The Motor Boat Club and The Wireless: or, the Dot, Dash and Dare Cruise

“Don’t know,” replied Dawson. “Haven’t seen enough of them yet.”

“I’m thinking you will, soon,” replied Halstead. “How’s the wind been?”

“From the east, sir,” replied Hepton, who was at the wheel.

“It’s working around to northeast, now,” muttered Halstead. “And it was almost from the south when I turned in.”

Tom stood by the barometer, watching it.

“Trouble coming,” he said, briefly.

Within half an hour his prediction began to be verified. The darkish, “muddy” clouds first seen on the northeast horizon were looming up rapidly, the wind now driving steadily from that quarter. Even with all the smallness of her single sail the “Restless” was heeling over considerably to port.

“Lay along here, Hank, and help me to put a double reef in the sail,” Tom ordered. “I don’t want this little bit of canvas blown away from us.”

As Tom called, he eased off the sheet, and Hepton lounged away from the wheel.

“Too bad,” muttered Hank Butts. “We’ve been making a good four knots since the wind freshened.”

“I’m out of a guess if there isn’t a wind coming that’d take a sail out of its fastenings in ten seconds,” rejoined Halstead, working industriously with the reeves.

A light squall struck them before the boys had finished their task.

“A September northeaster along this coast is no laughing matter, from all I’ve heard of it,” Tom explained as the two boys took the last hitches. “Now, come on, Hank. We’ll hoist her.”

With long rhythmic pulls at the halyards Tom and Butts got the shortened sail up, making all secure.

“You’d better take the wheel, Joe,” sang out the young skipper. “Hepton, stand by to give a hand if the helm moves hard.”

“You seem rather excited over a pleasant breeze like this,” observed Powell Seaton.

“Wait,” said Tom, quietly. “I only hope I am taking too much precaution. I’ve never handled a boat along the Florida coast before, you know, sir, so it’s best to err on the side of caution.”

Hank was sent off on the jump, now, to make everything secure, while Skipper Tom took his place on the bridge deck at starboard to watch the weather.

“I guess there’ll be time, now, Hank, to rig life lines on the bridge deck,” hinted Halstead, coolly. “Never mind about any aft. Whoever goes below can go through the motor room.”

Catching a look full of meaning in the young commander’s eye, Butts hustled about his new task.

“You seem to be making very serious preparations,” suggested Powell Seaton, seriously.

“Nothing like being a fool on the wise side,” answered Skipper Tom, calmly.

Within ten minutes more the wind had freshened a good deal, and the “Restless” was bending over considerably to port, running well, indeed, considering her very small spread of canvas.

Now, the sky became darker. The weather was like that on shore in autumn when the birds are seen scurrying to cover just before the storm breaks.

“I reckon there’s going to be something close to trouble, after all,” observed Powell Seaton, when it became necessary for him to hold his hat on.

Tom nodded in a taciturn way, merely saying:

“If you’re going to stay on deck, Mr. Seaton, you’d better put on a cap, or a sou’wester.”

Mr. Seaton started below, through the motor room. While he was still there the gale struck, almost without further warning.

“Watch the wind and ease off a bit, Joe,” bawled Skipper Halstead in his chum’s ear.

Joe Dawson nodded slightly. The gale was now upon them with such fury that making one’s self heard was something like work.

Despite the prompt easing by the helm, the “Restless” bowled over a good deal as the crest of the first in-rolling wave hit her.

Powell Seaton, a cap on his head, appeared at the motor room hatchway. Tom motioned him to remain where he was.

Clutching at the rail, Tom Halstead kept his face turned weatherward most of the time. He knew, now, that a fifty-five-foot boat like the “Restless,” weather-staunch though she was, was going to have about all she could do in the sea that would be running in a few minutes more.

Nor did he make any mistake about that. A darkness that was almost inky settled down over them. Bending through the hatchway, the young sailing master yelled to Powell Seaton to switch on the running lights.

“For we’ll need ’em mighty soon, if we don’t now,” Captain Tom added.

Hank reappeared with rain-coats, and with his own on. Hardly had those on deck so covered themselves when, accompanied by a vivid flash of lightning and a crashing peal of thunder, the rain came down upon them. At first there were a few big drops. Then, the gale increasing, the rain came in drenching sheets. The decks began to run water, almost choking the scuppers.

The heeling of the “Restless” was no longer especially noticeable. She was rolling and pitching in every direction, accompanied by a straining and creaking of timbers.

