Читать книгу Jack Straw, Lighthouse Builder - Irving Crump - Страница 4

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Of course Dr. Moorland was willing to excuse Jack for the remaining week of school. Indeed, after he had looked up the lad’s term record and examination marks in his little card index, which he always kept on the top of his study desk, the old pedagogue even urged Jack to telegraph his acceptance to Mr. Warner immediately. He pointed out that a Summer spent among the lighthouse builders would be of great educational value, and besides it would afford an excellent opportunity for the youth to earn some extra money. But first of all he suggested that Jack call his father on the long-distance telephone and secure permission to avail himself of the opportunity.

Jack’s home was in Middlebury, about fifty miles from Drueryville, and the rates on telephone calls did not amount to a great deal. He made the call on the principal’s telephone while the old man listened to as much of the conversation as he could gather. Jack’s father saw the offer in identically the same light as Dr. Moorland did and advised the boy to accept the position immediately. He did say that he hoped Jack would contrive to spend a day or two at Middlebury before he left for Portland, however.

When Jack repeated this to Dr. Moorland the principal generously excused him from any further work at Drueryville and suggested that he return to Phillip’s Hall immediately and pack his things, so that he would be ready to leave on the first train Sunday morning, thus giving the lad at least two days at home. Needless to say Jack was thoroughly pleased with this offer and he wrung the old gentleman’s hand cordially as he said good-by.

Ten o’clock next morning found our young friend swinging from the train as it rolled into Middlebury station. Townsend Strawbridge, his father, was there to greet him and drive him home in the new red automobile which he had acquired that Spring. Just at that particular period Strawbridge senior was a very busy man. During the past Winter he had completed the organization of a stock company to operate the abandoned marble quarries on his property, and now he was engaged in the work preliminary to actual quarrying, which he assured Jack would begin some time in the Fall or the following Spring. However, he was not too busy to listen to all that Jack had to say, and you may be sure the lad from Drueryville Academy had a great deal to tell his dad. He reviewed everything, from the record of the baseball team to the bad outlook for the football team next year, and his father listened eagerly to every word.

Then after all the news was exhausted the two began to plan for Jack’s stay with the lighthouse builders. Rough, serviceable clothes, warm sweaters, boots, oilskins and similar garments were dug up and packed in an old steamer chest which his father unearthed in the garret of the Strawbridge homestead. Salt water fishing tackle was put in shape, a compass, and sailor’s clasp knife with a lanyard attached, were added, and the entire outfit was put in first-class shape for a two months’ stay on the Maine Coast Island.

The preparations and the anticipation of the trip kept the lad keyed up to a high pitch of excitement. In this state he managed to accomplish a remarkable number of things during the two short days at home, and when it finally came time to leave on Tuesday morning both he and his father were of the opinion that everything was “shipshape” for a very pleasant Summer of work and play.

Jack lingered in the red automobile at the Middlebury station until the train on which he was to leave rolled in. Then a hasty good-by was said and the lad swung aboard the last Pullman car, to appear a few moments later on the observation platform in the rear. From this point of vantage he watched the man and the red car until a sharp bend in the road shut them from sight.

And as he stood there waving farewell, a strange feeling of homesickness came over this young adventurer and he realized fully how much his old dad meant to him. In truth a lump gathered in his throat, for it seemed to him that his father looked pathetically lonesome as he sat gazing after the disappearing train. Was he selfish to deprive his father of his company during the Summer vacation? Was the trip going to be worth the sacrifice his parent was making for him?

“Good old dad,” he murmured as he turned back into the car. “Good old dad. How lucky I am to have such a corking fine father. I’ll bet there is many a chap who wishes that he was as fortunate as I am.”

With such thoughts Jack rummaged in his valise and brought forth a fountain pen and some paper and for the next half hour he was extremely occupied in writing an affectionate letter to his paternal parent, which he mailed at the first stop the train made.

The ride to Portland, though it occupied a greater part of the day, was through very picturesque country. The Green Mountains of Vermont and later notches in the picturesque White Mountains were traversed, until finally the train entered the rich, thickly wooded country of western Maine. A few hours later Jack caught his first view of the coast, and he knew that he was entering upon the last stage of his long overland journey.

