The Bungalow Boys in the Great Northwest

It would be wearisome and useless to detail the conversations between Mr. Chillingworth and his young companion. They were all on one subject, and that was: how were they to escape from their predicament. But they all ended in the same place. That is to say – nowhere. Night and day the schooner swarmed with men, so to try to cut away one of the boats, as Tom had suggested, was soon declared to be manifestly impossible.

At meals Simon Lake and Zeb Hunt shared the table with them, but at other times they had the cabin to themselves, except for the occasional ghost-like goings and comings of the tall Chinaman. In this connection it may be interesting to note that since coming on board Tom had seen the recreant Fu. The former employee of Mr. Chillingworth was working on a sail with the crew when his eyes met Tom’s. But whatever he may have felt, no expression appeared on the yellow mask that did duty for his face. Tom surmised that, in exchange for a promise of loyalty to the gang, he had been made one of them. But of the status of the tall Chinaman, who seemed to be a man of some influence with both crew and officers, it was more difficult to guess. Mr. Chillingworth was inclined to think he was some sort of a priest. He based this theory on the veneration which Fu had shown on the night he had seen his big countryman at the burial of the dead in the cove. For the rest, the tall Mongolian ate by himself and had his own cabin. Not by word or sign, since they had been on board, had he conveyed a hint that he had ever seen Tom before, although he must have recognized the boy he had conducted to Simon Lake at the camp in the canyon.

Hitherto the schooner had had fair weather, although the wind had been strong. But this afternoon the sky began to grow overcast and there was an ominous feeling in the air that betokened the coming of a storm. By supper time, in fact, the schooner was laboring along in a heavy sea and under much reduced canvas. But even the reefing which had been done was against Lake’s will. In her cabin they could hear his voice coming down through the skylight in angry argument with Zeb Hunt.

“By Chowder, it’s my way to clap on all she’ll carry.”

“But you’ll have the sticks out of her by sundown,” Zeb had protested.

“All right, then, shorten up if you want to. But not more than one reef in the main sail, mind yer. I’m a downeast sailorman, and we don’t b’lieve in sailing ships ter suit young ladies’ seminaries.”

By sundown the wind had developed into a screeching gale. Every timber and bolt in the schooner cried out and complained with a different voice. Under the heavy sail that Simon Lake obstinately insisted on carrying, she was being heavily racked.

From the way in which things in the cabin were tumbled about, the gale must have been terrific, but when Mr. Chillingworth tried to go on deck to see what sort of a night it was, he was met by a stern order from Simon Lake.

“Go back thar in ther cabin, Chillingworth,” he ordered. “The deck ain’t no place fer you ternight.”

Soon after, he came down and entered his cabin. He emerged in oilskins. Zeb Hunt followed his example. What, with the trampling of feet as the crew ran about the decks, the increasing motion of the ship, and the cruel uproar the creaking timbers kept up, there was no sleep for the castaways, and till long after the usual hour for going to their cabin they sat up. A certain amount of apprehension mingled with their other feelings. It is one thing to be upon deck, active and alert, in a big storm, and quite another pair of shoes to be confined in a stuffy cabin, not knowing what is happening above and whether at any moment you may not see green water come tumbling down the companionway.

Shortly before midnight the rancher and Tom Dacre turned in. But it was not to sleep. The storm was decidedly increasing in fury every minute. The little vessel seemed fairly to stand on its head one instant and the next to be rearing upward, pointing toward the stars.

What time it was Tom had no idea, but he figured afterward that it must have been about two hours after they turned in when he was awakened from a troubled doze by loud voices in the cabin outside, and a trampling of feet, as if several persons were there. Opening the door a crack, he peered out.

He saw Simon Lake, very pale, and bleeding from a big cut in his head, laid out on the forward lounge, while Zeb Hunt and several of the others bent over him.

“It all comes of crackin’ on so,” Hunt was saying. “If we hadn’t carried all that canvas, we wouldn’t never have had that sail rip loose, and then Bully here wouldn’t have got hit with that block.”

“Is it a bad cut, Zeb?” asked one of them.

“Well, it’s purty deep,” said Zeb, who by this time had opened a locker and was selecting some bandages from it. “But I reckon we kin fix it. How d’yer feel now, Bully?”

The injured man gave a groan. It was evident that he was partially stunned by what Tom guessed, from what he had overheard, was a falling block. Soon after he was carried into his cabin, the tall Chinaman being left to watch him.

