Chapter I The Menace of the Law
“What’s that noise? Say, Pudge, wake up and take a look.”
“Hey? What noise?” stammered Pudge MacComber, startled out of serene slumber.
“Hear it? Sounds like a lot of soda-water bottles popping. Take a squint, Lazy.”
The fat youth might have returned the compliment. Ben Comas lay on his back in the shade and did not even remove the cap over his eyes. Pudge, however, knew his cousin too well, and was too much in his debt, to file any objection to this command. Heaving a sigh, he struggled heavily to his feet. As he did so he became aware of a half-muffled put, put, put-a-put rising from the water which the camp site overlooked.
“Why, that’s a motorboat!” he exclaimed before spying the craft in question.
“Noisy thing,” grunted Ben, without moving.
“It’s aiming this way,” Pudge said, “right for our landing.”
“Going to have visitors? Thought nobody ever came here.”
“Wouldn’t think many folks would, with the signs the Manatee Company have stuck up,” chuckled Pudge. “Say!”
“Say it,” grunted Ben.
“Only one man in the launch, an’ I see something flash. Yes,” Pudge gurgled, “I bet it is!”
“What’s the matter with you?” grumbled Ben, finally sitting up. “You talk like a frog. What d’ye see?”
“He’s got a badge,” the fat boy said, solemnly. “I wish I could see his face.”
“What d’ye mean?” Ben was now vastly and suddenly aroused. “Is it a constable? Where’s Joe? He knows everybody ’round here—or he ought to.”
“Joe’s asleep.”
“Wake him up. We didn’t hire him to sleep, did we? Go on, you snail,” ordered Ben.
Behind one of the two tents, pitched in this open glade on the rather steep northern shore of Storm Island, sprawled a roughly-dressed fellow. When Pudge had done Ben’s bidding and aroused this individual, the latter uncovered his face, revealing features unmistakably those of an Indian boy. He came sullenly down to the other two lads.
“What y’want?” he asked, yawning.
“Who’s that coming this way, Joe?” Ben Comas questioned. “That fellow in the launch?”
The Indian’s eyes snapped open and he stooped a little, shading them with his hand, the better to view the approaching boat and its single occupant. Then he straightened up again, turning as though to retreat.
“Know him,” he said.
“Who is he?” Pudge put in. “A cop?”
“Him Quibb.”
“What’d I tell you?” cried Pudge. “That’s the name of the constable we saw at Blackport—Enos Quibb.”
“The one Horrors had the growl with,” Ben agreed, rather faintly. “He’s coming straight for us.”
The Indian youth had already disappeared. The motorboat was nearing the shore of the island just below the camp. The cousins could plainly see the constable’s face, as well as the big star upon his vest. Enos Quibb was not a handsome person at best, and just now his face was inflamed with anger and his frown was most portentous.
“He’s got it in for us,” said Pudge, apprehensively.
“All because of that fresh up there tossing the ball. It’s up to him—that’s what it is,” declared Ben warmly. “Run, tell Horrors to come down here.”
With a groan, the fat youth turned and waddled up the path into the thicker wood which seemed to crown the island. In the very middle of Storm Island, however, lay about two acres of open and level lawn. While yet Pudge was some distance from this spot the resonant slap of a ball as it landed in the catcher’s mitt echoed flatly from the wall of tall trees completely surrounding the natural amphitheater.
“Hey! That’s enough, Horrors!” the puffing fat boy heard Harry Kirby shout. “It’s too hot to keep at it any longer. Quit, I say!”
Evidently he had flung the ball to the pitcher after removing his padded glove, and, just as Pudge came in sight of the two, the one called “Horrors” wound up again and whipped a sizzler over the marked square on the turf serving as the home plate.
“Quit, I say!” again yelled the backstop, as he leaped into the air, letting the low ball pass between his legs. “Think I’d be silly enough to try to stop that with my bare hands? That arm of yours has got dynamite in it, Horrors.”
The pitcher was grinning in reply when a wild yell sounded from Pudge at the edge of the wood behind the catcher’s station.
