed, however, Brandon
heard nothing further, except the heavy tramping of the sailors,
the creaking of the ropes, and the hoarse roars of command from the
officers.

The work of getting the Success away from the dock went rapidly on.

Quite fortunately for the stowaway, the hold of the Success was little
more than two thirds filled with Savannah goods. In the bows, beside a
great many bags and boxes and barrels of provisions for the use of the
crew, there were likewise spare sails, cordage, etc.

It would be a very easy matter indeed for him to hide among the stuff
if any one came into the hold.

The scent of bilge water was not at all strong, for the Success was a
comparatively new vessel and had evidently been recently pumped out.

Brandon judged her to be about the size of the Silver Swan, much the
same sort of craft in fact, and, like his father’s vessel, the Success
was a “tramp.”

It was night--or at least a gloomy twilight--at all times in the hold;
but Brandon thought that it was surely daylight by the time the brig
was under way.

She was taken down the river by a fussy little steam tug and then,
meeting the swells of the Atlantic, and a brisk gale springing up, she
shook out her sails and dropped the tug astern.

Brandon was fearful that he might be sick, for he had never really been
to sea and the brig pitched not a little in the waves of the ocean.

To reduce the possibility of this misfortune to a minimum, he ate but
sparingly the first day or two out, and by that time all “squeamish”
feelings passed away.

It was dreadfully dull in the dark hold, however. Of food and water he
had a sufficiency, although the latter was warm and brackish; but there
was absolutely nothing for him to do to pass away the time. There was
not even the spice of danger about his situation, for nobody came into
the hold.

He dared not explore much at first, for he was afraid that he might be
heard from the cabin or forecastle.

During a slight blow which came up the fourth day, however, while the
spars and cordage were creaking so that all other sounds were drowned,
he felt perfectly safe in moving about. If he could not hear what went
on outside, nobody outside would be likely to hear him.

On this day, however, he received several tumbles, for the ship
occasionally pitched so suddenly that he was carried completely off his
feet. Nothing worse happened to him, though, than the barking of his
elbows and knees.

Gaining confidence in his ability to get around without being
discovered, he changed his position more frequently after this. The
weather remained fair for some time following this small blow, and
Brandon hung about the cabin bulkhead, striving to hear more of
Leroyd’s plans, if possible.

It was plain that the captain of the brig knew nothing of the real
plans of the conspirators. They had told him what they pleased, and he
was to ask no questions.

It was not long, however, before the stowaway discovered something
which was quite a surprise to him. There was a woman on board the brig;
he heard the rustle of her garments, and occasionally the tones of a
female voice.

At first he thought her to be the captain’s wife, but because of the
youthfulness of her tones and some words which the captain addressed to
her, he changed this opinion, and decided that she was his daughter.

Brandon was quite interested in her, for a girl on a sailing vessel
was certainly a novelty. He was sure she must be a “jolly one,” as he
expressed it, to sail with her father on a merchantman. Not many girls
would have the pluck to do that.

As the days passed by, and the Success fled on before the favoring
gales, drawing nearer and nearer to Savannah, Brandon became
correspondingly worried over the obstructions to a safe escape from the
brig, which were presented to his mind.

Once the brig reached port and the hatches were opened, it would be
“all day” with him. Nothing but a miracle would save him from falling
into the hands of Jim Leroyd, and he didn’t like to think of that.

He had good reason to believe that the rascally sailor would not
hesitate to injure him in any way possible.

Naturally his mind reverted to the trap in the cabin bulkhead by which
Swivel had gained access to the cook’s galley, as a possible means of
escape before the hatches were removed. If the brig reached Savannah
late in the day, doubtless the hatches would remain battened down till
the next morning. In that case the trap might be his salvation.

Several times during the voyage the steward, sometimes with a seaman
with him, entered the hold by this door, for something among the
stores. At such times Brandon “laid low” and his presence was not
discovered.

What little food he had purloined from the stores was not noticed
either.

Therefore, as the brig drew nearer to her destination Brandon set about
studying the topography of the cabin--its entrances and exits--and how
he could best pass through it and reach the deck without attracting the
attention of anybody on board.

All this scouting had to be done at night, of course, and many were his
narrow escapes while engaged in this most perilous undertaking.

“Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” was the motto of the Tarrs, father
and son. In Captain Tarr’s case, and in that of his brother Anson, it
had been, as a usual thing, a good deal of _venture_ and little _gain_.

The same motive, however, was predominant in Brandon’s nature, and he
took many risks in thus scouting about the brig’s cabin that almost any
other boy would not have taken.

One night he had cautiously set the narrow door leading into the
steward’s pantry ajar, and sat just under it in the darkness of the
hold, trying to discover if all but the officers, excepting the one in
command of the watch, had turned in.

There was a light in the outer cabin, but he could not see into the
room from where he sat, and he dared not enter the pantry until he
was sure that the cabin was unoccupied. Occasionally a sound of low
conversation would reach his ears from the deck, but otherwise all was
still.

[Illustration: “I’M A STOWAWAY. I’VE BEEN IN THE HOLD SINCE WE LEFT NEW
YORK.”]

“I believe I’ll risk it,” he declared, after remaining in a
listening attitude for nearly half an hour. “I need water badly--my
throat is well nigh parched--and if I could learn whether the lamp was
usually left turned up like that, whether the cabin was empty or _not_,
I might know better how to act when I do try to escape.”

Finally he crawled through the opening and crept softly to the cabin
door. The apartment was empty--or it appeared to be--although there
was a chair drawn up to the table, and some books lay there as though
having been in recent use.

“Guess I’d better not stay,” thought the stowaway nervously. “But I
must have a drink.”

He turned back into the cook’s galley, and took a deep draught from a
bucket he found there. Just as he was about to leave the place he was
electrified by hearing a voice say,

“What are _you_ doing here?”

Brandon wheeled about like a flash. There framed by the cabin doorway
was a young girl--the girl whose voice he had heard more than once
since his incarceration in the hold of the Success--the captain’s
daughter!

“Who are you? What do you want!” she repeated, eying him fearlessly,
though with a puzzled expression of countenance. “I never remember
having seen _you_ before.”

Brandon was suddenly conscious that his long captivity in the vessel’s
hold had not improved his personal appearance, and with his feeling of
fright at being discovered, there was also considerable vexation at
being seen in such a plight by a lady.

The girl was bright looking and intelligent, with a face which
attracted the boy greatly; in fact, he was almost tempted to believe
that he had seen her somewhere, so familiar did she appear.

Dressed in a simple blue flannel yachting suit, trimmed with white
braid, which set off her plump figure to great advantage, she was a
pleasing picture.

“Why don’t you answer me?” she demanded in vexation, as Brandon
continued silent.

“Sh! don’t give me away,” begged the boy, taking a step nearer. “I’m a
stowaway, I’ve been in the hold ever since we left New York.”

“Another stowaway!” she exclaimed, but in a lower tone. “Why father
found one just before we left port.”

“I know it,” returned Brandon. “He was with me. What did they do with
him?”

“Father gave him into the hands of the police,” replied the girl
gravely. “He’s very hard on stowaways. Why did you get into the hold?”

“Because I _had_ to; yes, I did--actually had to,” declared Brandon, in
a whisper. “I can’t tell you the whole story now; but I will some time.
I haven’t done anything wrong--excepting taking a few provisions from
the ship’s stores. Those I will pay you for now,” and he took his purse
from the pocket of his stained and ragged coat.

“No, no!” cried the girl, drawing back, “I do not want your money.”

“Then I shall leave it, as I first intended, on the cabin table when we
get to Savannah.”

“But the men will find you when we get in, even if I _don’t_ tell
father.”

“I hope not,” Brandon replied, so earnestly that the captain’s daughter
looked at him curiously.

“Is there anybody aboard whom you fear?” she asked shrewdly.

“Yes, there is. It is that evil looking man--the one who has chartered
the brig--Jim Leroyd.”

“He!” she exclaimed, in surprise. Then after a little silence she added:

“He _is_ an evil looking man; I’ve told father so more than once,
but he says that a man is not always as bad as he looks. Father has
seen so many people and so much of the world, that I seldom question
his judgment; but I have been impressed from the first that there
was something wrong about him--and about that Mr. Weeks, who is in
partnership with him, and whom we expect to meet at Savannah.

“It is a strange thing--this searching for a derelict brig--any way. I
tell father that there is something wrong back of it.”

“There _is_,” Brandon declared. “I don’t dare tell you about it now.
You won’t let anybody know I’m here, will you?”

“No--o, I’ll promise that. It wasn’t right to stow yourself away aboard
the brig, but you look honest--although you _are_ awfully dirty and
ragged,” said this most plain spoken young lady.

“I know it; I look terribly,” whispered Don, creeping through the door
into the hold again. Then he turned about and asked, “What is your
name, please?”

“Milly Frank.”

“Thank you; and mine is Brandon Tarr. Some time I can explain all this
to you, and you will see that I did the only thing I could in stowing
myself away here.”

“But how do you expect to get out?”

“I hope we’ll get to port in the night. If we do, then I’ll try to slip
out through the cabin.”

“Somebody will catch you.”

“I hope not.”

“We-ell, I _hope_, not, too,” said Miss Milly frankly. “I don’t suppose
it is just right, but I’ll try to help you. If I see a chance for you
to get away I’ll come to this door and knock--see, like this.”

She knocked twice in succession, but lightly, so that nobody might hear
her but the stowaway.

“Thank you--thank you!” murmured the boy, and then he shut the trap
quickly, for a heavy step sounded from the cabin without.

Somebody had come down from the deck--probably the officer of the
watch.



CHAPTER XXX

SHOWING WHAT MISS MILLY DOES FOR BRANDON


BRANDON crept away from the trap in the bulkhead, fearing that at
any moment the person who had entered the outer cabin during his
conversation with the captain’s daughter, might strive to capture him.
He was afraid that the person had heard his movements in descending
into the cargo hold again; but if the newcomer _did_ hear anything,
Milly evidently convinced him that there was nothing unusual going on,
for Brandon was not disturbed.

Then ensued for the stowaway a period of anxious waiting. The very fact
that some hope of successful escape had been held out to him, made the
waiting all the harder to bear.

Each hour was bringing the Success nearer to Savannah, and Brandon
remained near the bulkhead all the time, so as to miss no communication
from his fair assistant.

Miss Milly seemed to really enjoy her secret knowledge of the
stowaway’s presence, and before the Success reached port she several
times called him to the bulkhead, ostensibly for the purpose of finding
out if he was all right, and was not going hungry. She supplied him
with water, too, these last two or three days, and he no longer had to
leave the hold on midnight foraging expeditions.

“We shall be in this evening--perhaps before dark--so father told me
last night,” she whispered to him one morning, and Brandon’s heart
leaped for joy at the information.

Slowly, indeed, did that day pass.

The Success was beating up toward Savannah against a light head wind,
which gave promise of becoming an off shore gale before it was through
with. Fortunately, the brig escaped it, taking a tug about the middle
of the afternoon, and pulling into her dock about dark.

“Thank Heaven!” was Brandon’s mental ejaculation, when this information
was whispered through the crack in the bulkhead door to him, and he was
indeed devoutly grateful.

His life in the hold from the time of departure from New York, had been
a continual fever of impatience and doubt, and now that the real danger
of attempting to escape was at hand, he was rejoiced. In a short time
he would know whether he was to be free, or in Jim Leroyd’s power.

Milly had informed him that Captain Frank was exceedingly hard on all
stowaways (as sea captains usually are, in fact), and he had no doubt
but that he would be placed in a very uncomfortable, if not dangerous,
position if the doughty captain should discover him.

Leroyd, of course, would step forward at once and declare that he
(Brandon) was wanted in New York for robbery, and that fact could be
proved by telegraphing, should the Savannah officers desire to do so.
Then, if the whaleback steamer was not in, he should be absolutely
friendless, and at the mercy of the vindictive sailor.