After that the hours wore on somehow. From time to time Tom fell into an uneasy nap to awaken with a start of alarm and a horrible fear that the schooner was at last going to the bottom.

There was a clock in the cabin, affixed to the forward bulkhead, and after one of these sudden awakenings he decided to peep out and see what time it was. He longed for the coming of day with every nerve within him. If the schooner was to sink, he felt that it would be better in the daylight than in the pitchy darkness.

Steadying himself by the side of the bunk in which Mr. Chillingworth lay sleeping as peacefully as if he were at home, Tom peered out. He caught his breath with a start as he did so, and saw the figure of the tall Chinaman standing upright above the table in the center of the cabin.

In front of him was a glass of water. He had evidently just fetched it from the small keg at the after-end of the cabin for the injured man.

Tom could hear Simon Lake’s voice from another stateroom:

“Cheng! Cheng! Hurry with thet thar water, you blamed yellow-faced Chink.”

“Yellow-faced Chink, am I?” Tom heard the Chinaman mutter, as he reached into his loose blouse and pulled out a small vial containing a red fluid. “Well, Bully Banjo, I am about to demonstrate to you that we yellow-faced Chinks are more than a match for men of your caliber.”

As the Chinaman muttered the words, he allowed a few drops of the red liquid to fall into the glass of water.

“One swallow of this and you enter the white devil’s heaven,” he snarled, tiptoeing toward the cabin in which lay the injured leader of the Chinese runners.

“It’s poison,” gasped Tom to himself, “and he’s going to give it to Simon Lake.”

Already the tall Chinaman’s hand was on the handle of the stateroom door, and he was about to enter it when Tom’s door opened, and above the uproar of the storm he shouted:

“Hold on a minute there.”

The Chinaman faced around like a flash. There was an evil expression on his face, but it changed to a smile as he saw the boy. For a forced smile summoned so hastily to the surface it was a very creditable one.

“Ah, it is the white boy,” he exclaimed. “What do you want, white boy?”

“I’d like a drink of water,” said Tom. “Let’s have that glass a minute, will you?”

The Chinaman looked hard at him for an instant as if he would have penetrated his thoughts. Then, satisfied apparently that Tom had seen nothing, he said:

“Bym bye you can have. Jes’ now me go give dlink to Missa Lake.”

Still grinning like a yellow image, he glided into the cabin occupied by the injured man.

“Here, give it to me, quick. Consarn it, the thirst is burning me up,” Simon Lake cried, as he reached for the glass.

But before his fingers could close on it, it was dashed from his grasp and its contents spilled over the floor.

“Consarn your mischievous hide, what d’ye mean by that?” bellowed Lake, furiously turning on Tom, who had entered the cabin in two flying leaps, just in time to save the rascal from drinking the stuff.

“I don’t owe you any debt of gratitude,” rejoined Tom, “but I don’t want to see you poisoned by a scoundrelly Chinaman. That fellow drugged that water.”

“Wh-a-a-a-a-a-t!”

“That’s right. If you don’t believe it, have him searched. You’ll find a small vial of red stuff in his blouse. He dropped some of it into your water, and – ”

Stunned by the suddenness with which his rascally plot had been discovered, the Chinaman had hitherto remained motionless. Now, with a bellow of rage, he leaped at Tom, flinging his long, wiry arms about him.

The boy struggled bravely, but the yellow man had the first hold and he was tremendously strong, as Tom soon found out while he helplessly thrashed and struggled.

But either Simon Lake was not as badly injured as they thought, or else he managed to make a superhuman effort, for just as the Mongolian had Tom down on the cabin floor and his yellow fingers were digging in his throat, Lake hurled himself out of his bunk upon the yellow man, bearing him with resistless force to the floor under his great weight.

This was the tableau that Zeb Hunt, rushing into the cabin, arrived just in time to see. He came to the aid of his superior and they soon had the tall Chinaman helpless.

“Sarch his blouse, Zeb! Sarch his blouse!” bellowed Simon Lake, his wound apparently forgotten in his excitement.

“I’ll tie him first,” said the prudent Zeb, producing some yarn. Then, with the Mongolian helplessly pinioned to a stanchion, the mate proceeded to search him. Almost the first object he found was the vial which Tom had seen.

“Here it is, boss,” he said. “Just as the youngster said.”

The Chinaman bent an angry glare on them.

“Him no poison. Him medicine,” he cried.