“Hey, you fellers! What’re you tryin’ to do—kill me? Nobody but a wild squawpaw could send in such a bullet. Ouch!”
Pudge limped forward, rubbing his shin where the pitched ball had nicked him.
“Come on—retrieve it,” ordered the pitcher, strolling toward the platter.
“Chase your own ball,” returned Pudge. “I didn’t come ’way up here to play Fido. Why’d Kirby let it go by him?”
The backstop was wiping his brow with a torn shirtsleeve. “Catch me trying to stop one of Horrors’ fast ones without my mitt. Not much!”
“Say, you fellers!” exclaimed Pudge, remembering his errand. “Ben says come on down to the camp—and in a hurry. There’s a motor launch in sight.”
“Didn’t you fellers ever see a motor launch before?” demanded Kirby.
“But it’s aiming right for our landing.”
“What if?” drawled the tall fellow whom his mates called “Horrors.”
“Who’s in the launch?” asked Kirby.
“It’s that constable Horrors had the fuss with at Blackport. Remember?”
“Shall I ever forget him?” murmured the tall lad. “The chap with the big tin star and the lovely yellow freckles.”
“Enos Quibb,” Kirby said, chuckling. “He’s one sure enough farmer—that’s right.”
“Just the same,” said the fat boy, wagging his head, “I wish he’d keep away from here—and so does Ben.”
“Poof!” scoffed Kirby. “If Ben expressed a dislike for the sunshine or the sweet air, you’d keep in the shade and put on an overcoat, Pudge. What Ben says is law and gospel for you.”
“We-ell,” drawled Pudge MacComber frankly. “You know I wouldn’t be up here if it wasn’t for Cousin Ben. He paid my way.”
“Yes,” muttered Kirby to the taller fellow, “and I know Ben didn’t give Pudge any return ticket, either. Keeps Pudge in leash better if he has no money in his jeans.”
The fat youth did not hear this aside. He was saying: “We shouldn’t have camped down there so near the shore. It’s too exposed. Ben said that in the first place.”
“Aw—Ben!” scoffed Kirby, while the tall chap smiled quizzically at the fat boy.
“He was right just the same. Here comes Enos Quibb, and we’re going to get the boot, sure. We haven’t permission from the Manatee Lumber Company to camp here, and you fellows know it. We’ll have to sing ‘It’s Moving Day,’ all right-o—and just as we got comfortably settled, too,” finished Pudge with a groan.
“Come on,” said Kirby. “Don’t stand there weeping over it.”
Already their leader was striding into the wood, and Kirby hastened to catch up with him. Pudge MacComber plodded on behind. It was a hot day, and he suffered from his exertions.
“What’ll we do?” asked Kirby, at the tall fellow’s elbow.
“About what?” countered the other, with a lift of his eyebrows and a tantalizing smile that seemed an index of his character. “What’s fussing you up, Harry?”
“This Quibb can put us off the island. Of course, the Lumber Company did issue a permit for a party to camp here—and we’re here first—huh?”
His friend had grabbed his arm suddenly, stopping dead in the path. “You do have an idea once in a while in that cranium of yours, Harry,” he drawled.
“I don’t feel any different from usual,” said Kirby, rubbing his head and grinning. “If there’s an idea milling around in there I don’t sense it.”
“But I do. Leave it to me.” His friend started onward again, leading the procession to the encampment.
It was a beautiful spot they had selected in which to set up their tents—an open grove sloping easily to the edge of Manatee Sound which lay, on this particular June day, as smooth as a millpond between the island and Manatee Head, five miles away.
Ben Comas, much excited, hurried toward them. “Whatchu goin’ to do about this, Horrors? See that fellow? He’s mad’s a hatter.”
“He’ll have a stroke—I shouldn’t wonder,” drawled the tall lad. “Too hot a day to let one’s dander rise.”
“You can joke,” snapped Ben. “But he means business.”
The launch was now close to the shore, and the exhaust ceased popping. Enos Quibb, the Blackport constable, stood in the bow boathook in hand, scowling threateningly at the group above him.