Powell Seaton, standing below, clutching for support, and not much of a sailor at best, began to feel decidedly scared.

“Are we going to be able to weather this, Captain Halstead?” he yelled up, as the young skipper paused close by the hatchway.

Though the noise of the now furious gale prevented Tom from making out the words very clearly, he knew, by instinct, almost, what had been asked of him.

“Weather the gale, sir?” Tom bawled down, hoarsely. “Of course! We’ve got to!”

There was a new sound that made the young sailing master jump, then quiver. With a great tearing and rending the single canvas gave way before the roaring gale. In a trice the sail was blown to fluttering ribbons!

CHAPTER XX

“C.Q.D! C.Q.D.! – HELP!”

“Lay along with me, Hank!” bawled the young skipper, hoarsely, in the steward’s ear. “We’ve got to cut away what’s left of the sail.”

Neither helmsman could wisely be spared. Though the boat now had no power of her own she was being driven sharply before the gale, and some fine handling of the wheel was needed in order to keep the boat so headed that she might wallow as little as possible in the trough of the sea.

Nor was the work of the young captain and Hank Butts anything like play. Making their way out along the top of the cabin deck-house was in itself hazardous. They were forced to clutch at any rigging that came to hand to avoid being washed overboard, for the waves were dashing furiously over the helpless boat.

It was not much of a task to haul in the sheet, making fast. Then, using their sailor’s knives, they slashed away.

It was needful for one of them to go aloft.

“I can do it,” proposed Hank, summoning all his courage.

“I know you can,” Tom bawled in his ear. “But I’m not going to send anyone where I wouldn’t go myself. It’s mine to go aloft.”

Thrusting his knife securely into the sheath at the end of its lanyard, Tom Halstead began to climb. Hank watched him closely. The pair at the wheel had no time to observe. All their attention was needed on their own work.

As he climbed, Tom Halstead had a sensation of being in danger of being pitched overboard.

Next, as the “Restless” lay over harder than she had yet done, it seemed as though the mast were bent on touching the water. Halstead had to halt in his climbing, satisfied to hold on for dear life.

“Oh, if we only had enough gasoline aboard!” groaned the young skipper, regretfully. “It would be a tough storm, even then, though nothing like as bad as this!”

As the boat partially righted herself, he went on with his climbing. At length he found himself where he could bring his knife into play, slashing away the fragments of the wind-torn canvas. When the work was done Halstead let himself to the deck again, half-expecting that the force of the pitching and fury of the gale would catch him and sweep him over into the dark, raging waters.

Yet he reached the deck in safety, finding himself beside Hank Butts, who, by this time, looked more like some water-logged thing than a natty steward.

“Come on below to the sail-locker,” roared Captain Tom in the other boy’s ear. “Be careful to hold to the life lines and go slow when the boat heels over. We’ll get the new sail out and rig it – if we can.”

Hepton, seeing them coming, made a sign to Joe, who stood doggedly braced at the wheel. Joe did all he could – it was little enough – to swing the boat’s head a trifle so that she would ride more easily, if possible, in that terrible sea.

Slowly Tom and Hank made their way to the motor room door and slipped down below. There Powell Seaton, his face white, confronted them.

“Captain, this is awful. I don’t see how the ‘Restless’ rides such a sea at all.”

“She’d not only ride but steer well, sir, if we had gasoline enough to run her by her propellers,” Halstead shouted back. “I’d go all the way to Havana in a gale like this if I could use the twin propellers. The ‘Restless’ is a sea boat, and she can’t sink unless the watertight compartments are smashed.”

“But she can turn over and ride keel upward, can’t she?” demanded Mr. Seaton, with a ghastly grin.

“She can, sir, if she heels enough,” Tom admitted. “But that’s why Joe’s at the wheel – because we need a fellow who can make the most out of such headway as the force of wind and waves gives us. And now, sir, Hank and I must try to rig a new sail.”

Out of the sail-locker they dragged the new canvas. It was all in readiness for rigging. In calm weather they could have done this readily – but now? Only time could tell.

“Lend ’em a hand, Hepton!” roared Joe, as he saw the young captain and helper appear with the bulky canvas.

It was all the three of them could do, in the rolling, high seas in which the “Restless” pitched like a chip of wood, to get that sail on top of the cabin deck-house. Bit by bit they rigged it in place, working fast, straining muscle and sinew to hold the sail against the gale that strove to carry the canvas overboard. At last, they had it in place, ready for hoisting.