It was nearly sundown when he reached his destination, and he was tired and hungry and his clothes were somewhat soiled from his day of travel when he jumped aboard the Portland trolley car on his way to the Jefferson House. He was not too tired, however, to make note of the fact that the city was unusually cozy in appearance, nor did he neglect to take a good look at the quaint, old-fashioned houses and particularly the one which the conductor pointed out to him as the home of America’s greatest poet, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

James Warner, the same enthusiastic, sun-browned engineer whom Jack had met on board the Yucatan just a year before, greeted the lad from Drueryville Academy as he swung up the front steps of the Jefferson House. Mr. Warner was sitting in one of the long line of chairs in the hotel lobby when he caught a glimpse of Jack.

“Well, Jack Straw, how are you, anyway? I’m mighty glad you decided to come along,” he shouted, as he gripped the hand of the young traveler.

“Huh, decided to come—why, there wasn’t any alternative. I simply had to take advantage of such a piece of good luck. I think I’m the most fortunate boy in the world to get an invitation to join your crew,” responded Jack, just as enthusiastic as Mr. Warner.

“Tut, tut, my boy, don’t be too sure of your luck. You’ll have to work mighty hard. It won’t be all play, let me tell you. I know, because I’ve been through it a dozen times,” replied the engineer.

But Jack could not be convinced that a Summer on a Maine island with a lighthouse construction crew would not be about the most delightful two months he had ever spent in his life.

Mr. Warner changed the conversation completely the next instant.

“You haven’t had dinner yet, have you, Jack? I haven’t. I have been waiting for you and I’ve been getting hungrier by the minute. I spent most of my day down at the lighthouse depot, seeing to the loading of the Blueflower (that’s the lighthouse tender that will take us to Hood Island to-morrow), and the sea air has put a real edge on my appetite. Come on into the dining-room and help me devour a good big steak. You can arrange for your room later.”

Traveling had certainly not dulled the keenness of Jack’s appetite either, and he assured Mr. Warner, as they entered the long dining-room, that he would be able to do justice to the steak in question. And he clearly demonstrated this fact during the ensuing hour.

The evening was spent in Mr. Warner’s room, for the engineer had a great deal to do in the way of packing clothes, books, and bundles of blueprints. At nine o’clock he called for a bell boy and instructed that worthy to bring two glasses of iced lemonade and a dish of assorted crackers, to fortify themselves, as Mr. Warner humorously explained, against a night attack of hunger.

Jack was thoroughly in accord with this strategic measure and fell to with a will. The luncheon disposed of, Mr. Warner suggested that they retire, since they would have to have breakfast at sunrise the following morning in order to report at the lighthouse depot at half-past six.

Considering the importance of the day, it is not at all surprising that Jack did not oversleep next morning. Indeed, he was up and dressed and ready to go down to the dining-room when Mr. Warner knocked on his door to arouse him. Breakfast was disposed of in short order, and the engineer and his young companion were on their way down to the waterfront before the city was thoroughly awake.

But the men at the district lighthouse depot were wide awake and working with a vigor when they arrived. They were loading tools and supplies on board the Blueflower, and from the pile of barrels and boxes on the long dock at which the tender was moored it was evident that it would be some little time before the engineer of the Hood Island expedition would be ready to start.

The depot was an extremely interesting place to Jack. It was a reservation on the edge of Portland Harbor, surrounded by a high brick wall. Part of this space was taken up by long low buildings occupied as repair shops, and the remainder was devoted to storeyard space. Long docks reached out from the shore front and at these a varied assortment of craft were moored, ranging from tiny motor boats to the businesslike looking Blueflower. There was a frowning gray torpedo boat destroyer that had put in there for some official reason or other, and two weather-beaten lightships that were undergoing repairs, not to mention a coal barge and several other unimportant vessels. On the docks and in the storeyard were huge iron buoys that looked quite enormous out of water. These were being painted and repaired, and Mr. Warner explained that they would soon be loaded aboard a tender and taken out to the various bars and reefs in the harbor to be planted as permanent channel marks.

The lightships were curious looking vessels. They were built of steel and painted red, with their name marked in tall white letters the entire length of the hull.