“Oh, it is, is it. Well, I’ll mix you up a dose of it and see if you’ll take it,” declared Zeb.

Procuring a glass, he mixed up some of the red drops with water. But when they were thrust toward him, the Chinaman had to admit by his refusal to take it that the stuff was deadly poison.

Simon Lake, white and shaky, now that the excitement was over, had sunk back on the lounge. He kept passing his hand over his bandaged brow as he looked on as if to try to assure himself that he was awake.

“Just ter think that thet thar rascal Cheng who I’ve trusted like a babby would hev tried to give me a deal like thet,” he kept repeating. “What d’yer think got inter the feller, Zeb? Why did he want ter do it?”

“In ther fust place, because he’s jes’ naturally mean and pesky, bein’ a Chink,” rejoined Zeb, “and in ther next, I reckon he figured that with you out of the way and the rest of us busy on deck, he’d rob you uv that money belt of yours and nobody be the wiser.”

“Maybe you’re right,” rejoined the injured man grimly, “but I’m too sick ter attend ter him now. But, by Juniper, wait till I’m well. I’ll – ”

There came a sudden jarring crash. The schooner trembled as though she had been dealt a mortal blow. At the same time there was a terrible grinding of timbers, and a confused uproar of alarmed shouts and cries from above.

“Jee-hos-o-phat, we’ve struck!” shouted Zeb, bolting from the cabin. He darted up the stairs in an instant. Simon Lake, staggering as he went, followed him. An instant later Mr. Chillingworth, aroused by the clamor and the shock, appeared.

“Come on,” cried Tom, “something’s happened. I don’t know what, but maybe our opportunity to escape has arrived.”

CHAPTER XVII.

A STRANGE ENCOUNTER

On deck they found a scene of the wildest confusion. The wind had abated somewhat, but there was still a big sea running. To the east the sky was gray and wan with the first streaks of dawn, and the waste of tumbling waters was lighted dimly by the newborn light. Forward was a crowd of men, in the midst of them being Zeb Hunt. The wounded Bully Banjo had managed to claw his way forward along the swaying decks also, and stood by his mate’s side, holding on to a back stay.

Mr. Chillingworth and Tom Dacre hastened forward to see what had happened. They found the group of seamen clustered about some figures that they had just hauled over the side with life belts.

“Their boat went down like a rock when we struck her,” one of the crew, who had been on deck when the collision occurred, was explaining to another, as the boy hastened past.

But the next instant he stopped short with a gasp of astonishment. In the center of the group of sailors and rescued persons from the small craft the schooner had seemingly just run down, was one that was strangely familiar. As Tom drew nearer he heard a youthful voice pipe up. Its owner’s small form was hidden by the clustering seamen of the schooner:

“What kind of a boat is this, pa-pa?”

“This is a schooner, my child. It has just run us down,” rejoined the tall, lanky figure.

“What did they run us down for, pa-pa?”

“Professor Dingle!” cried Tom, recognizing first the questioning voice of the professor’s son and heir, and then the tall, bony figure.

“Tom Dacre, my boy!” cried the professor delightedly.

“How came you here?” asked Tom.

“I might ask the same question of you,” rejoined the professor. “I was cruising north toward the Aleutian peninsula in my little yawl-rigged boat, when out of the darkness this schooner came upon me and ran me down. My two faithful Kanakas and my boy and myself only managed to save ourselves by a hair’s breadth.”

“But how did you come to be hereabouts, professor?” asked Tom.

“Again the same question might apply to you, my lad, but the fact is that I’m off on a scientific cruise to the Aleutian Islands in search of rare specimens. We sailed from Victoria three days ago and ran into that terrible storm last night.”

The crew stood about grinning while the professor was making his explanations. They seemed to think the whole thing a rare joke, now that the shock of the collision was over and it had been ascertained that no damage had been sustained by the schooner. As for the professor himself, he accepted the situation as calmly as if it were an everyday matter. His two Kanakas, brown-skinned, black-haired fellows of slender, yet athletic build – of whom more hereafter – also accepted the situation, seemingly as an unavoidable stroke of fate.

Tom introduced the professor to Mr. Chillingworth. Surely never were introductions gone through amid stranger surroundings! Hardly had the ceremony been concluded than word came forward by one of the crew that Simon Lake wished them all to report aft in the cabin at once.

