The Motor Boat Club in Florida: or, Laying the Ghost of Alligator Swamp

“Lemme see. Well, it must been a yeah, now.”

“Too bad,” muttered the boy, half-pityingly.

“Oh, Ah could git er sto’ cigar,” volunteered Kink, scowling blackly.

“How?”

“By going’ to a sto’, ob co’se. Den yo’ know w’ut happen?”

“What?” demanded Tom.

“W’ite fo’ks, dey done tie er rope ’roun’ mah neck an’ stretch it. Yassuh. Yo’ see, I’m a plumb bad niggah,” Kink added, with a strong touch of pride. “W’ite fo’ks down ’round’ de bay, dey t’ink Ah’m good fo’ nothin’ but hang up. Wi’te fo’ks powahful ’fraid ob Kink!”

“As soon as I am really missed there’ll be a lot of white folks down this way, I reckon,” began Tom. “You see – ”

Then, purposely, he paused. For a few seconds he looked as though he were trying to conceal his thought. Next he peered, as though covertly, northward under the trees.

When he saw Kink regarding him, Tom Halstead pretended to look wholly at the ground. Presently, however, he raised his glance to peer once more northward. So stealthy did the motor boat boy seem about the whole transaction that Kink, accustomed to being hunted through the Everglades, found himself peering, also, in the direction from which chase would come.

The first time he glanced, Kink turned again, almost immediately. But Halstead was sitting in the same place, so motionless and innocent, that the negro ventured another and longer look to the northward in the hope of seeing that which had appeared to give the boy such keen pleasure.

Like a flash, now, though noiseless as a cat, Tom Halstead leaped to his feet. Before Kink had thought of turning, the young skipper launched himself through the air.

He struck Kink a blow that sent that fellow sprawling. Like a panther in the spring, Halstead bore his enemy to the ground, striking savagely while he wrested the rifle from the negro.

“Now, not a sound out of you!” warned Halstead, cocking the rifle and holding the muzzle not many inches from the fellow’s head. “Are you going to be good?” he demanded, in a cool voice that was threatening in its very quietness.

“Yassuh!” admitted Kink, in a whisper.

“Then don’t get up, unless I tell you to, and don’t make a sound of any kind,” warned Skipper Tom, standing before the sitting negro. “First of all, take that box of cartridges out of your pocket, and toss it a little distance away from you.”

The late guard obeyed. Tom, still keeping the fellow under close watch, recovered the cartridges.

“Now, you get down to the boat,” commanded Halstead. “Don’t make any noise and don’t ask any questions. There, that’s right. Halt. Now, in the locker under your hand, you’ll find some cord. Pull it out.”

As the negro obeyed, Tom ordered him to lie face downward on the ground, next putting his hands together behind his back. Picking up the cord, Halstead made a noose at one end. This he slipped over Kink’s crossed hands. Drawing the noose tight, he next knelt on the negro’s back, rapidly lashing the hands ere the fellow could make any movement to wrench himself free.

“Remember what I said about making a noise,” warned Tom. Going to the same locker he took out a quantity of engineer’s waste – an excellent stuff for making a gag. Some of this he forced into the black man’s mouth, making it fast with cord. All that remained was to knot the fellow’s ankles together just loosely enough so that he could barely walk, yet could not run.

“Now, onto your feet with you, my man,” muttered Halstead, raising him. “Now, over into the boat with you. Gently. Lie down out of sight. And bear in mind, if I get a sight of your head above the gunwale until I’m in the boat, it’ll be all up with you!”

Kink’s eyes rolled until only the whites could be seen. This black captive understood very well who had the upper hand.

Now, Tom turned his attention to untying the bowline.

“Kink! Ah say, Kink, yo’ black rascal!”

It was the voice of Jabe calling. The very sound made Halstead shiver, at first.

“Kink, Ah say! Kain’t yo’ heah me?”

“Oo-oo-oo-ee!” shrilled Tom, knowing that to speak would be to betray himself.

Then back toward the jungle stole the motor boat boy, close up to the point where a barely distinguishable path ran through. Here he dropped to one knee, holding the rifle to his shoulder.

“Kink, yo’ – ”

Jabe, coming through the bushes just then, stopped short, blinking fast, his knees trembling and knocking together.

“You know just what is in the wind,” warned Tom’s low voice. “I’ve only to pull the trigger of this gun. Now, get ahead of me and march, without tricks!”

Caught like this, looking straight down into the muzzle of a gun behind which was a pale, resolute face, Jabe allowed himself to show the white feather. He marched, as ordered, throwing himself on his face close by the bow of the launch.

With Jabe Tom Halstead repeated the tactics he had employed against Kink, though he took pains to make the lashings and the knots doubly secure. Then Jabe, bound and gagged, and with but bare freedom of action for his feet, was helped over into the launch beside his friend.

“Now, you two start any kind of motion or sound, if you want to see just what a sailor would do under such circumstances,” warned Halstead, in a low, dry tone.

With the rifle still cocked, he stood up, for an instant, to plan just what his next move should be.

“Two out of the four!” he chuckled inwardly. “Fine! What wouldn’t I give to have the white pair in the same fix! Careful, Tom, old fellow! Don’t get rash. Try to get away from here while you’ve the chance!”

He was about to step into the launch, when he heard steps not far away. Someone else was coming through the jungle. Halstead’s heart beat rapidly, his color coming and going swiftly.

“That’s likely to be Sim and the other fellow, coming together,” he muttered. “I can’t get the launch away before they’ll be here. Yet the two together – how on earth can I handle ’em? For I couldn’t shoot either in cold blood.”

Yet something had to be done, and with great speed. So the motor boat boy slipped back up to the beginning of the path through the jungle. Barely thirty seconds later Jig Waters, Sim’s white comrade, stepped boldly through into the open.

Right then and there, however, Jig’s boldness forsook him.

“Hold on, thar! I’m all yo’s!” stammered Jig, softly, holding up his hands. He, too, was marched down to the water’s edge and served precisely as the negroes had been.

“Three!” throbbed Tom Halstead. “Oh, if I could only stow away all four and take ’em back to civilization with me!”

CHAPTER XV

THE WHOLE BAG OF GAME

THE daring quality of the idea made Tom Halstead tremulous.

He longed to return to the head of Lake Okeechobee with such a “noble” bag of game. Yet he was able to realize the risk that attended any such attempt.

“In reaching out for just one more,” he told himself, palpitatingly, “I may lose the whole lot. Sim will be unquestionably the hardest of the crowd to subdue. No, no; I reckon I’d better be content with my good luck up to date.”

Deciding thus, reluctantly, the young motor boat skipper prepared to cast off. It was his intention to get clear of the land by some little margin, then to start his gasoline motor with the least possible delay. He knew well enough that if Sim heard the motor going that big fellow was likely to come down to the water on the run.

“I’ve got all the menagerie I can train on the way back, anyway,” muttered the boy, dryly.

Just at that moment he heard someone come, crashingly, through the jungle.