“Stand by to hoist,” sang out Captain Tom. “The two of you. Go slow! I’ll watch for trouble as you shake it out.”

All the reefs had been taken in the sail before hoisting. Tom Halstead had made up his mind to be satisfied with just a showing of canvas to catch the high wind – enough to keep the boat steady.

As the sail went up, flapping wildly in the breeze, Halstead began to have his doubts whether it would last long. It was their last chance, however, for the control of the “Restless.”

“Lay along here!” roared Tom, through his hands as a trumpet, when he saw that they had made the halyards fast. Now he signed to them to help him haul in on the sheet. Joe, watching, just making out the white of the canvas through the darkness, threw the wheel over to make the craft catch the wind. In a few moments more the gale was tugging against the small spread of canvas, and the “Restless” was once more under control – while the sail lasted!

All but exhausted, the trio found their way forward. For a brief space they tumbled below into the motor room, though Halstead stood where he could see Joe Dawson and spring to his aid when needed.

“Hank,” called Halstead, five minutes later, “your trick and mine on deck. We’ll give Joe and Hepton a chance to get their wind below.”

Small as was the spread of canvas, Tom found, when he took the wheel, that the good little “Restless” was plunging stiffly along on her course. She was a wonderfully staunch little boat. The young sailing master bewailed his luck in having hardly any gasoline on board. It should never happen again, he promised himself.

Again? Was there to be any “again”? The motor boat captain was by no means blind to the fact that the “Restless” hadn’t quite an even chance of weathering this stiff gale. At any moment the sail might go by the board in ribbons, as the first had done. Hank was not even watching the sail. If it gave way it must.

Joe presently came on deck for his next trick at the wheel. Hepton was with him.

“I’ve been thinking about the prisoner in the starboard stateroom,” announced Joe. “It’s inhuman to leave him there, locked in and handcuffed, in such a gale. He must be enduring fearful torment.”

“Yes,” nodded Tom. “I’ve just been thinking that I must go down and set him free as soon as I’m relieved.”

“Go along, then,” proposed young Dawson. “I have the wheel, and Hepton by me.”

Taking Hank Butts with him, Tom Halstead made his way below.

“Dawson was just speaking to me about our prisoner,” began Powell Seaton. “Dawson thinks he ought to be turned loose – at least while this gale lasts.”

“Yes,” nodded Captain Halstead. “I’m on my way to do it now.”

“Will it be safe?”

“We can’t help whether it is, or not,” Skipper Tom rejoined. “It’s a humane thing to do, and we’ll have to do it.”

Powell Seaton did not interpose any further objections. It would have been of little moment if he had, for, on the high seas, the ship’s commander is the sole judge of what is to be done.

Even below decks, going through the electric-lighted passage and cabin, Tom and Hank made their way with not a little difficulty. They paused, at last, before the starboard stateroom door, and Tom fitted the key in the lock.

Jasper, the man locked within, faced them with affrighted gaze.

“We’re going to the bottom?” he demanded, hoarsely, tremulously. His very evident terror gave the young skipper a new idea.

“Are you prepared to go to the bottom, Jasper?” demanded Halstead.

“Am I fit to die, do you mean?” asked the man, with a strange, sickly grin. “No, sir; I’m not. At least, not until I’ve cleared myself by telling a few truths.”

“Come out into the cabin, man,” ordered Halstead, leading him. “Now, sit down, and I’ll get your handcuffs off.”

The young captain of the “Restless” unlocked the irons about the fellow’s wrists. Jasper stretched his hands, flexing his wrists.

“Now, I can swim, anyway, though I don’t believe it will do much good,” he declared.

“No; it won’t do much good,” Halstead assented. “We’re something more than forty miles off the coast. But what do you want to say? What’s on your mind? Be quick, man, for we must be on deck again in a jiffy. I don’t want to lose my boat while I’m below with a rascal like you.”

“I haven’t always been a rascal,” retorted Jasper, hanging his head. “At least, I have been fairly straight, until the other day.”

“What have you been doing for Dalton and Lemly?” demanded Tom Halstead, fixing his gaze sternly on the frightened fellow.

“Never anything for Dalton,” whined Jasper.

“Well, for Lemly, then?”

“Oh, I’ve been snooping about a bit, for two years or so, getting tips for Dave Lemly.”

“What has Lemly been smuggling in the ‘Black Betty’ all this time?”

“Diamonds,” admitted Jasper, sullenly.

Tom Halstead felt like giving a great start, but controlled himself.

“Smuggling diamonds under Anson Dalton’s orders, eh?” insisted the young skipper.

“Yes; I reckon so.”

“How did you come into our matter – as a guard and a traitor?”

“I was on hand when Mr. Seaton was getting his guards together,” replied Jasper. “So was Dave Lemly’s mate. The mate told me to jump in and get my chance with the guard.”

“What other orders did you have?”

“I was to watch my chance to do anything nasty that I could,” confessed the fellow, hanging his head.

“That was why you tried to ruin our aerials?”

“Yes.”

“You also listened to Mr. Seaton and myself, the night we were going over to Lonely Island?”

Jasper squirmed, his face growing more ashen.

“You heard what was said about papers hidden in a cupboard at the bungalow. Did you? Answer me, confound you!”

With an appearance of utter rage Tom bounded at the fellow, as though about to attack him. Hank closed in, to be ready in case the attack turned out to be a genuine one.

“Yes, I stole an envelope full of papers,” admitted Jasper.

“What did you do with them?”

“I turned them over to Dave Lemly.”

“Where? On Lonely Island?”

“Yes; Lemly visited the island twice, at night, while I was on duty there,” confessed the fellow, whining and letting his head fall lower.

“What else have you done against us?”

“Nothing, except trying to disable your wireless.”

“Are you telling the whole, full truth?” demanded Captain Tom Halstead, surveying the fellow suspiciously. “As much of the truth as you want to lay bare before going to the bottom in this wild storm?”

“Yes! Oh, yes, yes!” insisted Jasper, easily. “Now, I’ve cleared my conscience of its load!”

“Humph!” muttered Tom Halstead, dryly.

At that moment a snapping sound overhead reached their ears. The “Restless” veered about, then heeled dangerously.

“Our second and last sail has gone!” cried the young skipper, starting forward. “Jasper, I hope you have told me the whole truth, for there is no knowing, now, how soon you’ll start for the bottom – how soon we’ll all go down. Helpless in this sea, the ‘Restless’ may ‘turn turtle.’”

Nor was Tom speaking in jest, nor in any effort to scare the recent prisoner into a fuller confession. Indeed, the motor boat captain was paying no further heed to the wretch, but making his way forward. Jasper started to follow, Hank bringing up the rear.

As they reached the motor room the pitching and rolling of the boat were awesome enough. It seemed incredible that a boat the size of the “Restless” could live even a minute in her now helpless condition.

Joe still stood at the wheel, white-faced but calm.

“I don’t see what we can do now, Tom,” he shouted.

“Nothing but get down to the wireless, and do anything you can in the way of picking up some steamship,” Halstead answered. “We might get a tow, or, at least, another spread of canvas for a third try to ride out the gale. The chances aren’t big for us, but – well, Joe, we’re sailors, and can take our medicine.”

Joe smiled grittily as he edged away from the wheel after his chum had taken it.

“At least, if we go down, we go down in command of our own ship!” he yelled bravely in Tom’s ear through the wild racket of the gale.

Then Joe went below. The storage batteries held electricity enough to operate the few lights and keep the wireless going at intervals for some hours yet.

Once, in the minutes that dragged by, Hank Butts thought of the fine spread he had been instructed to serve all hands that night. But no one else was thinking of food now. Coffee would have been more to the purpose, but to start a galley fire was to take the risk of adding fire at sea to the already more than sufficient perils of those aboard the “Restless.”

Every few minutes Captain Tom Halstead called down through the speaking tube that connected him with Joe Dawson at the sending table. Always Joe’s calm answer came, the same:

“Our wireless spark hasn’t picked up any other ship yet.”

Then, just as frequently, Joe would rest his hand on the sending key again, and send crashing off into space the signal:

“C.Q.D.!” The three letters that carry always the same message of despair across the waves.

“C.Q.D.!” – the wireless signal of distress. “Help wanted, or we perish!”

CHAPTER XXI

THE SPARK FINDS A FRIEND THROUGH THE GALE

The time had dragged on far into the night. Joe was still at the wireless sending table, sleepless, patient, brave – a sailor born and bred.

Jasper, like many another rascal a superstitious coward in the face of impending death, was seeking to appease the sting of his conscience by doing everything in his power to make amends in these grave moments. He stood by, pallid-faced yet collected enough to obey any order instantly.