Each was equipped with two steel masts at the top of which were the lanterns and the big wickerwork day marks. The mast of one of the boats had been taken out, and Mr. Warner explained that she would later be equipped with a new kind of mast like a miniature lighthouse, which would be built of steel and large enough to permit a man to climb up through its center and not expose himself to the fury of the elements.

“Service on board the lightships, Jack,” said Mr. Warner as they walked through the yard, “is not as dreary as it might seem. These vessels are usually anchored out in the steamship lanes and passing vessels steer dead on for their light in order to keep into the deep channel. Imagine how comfortable it must be on a foggy night to be aboard one of these vessels and know that every steamer coming that way is headed straight for you. Oh, yes, they are run down quite frequently, for you see that they are without motive power in most cases and cannot get away from danger. Then, too, they are not allowed to slip their cable or leave their anchorage under any circumstances, no matter what the danger may be.

“There have been several serious accidents since the United States established a lightship service back in 1820, by putting a light vessel at the entrance of Chesapeake Bay.”

“How many light vessels are there in the Government Service?” queried Jack.

“There are now about fifty on duty, not including the relief ships, some of which sail under their own power and travel from place to place, relieving vessels that are brought into the stations to be repaired and overhauled,” replied Mr. Warner.

By this time the two had made a complete circuit of the yard and reached the dock at which the Blueflower was moored. A tall, good-looking man in uniform and smoking a pipe was coming down the gang-plank. Mr. Warner hurried ahead when he caught sight of him and greeted him heartily.

“Jack,” he said, “this is Captain Wilmoth, who will take us to Hood Island, and, Captain, this is John Strawbridge, otherwise known as Jack Straw. He is a young adventurer whom I met on the way to Mexico last Summer. He is going to Hood Island with me as clerk. Incidentally he hopes to learn something about the service and a great deal about lighthouse construction work, for he intends one day to be an engineer.”

“Well, you couldn’t have found a more competent instructor, Jack,” said the captain, as he shook the lad’s hand. Then turning to Mr. Warner, he announced that the cargo had been loaded and everything was ready for a start. Mr. Warner made a last and hasty inspection of everything about the dock, saw that all personal luggage had been carried aboard, and then all three climbed the steep gang-plank. A few moments later the men on the dock cast off, and with whistle shrieking the Blueflower backed out of her berth and turned her sharp prow toward the open sea.

The boy was left to his own devices for the next few hours, for Mr. Warner had a mass of plans and blueprints to look over. He did not become lonesome, however, for he seized this opportunity to inspect the tender. From stem to stern he rambled, taking in every detail of the vessel. He found that she was a roomy and rather speedy craft built like an ocean-going tug, only on a much larger scale. She was rigged to withstand all sorts of weather and accomplish all kinds of work, and her rugged lines appealed to the lad immediately.

While he was on his tour of inspection he ran across Captain Wilmoth, coming out of the cabin. He was a very affable-looking man of middle age, with sharp blue eyes and stiff black hair liberally sprinkled with gray. In his natty blue uniform, he was Jack’s idea of a modern sea captain, and as he advanced across the deck the lad could not help admiring him.

“Well, son,” said the officer genially, “having a good look at the old tub? Like her?”

“You bet I do. She looks as if she might fight any kind of a storm.”

“Right, my boy, she can,” said the captain as he filled his pipe from a leather tobacco pouch. “The old Blueflower will take any kind of a sea without a shiver. All the lighthouse tenders are fine craft. They have to be mighty stanch for they are traveling the high seas all the year round, carrying provisions to lightships and lighthouses, and seeing that everything is kept in order along Uncle Sam’s forty odd thousand miles of coast line.”

“How many tenders does the Government have in service?” queried Jack.

“I think there are about forty-six on both coasts. And you may be interested to know that they are all named after some kind of a flower, the same as battleships are named after States. There is plenty of work for them to do, too, for besides carrying the supplies, they take care of all the buoy planting. That’s tough work. In the Spring and Fall we have to gather up all the old buoys that have been in the water a long time and replace them with new ones that have been overhauled in the Portland yard. You see barnacles and other submarine growths make it necessary to take the buoys out every so often and scrape and paint them. Then of course they have to be returned to the water again. There are all kinds of buoys in the service and they all mark different types of danger points. There are whistling buoys, bell buoys, light buoys, unlighted buoys and spar buoys, and none of them is particularly easy to handle, I can assure you. Many a man has lost a leg or an arm while trying to put one of the blooming things over the side of a vessel.”

