Читать книгу Among the River Pirates - Percy Keese Fitzhugh - Страница 7

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Skippy felt better when the boat nosed out into the river. He raised his worried face to the clear salt breeze and let it blow over his hot cheeks. Lights blinked here and there on the dark water and a tug chortled by noisily. Then on the far shore he saw a cable light, and a ship ran clear of it before she dropped her mooring anchor.

Toby said nothing but sat in a lugubrious silence as he steered the little craft downstream. Skippy stared hard at the spray foaming against the bow; his mind was not on drifting logs. He turned to his father, scanned his face anxiously, then peered downstream again.

“Is Mr. Flint’s yacht much further, Pop?” he asked after a few minutes.

“No, we oughta soon be on top uv her,” came the hoarse reply. “Yer can’t miss her—she’s got her name sprawled fore an’ aft in great big gold letters. It’s some fancy name called A—Apollyon. That’s it. Kindo highfalutin name, hey? Like all them there Flints.”

“How many Flints are there, Pop?”

“Jest two now, like me an’ you. Ol’ Flint an’ his son, Buck. His real name’s Harry. Anyway folks call him Buck. But he’s got it better’n you, Sonny. Much better. Besides he’s old enough ter take his father’s place in the dirty business, though I heerd not so long ago that Buck ain’t uv a mind with the old man an’ lets Marty Skinner help run the works. They say Buck’s terrible honest an’ all fer the law but Skinner’s nothin’ but a rat.”

“Well, maybe Buck’ll take over his father’s business some day and make it pay without havin’ smugglin’ an’ things like that, huh Pop?”

“Mebbe, but not if that crook Skinner keeps his ball in the game. Still, I heerd it said that Ol’ Flint’s business has always paid good enough without him doin’ dirty work fer easy money. But that’s what a miser he is—he’s gotta have a crooked side line so’s ter pile up his millions in a coupla years. He ain’t willin’ like the rest uv these shipowners ’round here ter wait an’ let a honest fortune pile up, say, in twenty years or so. He can’t be honest, Ol’ Flint can’t, not even with a poor man like me, an’ Skinner’s the same breed uv cats.”

They were approaching a wide bend in the river. Anchored launches and trim sailboats dotted the shadowy water like immaculate sentinels. Skippy’s restless eyes roved over the silent scene until he espied the graceful sweep of a yacht’s bow projecting out of the shadows into the line of its anchor light. Simultaneously he saw great gold letters spelling out the name Apollyon and it occurred to him how modest and neat was the brass lettering of the Minnie M. Baxter in contrast.

The white, dainty craft swayed ever so gently on the slight swell and Skippy was lost in envy. He bethought himself of the sprawling uncouth barge and for a moment wondered why things were like this; why a man of Josiah Flint’s sort could own this dainty, spotless yacht while his father who wanted so much to be honest had not even the worth of the hard-earned barge.

For the first time, he understood how bitter and revengeful his father must feel. He too felt bitter and revengeful as they got closer to the Apollyon. Something began to smolder in his boy’s heart; something wholly alien to his cheerful, wholesome nature. But he was aware of nothing of this, save that he felt like sneering aloud at this proud, complacent craft swaying before his eyes. In a wild fancy he imagined her to be mocking his father and himself for daring to hope that Josiah Flint would make restitution.

A dim light shone amidships and save for the anchor lights the rest of the yacht was in darkness. Skippy stared hard at her and suddenly saw something skimming away from her port side.

He leaned far over the prow of the little motor boat until he saw that the object was a kicker like their own with its engine muffled. In whispered words he drew Toby’s attention to it.

“Wonder where she’s been and where she’s goin’ to, huh Pop?” he queried.

“That ain’t none uv our business, Skippy,” his father answered staring up at the Apollyon. “Folks on the river don’t think uv them things this time uv night. They know a muffled engine’s one that ain’t carin’ ter be heard, same as I got one fer mine.”

“We could have ours taken off now, huh Pop? It ain’t any more use now, is it?”

“That all depends, Sonny. It all depends on Ol’ Flint,” Toby said softly. “Now here we are an’ the less said, the better.”

“Ahoy!” called a voice in deep, soft tones from above. “Who’s below?”

Father and son glanced up to see the head and shoulders of a burly man leaning over the glistening rail. Skippy saw Toby stiffen determinedly.

“Ol’ Flint aboard?” he asked.

“Yeah,” the man answered suppressing a yawn. “He’s in his cabin amidships. Lookin’ for him?”

“Yeah.”

“Move the kicker aft an’ come aboard. Old man was talkin’ with Mr. Skinner when I come on duty two hours ago. His light’s still on so he’s readin’ likely.”