He lay close up against the door of the bulkhead all through the early
evening. Some of the crew, he judged by what he heard, were allowed
to go ashore for a few hours, and a part of the officers went with
them--which officers, however, he could not tell.

There was both a first and second mate on the Success.

Brandon had no means of telling the time, but it must have been well
along towards ten o’clock--perhaps later--when he heard the two gentle
raps for which he had been so anxiously listening.

“Are you there, Brandon?” whispered the captain’s daughter, and as
Don pulled the door slightly ajar, she seized his hand, and aided him
through the opening.

“Is the coast clear?” he asked anxiously.

“Sh! Yes, father and Mr. Marsh have gone up town with some of the men,
and Mr. Barry has finally gone to bed.” (Mr. Barry was the second
officer.) “I was afraid that he’d never stop talking to me. I had to
fairly _freeze_ him out,” and the merry girl laughed softly.

“But Leroyd?” pursued Brandon.

“He’s gone, too.”

“To bed?”

“No; up the street. I hope you can get off the brig before any of them
get back. Now hurry.”

“You’re a good girl, Miss Milly. I hope I shall be able to repay you
some time.”

“Hush! go along now,” she said, smiling, but pushing him toward the
companionway. “What’s that for?” for Brandon had thrust a little wad of
bank notes into her hand.

“It is to pay for the stores I broke into below. Take it, and put it
where your father will see it. Good by.”

He started up the ladder, but came back again to ask,

“Is there a steamer in the bay? Did you get in time enough to see?”

“Lots of them.”

“No, I should have said a whaleback steamer?”

“What are those--oh, I know what you mean. A great long, steel boat,
with cabins way up above the hull, and no deck to speak of.”

“That’s it,” said Brandon eagerly.

“Yes, there _is_ one here. I saw it and meant to ask father what it
was. I thought it was a dredger of some kind,” and Milly laughed again
gleefully. “Is that a steamer?”

“Yes. My friends are aboard her.”

“Then you will find them,” she returned delightedly. “That funny boat
lies not far from our dock. Now go, or somebody will catch you.”

Brandon crept noiselessly up the steps at this command, and peered out
across the deck. A sailor sat on the rail some rods away, but his back
was towards him; nobody else was in sight.

“Now’s my chance,” muttered Don, and springing quickly up the
remaining steps, he darted as noiselessly as a shadow across the deck,
and leaped upon the pier. An instant later he was on the street, and
slinking along in the shadow of the buildings, hurried away from the
vicinity.

He did not know in which direction the “funny boat” Milly had seen,
lay, but went blindly along, his only care for the moment being to
escape from the neighborhood of the Success and from his enemy, Jim
Leroyd.

The street he followed kept close to the wharves--skirted the
waterfront in fact--and he passed many sailors; but he kept in the
shadow as much as possible and nobody remarked about his apparel or the
grime on his face and hands.

Suddenly, as he approached a great pier, where several large vessels
were lying, he caught sight of a familiar figure coming down the street
toward him. There was no mistaking that rolling, peculiar gait, nor
the sound of the sharp “tap, tap” of the steel shod leg on the wooden
pavement.

It was Caleb Wetherbee!

“Oh, Cale!” Brandon almost shouted, and running forward fairly threw
himself into the sailor’s arms.

“By the jumping Jehosophat!” cried the startled Caleb, and then,
recognizing the boy, despite his rags and dirt, he uttered a loud
“hurrah!” which left no doubt in Brandon’s mind as to the sailor’s
satisfaction at seeing him once more.

But in a moment, he pushed the boy away from him and holding him by
both shoulders, peered down upon him curiously.

“Well, well!” he exclaimed. “Where in the name o’ Davy Jones have you
been? Ye look as though you’d been stowed away in the hold o’ a coal
barge for a month.”

“Well, I _have_ been stowed away in a brig’s hold--she got in only this
evening. I’ve just got away from her. Did you get my note by Swivel?”

“I did, my lad.”

“And Swivel himself?”

“He’s aboard the steamer.”

“I’m glad of that,” declared Brandon. “I hoped you’d be kind to him. He
did me a lot of favors, and I shan’t be able to repay him for some time
to come. Now, have you heard anything further from the Silver Swan?”

“I have, my lad, this very afternoon. She was sighted two weeks ago by
a steamship from Rio to New York. Adoniram telegraphed me. But there’s
something else that ain’t so pleasin’.”

“What’s that, Caleb?”

“The Kearsarge has been ordered to destroy several of these derelicts,
the Silver Swan included, on her way down the coast to Havana. She
sails tomorrow, I hear.”

“Then we haven’t any time to lose,” Brandon exclaimed. “Let’s go aboard
at once, Cale. The first thing I want is a wash--I’m as dirty as a
pig--and then I’ll tell you the whole story.”

“We’ll do so right now,” declared the big captain. “Come on. My boat’s
down here. Number Three lays off some way.”

He hurried Brandon down to the dock, and they were quickly seated in
the steamer’s small boat, and the men pulled out to the long, low, odd
looking craft, which, since her arrival in the bay three days before,
had attracted an enormous amount of attention.

“She sails like a swan, Don,” declared Caleb, who, from openly scoffing
at the whaleback, had begun fairly to worship her. “I never see
anything beat it. She can outsail any cruiser in the navy, I believe,
an’ if we don’t reach the Silver Swan in her first, it’s because
somethin’ busts!” with which forcible declaration he helped the boy
over the low rail to the iron deck of the steamer.



CHAPTER XXXI

WHEREIN NUMBER THREE APPROACHES THE SUPPOSED VICINITY OF THE SILVER SWAN


“WE’LL be off at once,” Caleb Wetherbee declared, as soon as he had
stepped upon the deck of the whaleback. “Go up to the cabin, Don, and
tell the steward to fix you out with a bath and some clean clothes. You
know which stateroom yours is.”

Gladly did Brandon avail himself of this opportunity, and while Caleb
was personally seeing to the matter of getting under way, he indulged
in the luxury of a bath and a full change of clothing.

Before he was presentable again, Number Three had steam up (the fires
had only been banked), and was moving slowly away from Savannah.

“Quick connections on this trip, eh, lad?” Caleb said, rubbing his
hands gleefully, as he entered the cabin and found Brandon “clothed and
in his right mind” again, as the youth himself expressed it. “Three
hours ago you were in the hold of the brig, wasn’t you? Now, let’s hear
your yarn.”

Brandon complied with his request, giving fullest details of his
incarceration in the hold of the Success.

“That ’ere is a mighty plucky girl,” was Caleb’s admiring comment when
the tale was finished. “What d’ye say her name was?”

“Milly Frank; the cap’n is her father, and he owns the brig himself.”

“Frank--Frank,” repeated Caleb slowly. “That has a familiar sound.”

“It has to me, too,” said Brandon slowly. “I’ve been trying to think,
ever since I met the girl, where I had heard her name and seen her
face, too, for both seem familiar.”

“I have it!” suddenly exclaimed Caleb, smiting his thigh.

“Well?”

“Frank was the name of the chap as Adoniram’s sister married--the
little one, ye know.”

“You’re right. And her name was Milly, too,” Brandon rejoined eagerly.
“Bet you this was a daughter of hers. I thought her face looked
familiar, and now I think of it, it was because she looked so much like
the face of Milly Pepper--her picture hung in the room they gave me at
Mr. Pepper’s.”

“’Twould tickle ’Doniram ’most to death to know he had a niece,” Caleb
said.

“And Miss Frances, too. As soon as we find the Silver Swan we must look
up the Success.... And that reminds me, Caleb. You say you’ve heard of
the wreck again?”

The captain of the whaleback drew a telegram from his pocket and passed
it over to his young second officer.

“That’s from ’Doniram. As I said, I got it this afternoon.”

This was the message:

  Rio steamship Creole Prince arrived this a. m., reports Silver Swan
  as being sighted March 23rd, latitude 27:18, longitude 68:30.

“Still moving northeast, isn’t she?” Brandon said, handing back the
yellow slip.

“In course.”

“And what was that you told me about the Kearsarge?”

“Here’s the evening paper,” responded Caleb, handing over a folded
sheet. “There’s the item,” and he pointed with his stumpy forefinger to
a marked passage which read as follows:

  The Department has ordered the Kearsarge to leave the Chesapeake
  tomorrow on her trip to the West Indies. Her commander has received
  special orders to destroy several of the most dangerous derelicts
  which are at present infesting the coast below Hatteras, and
  especially off the Bermudas. The hull of the Hattie Marvin, floating
  bottom upwards north of Bermuda, and that of the Silver Swan, south
  of the same islands, both of which have been frequently reported of
  late and are exceedingly dangerous, will have the early attention of
  the midshipmen, who consider the excitement of blowing up derelicts a
  boon indeed.

“We have a good start of her,” Brandon declared with satisfaction. “It
will be because we’re not smart if we can’t find the Silver Swan first.”

“Right, lad. An’ we _will_ find her, too,” said Caleb hopefully.

“And about Swivel,” went on Don, changing the subject; “where is he?”

“He’s below with the men. Smart lad, he is, an’ I reckon we’ll make
quite a man of him yet.”

“I must do something for him--if I get those diamonds,” Brandon added.
“Now, Captain Wetherbee, with your permission I’ll turn in and get some
sleep, for I haven’t slept decently for a week, I was so worried.”

At sunrise the whaleback had left the mouth of the Savannah river, and
the shores were low down on the horizon behind them. At sunset, when
Brandon finally arose from a long slumber, the steamer was alone on a
vast extent of heaving, restless sea. The land had entirely disappeared.

Brandon took up his duties of second officer with enthusiasm. He had
everything to learn--or about everything--but the work was right along
the line of his strongest taste. He loved it, and therefore went about
it earnestly, and learned rapidly.

Messrs. Coffin and Bolin assisted him in every way possible, for they
were greatly attracted to the boy. Of course, Caleb was ever his
faithful mentor and teacher, and Brandon soon fell into the ways and
duties of the ship, and accredited himself very well, indeed.

The swift steamer kept on her southeasterly course for several days
without incident of importance. No derelicts were sighted, and but few
vessels.

Brandon was told, however, that coming down from New York the whaleback
had sighted two wrecks, but the captain dared not delay to investigate
them until the principal object of the voyage was accomplished. Caleb
determined to let all other derelicts but the Silver Swan severely
alone.

The whaleback passed the Bermudas low down on the sea line, and being
well supplied with fuel kept on toward that portion of the ocean where
the hull of the Silver Swan was supposed to be making her objectless
voyage.

A sharp lookout was kept day and night, but it was not until after the
Bermudas had faded from sight that anything other than passing sailing
vessels and steamers were sighted. At night the whaleback ran very
slowly, indeed, so that naught might escape her, but during the day she
traveled at a high rate of speed.

Just before sunrise one morning Brandon was aroused by a commotion on
deck. He leaped from his berth at once, and having been to sea long
enough now to know how to dress quickly, was outside in less than a
minute. Then he made out what the lookout on the top of the forward
turret was shouting:

“Wreck--dead ahead, sir!”



CHAPTER XXXII

RELATING HOW THE SILVER SWAN WAS HEARD FROM


AS the sun rose and lit up the sea more fully Brandon could plainly
view the wreck which the steamer was now rapidly approaching.

It was not, he believed at first glance, the Silver Swan. It was the
hull of a vessel, sunk a good deal at the stern; but one mast was
standing, and a great tangle of cordage and torn sails was still
attached to it.

“That’s never the Silver Swan, lad,” Caleb declared. “She was swept as
clean as a whistle. This was a square rigged vessel, however.”

The steamer ran in very close to the wreck, and Brandon made out the
words, “Porpoise, New Haven,” under the bows.