“I’d like to watch the operation some time,” said Jack.

“Well, perhaps you’ll have an opportunity to. But just now I’d forget about it and pay more attention to the cook’s bell. He’s been ding-a-linging all over the ship. Don’t you want something to eat?”

“Eat, why I’m starved,” said the lad. And together he and the captain went into the dining-room.

The marine engineer had finished his work on the plans during the few hours before dinner and was at liberty to spend the time on deck with Jack and the captain during the afternoon. The run to Hood Island took about eight hours in all, and the captain had estimated that they would not make their destination much before four o’clock.

The vessel was well out to sea and running due north when Jack came on deck and the boy thrilled with pleasure when he viewed the vast expanse of lonesome water. Astern was a long trail of black smoke across the sky left by a steamer that had disappeared below the horizon, while north and off the port bow was a distant sail almost directly in the path of the tender. Jack watched this sail curiously, for he was interested to know how soon the Blueflower would overtake it. Gradually they drew up on it until he could make out the rig without difficulty. She appeared to be a very swift sailing yawl and Mr. Warner confirmed this when a few minutes later he brought his binoculars from the cabin and had a good look at her.

“She’s a trim little yawl and from the pulpit-like affair on her bowsprit I take it she’s a swordfisherman. These waters are full of ’em. I wish that they would locate a big fish, then you’d see some fun.”

“From her lines,” he said after another inspection, “I should say she was a mighty speedy craft. She has a big patch in her main sail. And her name is—F-i-s-h—H—it looks like Fish Hawk, but I can’t be positive. Hang it, I would like to— Say, fellows, get your glasses. They are after a swordfish! There’s a man with a harpoon climbing out onto her bowsprit now! Hurry!”

Jack and the captain hustled into the cabin and a moment later returned armed with binoculars. Through his, Jack got an excellent view of the little vessel. She had altered her course so that she was running at a right angle to the direction taken by the tender and the huge patch in the mainsail was quite visible. He could see the harpoon wielder climbing out on her bowsprit, too, and he watched intently as he saw him poise, spear aloft, ready to strike.

For fully five minutes the man stood in this attitude. Then suddenly he lunged forward and hurled the shaft. Instantly there was a mighty splash just under the yawl’s bow and the next moment the craft shot forward with a rush.

The fight was on! This way and that the little ship zigzagged, jerked about like a nut shell by the powerful fish it was hitched to. It was a terrible struggle! Now and then the monster would come more than half out of the water in a frenzied effort to tear the harpoon loose! Jack could see its long tusk cut the waves and he shuddered when he thought of the damage the sword would do to a dory or any other small craft in its way. But these tremendous rushes soon began to tell on the captive and the struggle settled down to a steady pulling match, in which the fish towed the yawl at least three miles out of the tender’s course. At this point Mr. Warner and the rest put down their glasses. Jack, however, watched longer than the rest for he was extremely interested.

But before he saw the finish, his attention was diverted by a shout from the bow:

“Hood Island—Ho!” came the cry of the lookout.

There was something in the call that thrilled the lad and instantly he turned his glasses toward the north. In the dim distance he could make out a long wooded island, the seaward end of which was a high promontory. On this was perched the black and white tower of the old Hood Island light; the structure which was soon to be replaced by a more modern building, providing Mr. Warner and his men were able to conquer the breakers that swept the head of Cobra Reef.

“Well, Jack, there’s the scene of our future triumphs,” said Mr. Warner, clapping the boy on the shoulder.

“Fine; it certainly does look interesting from here,” said the lad enthusiastically.

“In about an hour you’ll have a chance to see the place at close range. Then perhaps you won’t be so keen about it, my boy.”

“Oh, I’m sure I will,” insisted the lad from Drueryville, as he took another look at the island through his glasses.