Harrie Hancock - The Motor Boat Club in Florida - or, Laying the Ghost of Alligator Swamp

“Take the wheel, Joe!” shouted Skipper Tom, presently. “My arms ache.”

And well they might, as Joe knew, for, with such a sea running, the wheel acted as though it were a thing of life as it fiercely resisted every turn.

As Dawson stepped into place, bracing himself, and with both strong young hands resting on the spokes, Tom Halstead, holding lightly to one of the life lines, started to step backward to the deck-house. Just then a great, combing wave broke over the boat, from astern, racing the full length with fearful force. Joe Dawson, hearing it come, partly turned to meet it. Halstead was caught, lurching as he let go of the life line to clutch at the deck-house. Dixon’s foot shot out, tripping the young skipper. Losing his footing and deprived of grip at the same instant, Tom Halstead rose on the billow as it swept along.

Over the port side went the great mass of water. It would have carried Skipper Tom with it, all in a flash, but Joe, dropping the wheel and diving to hit the port bulwark, threw his hands upward, clutching desperately at his friend’s leg.

Then Dawson held on – how he gripped!

A moment more and the force of that invading billow was spent. Joe, panting under the strain of that fight against tons of water in motion, drew Halstead to him in safety.

But the “Restless,” with no hand at the wheel, was lurching around into the trough of the sea. The next wave might engulf her.

Sure that his friend was safe, Joe Dawson sprang to the wheel. While he was still fighting with the steering gear, Tom Halstead stood at his side. Between them, not without effort, they put the bobbing little cork of a cruiser on her course, once more, on that seething, boiling stretch of waters.

“Can you hold her, Joe?” panted Tom, huskily, in his friend’s ear.

Dawson nodding, Tom stepped back to Dixon, who regarded the young captain with curiously blazing eyes.

“I think you’d better go below, sir,” shouted Halstead.

“Why – why – do you mean – ?”

“I mean nothing,” retorted Tom, dryly, “except that the deck is no place for you in this weather. We can handle the yacht better if all passengers are below.”

“But – ”

Captain Tom’s eyes gleamed resolutely.

“Will you go below, sir, or shall I have to call the steward to help me put you below? I mean it, Mr. Dixon. I’m captain here!”

Gripping at the lines, Dixon sullenly made his way to the motor room hatch. Halstead swung it open, gently but firmly aiding his passenger below.

“Did he trip you?” asked Joe, when the hatch had been closed and his chum stood beside him.

“It’s an awful thing to say, and I guess he didn’t, but I almost thought so,” Halstead shouted back.

“He’s bad, I think,” growled Joe, which was a good deal for that quiet young engineer to say. “Yet I can’t see any earthly reason for his treating you like that.”

“Nor I, either,” admitted the youthful sailing master. “Oh, of course he didn’t mean to. The whole thing is too absurd!”

Ten minutes later, feeling that it would be better to go below and see how the hull was standing the severe strain, Halstead called to Ham to stand by Joe on deck. Then Tom went below.

Once down there, it struck him to step through the passageway. There was a peep-hole slide in the door opening into the cabin. Halstead stood there, shifting the slide so that he could look beyond.

“If the ladies are still up,” he told himself, “I can see how they are bearing the excitement. If they look very scared, I’ll go in and try to put some courage into them.”

As Halstead looked through the small peep-hole, he saw Tremaine and that gentleman’s wife and ward seated at the further end of the cabin table, bending over a book that Tremaine held open. At the sideboard stood young Dixon.

“Now, what’s he doing?” wondered Halstead, curiously.

With the water bottle in one hand, Oliver Dixon was pouring into it a few drops from the vial he had placed in his vest pocket in the late afternoon.

In the meantime, up on the bridge deck, Joe Dawson at first waited for the return of his chum without any feeling of curiosity. Yet, after many minutes had passed the young fleet engineer of the Motor Boat Club began to wonder what his comrade was doing below.

“Ham,” ordered Joe, at last, “go below and find Captain Halstead. See if anything has happened.”

Glad enough to get away from the deck, where the billows were pouring over and threatening to carry him overboard, the colored steward made his way, clutching at the life-lines, to the motor room door.

“Get that hatch shut!” roared Joe. “Don’t leave it open for a five-ton wave to get down in there at the motors!”

Ham shut the hatch with a bang, then ran through the passageway to the cabin door.

“’Scuse me, ladies an’ gemmen,” begged Ham, poking his head through the doorway. “Any ob yo’ done seen Cap’n Halstead?”

“Why, no,” replied Mr. Tremaine, looking up. “He hasn’t been through this cabin – at least, not within the last hour. Isn’t he on deck?”

“No, sah. Marse Dawson, he-um up at de wheel. He gwine sent me heah to look fo’ de cap’n.”

“You were forward, a while ago, Dixon,” spoke Mr. Tremaine. “Did you see Halstead?”

“Not even a glimpse of him,” replied that young man.

“Is the captain lost?” demanded Mrs. Tremaine, a tremor in her tone.

“I’se spec he must be,” declared Ham, solemnly. “He-um ain’ forrard, an’ he-um ain’ on de bridge. He-um ain’ here, neider.”

“Don’t alarm the ladies, Ham,” spoke Mr. Tremaine, sharply. “If Captain Halstead came below, then of course he didn’t go overboard. Look forward. If you don’t find the captain promptly, come back for me, and I’ll help you.”

Ham departed, going back through the passageway. Then, emitting a frenzied yell, shaking in every limb, Ham half lurched, half tottered back into the cabin. His appearance of utter fright was such as to cause the ladies to rise, holding to the table for support while the boat rocked and dipped.

As for Ham, he fell against the sideboard, holding on there, his eyes rolling wildly, until little more than the scared whites of them could be seen.

“What do you mean, you black idiot?” roared Mr. Tremaine, darting at the steward and clutching him, administering a sound shaking.

“Cap’n Halstead, he ain’ on board!” wailed Ham Mockus. Then, in a greater outburst of terror, he screamed hoarsely:

“Dat ain’ de worst! De Ghost ob Alligator Swamp am on board – Ah done seen it so close dat Ah s’pec it reach out an’ grab me!”

Though none of the passengers believed in ghosts, this information, at such a time, was enough to make them gasp.

“Wut Ah done tell yo’?” roared Ham, his voice deepening in the frenzy of his terror. “Ah tole yo’-all dat ole Marse Satan gwine ride on dis great wind ter-night! He sho’ is doin’ dat. Oh, Lawdy!”

Slipping from the grasp of Henry Tremaine, Ham Mockus sank groveling to the floor.

“COME, get up, you imp!” roared Mr. Tremaine, angrily, as he bent over. He seized the steward by the collar, and dragged that frightened individual to his feet.

“Ham, you simpleton, there’s no such thing as a ghost,” uttered Mr. Tremaine, sharply.

“Oh, ain’ dere, den?” demanded Ham, in high disgust at such ignorance. “Yo’ go out an’ meet it, den!”

“I will,” agreed Henry Tremaine, gripping the negro tightly by the arm. “Where did you see that ghost?”

“In de passageway, sah.”

“Then come along and show it to me.”