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

“Jupiter! I’ve got to get that last one, or lose all I’ve got – my own liberty included!” flashed through the boy’s mind.

There was no help for it. Secretly half-glad, in his craze for more adventure, Tom stole swiftly, softly, across the open space.

“Now, you-all – ” began Sim, in his loudest voice.

Just at that instant he stepped out of the jungle, then stopped, staring with all his might.

Right in front of him crouched young Halstead. Sim was looking down into the muzzle of the hunting rifle. To him it looked, just then, like the bore of a tunnel.

“Wha – wha – what?” exploded Sim.

“You guessed right, the first time,” mocked Tom Halstead. “It’s my move, now, not yours. Are you going to be troublesome?”

“Put down that gun, an’ I’ll talk with yo’,” proposed Sim, hesitatingly.

“Instead, you put your hands up!” rang Halstead’s crisp command.

“I – ”

“If you don’t – ”

Tom backed three feet away, his eye looming up large as Sim caught a glimpse of it through the rifle-sights.

“You’re going to be good, aren’t you?” coaxed Tom, grimly. “If you are, you’ve only two seconds to decide. If you’re not – ”

“I reckon I’ll play,” admitted Sim, hoarsely. “Show me how the game goes.”

“Keep your hands up, and march, slowly, right on towards the boat,” responded Tom Halstead. “Be ready for the word to halt, and do it the instant you hear me say so. If you try any tricks – but you won’t!”

“No,” promised Sim; “I won’t.”

“March, then – slowly.”

Sim obeyed, also stopping when told. He lay down, with a dismal sigh, crossing his hands behind his back, just as told. From the boat came the sound of remonstrating kicks, the only method of communication that was left to Sim’s own people.

“It may strike you,” suggested Halstead, “that it will be an easy trick to turn and grapple with me when I get my hands on the cord. If you try it you’re pretty likely to find that I’m prepared for you. You won’t have even a fighting chance.”

Kneeling on the back of the prostrate Sim the young skipper placed the rifle so that the muzzle rested against the back of the fellow’s head.

“You see what will happen, if you make a move,” proposed the boy.

“I reckon I ain’t gwine to,” observed Sim, huskily.

“Wise man! Now – !”

Tom Halstead slipped a noose over those crossed hands. Then with the speed and skill of the sailor he rapidly crossed and wound, until he had Sim’s hands very securely fastened. The knots were cleverly made fast in place. Few people except sailors can tie knots the way this boy tied them.

“Now, lie quiet just long enough for me to put a mild tackle on your ankles,” admonished the young skipper.

When this was done he helped Sim to his feet.

“You can get into the boat, now,” suggested Halstead.

“See here, boy, yo’ can’t git far away from heah afo’ some o’ my men git after yo’. Take yo’ ole boat, an’ leave me heah. That’s the smartest way, I asshuah yo’.”

“Get into the boat,” ordered Tom, sternly. “I’ll help you as soon as it’s necessary.”

When Sim got near enough to the gunwale to see the others so neatly stacked away he flew into a rage.

“Ef I done know yo’ had the others like that,” he stormed, “I’d have seen yo’ further afo’ I – ”

“Get into the boat,” interrupted Halstead, pressing the muzzle of the hunting rifle against Sim’s back. “Now, over you go, with my help.”

Sim was talking in a picturesque way by this time, but Halstead, ignoring him, stacked him away with his comrades in the bow of the boat. Then, still gripping the rifle, the motor boat boy stepped aft, and started the motor. As soon an this was running smoothly, Halstead raised his voice, calling:

“I don’t doubt that you fellows will soon feel tempted to squirm about and try to free yourselves. You don’t know me, and might not believe me, so, if I see any signs of trouble, I’ll have to let this rifle do my talking. If you doubt me, then try it on!”

Sim was the only one who could speak; he was too disgusted and wrathful to feel like saying a word.

Captain Tom swung on slow speed, guiding the boat by the rudder line that passed aft from the steering wheel.

Not knowing the waters here in the Everglades, and their almost inky blackness, under the shadows of the trees, concealing the depths, he was forced to go slowly.

All the while, too, with the rifle ready at hand, he had to keep a sharp lookout over the men stacked forward like so many logs. Their judgment, however, did not prompt them to move.

It seemed like ages to the boy ere he got clear of the Everglades. He thought he was following the route by which they had entered, yet his only general guide was to keep to a northerly course.

At last he saw the open waters of Lake Okeechobee ahead. As he drove the boat out into broader, deeper waters, a prayer of thankfulness went up from the boy.

Once in the lake, he crowded on speed, and was presently running at the full power of the little engine. Even if he could keep this gait, he had more than a three hours’ trip ahead of him.

Now, however, after he had the motor running to suit him, he was free to give practically all of his attention to his “passengers” on this unique trip.

“I feel like complimenting you on your fine order up forward,” chuckled the boy. “It may interest you to know that I am keeping my eye on the lot of you all the time.”

Sim’s answer wouldn’t be worth repeating. Not one of the “passengers” lay so that he could look aft, a very decided advantage for the young skipper.

It was a fearfully long run. Late in the afternoon Halstead caught his first glimpse of Tremaine’s bungalow at the head of the lake.

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes, now,” he glowed. “Won’t there be fun when I show my load!”

A few minutes later he made out figures of people running out of the bungalow. Plainly they had a glass, and were using it, for presently Tom saw them waving their arms wildly toward him.

“There’s more than our own party there,” muttered the boy, with a throb of gratitude. “That surely means they’ve been organizing an expedition to hunt for me.”

Just as soon as he was near enough, Halstead sounded several blasts lustily on the whistle. There was more waving of arms from the crowd before the bungalow. Halstead fancied he caught the faintest sound of distant cheering. Bye-and-bye he was sure of it. Now, it was a duet between whistles and cheers. Joe, Jeff and Henry Tremaine were leading the others in a mad scramble to the end of the pier.

Then, with a final, long blast from the whistle, Tom Halstead ran in close, rising as he did so.