The derelict gave every appearance of being what Mr. Coffin called “an
old stager,” and labored in the seas most heavily.

“That’s a mighty dangerous wreck,” Caleb declared reflectively, as
the whaleback steamed slowly by. “It wouldn’t take long to sink her,
although ’twould cost something. What d’ye say, Mr. Coffin--will you go
aboard her, and if she isn’t worth towing in, drop enough dynamite into
her hold to blow her up? You know how to run that battery Mr. Pepper
had put aboard.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” the first officer replied, and bustled away to order a
boat launched at once.

By special request Brandon was allowed to accompany the expedition. The
old hulk was found to be in ballast, and Mr. Coffin therefore placed a
quantity of the powerful explosive in her hold, attached the wire, and
they pulled back toward the steamer.

When the small boat was out of danger the officer touched the button
and an instant later the still morning air was shattered by a terrific
roar.

The wreck seemed almost to rise from the sea, a great volume of fire
and smoke issued from her amidships, and she broke in two, the water
rushing in and filling the interior with a sound like the echo of the
explosion.

Slowly the derelict settled, her stern going first, until the very
tip of the tottering mast disappeared below the surface. Only a few
splintered deck timbers, which would soon follow the ship to the
bottom, remained to show where the hulk had disappeared.

“Good job, that,” Caleb declared, when the boat had returned to the
steamer, “though it cost us three hours’ time. That hulk had been
floating for nearly a year, according to the pilot charts.”

The second day after the blowing up of the derelict Porpoise, a
steamship was sighted by the whaleback. It was the City of Havana, of
the James E. Ward line, and, by running in close, Caleb was able to
hold converse with the ship’s captain.

To the satisfaction of the captain of Number Three, the City of
Havana’s commander could, and did, give him some information about the
derelict brig of which they were in search.

The steamship had sighted the Silver Swan in latitude 28, longitude
69:13, and reported the vessel in a remarkable state of preservation.
The spring storms had not appeared to damage her much.

This news was hailed joyfully by Caleb and Brandon, and the course of
the whaleback was changed a little more to the east.

The weather, however, which had been all that they could wish thus
far since leaving Savannah, began to get nasty. The sea became short
and choppy, though without apparently affecting the sailing of the
whaleback, and the sky looked bad.

Finally, after a day or two of this, a dead calm occurred, and Caleb
shook his head sagely.

“We’re goin’ to ketch it,” he declared, “an’ we’ll have a chance to
find out how the steamer rides in a gale, whether we want to or not.”

And he was right. While the whaleback steamed slowly ahead, a heavy
swell came on, although there was not a breath of air stirring. The sea
heaved and rolled, seemingly in throes of agony.

At first the cause was entirely submarine. At length, however, there
was a groaning, moaning sound, which gradually increased in volume,
until, with a sudden roar, the hurricane swooped down upon them. The
waves were tossed toward the wind driven, leaden clouds with awful
fury, breaking like surf over the whaleback; but the steamer withstood
the fearful shocks as easily as she had the choppy waves which
preceded the gale.

She kept but little headway, however, and as the black night shut
down about the craft, Brandon realized fully the terrible risks and
hazardous chances taken by “those who go down to the sea in ships.”

For two days the gale continued, but with less fury than signaled its
first appearance. Number Three might have put back into Bermuda, but
she acted so well that Caleb decided to stay outside and thus lose no
possible opportunity of sighting the Silver Swan.

Brandon had never contemplated what a storm at sea meant before and he
was thankful indeed that he was not upon a sailing vessel.

During the first of the gale they had sighted several vessels, with
close reefed sails, scudding before the wind, but all were riding the
sea well.

Late in the afternoon of the second day, however, the lookout, who was
lashed to the top of the wheelhouse, reported a wreck ahead.

At first Caleb and Brandon, who were both armed with glasses, could not
make it out clearly enough to decide what it was.

Finally the old seaman declared with conviction.

“It’s the hull of a vessel an’ her masts have been carried away sure.”

“Do you think it is the brig, Caleb?” the young second mate asked
eagerly.

“Ye got me there. It _may_ be, and then ag’in it may not. We’ll run
down an’ see.”

The storm was by no means abating and Caleb dared not run very close to
the wreck.

As they approached it, however, the former mate of the Silver Swan
became convinced that it was not the wreck they sought. He was familiar
with every line of Captain Horace Tarr’s vessel and this, he declared,
was not it.

Suddenly Swivel’s sharp eyes caught sight of something which the others
had not seen.

“There’s something tied to that stump of a mast, sir,” he exclaimed,
pointing toward the forward part of the wreck. “It’s a flag o’ some
kind.”

“It’s a signal!” Mr. Coffin declared. “There’s some poor soul on the
wreck. See--there he is.”

At the instant he spoke they all descried a moving figure on the
derelict--some one, who, clinging with one hand to the cordage which
still hung to the mast, with the other waved a signal frantically at
the approaching steamer.

“Great Heavens!” exclaimed Mr. Coffin, strongly moved by the scene.
“What shall we do? No mortal man can help him in this gale.”

“We must do something,” Caleb replied.

“A boat couldn’t live in this sea, sir,” said the first officer
despairingly.

“We must try to throw him a line.”

But upon trial it was found that it would be exceedingly hazardous to
run down near enough to the wreck for that. The hull was rolling so
frightfully that it might turn completely over at any moment and carry
the steamer to the bottom with it should they run in too near.



CHAPTER XXXIII

IN WHICH COMRADES IN COURAGE LAUNCH THEMSELVES UPON THE DEEP


BRANDON’S glass had been turned upon the figure on the wreck for the
few moments during which the others had been discussing the possibility
of saving the poor creature. Now he exclaimed hurriedly.

“That’s not a man--it’s a woman! Don’t you see her skirts blowing in
the gale? She is alone on the wreck.”

Caleb seized his own glass again, and Mr. Bolin dived into the cabin
for his.

“You’re right, lad,” the captain declared. “Either all the men have
been swept overboard, or the white livered rascals have taken to the
boats and abandoned her.”

But Brandon was making other discoveries. As the steamer cut through
the huge waves, approaching nearer and nearer to the wreck, something
about the outlines of the female figure seemed familiar to him.

He knew the face which was turned pleadingly toward the steamer--the
powerful glass revealed every feature clearly.

It was Milly Frank!

At the instant of Brandon’s discovery, the steamer gave a sudden roll,
and he was thrown partially from his balance and his glass wavered an
instant from the girl’s face.

In that instant the stern of the fated vessel came within range of his
vision and he plainly saw the word “Success” painted in tarnished gold
lettering upon it.

“Caleb! Caleb!” he cried, forgetting for the moment to apply the proper
term of respect to the captain which, according to the quarter deck
etiquette, he should have done, “that’s the Success, and the _girl_ is
the captain’s daughter!”

“Oh, it can’t be, lad!” cried the old man, unwilling to believe such a
fact possible.

“It is the Success--I see her name,” Mr. Bolin declared.

“Poor little girl! poor little girl!” exclaimed the honest old sailor
brokenly. “We can’t stand here and see her perish.”

“I shan’t,” Brandon affirmed, passing his own glass to Mr. Coffin.

“What can you do, lad?” queried Caleb. “The gale’s not abating a mite.”

“All that we can do I see, sir, is to stand by till the sea goes down,
and then, God willing, take her off,” said Mr. Coffin.

“Why, that old hulk may sink at any moment!” cried Brandon. “I won’t
stay idle and see that girl drown after all she has done for me.”

“An’ it’s Adoniram’s niece--no doubt of it,” murmured Caleb.

“That is another reason why we should try to save her. I haven’t
forgotten all that Mr. Pepper has done for me,” declared Brandon
decidedly.

“But, lad, lad, what can we do?” gasped the captain. “It’s not a living
possibility to send a boat to that brig, and I dare not risk the lives
of all these men in my care by running in near enough for a cable to be
thrown.”

“And the girl probably couldn’t fasten it, if we did,” added Mr. Bolin.

“Then we must do something else. Run by her, Caleb, and I’ll carry a
rope to the brig.”

“You’re crazy!” cried Mr. Coffin.

“Maybe I am,” Brandon returned, his face white and set; “but I shall do
it.”

Swivel, who was clinging to a guard rope within hearing, struck in with
him.

“Lemme do it, Brandon--I mean Mr. Tarr. I kin swim like a fish.”

“Nobody shall go but myself,” the boy declared, with emphasis. “I won’t
suggest a perilous undertaking and not be the one to carry it out.”

“Cap’n Tarr right over again,” Caleb muttered.

Then he turned suddenly upon his young second officer.

“Kick off your shoes, lad, and try it. If it’s the Lord’s will that you
accomplish it, well and good; if you can’t, we’ll haul you back. Quick,
now! I’ll order Mike to go ahead full speed.”

Before the words were scarcely out of the captain’s mouth, Brandon had
kicked off his light shoes.

Swivel, who could not be taught strict quarter deck manners, followed
the young officer’s example.

“What are you about, you young limb o’ Satan?” demanded Mr. Coffin,
catching hint at this.

“Ef he goes, I’m goin’ an’ you ain’t goin’ ter stop me, Mr. Coffin,”
announced the gamin. “I’m in dis!”

“Behave yourself,” Brandon commanded, quickly knotting a light, strong
cable about his waist, while Mr. Bolin fastened a life preserver
beneath his arms. “One is enough.”

“Den I’m de one!” the boy declared vehemently, and dodging Mr. Coffin’s
outstretched arm, he seized a second coil of rope, one end of which was
fastened to a ring in the deck, and ran to the stern of the steamer.

“Come back here!” roared the first mate angrily. “I’ll rope’s end you,
you little scamp!”

“You’ll have ter do it when I get back from dat wreck!” returned the
boy, with an impish grin, and the steamer having now forged ahead of
the laboring brig, and Brandon being all ready, the fearless Swivel
also dropped over the rail, and clinging with one hand a moment, let go
simultaneously with his friend and patron.

Brandon tried to send him back, but it was too late then. The first
wave seized them in its embrace and they were carried far out from the
steamer’s stern.

The cork belt kept the young second mate above the waves, but even with
this assistance, he found himself much less able to cope with the heavy
seas than was his companion.

Swivel dived through the rollers like a gull, keeping faithfully by
his friend’s side; and had it not been for the street gamin, Brandon
afterward declared that he should never have reached the wreck alive.

He had no idea how furious the waves were until he was among them,
battling for his life, and trying to reach the distant brig.

It was a terrific struggle, lasting perhaps not five minutes, but a few
more seconds would have completely exhausted him.

A great wave suddenly swept them directly under the brig’s bows. Swivel
seized Brandon’s hand with one of his own and with the other grabbed a
rope trailing over the rail of the wreck.

Fortunately the other end of the rope was securely fastened, and with
an almost superhuman effort Swivel raised Brandon until the second mate
of the whaleback could grasp the rail.

In another moment Brandon was aboard the brig, and had pulled Swivel
over the rail after him.

“Wot--did--I--tell--ye?” gasped the gamin, whose spirit no amount
of danger could quench. “Two heads _is_ better’n one, ef one _is_ a
cabbage head. Where’s de girl?”

But Milly was already creeping forward to their position on her hands
and knees.

“How can you take me back?” she asked at once, her voice sounding as
firmly above the gale as though danger was the farthest of anything
from her thoughts.

Then she recognized Brandon.

“You?” she exclaimed, in surprise. “I never thought of you being on
that steamer.”

“I didn’t forget what you did for me,” Brandon said in reply. “I’d have
risked a good deal more than this for you.”

“You couldn’t risk any more,” she declared firmly; “for you’ve risked
your life.”

Meanwhile Swivel was signaling to those on the steamer to attach a
heavier cable to the one tied about his waist. This was done in a short
time, and then all three of the endangered ones laid hold and pulled
the cable in, hand over hand.