This was not a summons to be disregarded, and, headed by Tom and the professor, whose inquisitive offspring clutched tightly to his hand, they started along the plunging, rolling decks. On their way aft Tom explained the exact situation to the professor – or as much of it as he could in the few seconds of time he had. The man of science took it with as unmoved an air as he accepted most happenings in his life.

He was vexed, though, at the interruption of his scientific expedition, which he had undertaken in the interests of the Puget Sound University, whose intention it was to form a museum of Pacific Coast flora and fauna, second to none.

“However,” he remarked, with a philosophical shrug, “it is no use railing at fate. The only thing to be done is to make the best of it.”

Which, incidentally, was as good a bit of philosophy as the professor could have found in any of his books.

“And now,” he concluded briskly, “let us see what sort of a man is in command of this ship.”

The first object that met their eyes as they made their way down the steep companion stairs was not one calculated to inspire a timid man with confidence.

The tall Chinaman, his face contorted from the pain of his tight thongs, was still secured to the stanchion. His face worked as he saw the newcomers, and for an instant Tom thought he was going to make an appeal for mercy. But if such had been his intention, he thought better of it and remained silent. It was Simon Lake who broke the silence that reigned as the “passengers,” as they may be called, ranged themselves along the cabin bulkhead, awaiting Simon Lake’s announcement of the cause of his summons. It was not long in coming. Lake, who was sprawled out on the lounge with Zeb Hunt at his side, eyed them a minute as if in some doubt how to begin. His hawk-like face was not improved by the bandage which now enwrapped his head.

“What makes that man look so funny, pa-pa?” whispered the professor’s offspring inquiringly.

“Hush,” cautioned the professor; “he’s going to speak.”

“Waal, gents,” began Simon Lake harshly, “we’ve got considerable more of a crew on board this craft than we started out with. Ther only question in my mind is wot ter do with yer.”

Certainly Simon Lake had a way of coming to the point without beating about the bush, which might be imitated by some of our legal lights and other public luminaries.

As no one answered, and he did not seem to expect them to, he resumed:

“Of course, I might chuck the whole shootin’ match of yer overboard. But I ain’t goin’ ter do it. You, Chillingworth, I don’t see as you’re entitled ter any mercy. You’d hev made it hard fer me ef yer could. You’d hev seen me ahind bars ef you’d hed yer way – wouldn’t yer now?”

“Well, since you put it so directly, Simon Lake, I certainly would have done my best to secure your being put out of business, so far as your nefarious trade is concerned.”

“Ah, but yer didn’t,” grinned Simon Lake maliciously, “and now I’ve got yer right whar I want yer – an’ I’m goin’ ter keep yer, too. Lucky I nailed yer afore you could carry out yer little idee of settin’ ther Secret Service onter me – eh?”

“He knows nothing about Sam Hartley, then,” thought Tom, with a flash of distinct relief.

As Mr. Chillingworth made no answer except to look the rascal straighter in the eye, Lake resumed.

“Waal, luck, er fate, er providence, er whatever yer like ter call it, hez certainly turned ther tables on yer in a most re-markable way,” he went on, in a musing tone. “An’ I ain’t one ter fly no ways in ther face uv providence. Here you are, and here you’ll stay. I’ve got work fer you an’ ther rest, too, whar we air a-goin’.”

“And where is that, may I ask?” inquired Mr. Chillingworth.

Lake grinned.

“Why, to er delightful island thet we ought ter be raisin’ at any moment now.”

But if they hoped to hear any more about their destination just then, they were disappointed, for Lake went on without any further reference to it.

“This gent here is a perfesser, I understan’,” he said. “Waal, maybe I’ll hev a job fer him, too. Do you understand assaying, perfesser?”

“The science of gauging the value of the metals contained in any ore-bearing rock, do you mean?” asked the scientist.

“Waal, that’s a heap o’ fancy sail ter carry onter it, but ter come down ter brass tacks, by Chowder, that’s jes’ the idee I want ter convey. Do you understand it?”

“Why, to some extent – yes. Have you any ore you wish assayed?”

“I’ll tell yer abaout thet later,” said Lake, with a cunning leer. “Now, then,” he resumed, “what is them two black fellers you’ve got thar – Kanakas, ain’t they?”

The professor nodded.

“I hope you mean them no harm,” he said. “They are faithful, hard-working fellows, and excellent sailors. Their names are Monday and Tuesday, so called after the days on which they were hired.”

