Chapter XVII An Off-Shore Blow
Before the two friends reached the dock an automobile drove across their path. There were several men in it, but Midkiff did not give the party any attention—being in a retrospective state of mind—until one of the men hailed Kingdon jovially.
“Ahoy, Rex! ‘Ullo, boy! How’s Rex Kingdon?”
The curly-haired lad looked up, with a smile, and waved his hand in response to the greeting as the automobile whisked away.
“Who’s that?” Midkiff asked.
“Ahem!” coughed Kingdon, a twinkle in his eye. “A man who knows my father.”
“Humph! He seemed to know your father’s son, too,” said the dark fellow, and then forgot the incident.
But there was somebody within sight and hearing of the occurrence who was not likely to forget it. The two Walcott Hall boys, however, went on down to the dock without marking the presence of this curious individual.
The fellow, who had said his name was Yansey, skipper of the Nothing To It, was sitting on the stringpiece of the wharf, swinging his legs and chaffing with the trio aboard the Spoondrift.
He was a smart-looking, cheerful lad, with the spirit of a sparrow—a friendly soul who even made Midkiff warm toward him. He hailed the latter and Rex as though he was an old friend.
“Say,” he began on the blond chap, “I hear your name is Rex Kingdon?”
“Who told you so much?”
“These chaps here in the tub.”
“Of course. They are devoted to the unadorned truth,” said Kingdon whimsically. “You know, Old Till wants a chair of Truth endowed at Walcott Hall.”
“Maybe he feels the need of one there?” suggested Yansey cheerfully.
“Don’t be so dazzling! What have you come over here for—to try to get our angoras because you couldn’t beat us out with that old log of wood you were attempting to sail?”
“Came because I fell in love with you all at first glance,” returned Yansey, grinning up at the curly-haired lad. “Bet you can’t say that of me.”
“Your crew look like good sports,” said Rex. “Come aboard?”
“Yes. If you’ll sail me over to the clubhouse. I came on purpose for you fellows,” explained Yansey. “It’s almost lunch time, and we want you to eat with us. Got a darkey for a cook, and he makes a fine chowder—and apple pie! My eye!”
“Home made apple pie? Say not so!” croaked Red Phillips. “You make my mouth water like a hydrant.”
“You can stuff yourself,” assured Yansey. “What say?”
“Is this just a polite invitation, or is it a dare?” asked Kingdon.
“Dare you to come!” laughed Yansey, hopping down into the Spoondrift.
“We never take a dare,” responded Kingdon.
“Never!” was the chorus from the other Walcott Hall lads.
“But you don’t know what you are getting that darkey cook in for,” Cloudman warned. “We haven’t had a square meal since we left Boston.”
The wind was shifting and unsteady as they sailed across the broad cove. “Hope it comes into the right quarter for us to get back easy on,” Kingdon observed.
“Think we’re in for a spell of weather?” Red asked Yansey, who was Blackport born and seemed to be weather wise.
“Shouldn’t wonder. Though we don’t often have anything out of the no’theast this time of year. Just the same, there’s been bad wrecks along the coast in June. They keep the life-savers on the job through this month nowadays.”
None of the visitors thought of the weather, however, when once they were ashore at the boathouse. It seemed to be a club including all ages and the owners of all manner of craft. But the youngsters had it to themselves just now, as it was too early in the season for their fathers to get away save on Saturdays.
The visitors looked over several of the better-sailing craft while dinner was preparing. Kingdon took up the eight-oared shell question with Yansey, and learned that in August there was always a race with two other boat clubs, and that the Blackport eight considered themselves to be a little the best oarsmen anywhere along the Maine coast.
“To be real modest,” Yansey grinned, “there’s nothing to it for the other eights. We’ve got the race cinched already.”
“Modesty adorns you,” Kingdon told him. “I can see that. Also, why you chose that name for your catboat, too.”
“Right! There’s nothing to it!” proclaimed the optimistic Yansey. “We’ve got a new shell, and we keep her greased. Wait till you see us out practicing some day. I’m stroke.”
“What did you do with your old shell?” Kingdon asked, reflectively.