It was hard work. The heavy rope was wet and unmanageable, and the
strain on their young muscles was terrible.

Milly worked as unceasingly as did the two boys, but the cable came
across the tossing waves but slowly.

“Where are the crew--where is your father?” asked Brandon.

The girl’s face worked pitifully at this question.

“Father is dead,” she sobbed, “and the crew took to the boats while I
was below. That was early this morning.”

“And you’ve been here alone ever since!” said Brandon pityingly.

At that instant there was a slight exclamation from Swivel, and the
small cable by which they were endeavoring to gain the larger one, came
in over the rail with fearful suddenness.

All three were sent sprawling on the deck.

“What is it?” gasped Milly.

“The rope’s parted,” cried Brandon in horror.

“Never mind; don’t you give up, missy,” Swivel exclaimed. “We’ve got
anoder rope yet. Where’s de end o’ dat rope you had tied ’round you,
Brandon?” he demanded.

Brandon only groaned.

“Where is it?” shrieked the other lad, fairly shaking him in his
impatience.

“I cast it loose,” was the disheartening reply. “It is gone!”



CHAPTER XXXIV

THE INCIDENTS OF A NIGHT OF PERIL


NIGHT was shutting down over the face of the storm tossed ocean--night
of the blackest and wildest description. Already the outlines of the
steamer ahead were scarcely visible from the bows of the water logged
brig.

By a series of misfortunes (Brandon Tarr bitterly accused himself of
causing the crowning mischance of them all) the three unfortunates on
the Success were entirely cut off from escape.

“Oh,” cried Milly, in bitterness of spirit second only to Brandon’s
own, “you have lost your lives for me--both of you. I am not worthy of
it!”

“Don’t ye lose heart, missy,” Swivel declared, with a courage he was
far from feeling. “Th’ ship hain’t sunk.”

“No one but God Himself knows how long it will keep afloat, though,”
Brandon returned despairingly.

“And the gale is increasing again, too,” added Milly softly.

“This is the last end of it, that’s wot I think,” declared Swivel
cheerfully. “It’ll blow itself out now purty soon.”

Brandon could not look at the situation thus hopefully, but he
determined to say nothing further to make the girl despair.

Swivel’s tone shamed him into thinking of her rather than of himself.

The men on board the steamer, had ere this discovered what had
happened, but they could do nothing to assist the three on the brig.

It was absolutely necessary to keep some headway--considerable, in
fact--on the whaleback, to prevent her from swinging around into the
trough of the waves. Every moment they were getting farther and farther
away from the doomed derelict.

Caleb roared something to them through the trumpet, but the distance
and the howling of the gale prevented them from making out what he
said. The wind and spray beat upon them alternately as they crouched
together in the high bows, and every other sound but that of the
elements was drowned.

“Come back in the shelter of the mast,” Brandon shouted at last. “We
can do nothing further here. Our position is so exposed that we may be
washed off before we know it.”

Each of the boys grasped an arm of the captain’s daughter and with no
little trouble they managed to reach the great tangle of rigging and
shreds of canvas which hung about the one remaining mast.

The topmast had long since been carried away, but the main spar still
defied the storm, writhing and twisting like a thing of life in the
fierce grasp of the gale.

Here, crouching under its lee, the shipwrecked boys and girl clung to
the stiffened ropes with hands little less stiffened by the cold and
water.

As an extra precaution they bound themselves together, and then
fastened the same rope to the mast, knowing that a wave might board the
lumbering brig at any moment and sweep everything on it that was not
fastened, into the sea.

Occasionally, as the wreck climbed heavily to the summit of an enormous
roller, they could catch a glimpse of the steamer’s lights; but as the
hours dragged slowly on, these became less and less distinct.

Without doubt the whaleback was drawing slowly away from the wreck, and
the worst of it was, those on the steamer probably did not suspect it.

The castaways had no means of showing their whereabouts by lights, and
the steamer was too far away, and had been since the darkness shut
down, for those aboard her to see the outlines of the brig. Therefore
Caleb Wetherbee and his officers had no means of knowing that the
steamer was traveling nearly two miles to the brig’s one.

Suddenly there was a flash of light from the steamer’s deck, and a
rocket went hurtling upwards into the leaden sky, to fall in showers
of sparks into the sea. It was a message of hope to the unfortunates
on the brig--it was meant as such, at least--but they had no way of
replying to it.

“Aren’t there any rockets aboard?” asked Brandon of the captain’s
daughter.

“There may be, but I do not know where,” the girl replied; “and the
cabin is half filled with water, too.”

“Never mind if it is; I believe I’ll try to find them. There must be
something of the kind aboard.”

“Ye’d better stay here,” Swivel warned him anxiously. “I don’t like ter
see ye git out o’ sight.”

“Don’t you think I can take care of myself?” Brandon demanded.

“Not alone,” was the prompt reply. “I reckon ’at none of us can’t take
very good keer of ourselves in this gale. We’d best not git too fur
apart.”

“Well, I’m going to try to get into the cabin,” Brandon added. “Nothing
ventured, nothing gained.”

He unfastened the rope from about his waist, and in spite of the
objections of his two companions, crept aft toward the cabin
companionway.

The feat was not of the easiest, as he quickly found; but once having
determined to do it, he would not give up.

The door of the cabin was jammed fast, but after some little
maneuvering he was able to force an entrance and descended into the
apartment, which was knee deep with water washed in from the heavy seas
which had broken over the brig during the day.

There was no means of lighting a lantern, however, and after rummaging
about in the darkness for half an hour, he had to return to the deck
without having accomplished anything.

As he stepped outside again, he found the brig pitching worse than
ever. The gale was full of “flaws” now--a sure sign that it was blowing
itself out--but occasionally it would rise to greater fury than it had
shown in all the two previous days.

Just as he reached the deck one of these sudden squalls occurred, and
a huge green roller swept in over the stern of the brig, and advanced
with lightning speed along the deck, sweeping wreckage and all else
before it.

Brandon had just closed the door, and by clinging to the handle, was
able to keep himself from being washed overboard; but he was almost
drowned during the few moments while the wave filled the companionway.

As it passed, there was a sudden crack forward, and even above the
shriek of the gale, he heard Swivel’s cry of alarm.

With a rush and roar like the fall of a mighty forest tree, the mast,
splitting at the deck, toppled over across the rail.

Brandon uttered a despairing shout, for it seemed impossible for the
wreck ever to right herself, the weight of the fallen spar dragged her
over so far.

But providentially the mast had split clear off at the deck, and after
staggering a moment from the blow, the brig shook off her incumbrance,
and came to an even keel again.

But following the falling of the mast came a shriek from Milly Frank
which pierced his very soul.

“Brandon! Brandon! Help!”

With that cry ringing in his ears, the boy dashed forward along the
slippery deck and reached the spot where he had left his companions.

“Quick! this way!” called the girl’s clear voice, and darting to the
rail he was just able to grasp the captain’s daughter and drag her back
from the cruel sea.

“Now him!” commanded the girl, and pulling in the line which was still
attached to her waist, Brandon drew the form of Swivel out of the waves.

“Oh, he is dead!” cried Milly in agony. “He saved me, Brandon. When the
mast fell he cut the rope and took me in his arms and ran, but one of
the ropes tripped him up and we were washed to the rail by that great
wave.”

“I hope he isn’t dead--oh, I hope not!” Brandon returned, kneeling down
beside the motionless boy, and chafing his forehead tenderly.

Milly took one of the poor street gamin’s hands in her own and chafed
it likewise.

Probably never before during his miserable, eventful existence had
Swivel known such gentleness. His life had been hard indeed, and it
looked as though its lamp had gone out now in the performance of a
noble and courageous deed.

There on the storm swept deck Milly and Brandon knelt for nearly an
hour before the unconscious boy showed the least sign of life.

Then the eyelids fluttered a little and he drew in his breath with a
slight sigh.

“He’s coming to!” Brandon exclaimed.

But although poor Swivel opened his eyes once or twice, it was a long
time before he seemed to realize where he was or what had happened.

At last he whispered brokenly.

“Don’t--don’t--fret yerself--missy--I’m--I’m goin’ ter be all right.”

“Are you in pain, Swivel?” queried Brandon, having almost to shout to
make himself heard.

Milly was crying softly. The strain of the last twenty hours was
beginning to tell on even her bravery and fortitude.

“Dret--dretful!” gasped the injured boy weakly.

Brandon had to place his ear almost to his lips to distinguish his
words.

“Right--here,” and he laid his hand feebly on his chest.

“That’s where he struck across the rail,” declared Milly, when Brandon
had repeated these words to her. “Oh, the poor fellow has been hurt
internally. _Do_ you think the morning will ever come, Brandon?”

“I’m afraid it will come very soon for him, poor boy,” replied Don
meaningly, and there were tears in his own eyes.

Swivel had closed his eyes and a strange, grayish pallor was spreading
over his drawn features.

His hearing seemed wonderfully acute, however. He heard the word
“morning” at least, and his eyes flew open again and he struggled to
raise himself on his elbow.

“_Is_ it morning now?” he asked feebly.

“No, no,” replied Brandon soothingly. “Not yet, Swivel. Don’t exert
yourself. Lie down again.”

The injured youth strove to speak once more, but suddenly fell back
upon the rude pillow Don had made of his coat, and a stream of blood
flowed from his lips.

Milly uttered a startled gasp, but Brandon hastily wiped the poor
fellow’s lips, and after a moment the hemorrhage ceased.

But they looked at each other meaningly. They had lost all hope now of
the shock not proving fatal.

While they had watched Swivel, the gale, as though at last satisfied
with its cruel work, had gradually lessened. The wind ceased almost
wholly within the next hour, although the waves did not entirely go
down.

Swivel lay motionless during all this time, occasionally opening his
eyes to gaze up into the faces of his two friends, whom he could see
quite clearly, but otherwise showing no sign of life.

Finally he attempted to speak again.

“It’s--it’s hard--on me--ain’t it?” he gasped, in Brandon’s ear.
“I--I--don’ wanter die.”

His friend did not know what to say in reply to this, but Milly seized
his hand and tried to comfort him.

“Don’t be afraid. Swivel,” she said, trying to make her own faith serve
for the dying fellow too. “It will be better over there.”

“Mebbee--mebbee they won’t let me come.”

“Yes, you may, if you ask, Swivel. Don’t you love God?”

“I hain’t--hain’t never--heered--much erbout Him,” returned the lad. “I
heered the chap at the mission--school talk erbout--erbout Him some.
I--I never paid much ’tention.”

His voice was stronger now, but in a moment the blood gushed from his
lips again.

“Don’t talk--oh, don’t talk, Swivel?” cried Brandon beseechingly.

“’Twon’t matter--not much,” the boy returned, after a few minutes.

He felt blindly for Brandon’s hand and seized it tightly. Milly, still
kneeling on the opposite side, held the other.

“Can’t ye say a prayer, like--like that feller in the mission did--er
one o’ them hymns?” he muttered.

The boy and girl crouching above him looked into each other’s faces a
moment in silence.

Brandon Tarr might have faced a thousand dangers without shrinking, but
he could not do this. It remained for Milly to comply with the poor
boy’s request.

After the terrific howling of the gale, the night seemed strangely
still now. The hurrying, leaden clouds were fast breaking up, and here
and there a ray of moonlight pierced their folds and lit up the froth
flecked summits of the tossing billows.

One narrow band of light fell across her pale face as she raised it
toward the frowning heavens and began to sing:

  “Jesus, Saviour, pilot me,
  Over life’s tempestuous sea;
  Unknown waves before me roll,
  Hiding rock and treach’rous shoal:
  Chart and compass come from the Thee:
  Jesus, Saviour, pilot me.

  “When at last I near the shore,
  And the fearful breakers roar
  Twixt me and the peaceful rest,
  Then, while leaning on Thy breast,
  May I hear Thee say to me,
  ‘Fear not, I will pilot thee’!”

Faintly at first, but mounting higher and clearer, rose the sweet
girlish voice, and not only the poor street gamin, but Brandon himself
listened entranced.

When the beautiful hymn was finished, Brandon felt that it was a prayer
not only for him whose spirit might at any moment depart, but for Milly
and himself, who should remain behind at the mercy of the storm tossed
sea.



CHAPTER XXXV

SHOWING HOW CALEB APPEARED ON THE SCENE JUST TOO LATE


THE anxiety of Caleb Wetherbee for Brandon’s safety was really pitiful
to behold. When the cable parted which attached the wrecked brig to
the steamer, the captain at once realized that his ward and his two
companions were in a very serious predicament.

There was absolutely nothing that those aboard the whaleback could do
in that howling gale to assist in the rescue of the castaways.

Occasionally Caleb had a rocket fired to show the unfortunate trio
that he was remaining near them; but, as we know, that was very sorry
comfort to Brandon and his two companions. It simply served to convince
them how rapidly Number Three was leaving them astern.

On one point Caleb’s calculations were very much amiss. He was running
the whaleback as slowly as practicable, keeping just enough headway on
to keep her from broaching to; but he failed to realize that even at
that speed he was sailing two miles or more to the brig’s one.

Of course, when once the night had shut down it was impossible for
anybody aboard the steamer to see the outlines of the wreck, and
therefore this fact escaped their attention. The water logged Success
moved at a snail’s pace, and all night long the steamer drew away from
her, so that, after the storm had cleared away and the sun rose, not a
sign of the brig appeared.

“Has she sunk?” queried Caleb in distress, as, in company with his two
remaining officers, he swept the horizon with his glass.

“Rather, we have left her behind,” declared Mr. Coffin, making a shrewd
guess as to the real facts in the case. “The brig must have sailed
slower than we supposed.”

“Then we must turn about at once and run back,” Caleb declared, and the
necessary orders were given.

The day following the cessation of the gale was most beautiful, but
Caleb cared nothing for that. He neither ate nor slept, but remained on
deck nearly all the time, scanning the wide stretch of sea visible from
the top of the after cabin.

The day passed and night came on, however, without a sign of the wreck
appearing.

During this time the steamer had been running in a direction generally
south; while the gale was on she had run northeast. The whole day being
spent in fruitless search in this direction, however, Caleb commanded
the steamer to be put about again at evening.

All that second night she ran slowly to the eastward, thus allowing
for the supposed drift of the Success, but they saw no signs of the
derelict, although the night was clear and the moon bright.

The day following they spoke several partially dismantled vessels
whose crews were beating into the Bermudas for repairs. None of these,
however, had sighted the wreck of the Success.

“They’ve gone to the bottom,” groaned poor Caleb that afternoon, as he
sat on the edge of the berth in his stateroom.

He could not sleep, but had taken Mr. Coffin’s advice and tried to.

“All gone--Brandon, whose dead father I promised I’d look out for him,
an’ that other poor lad, an’ the little girl. God help me! how can I go
back and tell Adoniram about this?

“An’ then, we’ve not found the Silver Swan yet--nor air we likely to
after this gale. She’s gone to the bottom, too, mayhap, and Brandon’s
fortune along with her. Well----”

Just here he was interrupted in his soliloquy by the hurried entrance
of Mr. Bolin.

“Will you please come on deck, sir?” said the third officer, evidently
somewhat excited. “We have sighted what appears to be a steamer and a
dismantled vessel with her. Mr. Coffin wishes you to come up and see if
you can make her out.”

But Caleb was out of the cabin before Mr. Bolin had finished speaking,
glass in hand.

“Where is she?” he demanded.

“Right ahead, captain,” replied Mr. Coffin. “There! you can see the
black smoke rising from the steamship’s funnels now. The wreck, if it
is a wreck, is between her and us.”

Caleb got the range of the two vessels almost immediately, and it did
not take a very long look to assure him that his mate was right.

“That’s a wreck, sure enough,” he declared, paying but very little
attention to the steamship. “Order the engineer to go ahead at full
speed.”

Fifteen minutes later they were near enough to see the wreck quite
plainly. The steam vessel seemed to be lying quietly upon the sea now,
and as they looked a boat was lowered and pulled toward the dismantled
hulk.

They were still several miles away, however, and could not see whether
the wreck was boarded by those in the small boat or not.

“It strikes me,” began Mr. Coffin after a prolonged gazing through his
glass at the wreck, “that that doesn’t have the same appearance as that
vessel the boys are on. What do you think, Mr. Wetherbee?”

Caleb had doubts in that direction himself.

“I tell ye what it is,” he said: “the Success had a mast for’ard. This
one hain’t.”

“It’s my opinion that’s the hull of a brig, just the same,” Mr. Coffin
declared.

Suddenly Caleb uttered an exclamation.

“That’s no steamship,” he declared. “See her colors and open ports.
Why, it’s a man o’ war!”

“Right you are,” returned the mate.

“It’s the Kearsarge,” added Mr. Bolin. “She was to come down this way,
you know. Going to the West Indies.”

“One of her duties was to blow up derelicts--the Silver Swan among
them. Suppose this hull is the Swan!” cried Mr. Coffin.

Caleb had fairly grown white in spite of his tan.

“Great Peter!” he ejaculated. “Look-er-there!”

The small boat had left the side of the wreck, and was now some
distance away from her.

The whaleback was near enough to see that the officer commanding the
cutter had ordered the men to cease rowing and was standing up in the
bow of the boat.

“They’re going to blow her up!” shouted Caleb. “Crowd on every ounce of
steam she’ll hold. We must stop it! Suppose that it is the Silver Swan!”

He fairly groaned aloud, and in his excitement allowed the costly glass
to fall upon the deck, which treatment did not materially benefit it.

Mr. Bolin darted away to the engine room, and in another moment the
funnels of the whaleback began to pour forth the blackest kind of
smoke, and the water beneath her stern was churned to foam by the rapid
beats of the propeller.

They were all of a mile away from the wreck yet, and every instant
was precious. Caleb stumped up and down the deck, fairly wild with
apprehension, his eyes fixed on the cruiser’s cutter, in the bow of
which the officer seemed to be adjusting something.

If the whaleback had been armed Caleb would have fired a shot to
attract the attention of the cruiser’s people, but there wasn’t a
weapon larger than Brandon’s rifle on the steamer.

Mr. Coffin looked at his commander anxiously. He did not fully
understand why the captain wished to reach the Silver Swan and save it,
if _this was_ the Silver Swan; but he did not believe that they could
accomplish it. And he was right.

The whaleback was still half a mile away from the scene of operations
when suddenly the officer in the cutter sat down, and the instant
following there was a loud explosion.

A column of smoke and flame shot into the air, and when the smoke cloud
rose, only a few harmless splinters on the surface of the sea remained
to show the former position of the wreck!

And then, when it was too late, the officer in the small boat
discovered the approach of the whaleback.

Number Three was still driving ahead at full speed, and when her steam
was shut off she had such headway that she nearly passed the cruiser’s
cutter.

Caleb, his voice trembling with apprehension, leaned over the rail and
shouted his question to the officer who had just “touched off” the
charge that had blown the derelict into atoms.

“What craft is that you blew up?” he asked.

“That was a derelict,” responded the officer, who was an ensign, in
surprise.

“What was her name, d’ye know?”

“She was sunken so low at the stern that we couldn’t read her name.”

“But can’t you guess?” cried Caleb, in great exasperation.

“Oh, there’s not much doubt in our minds as to who she was. She was one
we were ordered to destroy. The name on her bow was badly battered, but
we could make out part of it.”

“Well, for heavens’ sake, what was it?” burst forth the wooden legged
captain wildly. “Don’t beat ’round the bush any longer.”

The ensign began to grow as red as a peony. The old man’s manner of
questioning ruffled his dignity sorely.

“To the best of my belief it was the brig Silver Swan, of Boston, U. S.
A.,” he declared stiffly.



CHAPTER XXXVI

THE CASTAWAYS ON THE BRIG SUCCESS


TO Milly and Brandon on board the water logged brig, it seemed as
though the long night would never end. They crouched together over the
body of poor Swivel, until his clasp relaxed from their hands and he
sank into a deep sleep.

Brandon did not believe that the injured boy would ever awake from that
unconsciousness; nevertheless, he made his way below to the cabin again
and brought up an armful of blankets to add to his comfort.

He wrapped one about Milly, and she made him share it with her, when
Swivel was more comfortable.

Thus sitting close together on the cold, wet deck, they conversed in
whispers till dawn; Milly, at Don’s earnest solicitation, relating all
that had occurred since the night he had escaped from the Success at
Savannah.

It was rather a disconnected story, for the poor girl often broke into
weeping at the memory of her father’s violent death. She had sincerely
loved him, although he was a stern, rather morose man.

It seemed that Leroyd had learned that the plans of himself and his
friends to delay the departure of the whaleback from New York had
failed, and that the steamer had touched at Savannah and departed the
very night the Success got in.

Finding that Sneaky Al had already arrived by steamship from New York,
he promised Captain Frank an extra hundred dollars if he would land
only a portion of his goods and set sail for the Bermudas again.

The brig’s commander could not resist this temptation, and therefore
the Success lay at Savannah but a day and two nights. Then, with
Messrs. Weeks and Leroyd aboard, she had sailed directly for that part
of the ocean in which the whaleback had run across her during the gale.

Brandon also elicited the information that the brig had not been
successful in her search--had not seen a derelict, in fact, since
leaving Savannah--and that Leroyd was in a fiendish temper before the
gale came up.

When that began, he and his friend, Weeks, turned to with the brig’s
crew and did all they could to keep her afloat. Captain Frank, however,
was crushed under a falling spar and instantly killed when the gale
first started in, and the first officer was washed overboard.

When the brig became unmanageable and the crew rushed for the boats,
nobody thought, or at least nobody stopped, for the bereaved girl in
the cabin. She discovered that the crew had gone and left her only by
coming on deck after the water had begun to fill the cabin.

Brandon and the captain’s daughter had ample time, before the sun
appeared, to get very well acquainted with each other.

Don told her all about himself, about the object of the voyage of the
whaleback, and of the plot concocted by his uncle Arad and Messrs.
Leroyd and Weeks to find the Silver Swan and obtain the treasure aboard
her themselves.

As soon as it _did_ grow light, Brandon made his way below again and
after a great deal of trouble lit an oil lamp and heated a little water
over its blaze. He was then able to make some warm drink for Swivel and
Milly, denying himself until she had swallowed some, and between them
they had forced a little of the mixture between the injured boy’s lips.

After this Swivel brightened up a bit, and, as he did not try to talk,
the hemorrhage did not return. But he was very weak.

Milly and Brandon ate a little solid food too, but their companion was
unable to do that.

Now that it was light enough for them to see over the expanse of
waters, they found as they had feared, that the whaleback had left them
behind during the night.

Not a sign of her presence nor of the presence of any vessel which
might come to their assistance, appeared.

The condition of the Success worried them a great deal--or worried Don
and Milly at least--for she was gradually sinking at the stern, and the
water was gaining more rapidly than they liked in the cabin. Whereas it
had only been to Brandon’s knees when he had first gone below, it was
now up to his waist.

During one of these trips of his to the flooded interior of the brig,
he heard Milly’s voice excitedly calling to him to come on deck.

“What is it?” he asked, hastily making his appearance.

“Look! look, Brandon!” cried the girl.

She was standing up in the stern and looking over the starboard side.

Brandon hurried toward her and followed the direction of her hand with
his eyes.

Far across the tossing sea a dark object rose and fell upon the
surface. It was not far above the level of the water, and therefore,
though hardly three miles away, had until now remained unseen by the
voyagers of the Success.