The little boat moved aft with hardly a splash and the next moment Toby was scrambling up the ladder. Skippy listened intently as his father set foot on the Apollyon’s deck.

“Want me to tell him he’s got a caller?” the man suddenly asked.

“Nope. Thanks jest the same,” Toby was saying. “I even got half an idee that mebbe he expects me.”

“Awright, buddy,” said the man heartily. “You’ll find him ’midships like I told you. There where the little light is.”

Skippy heard the soft tread of his father’s step along the deck. A door closed and after an interval of silence he looked up to see that the man was still there, bending over the rail and apparently staring at him.

“Your Dad, hey kid?” he asked, catching Skippy’s upturned eyes.

“My Pop,” Skippy corrected, chuckling. He liked the man’s hearty voice. “You work aboard this yacht, Mister?”

“Second mate, that’s what. Easy job summers when the old man’s busy. All we do is to sleep and keep the old girl ship-shape.”

“Old girl?”

“Yeah, this scow.”

“Some scow!” Skippy laughed. “She’s pretty swell, I’ll say. Not much trouble keepin’ her ship-shape, huh?”

“Naw. There ain’t enough to keep us busy an’ it makes a swab lazy. Same’s me tonight. Here I am the only one on duty (there ain’t no need for more’n one, anchored here like we are) and things are so quiet what do I do but fall sound asleep! I’d sat me down and I hear the old man bawlin’ Mr. Skinner out fierce. Then I guess I was dozin’ a spell ’fore I heard the sound of a muffled motor aft. Dreamed it, I guess, and I dreamed I heard somebody comin’ out from the boss’s quarters ’midships. Anyways, I finally woke up and when I come to the rail I see you folks. Guess that’s what I was hearin’ in my dreams all the time, hey?”

“Maybe,” said Skippy. “Our motor’s muffled, I guess you noticed already, but you might ’a’ heard another kicker like ours too because one was aft when we came along.”

“Guess maybe that’s what it was then,” said the second mate pleasantly. “Just somebody bein’ a little cautious, like. Still I got to quit bein’ so lazy nights and do my duty by Polly like the old man pays me for.”

“Polly?”

The second mate laughed softly and Skippy fancied that his mischievous wink penetrated the darkness.

“Apollyon—Polly for short, kid! Apollyon is too highfalutin for able seamen, hey?”

“That’s what I thought, Mister. I never heard it before. Gee whiz, what’s it mean anyway?”

The second mate paused a moment.

“From what I could make out from the Cap’n it was the name of a Greek story or somethin’. You know—one of them real old Greeks thousands of years back. And this Apollyon was a evil spirit or somethin’ like that, and folks called ’im the Destroyer! Ain’t that a name for you?”

Skippy nodded and looked at the graceful ship with a new interest. Evil spirit? Destroyer? A queer name indeed for such a dainty craft. Why should Josiah Flint give that beautiful hull such an evil name? The sound of a dull thump interrupted his thoughts.

“I couldn’t work on a ship with a name like that,” he said to the second mate at length.

“Why?” the man laughed. “Superstitious?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Skippy answered seriously. “At least I never thought I was sup-super-superstitious more’n most kids. But it don’t seem exactly fair callin’ a nice ship like that the destroyer or an evil spirit or whatever Apollyon really means. Gee, I’ve heard my Pop say that a ship kinda gets lookin’ like its name an’ actin’ like its name after a while. That’s why he named the barge he bought from Mr. Flint after my mother; the Minnie M. Baxter she’s called. He said she’d be the nicest barge on the river if she took after my mother. But so far it ain’t worked out,” he added wistfully.

“No?” the second mate inquired sympathetically.

Skippy summed up the whole story of his father’s misfortune in a few words. Particularly did he stress Toby’s grief over Josiah Flint’s wilful deception in the transaction.

“And so your Pop’s come to make the old man come across, hey? Well, I don’t blame him.” The man lowered his voice to a mere whisper. “I only hope he don’t get the boss in a nasty temper ’cause he’s not one to give in and he sounded like he was good and sore when he was bawlin’ out Mr. Skinner. Besides, he ain’t the one to admit he cheated your pop either. Still....”

A low moan startled them both and suddenly a door slammed, followed by the sound of someone running along the deck. Skippy stood straight up in the motor boat and listened intently.

He knew those footsteps and he knew what was in the mind that directed them with such force. His father never hurried, much less ran, unless he was terribly angered or pained or....

He dared not complete that thought, nor did he have need to, for his father’s drawn, white face was already looking down at him from above the rail and Skippy read there all that he needed to know.

Something terrible had happened.