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

“I’m going to do my shooting with the steering wheel,” laughed Tom, quietly. “After my fine luck the other day I’m not going to risk my reputation again.”

So Tremaine had his heart’s real wish – the first shot at the dozing alligator.

Closer in crept the boat, while the unsuspecting reptile slumbered on. Thrice Henry Tremaine sighted, then lowered his rifle, preferring to wait for a nearer shot.

The two Florida men looked on with polite enough interest, though they did not offer to reach for their rifles. Alligator-killing was an old story to them.

“Now, I reckon you’re close enough, sir,” whispered Jeff Randolph. “Sometimes these ole ’gators wake and get into the water powahful quick.”

Again Tremaine sighted. He was too old a hunter to risk spoiling all by too long a sighting. He aimed for a spot just back of the fore shoulder.

Bang! Hardly had the flash left the muzzle when the huge ’gator thrashed, a red spot showing back of the fore shoulder. Then the slumbering animal turned with incredible rapidity, making for the water.

Bang! bang! Tremaine fired twice, as rapidly as he could, each shot going home. The wounded ’gator now floundered weakly close to the water’s edge.

“One more shot and I’ve got him!” breathed Tremaine, tensely. That fourth shot woke the echoes, and the alligator crouched low, too spent to take to the water.

“Give him a minute or two. Then we’ll go and get him,” declared Tremaine, turning to sign to the men in the rowboat that they could approach now.

“There goes Mr. ’Gator,” reported Jeff, as a final shudder ran through the bulky frame of the big reptile.

“Steam ahead, boys! Put in and get him,” directed Tremaine.

No one was looking at Ida Silsbee, just at that moment. She, for some reason, had risen on her tip-toes on the little decked over space aft.

As Joe turned on the speed with a throb, the girl tottered. There was nothing at which to catch. Uttering a frightened shriek, Ida Silsbee fell over backward into the water.

Joe Dawson heard that cry. Like a flash he shut off the speed. Then, his face white, he sprang and dived where the waters had closed over the girl.

There was another shriek, this time from Mrs. Tremaine, as she caught sight of an alligator snout rising above the water not fifty yards away.

Tom Halstead saw that snout on the water. In another twinkling he was over the side.

Oliver Dixon sprang to plunge in, also, but Mr. Tremaine caught him by the arm, crying huskily:

“No, no, Dixon! Two over are enough. And there’s a second ’gator, a third!”

Three of the brutes were close at hand, all nosing along towards these people at their mercy in the water.

Up shot Joe’s head above the black waters. He gripped Ida Silsbee, too, for Joe’s dive had carried him straight to her side.

“Look out for the ’gators!” shrieked Mrs. Tremaine, ghastly with terror.

The two Florida men had snatched up their rifles, prepared to fire. Mr. Tremaine already had his.

Tom Halstead came to the surface to find himself between Joe and the nearest of the water enemies.

“Get her to the boat, Joe. I’ll do the best I can to take up a ’gator’s attention,” shouted Tom desperately. He had no plan of attack. He was prepared to sacrifice himself to injury or mangling, if that would do any good.

“Good heaven, suh! We kain’t shoot without running the risk o’ hitting them that’s in the water,” cried one of the Florida men, desperately.

For now the swimmers were at the center of a circle bounded by the three alligators, while both boats were outside the dangerous area. To fire at any of the alligators, and miss, would be to take a chance of hitting one of the three human beings in the water.

CHAPTER XVIII

A FEARFUL TWO MINUTES

RUSHING aft, Jeff dropped into a seat beside the motor. In another instant he had swung the speed on with his left hand, while his right grasped one of the rudder ropes.

Chug-chug! With the speed beginning, Jeff turned the launch in the shortest possible circle, then headed toward the people in the water.

“Yell!” he shouted. “Voices often scare ’gators!”

The Florida men in the rowboat won with the first yell by a margin of a second or so. Then everyone joined in.

The two who bent at the oars of the rowboat were putting in all their strength at a rapid, strong pull. One of the others crouched in the bow of the little craft, waiting until he should dare to fire.

Two of the alligators had slowed up, as if waiting to see what menace to them was conveyed by the chorus of wild yells. Then one of them sank below the surface.

The ’gator nearest Tom Halstead kept straight on, coming slowly, jaws moving and eyes blinking, as though the great reptile were figuring out the chances of successful attack.

“You just look out for Miss Silsbee, Joe,” warned Tom. “I’ll keep off this big fellow if I have to shove an arm down his throat!”

Ida Silsbee was wholly conscious. A brave girl, she had the good sense to realize how much depended upon her keeping cool and quiet, allowing her rescuers free hand to do what they thought best.

Tom Halstead had brought out his sailor’s clasp knife, opening the blade. He now held this weapon in his right hand, ready to strike, no matter how uselessly, as a means of attracting the attention of the nearest alligator.

In the launch Henry Tremaine watched, with a horrible fascination, for the alligator that had dropped below the surface. If hunters’ tales were true that vanished alligator was likely to try to drag down one of the helpless three from underneath.

Tom would not swim away from a straight line between Ida and the oncoming alligator. He watched, unflinchingly, the approach of the dangerous foe, wondering whether he could strike hard enough with his knife to make the ’gator retreat.

All this had occupied only seconds.

Now, Jeff Randolph had a chance to show what he meant to do. He drove the launch straight for the big alligator. The changed position of the boat gave Tremaine a possible chance to shoot without hitting any of those in the water.

“Don’t fire!” warned Jeff, quickly. “Wait, suh.”

Knowing that the Florida boy understood the points of the game vastly better, Tremaine removed his finger from the trigger.

As the launch sped up, the alligator from which most was to be feared veered slightly.

Jeff Randolph, however, was watchful and ready. He slightly veered the launch from its first course, then, as he had intended, drove the bow of the craft straight against the ’gator’s broadside.

The force of the impact almost capsized the launch. His hand on the reversing gear, Jeff shot the launch back a few yards, swinging around.

This changed position gave Tremaine a chance to fire – not at the alligator the launch had just struck, but at the other visible one. His rifle spoke out instantly, just before a shot came from the rowboat.

By this time the alligators had all they could do to attend to their own safety. The creature that Jeff had struck with the bow of the launch had rolled partly over, recovered its balance, and then lashed its way to greater safety. At this one, too, Tremaine now fired, hitting, while Oliver Dixon followed it up with another bullet that registered.