“Is it a wreck like this?” she inquired eagerly.

“It must be,” said Brandon, after a careful examination.

“Bring poor papa’s long glass up from his stateroom,” cried Milly. “You
can see it then more plainly.”

The boy hurried to obey this suggestion and quickly brought the
instrument from the dead captain’s cabin.

By the aid of the glass the shipwrecked boy and girl could quite
plainly view the second wreck, for wreck it was. There was no room for
doubt of that.

“It’s the hull of a vessel like this,” Brandon declared, “though it’s
not sunken at the stern, and it rides the waves easier.

“There isn’t a sign of a spar upon it--it’s swept as clean as this,” he
continued. “There must have been many vessels treated that way in the
storm. Derelicts will be plentiful enough.”

He stopped with a startled exclamation, and stared at his companion in
perplexity.

“What is it, Brandon?” Milly asked, noting his change of manner.

“I was thinking,” he said slowly, “that if the Silver Swan--my father’s
old brig, you know--kept afloat through this last hurricane, she would
likely be in just such shape as yonder hulk.”

“Oh, it couldn’t be possible, could it?” gasped the girl. “That would
be too wonderful a coincidence.”

“Not as wonderful as you might think,” Brandon returned decisively,
gaining confidence in the idea now that some one opposed him. “We are
in the very part of the ocean--or at least, I have reason to think we
are--in which the Silver Swan was last reported. I tell you, Milly, it
may be she!”

“If you could only get to her and see,” cried the young girl anxiously.

“I--I will get to her!” declared Brandon, and then he handed the glass
to her and went back to sit by poor Swivel and think it over.

Milly, however, remained to watch the distant wreck through the
instrument.

By all appearances it was much more buoyant than the Success. Whereas
the latter staggered up the long swells and labored through the trough
of the sea, the strange derelict rode the waves like a duck, and,
propelled by some current, moved a good deal faster, though in the same
general direction as themselves.

Brandon, meanwhile, sitting beside the injured boy, who was now
sleeping deeply, was turning over in his mind the project he had
suggested.

He knew, even better than Milly, that the Success was sinking deeper
and deeper every hour, and that before evening the water might begin to
wash in over the stern.

The ocean was rapidly becoming smooth. Together they would be able to
launch a small raft--a hatch covering, perhaps--place Swivel thereon,
and by using oars, or perhaps a small sail, might reach the distant
derelict quite easily.

Whether it was the Silver Swan he had sighted, or not, it certainly
rode the swells better and seemed to be far more seaworthy than the
Success.

Finally, when Milly came up from the stern, he broached his plan to her.

“I don’t want to force you into this, Milly,” he said. “You shall have
the deciding vote. Perhaps I am influenced by the hope that yonder
vessel is the Silver Swan, and maybe this is a dreadfully foolish plan
for us to try. I think, though, that it is the best and wisest thing we
can do.”

“What can we use for a raft?” the girl asked slowly.

“One of the hatch covers. I have found a tool chest below--I can get at
it yet--and there are spars and pieces of canvas for a sail in the same
place. I saw them only this morning.”

“Can we launch a raft?” asked the practical Milly.

“I believe we can. It is growing calmer all the time, now, and the rail
is so low at the stern that we can push a well balanced raft into the
sea and load it afterward.”

“And Swivel?”

“I’m afraid,” said Brandon, looking down at the injured boy sadly,
“that whatever we do cannot affect Swivel. We can make him as
comfortable on the raft as elsewhere.”

“Then let us do it,” agreed Milly energetically. “I have been watching
the other wreck and it seems to sail much better than the Success. The
old brig may go down now at any time.”

And so they set to work at once at the task of building a raft.



CHAPTER XXXVII

LEFT IN DOUBT


THE task they had set themselves was no child’s play, and this Brandon
and Milly soon discovered. But they were working for their lives, for
according to their reckoning, the Success would not remain above the
surface many hours.

The captain’s daughter showed herself not only capable of handling
tools, but she was strong, too. For years she had sailed up and down
the seas with her father--nearly all her life, in fact--for her mother,
Brandon had discovered by questioning, had died when she was quite
young.

This information assured him that there could be no reasonable doubt of
Milly Frank’s identity. But for the present he said nothing to the girl
about her relatives in New York.

Milly’s life, therefore, had made her hardy and strong, although her
education was limited in many lines.

But she had a good basis of hard, common sense to build upon, and with
a few terms at a well conducted school, she would make as well informed
a girl as one could find.

With some trouble they managed to wrench away the fastenings of the
forward hatch, and with a heavy bit which Brandon found in the
captain’s chest ’tween decks, he was able to bore a hole of sufficient
size to receive the butt of the small spar.

He brought two oars on deck also, and a square of sailcloth which was
bunglingly fashioned into a sail.

Brandon proposed to leave nothing undone which would make the success
of their undertaking more sure. Something _might_ happen to keep them
from reaching the other wreck, so he brought up several cans of sea
biscuit and some canned meats from the cabin stores, and placed them in
readiness for loading the raft after it was launched.

Then with the aid of heavy rollers and a short bar they got the raft
under way, and once it was started down the inclined deck they had no
trouble whatever in keeping it going. The only bother was to keep it
from moving too fast.

Brandon found it impracticable to launch the raft from the stern, and
therefore cut away a piece of the rail on the starboard side wide
enough to admit of the passage of the lumbering hatch.

They took the precaution to fasten a cable to the raft, that it might
not get away from them in its plunge overboard, and then, by an almost
superhuman effort, rolled the platform into the sea.

It went in with a terrific splash, the sea water wetting both the
castaways a good deal, for they had to stand at the rail to steady the
raft’s plunge into the ocean.

“Hurrah!” Brandon shouted. “It floats, and we shall be able to get
away.”

He hastened to pull the hatch up under the brig’s rail; and, with
Milly’s aid, stepped the short mast. Then he placed the boxes and
provisions aboard and lashed them firmly, after which a bed was made
for Swivel on the raft.

Once more he descended into the half submerged galley and made some
more warm drink for the injured boy, and this time Swivel was able to
eat a little cracker with it.

They told him what they were about to do, and he seemed to take more
interest in the plan than he had in anything since the night before.

“Can--can you carry me, Don?” he asked faintly.

“I can if I don’t hurt you,” the other replied. “Now don’t try to talk,
Swivel; but, if I hurt you badly, touch me so I’ll know.”

With this he lifted the slight form of the lad in his strong arms, and
carried him quickly, though easily, across the sloping deck and stepped
aboard the raft, which floated almost even with the brig’s rail.

The sea had gone down very much now, and it was therefore a simple
matter to embark upon the hatch.

Swivel was made comfortable among the blankets, his two friends hoisted
the rule sail, the painter was cast off, and the castaways moved slowly
away from the hulk of the Success.

By this time it was quite late in the afternoon. Still there were
several hours of daylight left them, for in this latitude the sun does
not set very early, even in the spring.

The time which had elapsed since they had first sighted the second
wreck had given this latter an opportunity to sail by the Success, for
she moved much faster than the water logged brig. The raft, however,
wafted along by the brisk breeze, began to overhaul the stranger at
once. By the aid of an oar, in lieu of a rudder, Brandon was able, with
little difficulty to keep headed toward their objective point.

Milly, who had brought her father’s glass along, as well as the log
book of the Success, and all papers of any value belonging to her
father, occupied her time in trimming the sail, under Brandon’s
directions, and in gazing through the glass at the strange vessel.

Soon the outlines of the latter became quite clearly visible.

“It was a brig like papa’s,” declared the girl, scrutinizing the hull
which, although denuded of every inch of spar and rigging, still rode
the long swells as though perfectly seaworthy.

“Can you see the stern, Milly?” Brandon asked, in excitement.

“Yes.”

“Is there a name on it? The Swan had her name on the stern?”

“There is something on the stern, but it’s too far off yet for me to be
sure,” she replied.

“The raft is behaving beautifully,” Brandon declared, “and we shall be
near enough presently for you to be sure of what you _do_ see.”

Milly put down the glass and knelt by Swivel a moment, to place his
head more comfortably. Then she went back to the instrument again.

Fifteen minutes passed before she uttered a word, while Brandon watched
her face with eager interest. Finally she passed him the glass and
seized the steering oar herself, although she said never a word.

With hands that trembled slightly Brandon placed the instrument to his
eye and ranged it upon the stern of the derelict. Long and earnestly
did he examine the lettering upon it, and then closed the glass with a
snap.

“The Silver Swan--thank God!” he said.

“Oh, I’m so glad, for your sake, Don!” exclaimed Milly, tears of
happiness shining in her eyes. “You’ll get your father’s diamonds and
be rich.”

“Riches on a wreck won’t do us much good,” returned Don grimly. “I’d
rather be a pauper ashore.”

“Ah, but somebody will come very quickly now to take us off,” she said
confidently.

“Perhaps. But, did you ever think, that perhaps somebody has been
before us?”

“How do you mean?”

“Why, I mean that perhaps somebody has boarded the brig already and
secured the diamonds.”

“Who?” asked the girl doubtfully. “Who knows about it excepting your
Mr. Wetherbee and that Leroyd and his friend Weeks?”

“Nobody that I know of.”

“And nobody else knew where the jewels were hidden?”

“Probably not.”

“Then do you suppose the steamer has been here first?”

[Illustration: LONG AND EARNESTLY DID HE EXAMINE THE LETTERING UPON IT
THEN CLOSED THE GLASS WITH A SNAP]

“Oh, no; Caleb would have towed the old Swan to a place of safety if he
had found her--especially if she is as seaworthy as she appears to
be from this distance.”

“Then what _do_ you mean?” demanded Milly in exasperation.

“What about Leroyd and Weeks?” asked Brandon slowly.

“Well, what about them?”

“Do you suppose they are drowned?”

“They may be.”

“And then again they may not be. If they were picked up by some vessel
they might have still continued their search for the derelict; might
have found her by accident, in fact.”

“Oh, Don,” cried the girl, “you are supposing altogether too much.
Don’t conjure up such disheartening ideas as that. Let us hope that we
are the first, who know about the treasure, to find the Silver Swan.”

“Well, it doesn’t seem hardly possible that I should get the diamonds
without any more trouble,” Brandon said, with a sigh. “I’m afraid
there’s something wrong about it.”

“Don’t talk that way, but be thankful that you haven’t had more
trouble--though, I should say you’d had almost enough,” returned Milly,
laughing a little.



CHAPTER XXXVIII

HOW THE ENEMY APPEARED


SLOWLY the rude craft drew near the hull of the Silver Swan. The brig
floated as well as though she had never struck upon Reef Eight, nor
been buffeted by the gales of this southern sea for well nigh three
months.

The recent storm had done little damage to her deck either, although
the rails were smashed in one or two places. Her wheel had been lashed
firmly, and strangely enough it still remained so, and now, in this
quiet sea, the brig held as even a keel as though she was well manned.

Within two hours of the time the castaways had been assured that the
wreck they were nearing _was_ the Silver Swan, the raft came up under
her lee rail, and Brandon caught the bight of a cable over a pin on the
quarter. Then he leaped aboard himself and made the rope secure.

The rail of the Silver Swan was so much higher above the surface of
the sea than that of the sinking Success had been that Brandon and
Milly had to fashion a “sling” of the sail, in which to get Swivel
aboard. The injured youth bore the pain this must have caused him
uncomplainingly and was soon made comfortable on the deck of this,
their new refuge.

They did not let the raft float away, although they hoped that they
should not need it again, and Brandon even took the precaution of
fastening it with a second cable before they started to explore the
brig.

The Silver Swan had been almost uninjured by her long journey with no
pilot but the fickle winds and currents of the ocean. The masts had, of
course, all gone in the first gale, and her crew had cut away every bit
of the wreckage before leaving her to her fate on the reef.