Captain Tom remained on deck all the time now, though Hank often relieved him briefly at the wheel. Both Hepton and Jasper stood by to help as deck-hands. Powell Seaton came up on deck occasionally, though he remained more in the motor room.

Again and again Joe signaled – always that desperately appealing “C.Q.D.!” It was all the signal he needed to send out. Wherever heard, on land or water, the first operator to catch it would break in at once with a demand for further particulars.

Yet Joe’s soul grew sick within him as time passed, and no such break came through the storm-laden air. For Dawson, as well as had he stood on deck, knew that this endless, malignant fury of the gale must sooner or later start the seams of the staunch little craft. Or else, struck by a wave bigger than any others, she would lie so far over on her beam ends that she must finish the manœuvre by “turning turtle” – lying with her keel uppermost, and the crew penned underneath to drown in haste.

“Nothing to report yet, Joe, old fellow?” came down Captain Tom’s brave though anxious voice for perhaps the fortieth time.

“No reply to our signals, Tom,” went back the answer.

“Do you think our spark is still strong enough to carry far?”

“Plenty of electric ‘juice’ left,” Joe responded. “The spark is as strong as ever. Oh, if we only had as much gasoline!”

“Oh, if we only had!”

But ten minutes after that last call Joe again sent forth:

“C.Q.D.! C.Q.D.!”

Then down the receivers traveled a click – not loud, yet unmistakable.

“Where are you? Answer!” came the response, out of the air from some quarter.

In frantic haste Joe Dawson fell upon his key once more.

Motor yacht “Restless!” Under no power whatever. Gasoline almost gone – saving the last for any emergency chance that comes to us. All canvas blown overboard. Do you get this?

It seemed to frenzied Joe Dawson as though many minutes passed, yet the response came promptly:

Give us your present position, “Restless,” as best you know it!

Joe obeyed with fingers that seemed themselves to be worked by electricity. The receiver of the message repeated Joe’s response, to make sure that it was correct.

“Who are you?” Joe now broke in to answer.

Havana liner, bound north, and, we believe, within thirty miles of you. Have you been signaling long?

“Seems as though I had been signaling for years,” sent back Joe, laughing nervously to himself. The answer came:

We’d heard you before, then, but there was a little mishap to our installation. You keep at your table to send and receive. I’ll do the same at my end. Keep up your courage until we reach you. Be ready to burn Coston lights when we ask you to.

Then how fast Joe Dawson managed to talk up through the speaking tube! Tom Halstead, after first announcing the great news to the deck with a wild cheer, put Hank at the wheel and hurried below. Shortly, however, the young skipper was back on deck, bearing the wonderful news.

In smooth weather the Havana liner, ordinarily a fifteen-knot boat, would have reached them in two hours. Under the weather conditions of this wild night it was much later when the two craft were within hailing distance by signal lights. Hank was now in command of the deck, Skipper Tom and Powell Seaton being with Joe.

“Shall we try to send you a line for a tow?” came the demand from the liner.

“Yes,” replied Halstead. Then, with a grimace he added:

“But the salvage charge for such a tow will call for more than we can raise, Joe, old fellow. I reckon the ‘Restless’ will have to be put up for sale to pay her own bills.”

“Do you think I’d let you boys stand the towing charges?” demanded Powell Seaton, indignantly. “Whatever charges there are are mine to pay, and I’m at least good for the entire purchase price of a few boats like even this good little old salt water wizard!”

Tom soon afterwards made his way to the deck, but Mr. Seaton, weak and almost ill after the hours of anxiety, threw himself upon a cushioned seat near the wireless sending table.

As Tom stood on the bridge deck he studied the liner’s lights as that larger craft manœuvred in to the leeward of the motor craft.

Once she had gained this position at a sufficient distance to make any collision on this wild sea unlikely, the liner steamed ahead.

“Stand ready to receive our line!” came to Joe in clicks through the watch-case receivers over either ear. He swiftly transmitted the order through the speaking tube to Halstead on the bridge.

Then the liner burned another light. Tom answered with one held in his own hand. It was the signal to look for the line, and the answer.

Through the darkness came a sudden, red flash from the after deck of the liner. The wind was so heavy that those on the bridge deck of the “Restless” could not be sure that they heard the report of the gun. But a missile whizzed over their heads, and to this blessed projectile trailed a thin line that fell across the top of the cabin deck.