Читать книгу Uncle Sam's Outdoor Magic - Percy Keese Fitzhugh - Страница 5

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Anyway, it was the beginning of Bobby’s adventures. He stole cautiously through his aunt’s little kitchen garden, around behind the woodshed, and went plodding ankle-deep across the edge of the marsh, heading for the point where the board-walk terminated at River Street.

By a circuitous route he could reach this end of the long plank-walk and, traversing it, could come to a point within twenty feet of Wentworth’s boat.

Reaching the point on the board-walk nearest to Wentworth’s boat, he put his foot cautiously from the flooring to see how deep the water was, and found that it was above his knees. He rolled his trousers up, removed his shoes—though they could scarce have been wetter than they already were—waded through the intervening space to the boat, and, grabbing the combing, vaulted up to the deck and let himself down into the cockpit. Wentworth’s boat rocked perceptibly as he did so.

He found himself in an enchanted spot. He had often wondered what the inside of those cruising launches looked like, and now he could satisfy his curiosity undisturbed. He slid back the roof-hatch, rolled open the door, and entered the tiny cabin.

Mr. Wentworth had been beforehand with his spring preparations, and the launch was not only freshly painted, but lately stocked as well, for there were canned goods in abundance which had not yet been put in the lockers; there was a complete set of aluminum cooking-utensils strewn on one of the seats; there was a tent rolled up and all sorts of provisions and camping paraphernalia. The cabin was very inviting with its chintz curtains at the portholes, its cushioned locker seats, and the little oil-stove in the corner.

Bobby could feel the boat rocking and knocking against its side supports occasionally, and he knew that if he was to moor it no time was to be lost. It was almost dark, but, groping about in the seat lockers, he found a folding anchor with plenty of rope coiled about it. He opened the anchor and locked it, then, climbing over the cabin to the little space of forward deck, he plunged it into the water, letting out ten or twelve feet of rope, in case the tide should still rise a little, which he thought most unlikely.

Then he returned to the cabin, for, although his errand was accomplished, he was in no hurry to go home. He knew his uncle would make him continue the futile work of pumping, and he felt that he could pump no more that day. Here, in this cozy cabin his fond wish to be all alone in the world was, for the time being, realized. He saw the lights appearing in the Bridgeboro houses, and he could distinguish the one in his uncle’s kitchen. He thoroughly enjoyed the sensation of being alone here in this little home, surrounded by water, with no one to bother him and remind him that he lived on charity. Even the lonely glory of the Black Ranger could not compare with this!

He looked for matches, but could find none, although the usual riding-lights and a hand-lantern were in the cabin and filled with oil. He lifted a canvas tarpaulin and there was the engine. The fresh aluminum paint on its cylinders and fly-wheel shone in the gathering darkness. He did not know whether the motor had been overhauled and put in adjustment, but he had not lingered hours in Bradley’s garage to no purpose, and he turned on the gas, closed the switch, gave the wheel a few swings and threw it over. There was no “kick,” but the buzzing of the coil told him that the batteries were alive and that the ignition apparatus was in order.

Bobby knew perfectly well that he had no right to take these liberties with another person’s boat, but his mood was still reckless and he quieted whatever misgivings he had with the thought that if it had not been for him Mr. Wentworth’s boat might have been lifted out of its supports and floated away altogether.

He brought the wheel slowly up to compression and heard the buzzing again. Turning off the switch, he removed the wire from one of the plugs, opened the hand-lantern and laid the wick against the plug. Then he closed the switch and began rubbing the end of the wire against the plug so that it touched the wick as it passed. Presently his lantern was burning cheerily and casting a pleasant glow about the little cabin. That was something that even Robinson Crusoe couldn’t have done.

Bobby would not have undertaken to run any boat, but, seeing that there was a clutch, he saw no reason why he should not start the engine and get a little warmth. So he hauled the clutch over to neutral, turned the wheel over, and, sure enough, after two or three turns, he got an explosion and she chugged merrily away, running like a dream.

Pretty soon the muffler was hot, and he removed his shoes and socks and laid them on it. It was warm and pleasant in the little cabin, the rocking of the boat and the sense of remoteness pleased him, and it was easy enough to forget that the launch would pretty soon settle prosily down again, and that he could walk back across the board-walk and so home.