The hatches had been battened down and the doors of the forecastle and
cabin likewise closed, so that the occasional seas which had washed
over her had done little toward injuring the interior.

Leaving Milly to look out for Swivel, Brandon forced open the cabin
door (it had swelled badly during the long siege of stormy weather
which the brig had withstood) and went below. Naturally everything was
in confusion--tables, chairs, and what not overturned; but nothing
about the cabin seemed injured.

The cook’s quarters showed a bad state of affairs, however, for there
wasn’t a whole dish (except the tin ones) in the place, and the stove
lay on its back kicking its four feet in the air as though in its last
expiring agonies.

Brandon righted this useful utensil first, and mended the broken pipe
as best he could. Then, when he had a fire started in the thing, he
went on to examine the smaller cabins or staterooms.

He knew his father’s well enough and looked in. But he could not bear
to enter that just now, and so fixed upon one, which should have
belonged to the second mate, for the use of poor Swivel.

He went back to Milly and the injured boy then, and removed the latter
to the brig’s cabin.

Milly, who was a capable girl in more ways than one, went to work
at once to get up a substantial meal from the stores which they had
brought from the Success, with the addition of some eatables belonging
to the provisions of the Swan.

It was rapidly growing dark, and to prevent the liability of a
collision, Brandon hunted out some of the ship’s lanterns and hung two
in the bows, and another at the masthead, devoutly hoping that the
lights, placed in these peculiar positions, would attract the attention
of some passing vessel.

Then the lamp in the cabin was filled and lighted, and for the first
time in forty-eight hours or more, they sat down to a comfortable meal.

At least, Milly and Brandon sat down; Swivel remained in his berth,
with the door of the stateroom open, and watched them with a wan smile
on his pale face.

“Now, Brandon, why don’t you see if the diamonds are here?” asked the
young girl, as they finished their supper. “I thought you would be
eager to look as soon as you got aboard.”

Don glanced across the table at her curiously.

“Do you know,” he said hesitatingly. “I’m half afraid to. It would be a
terrible disappointment if they should not be there--and perhaps they
are not.”

“Come, come! don’t be foolish,” said practical Milly. “Take a look
in the secret closet--wherever it is--or I shall be tempted to do it
myself.”

Brandon, thus urged, rose and approached the companionway.

“Third panel, on port side,” he repeated. “That was Caleb’s direction,
if I remember rightly. Now let’s see.”

He pressed on the designated panel, first one way and then another. It
seemed a trifle loose, but otherwise refused to move.

“Maybe I’ve made a mistake,” he muttered, when suddenly, on his
pressing downward on the edge of the wood, a section of the panel
dropped out leaving a shallow, metal lined cavity displayed to view.

“Bring the lamp, Milly,” he cried eagerly.

The girl obeyed and held the light so that it might illuminate the
interior of the secret closet. There was something in the compartment!

Brandon hastily thrust in his hand and drew forth a flat, heavy
package, sealed in oiled silk and bound with a cord. Hurrying to the
cabin table with his prize he tore off the cord, broke the seals, and
unwound the outer wrappings.

Milly, quite as excited as himself, held the lamp closer, watching his
movements anxiously.

Beneath the outer covering was a flat pouch of chamois skin, the flap
sealed at one end. This seal the youth broke without hesitation, and
in another instant had poured a glittering shower of gems upon the
polished surface of the cabin table.

“Diamonds! diamonds! thousands of dollars’ worth!” cried Milly
delightedly, running her fingers through the little heap of glittering
stones and letting them fall in a flashing shower from her hands.

The gems were uncut--at least by the hand of man--but even in their
crude state they sparkled wonderfully.

For several moments they feasted their eyes on the brilliant spectacle,
and then Milly filled both hands with the precious gems and ran to show
Swivel.

“Whew!” whispered that youth, his eyes growing round with wonder. “Wot
a lot of shiners!”

“Don’t let him talk, Milly,” commanded Brandon, beginning to see that
it would never do for them to excite the sick boy by the sight of the
gems. “When he is better he can see them all.”

The young girl came back with the jewels, smiling happily at her
friend. She seemed quite as joyful because of his good fortune as
though the gems were her own.

Brandon took the precautions to close the door between the cabin and
Swivel’s stateroom soon after this, that the boy might go to sleep, and
then he and Milly sat down at the table and counted the diamonds.

There were no very large gems among the lot, but they were of fair size
and of the purest white.

It was late that night before the two castaways retired. Brandon
prepared what had once been Caleb Wetherbee’s quarters for Milly, but
he himself slept in the cabin, rolled up in a blanket on the floor,
that he might be near Swivel.

They were so exhausted from their privations of the past day and a half
that they slept until far into the next forenoon. Swivel was actually
better, and had no more sinking spells, so that Milly and Brandon
began to hope for his recovery.

Just after they rose Brandon saw a sailing vessel far down on the
horizon; but it passed by without noticing the brig. And once during
the day the smoke of a steam vessel blotted the lines where the sky and
sea met, far to the eastward.

These momentary glimpses of other craft gave them some hope, for it
showed them that they were not entirely out of the track of shipping.

That night Brandon hung the lanterns out again, and according to
arrangement with Milly, remained on deck to watch. She was to watch
days, and he at night, and he fulfilled his lonely vigil faithfully.

But not a vessel appeared to gladden his lonely eyes.

Milly rose early on that third day and prepared breakfast, after eating
which Brandon went to bed. The sky remained beautifully clear, and
they had nothing to fear from the elements, for the glass forecasted a
continued spell of fine weather.

Milly took up her position with the long spy glass on the deck, and
swept the horizon for some sign of rescue. Occasionally she went down
to look in on Swivel, and about noon to prepare the dinner.

When the meal was nearly ready the young girl ran up the companionway
stairs again for a final look before she summoned Brandon from his
stateroom. As she put the glass to her eye and gazed toward the west a
cry of surprise and joy burst from her lips.

Approaching the derelict brig, with a great expanse of canvas spread to
the fresh breeze, was a small schooner, the water dashing white and
frothy from her bows!

“Saved! saved!” gasped the girl. “Oh, thank God!”

While she had been below the vessel had come in sight, and was now less
than half a mile from the wreck.

What seemed strange, however, was that the schooner was laying a course
directly for the brig as though it was her intention to board her.

“Brandon! Brandon!” she cried, running back to the cabin and rapping on
the door.

“Aye, aye!” he shouted, and was out of his berth in a moment.

“What is it?” he asked, appearing in the cabin.

“There is a schooner coming right for us!” cried Milly, laughing and
crying for joy. “I’ve just discovered it. It’s about here.”

She was about to dart out upon deck again, but Brandon grasped her arm.

“Wait, Milly,” he said cautiously. “Have they seen you yet?”

“No; but I want them to.”

“Not yet. We don’t know what they may be. Let me look at them,” said
the boy rapidly.

He seized the glass, and mounting to the top of the stairs, peered out
from the shelter of the companionway at the strange schooner.

She lay to about a quarter of a mile away from the derelict, and a boat
was already half way between the vessel and the wreck. Brandon examined
the men in it intently.

Only a moment did he scrutinize them, and then he dropped the glass
with a cry of alarm. He had recognized Jim Leroyd and the fellow Weeks
among the crew of the small boat!



CHAPTER XXXIX

SHOWING HOW MR. WEEKS MADE HIS LAST MOVE


“WHAT is it, Brandon?” gasped Milly, seeing the look upon her
companion’s face.

“Look! look!” whispered the youth, thrusting the glass into her hands.

Milly gazed in terrified silence at the approaching boat.

She, as well as Don, at once recognized the villainous Leroyd and his
friend, Sneaky Al, and her heart sank with fear.

“What shall we do?” she inquired at last, turning to Brandon.

The latter turned back into the cabin without a word, opened the secret
closet and grasping the package of diamonds thrust it into the breast
of his shirt.

“I’ll hide in the hold,” he said, appearing to grasp the situation at
once. “I do not believe they’ll find me. Tell Swivel, and he’ll know
what to tell and what not to tell, if they try to pump him.

“They needn’t know that I’m here at all, or that you know anything
about me. They’ll not dare to hurt you, Milly. But I shall be on hand
in case they try it.”

“But what can you do against so many?” she returned, with a hysteric
laugh.

“Something--you’ll see. They shan’t hurt you while I’m alive,” he
declared earnestly.

“But suppose they take us off with them--Swivel and I?”

“Go, of course,” returned Brandon promptly. “Leave me to shift for
myself. When you get ashore communicate with Adoniram Pepper & Co. of
New York, and tell them how I’m fixed. Good by, Milly!”

He wrung her hand warmly and disappeared in the direction of the booby
hatch ’tween decks. At the same moment there were voices outside and
the noise of the schooner’s small boat scraping against the side of the
brig.

Milly, with hands clasped tightly across her breast, as though in the
endeavor to still the heavy beating of her heart, remained standing
beside the cabin table as the men boarded the brig and entered the
cabin.

The first to come below was the ill featured Leroyd himself, and close
behind him was Alfred Weeks and two other men from the crew of the
schooner.

“Dash my top lights!” cried the sailor, as he caught sight of the young
girl standing there so silently.

He retreated precipitately upon his friend Weeks, who was almost as
greatly astonished as himself.

“How under the sun came you here, Miss Frank?” demanded Sneaky Al,
stepping forward.

But Leroyd grabbed his arm and strove to drag him back.

“Stop, man! ’tis not a human!” he gasped, his usually red face fairly
pallid. “It’s the spirit of the poor girl. I knowed how ’twould be
we’en we left her aboard the Success.”

Weeks shook off his grasp in contempt.

“I’m only too willing to meet such a charming ghost as this,” he said,
with a smirk, smiling at the young girl. “Don’t be a fool, Jim. It is
Miss Frank herself, though how she came here is the greatest of all
mysteries.”

“’Tis the work o’ Davy Jones hisself,” muttered the sailor.

The other two men, both low browed, sullen appearing fellows looked on
without comment.

“How did you get here?” repeated Weeks.

“We came from the Success just before she was about to sink,” Milly
declared. “Did you come to save us?”

“_Us?_” cried Weeks, in utter amazement. “For goodness’ sake, who’s
with you?”

“After poor papa was killed,” there was a little choke in Milly’s voice
here, “a vessel overhauled the Success and a boy tried to save me. He
brought a rope to the wreck, but it parted before we could haul in a
heavier cable, and the gale swept the other vessel away during the
night.”

“Brave chap!” muttered Weeks. “Where is he now?”

“There,” she said, pointing to the open door of the stateroom in which
Swivel was lying. “He is hurt.”

“But that doesn’t explain how ye got here, miss,” said the sailor
suspiciously.

“I hadn’t got to that, Mr. Leroyd. Had you been men, you would not
have left me to drown as you did, and then there would have been no
necessity for my remaining for three days on these two vessels.”

“You misjudge us, I assure you,” Weeks hastened to say, as Leroyd
shrank back at the girl’s scornful words. “Both Leroyd and I were in
one boat and the second mate was in the other boat. He declared you to
be safe, and I thought, and so did Mr. Leroyd, that you were with him.

“It was not until we were picked up by the schooner Natchez, of
Bermuda, and carried to those islands, that we discovered your
deplorable loss.”

But Milly did not believe this plausible story. She had too vivid a
remembrance of Leroyd and the cowardly Weeks during the gale, to be
impressed by this tale.

“This brig passed the Success on the second day after you left me, and
we made a raft and came to it, because it was so much more seaworthy
than papa’s vessel,” said Milly coldly.

“You say this boy is hurt, eh?” said Weeks, stepping around to the
stateroom door and peering in at Swivel, who was sleeping heavily
despite the sound of voices. “Gee! he does look bad, doesn’t he?”

“Well, wot in thunder shall we do?” growled Leroyd at length. “We’ve
got no time to spend in fooling, Al. No knowing what that--that other
craft is.”