“It’s for sale over yonder at the boat builder’s. Good boat, too, though battered some. Come and see our new one.”
Kingdon went, and said nothing more about the thought that had become fixed in his mind regarding the eight-oared shell race.
The Walcott Hall boys had a good time at the boat club; but they were delayed in getting away, and when the Spoondrift ran down toward the Channel it was plain the wind had come around into the north and was blowing strongly. The sea outside was streaked with foam over the caps of the jumping waves.
“Guess your old wind’s changed, all right,” grumbled Peewee.
“We won’t have to beat up against it all the way back to the island,” Rex responded with cheerfulness. “Keep up hope, infant. All is not lost.”
“I don’t want to lose everything,” said Cloudman as the cat began to pitch in the choppy sea. “That apple pie was too good to waste.”
“Stop that talk!” groaned Peewee, his hand upon his stomach.
Cloudman really suffered from seasickness before they got out into open sea. There the waves were less choppy, and the Spoondrift rode them like a seafowl. It was easier on all hands.
But the wind increased in strength, and to beat up into the sound—which was all a-streak with foam and very blusterous to look upon—was really more of an undertaking than Kingdon cared to tackle.
“We can do it all right. She’s safe enough,” Rex said to Midkiff. “But it will make rough going, Jawn—awful rough. These lubbers will be set on their ears.”
“Never mind them. They’ll feel better after it’s all over.”
“Unfeeling words, old boy. That’s a narrow breach into our little cove where the camp is. Believe I’ll go t’other side of the island.”
“To the seaward side?”
“Right. The island will break the wind. I noticed one good anchorage, at least, over there. We can make it easily with the wind like this.”
“You’re the doctor,” said Midkiff. “I suppose you know what you are about once in a blue moon.”
“Your confidence in me almost brings the tears to my eyes. Shake a reef out of that sail, Jawn. We’re going to run down wind for a long lap.”
With this change in the sailing of the Spoondrift, Applejack and Peewee felt greatly relieved. With the wind practically astern, the catboat was less acrobatic in her motions. But when the high eastern point of the island began to draw in on their port quarter, the other fellows wanted to know where they were bound.
“What’re you aiming to do, King?” asked Red Phillips. “Sail us clear over to Spain? You’re heading that way.”
“Get out your Spanish phrase book, and learn to speak the language with a pleasant accent,” advised Kingdon, “if you think we’re likely to reach that coast. Forewarned is forearmed.”
“What do you mean, ‘four-armed’?” grinned Red. “Think I am an anthropoidean quadrumanous animal? Isn’t that a good one? I learned it by heart after Old Yad suggested I might be one on occasion.”
“I’d have had him arrested,” Cloudman said, weakly. “Didn’t know Yad could talk so mean to a fellow.”
It was growing late when the catboat swung into the smoother patch of ocean south of the island. On their left, the surf roared far up the rocks and narrow beaches, and the swell, forerunning a storm, was quite apparent. The boat sailed on more even keel.
Kingdon pointed her for the sheltered gulf that indented the island coastline, which he had noticed when they battled with the squall the day they had reached Storm Island.
“We’ll have to stay aboard all night, I suppose?” Cloudman groaned. “Oh, boy! Terra firma for mine as soon as possible!”
“We might as well stay on the boat,” Midkiff said. “No knowing what those other fellows have done to our camp.”
“Cheerful, aren’t you, Jawn?” chuckled Kingdon.
At that moment Peewee Hicks seemed suddenly to have a brainstorm. He had crept forward and was standing, hanging to a stay, looking off at the tumbling sea east of the island. Now he began to dance and yell.
“Come down out of that!” ordered Red Phillips. “What are you—going crazy? That’s no place to be fox-trotting.”
“Look there! See ’em! There’s going to be a mess now.”
“What do you mean?” questioned Red, climbing gingerly upon the deck to get a glimpse of what Peewee evidently saw.
The bulging sail shut out Rex Kingdon’s vision. He called to know the cause of the disturbance. Red Phillips turned a perfectly pallid countenance to the stern, shouting:
“Canoes! Blown off shore, I guess. Two fellows in each, Rex. What will we do about it?”