He lay down on the cushioned locker seat to rest and pulled the tarpaulin over him.

“Gee! this is great!” he said.

The next thing Bobby knew he was awakened suddenly by a loud crash and a jar which threw him clear off the locker seat and upset and extinguished the lantern. As he scrambled up and groped aimlessly in his half-sleep, another jar knocked him off his feet and he stumbled over the engine. The wheel was still and the cylinders cold. It was as dark as pitch outside, and within his feet encountered something at every move he made.

At first he thought he had been dreaming and was just trying to get his bearings and remember where he was when there came a great sound of ripping and tearing; he was conscious of being swung around, and the next thing he knew he was wallowing amid all sorts of things on the floor of the cabin.

Then he realized that he was wide awake and in Wentworth’s boat. The launch was lunging this way and that, for all the world like a balky horse straining at its bridle; then, suddenly, there was more crashing near at hand and the boat seemed to find sudden release as he heard the sound of tearing very near to him.

Not daring to venture out into the cockpit, he opened the forward port and felt about the deck to see if the anchor rope was fast on its cleat; but the whole cleat—as nearly as he could make out—had been wrenched away and there was no sign of rope. A few yards away he could see a long, shadowy object moving heavily, and just at that minute a realization came to him of what had happened. If the long, shadowy object was the wrecked board-walk, then Wentworth’s boat had somehow gotten past it, the anchor had caught in it, halted the rushing boat and pulled it around, tearing the cleat away. Even as Bobby strained his eyes trying to distinguish the long, swaying mass, the boat rushed away from it, knocked against a great solid structure close by, and went driving on in its mad career.

He could see the lights of Bridgeboro, and as he looked many of them were extinguished, one after another and in groups. It seemed odd that all the people of the town should be going to bed at the same time.

Then he heard voices, thin and spent by the distance, but crystal-clear across the water, and in strange contrast to the pandemonium about him. The voices sounded uncanny in the darkness, and the distance seemed to rob them of excitement. Bobby distinctly heard some one far off say, “Can we make the hill?”

The lights grew dimmer and fewer, the voices hardly distinguishable, and suddenly the boat struck something with a terrific impact and stood plunging and rocking like a mad thing; then there was a sound of scraping beneath him, the bow went up, Bobby was precipitated against the after bulkhead; for a few minutes the boat seemed to be on a pivot, then water came rushing into the cockpit and cabin, again she seemed to extricate herself, and there was the sense of freedom and of rushing madly onward.

Once the launch rushed past a building which was canted over with its roof no higher than the boat’s cabin, and which was bobbing and lurching. Voices came from it, and some one cried, “The bridge, it was the bridge!”

A little farther on a frantic voice called, very near as it seemed, for some one to throw a rope. Afterward Bobby thought the man had tried to hail him; but his dismay and fright prevented him from answering.

Getting a light from the ignition spark was out of the question amid the lunging and tumult, and Bobby could only cling to whatever stationary thing offered and wait, breathless and panic-stricken, for the next crash.

Presently the boat seemed to move more tranquilly, though still at a rapid rate, and then, at last, there was a sensation of dragging, the hull canted over the least bit and the mad race was over—Wentworth’s boat stood still.

For a few minutes Bobby waited, his nerves on edge, for another wild rush or another deafening crash, but as none came he gathered his wits, stumbled across the flooded cabin floor, and clambered upon the locker, where he sat, still fearing that something more might happen.

But nothing more did happen. Wentworth had always boasted that his boat would stand up against pretty nearly anything, and he came within half an inch of being right. But if she was not a physical wreck as a consequence of her frantic race, she seemed to be suffering the sequel in a complete nervous collapse, for she kept settling and canting more and more, as if with utter exhaustion, until the locker on which Bobby sat inclined so much that he slid from it and sought the one on the opposite side. This was so much lower than the other that for a moment he thought the boat was sinking and that presently the water would come through the port-hole. When a few minutes more elapsed and it did not, he threw the port open and reached down outside. The first thing his hand encountered was some marsh grass, which he pulled up.

“Jiminy crinks!” said he, clutching it with a feeling of relief. “This is some adventure, believe me. I—I had a ride in Wentworth’s boat, anyway.”

That one little handful of marsh grass made him regard the whole experience simply as an adventure.