“Miss Milly,” Weeks assured her, without paying any attention to the
words of his companion, “we shall have the pleasure of taking you
and your brave young friend ashore with us--after we settle a little
business here.”

“Well, I’m glad ter hear you gittin’ down ter business,” declared
Leroyd, with satisfaction. “Come, now, skin out of here, you fellers,”
he added, addressing the two men at the companionway. “We’ll come up or
call for you when we want ye.”

The men departed and the sailor turned again to his partner.

“Hurry!” he exclaimed eagerly. “Where’s the place you said they were
hid? It’s somewhere in the cabin here, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Then send the gal on deck, too, and let’s rummage.”

“We won’t be rude enough to do that,” said Weeks, with another smirk at
Milly. “We will just request the young lady not to speak of what she
sees us do.”

“I don’t care. Anything, so long’s we get ’em and get out o’ here.
Suppose--”

“Never mind supposing any longer. Let me see, now,” and Weeks walked
slowly to the upper end of the cabin and counted off three panels from
the companionway on the port side.

Quickly his long finger touched the surface of the panel, pressing here
and there and rattling the loose board, and finally the panel dropped
down, disclosing the secret cupboard--empty!

Leroyd darted forward.

“What is it? Is it there?” he cried.

“The infernal luck! it’s empty!” shouted Weeks, and with a volley of
maledictions he staggered back and dropped into the nearest chair.

Leroyd was fairly purple.

“Have you tricked me!” he yelled, seizing his partner by the shoulders
and shaking him.

“No, you fool! why should I trick you? That is where Caleb Wetherbee
said the diamonds were hid.”

“Sh!” growled the sailor. “D’ye want that gal ter know everything? She
knows too much now.”

“She doesn’t know anything about this; why should she?”

“Then, what’s become of them?”

“I can tell you that,” returned Weeks. “Cale Wetherbee’s been here.”

“And left the Silver Swan a derelict--almost as good as new--an’ him
with a steamer?” roared Leroyd. “Man, you’re dreaming!”

“Then--what--has happened!” asked Alfred Weeks slowly.

“The gal--the gal here,” declared Leroyd, turning fiercely upon Milly.
“She’s found ’em, I tell ye!”

He advanced upon the shrinking girl so threateningly, that Milly
screamed, and rushed to the companionway. Leroyd pursued her, and Weeks
followed the angry sailor.

Up to the deck darted the girl, and almost into the arms of one of the
men whom Leroyd had driven out of the brig’s cabin. The fellow looked
excited and he shouted to the angry sailor as soon as he saw him:

“De steamer come--up queek. Mr. Leroyd! Dey put off-a boat already.”

Milly, who had dodged past the speaker, turned her eyes to the
east--the opposite direction from which the schooner had appeared--and
beheld a steamship, her two funnels vomiting thick smoke, just rounded
to, less than two cable lengths away.

It was the whaleback steamer, Number Three!

Already a boat had put off from the whaleback and it was now being
swiftly propelled toward the Silver Swan.

The two men whom Leroyd and Weeks had brought with them from the
schooner, had been smoking in the lee of the deck-house and had not
discovered the steamer’s approach until she was almost upon the
derelict.

“Curses on it!” Weeks exclaimed as he took in the situation and
recognized the steamer, whose smoke they had beheld in the distance,
before boarding the brig.

But Leroyd kept on after the fleeing Milly. He believed that she knew
something about the missing gems, or had them in her possession, and he
was determined to get them.

Milly ran to the bows of the brig, with Leroyd close behind her.

“Let that gal alone!” roared a voice from the approaching boat. “Give
way, boys! I won’t leave a whole bone in that scoundrel’s body, once I
get my paws on him.”

In an instant the small boat was under the brig’s rail, and Caleb
Wetherbee himself was upon her deck with an agility quite surprising.
Mr. Coffin and two of the boat’s crew were right behind him.

A moment later the panting girl, having eluded the clumsier sailor, was
behind the shelter of Caleb’s towering form and those of his companions.

Weeks stopped Leroyd in his mad rush for the girl, and whispered a few
swift sentences in his ear. Then he stepped forward.

“By what right do you board this brig, Mr. Wetherbee?” he asked. “This
is a derelict. We have seized her and propose to tow her to port for
salvage. I command you to leave her.”

“How long since you boarded her for that purpose?” Mr. Coffin demanded,
for Caleb was fairly purple with rage and surprise.

“Since half an hour ago,” replied Weeks calmly.

“If that is the case, I think I have a prior claim,” suddenly
interrupted a voice. “I came aboard two days ago and I claim the Silver
Swan as mine by right of discovery!”

The astounded company turned toward the cabin entrance and beheld
Brandon Tarr just appearing from below.



CHAPTER XL

IN WHICH THE ENEMY IS DEFEATED AND THE QUEST OF THE SILVER SWAN IS ENDED


“BRANDON!” shouted Caleb; “it’s the boy himself!”

But Leroyd uttered a howl of rage and sprang toward the youth, his face
aflame and his huge fist raised to strike. Caleb, however, despite his
wooden leg, was too quick for him.

He flew to Don’s rescue, and ere Leroyd could reach his intended
victim, the old mariner felled the villain to the deck with one swing
of his powerful arm.

Weeks, who had also dashed forward to aid in Brandon’s overthrow, was
seized by the doughty captain of the whaleback and tossed completely
over the brig’s rail.

“Git out o’ here, the hull kit an’ bilin’ of ye!” Caleb roared,
starting for the two men belonging to the schooner.

They obeyed with surprising alacrity, and the old man picked up the
dazed Leroyd and tossed him into the boat after them. Weeks, dripping
and sputtering, was hauled aboard by his companions, and the small boat
was rowed back to the schooner, while Brandon, unable to restrain his
emotion, threw up his hat and shouted, “Hurrah!” with all his might.

It occupied the three castaways--Milly, Brandon, and Swivel--and
Mr. Coffin and Caleb, fully two hours to straighten out matters
satisfactorily. They had so much to tell and so much to explain for one
another’s benefit, that the whaleback had run in and the crew passed
a hawser from her stern to the bow of the brig, under Mr. Bolin’s
directions, ere the conference was ended.

Words cannot well express the astonishment that those on the whaleback
felt at finding the castaways aboard the Silver Swan--or at finding the
brig itself. For the past twelve hours they had all believed that the
derelict was a victim of Uncle Sam’s feverish impatience to destroy all
obstructions to commerce in his ocean.

Upon figuring the whole matter up, it was pretty evident that it was
the Success which the naval ensign had exploded, for she had been sunk
at the stern sufficiently to cover her name, and had been so battered
by the waves that the lettering on the bow was also probably unreadable.

After believing, as they did, that the Swan was sunk and all her
treasures with her, the whaleback had sailed about in circles, seeking
the wreck of the Success, on which they believed Brandon and his two
companions to be.

It was only by providential fortune that the brig had finally been
sighted, and the whaleback had steamed up just in time to wrest the
Silver Swan from Messrs. Leroyd and Weeks.

Swivel was taken aboard the steamer and carefully examined by Lawrence
Coffin, who was no mean surgeon, and he pronounced the youth as
seriously, if not dangerously, injured. He had burst a blood vessel and
had sustained other internal injuries, and would probably be unfit for
work of any kind for a long time.

“Best place for him is the Marine Hospital,” declared Mr. Coffin to
Brandon and Caleb that night in the steamer’s cabin.

“Hospital nothin’!” exclaimed Caleb, with conviction. “The hospital
is all right for them as hain’t go no homes--like as I hadn’t, nor no
friends--a good deal as I _was_--nor nothing; but _that_ boy ain’t
goin’ to lack a shelter as long as _I’m_ alive.”

“Best not take him on a sea voyage just yet, Mr. Wetherbee,” responded
Mr. Coffin seriously.

“I don’t intend to. He’s goin’ ter live with me, though.”

“But won’t you sail the Silver Swan?” asked the first officer. “She’s
as good as new and she’s yours, too, I understand.”

“No, sir, I’m not. When the Silver Swan is in shape again, I shall put
Mr. Bolin in command of her. I’ve already spoken to him about it.”

“Whew!” whistled Mr. Coffin. “And the whaleback?”

“You’ll command her; that was the agreement I made with Adoniram before
we left New York.”

“Thank you, Mr. Wetherbee,” exclaimed the first officer gratefully.
“But may I ask what you propose to do?”

“I shall retire from the sea--that is, from commandin’ a ship, any
way.”

“So you’re goin’ to keep bachelor’s hall, and going to take this Swivel
to it?” and Mr. Coffin shook his head gravely. “He really needs a
woman’s nursing.”

Caleb grew very red in the face, and blew his nose furiously.

“He--he’ll get it, Mr. Coffin,” he said hesitatingly.

Both Brandon and the first officer looked at the old tar in blank
amazement.

“I said he’d get it,” repeated Caleb solemnly, though with a rather
shamefaced look. “He’ll get it, sir, an’ from the trimmest little woman
ye ever see.”

“It’s Miss Frances!” burst forth Brandon at length.

“It is her, my lad. An’ hain’t I right erbout her bein’ a mighty trim
one?”

“She is, indeed! She’s splendid!” cried Brandon enthusiastically,
seizing his friend’s mighty palm.

Mr. Coffin also offered his congratulations, but went away afterward
with rather a dazed look on his face.

He was pretty well acquainted with the old seaman, and he wondered, as
did Brandon, how under the sun Caleb had ever plucked up the courage to
ask Adoniram Pepper’s sister for her hand.

“Yes, lad,” said the old man gravely; “I’ve been floating about from
sea to sea and from land to land for the better part of fifty years,
an’ now I’m goin’ ter lay back an’ take it easy for the rest of my
days.”

And as Brandon wrung his hand again he felt that the old seaman fully
deserved it all.

       *       *       *       *       *

In good time the whaleback, with her tow, the derelict brig, arrived in
New York, where the Silver Swan was at once sent to the shipyard for
repairs, and is now doing her owner good service as a merchantman.

Adoniram Pepper & Co.’s scheme of recovering derelicts in general and
towing them in for their salvage, has never amounted to anything yet,
for directly following the trip of Number Three (rechristened the Milly
Frank, by the way), the owner received a good offer for putting the
whaleback in the European trade, and she is still carrying grain to
England, with Mr. Coffin as commander.

Milly Frank’s joy at finding her relatives, of whose existence her
father had never told her, was only equaled by the joy of Adoniram
and Frances Pepper themselves in recovering their “little sister”
again--for as such Milly appears to them.

Miss Frances is of course Miss Frances no longer; but with her husband,
she still occupies her brother’s house in New York, and Milly dwells
with them.

Brandon, who is at present in the naval school, resides there also
during vacation, and calls the company of assorted humanity there
gathered “the happy family.”

Swivel is in the West--that land of bracing and salubrious climate--for
after he recovered from the accident he sustained on the wreck, the
doctors told him that he could never live and be strong in the East
again. So, with the assistance of Caleb, Adoniram, and Brandon, who
quarreled not a little as to who should do the most for him, he was
sent West, and a glorious start in business life was given him in that
rapidly growing country.

Brandon himself, though made independently rich by the sale of the
diamonds found by Anson Tarr, loves the sea too well to give it up
altogether, and, as I said, is in the naval academy at Annapolis. When
he is through school and gets his appointment, he and Milly may--but I
won’t anticipate.

As for the disappointed Uncle Arad, he never pressed the matter of
Brandon’s arrest after the failure of the plot (hatched up by himself
and Messrs. Leroyd and Weeks) to convert his nephew’s property to his
own use. He still remains on the farm at Chopmist, and by report is as
crabbed and stingy as ever; but Brandon has had no desire to return to
the farm since his Quest of the Silver Swan was ended.


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 variant spelling has been retained.



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