“Das so. Yes, boss, das so, fer a fac’,” said one of the South Sea natives, pulling his black silky forelock in true sailor fashion.

“I reckon we kin fin’ work fer them, too,” decided Lake. “Yer see, it’s jes’ this way: Whar we’re goin’ every one hez ter work, er else starve. I reckon you’d rather work then starve, so I’m goin’ ter give yer all a chance.”

“One question, Lake,” put in the rancher. “I’ve a home and wife back yonder on the Sound. In mercy’s name, tell me, and tell me the truth – am I ever going to see them again?”

Lake looked at him curiously, and then the wretch deliberately rose to his feet.

“Reckon the weather’s clearin’ quite a bit, Zeb,” he said, without taking the slightest notice of the perturbed rancher. “We’d best be gittin’ on deck. By the bye,” he said suddenly turning to Tom, “you did me a sarvice with that thar yaller devil. I’ll not forget it.”

He started for the companionway stairs followed by Zeb. It was his evident intention to pay no heed to Mr. Chillingworth. But the rancher intercepted him.

“As you are human, Lake,” he pleaded, “answer my question. Think, man, what it means to me – to my wife – ”

He stopped short, evidently afraid to trust his voice further. Lake turned and met his outburst with a cruel smile.

“We’re reckonin’ on hevin’ yer with us fer quite a stay, Chillingworth,” he said, setting his foot on the bottom step of the companionway, “so make up yer mind ter thet. We need yer ranch, and – ”

Before he could add another word Chillingworth’s form was hurtling across the cabin. The rancher, distracted for the moment by his wrongs, flew at the bully like a wild beast. Lake staggered and almost fell under the unexpected onslaught, but the next instant he recovered himself and drew and leveled a pistol. That moment might have been the rancher’s last, but for Zeb Hunt. At the same instant as Lake drew his revolver, the mate of the schooner raised his heavy-booted foot and dealt Mr. Chillingworth a brutal kick in the pit of the stomach. As the pistol exploded the rancher sank down in a heap, groaning in agony. The bullet flew by Tom’s ear and buried itself in a panel of the cabin.

“Thet’s what any uv ther rest uv yer’ll git ef yer try ter cut up monkey shines, by Heck!” snarled Lake, blowing the smoke from the barrel of his revolver with the utmost calmness.

While Tom sprang forward to aid the suffering rancher, Lake and Zeb Hunt proceeded to the deck. Under the lad’s ministrations Mr. Chillingworth presently grew somewhat better, and Tom and the professor managed to help him into his cabin, where they laid him out on a bunk.

While they were all in the small stateroom, even the two Kanakas, who seemed to dislike the idea of being left alone, being with them, there came a sudden click of the lock of the door.

Tom, guessing what had happened, but still not permitting himself to believe it, sprang to the portal. He shook it furiously, but it resisted his efforts to open it.

“Prisoners!” he gasped. “They’ve locked the door!”

Realizing that it was no use attempting to force the portal open, they decided to await Lake’s pleasure in the matter of opening it. In the meantime, they turned once more to the subject of a possible chance for escape.

“One thing is certain,” the professor decided, at the end of the discussion of a dozen or more plans, “we are in no immediate danger. It is equally certain that we can do nothing while we are on board the schooner. The only thing to do is to wait till we reach this island. When we know just what is going to happen to us we can formulate plans better, in the meantime we – ”

He stopped short. There was a trampling of feet in the cabin outside. It sounded as if a struggle were in progress. For an instant a voice broke out in wild pleadings – or so it seemed – but the cries were suddenly hushed as if a hand had been placed over the mouth of whoever was uttering them.

Then the trampling ceased and the sound of footsteps ascending the companion stairway could be heard. All this the prisoners in the cabin had heard in silence. As the sounds died away Tom turned to the others.

“It must have been that Chinaman! They – ”

A sudden piercing scream assailed their ears. Their cheeks whitened as they heard it, so wild and ringing and appealing was the cry.

It was succeeded by deadly silence. What could have occurred? They all had a guess in their minds, but none of them dared to voice it. One thing, though, Tom was certain of, and that was that the cry had come from the deck. In that case —

But at this point of his meditations the cabin door was suddenly flung open and Zeb’s unwieldy form stood framed in the doorway.

“You kin come out now,” he said.

Was it Tom’s imagination, or did the mate’s voice seem less blustery than usual, and his cheeks not quite so red? Suddenly Lake’s voice came hailing down from the head of the companion stairs: