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

Half standing, and seeing how the day was going, Jeff Randolph now steered toward Joe and Ida. In a twinkling Dixon reached out for the girl. Tremaine helped him to haul her into the boat. Joe Dawson pulled himself in, with slight help from Tremaine. Joe’s first move was to lean over the opposite gunwale, and aid Captain Tom Halstead into the boat.

“Yo’ can get one of the ’gators, suh,” reported Jeff, pointing. “He’s hurt, but floating.”

Henry Tremaine again raised his rifle, sighted and fired. A second shot from him finished the ’gator.

“Two! That’s good enough sport for one day,” declared the host. “Ida, child, we’ve got to get you into something drier if possible, or you’ll have pneumonia. Didn’t you ladies bring some sort of extra clothing?”

“Yes; we’ve some makeshifts in the way of clothes that will make the child drier and warmer,” replied Mrs. Tremaine.

“Then we’ll run in to shore, disappear under the trees, and let you get Ida into those clothes,” replied the host, noting that his ward was already beginning to shake.

The launch was ran to the nearest land, the rowboat following. As soon as both craft had been made fast the men-folks stepped out. Tom lifted a service-worn telescope bag from under a forward seat, remarking:

“Joe and I carry a few extra things with us, too.”

The Florida men led the way over the bogs, watchfully alert for rattlers or other dangerous snakes. Jeff encountered one young rattler, and killed it with a few well-directed blows of a stick. Out of sight of the boat, Tom and Joe quickly shed their dripping garments, rubbing down and putting on dry clothing.

After waiting a sufficient length of time, Henry Tremaine shouted to his wife, receiving answer that the men might return.

They found Ida Silsbee reclining comfortably at the stern of the boat, wrapped in an overcoat and tucked in with steamer rugs.

“I’m as warm as toast,” she declared. Then, gratefully:

“I hope you boys are as well off.”

“Oh, we are,” Joe nodded. “We’re used to going overboard, or standing in pouring rains. We never go far without a clothes kit.”

The Florida men now devoted their attention to securing the second alligator and adding it to the tow behind the launch.

“Mo’ hunting, Mr. Tremaine?” inquired Jeff, coolly.

“Not to-day,” responded the host, with emphasis. “We’ve had very fair sport, not to speak of a miraculous escape for my ward. We’ve had quite enough excitement. I think the old bungalow at the head of Lake Okeechobee will look very cheery to us when we get there.”

Ida had already made some attempt to thank the young motor boat boys for their gallant conduct. Now, she tried to say much more. Mr. and Mrs. Tremaine and Oliver Dixon now started to overwhelm the boys with their gratitude, but Joe Dawson interposed quietly:

“The least said is soonest mended, you’ve heard, and I guess the same idea applies to thanks. We’re glad we could be useful, but there is no use in making a fuss about us.”

“That’s about right,” smiled Halstead. He turned to take his seat by the steering wheel, then observed the wistful looks of Jeff Randolph.

“I didn’t know, before, Jeff,” remarked the young captain, pleasantly, “that you knew anything about handling motor boats.”

“I won’t claim I do know a heap,” rejoined Jeff, modestly, “but I will say that there’s nothing I enjoy mo’ than taking the wheel of a launch or cabin cruiser.”

“Help yourself, then,” invited Halstead, moving back. “You surely do know more about these black waters than I’ll ever know.”

Jeff’s eyes gleamed with real pleasure as he seated himself at the wheel. He gave the engineer’s signals, and backed the launch out neatly, then headed northward.

“Say, you’ve been on boats a good deal,” remarked Skipper Tom, after watching him.

“Some,” admitted the Florida boy, quietly. “I reckon I’d rather be on a boat than anywhere else in the whole world.”

Jeff remained at the wheel until he had piloted them out of the Everglades and back into Lake Okeechobee. The two dead ’gators were rigged to the stern of the rowboat, in tow, and the small boat’s bow line made fast astern on the launch. In this order the start was made for the forty-mile trip up the lake.

“I’m going to spell you at the wheel a bit, now, Jeff,” said Tom Halstead. “But you can have the wheel again, whenever you want it.”

“That’ll be most all o’ the forty miles ahead of us, then, I reckon,” declared young Randolph.

It was slow work, indeed, getting back, not much more than seven miles per hour being possible. Supper, picnic-style, was served not long after dark. It was nearing the hour of ten when the boat at last rounded slowly in at the pier.

“Let me take her in,” begged Jeff Randolph, who was again at the wheel.

“Go ahead,” nodded Tom Halstead, good-humoredly. “I know you can do it.”

“Jeff,” laughed Henry Tremaine, “you ought to apply for membership in the famous Motor Boat Club of the Kennebec.”

“Wouldn’t I like to belong, though?” sighed the Florida boy.

“Would you?” queried Captain Tom.

“Don’t poke fun at me,” protested young Randolph.

“I’m not poking fun,” rejoined Halstead, soberly. “Did you ever have any experience out on deep water?”

“I’ve been on sailing craft a good deal, and out fo’ two trips on a motor cruiser,” answered the Florida boy, in a low voice.

“How’d you like to come out on the ‘Restless’ for a while?”

“Do yo’ mean it?” asked Jeff, anxiously.

“I certainly do. Still, at the same time, I must warn you that your duties on the ‘Restless’ would be mixed. You’d have to cook, be steward and take an occasional trick at the motors or the wheel.”

“I don’t care what it is,” retorted Jeff, stubbornly, “so long as it’s something on deep salt water, and on a motor boat at that.”

“Make a good landing then,” proposed Tom Halstead, smiling, yet serious, “and we’ll talk it all over on shore.”

Jeff Randolph laid the boat in at the pier without a scratch or a jar, with just enough headway and none to spare. Tom leaped ashore at the bow, Joe at the stern, and the little craft was made fast at her berth.

Ham Mockus was glad enough to see them back. He was hanging about at the land end of the pier. Though the black man’s faith in ghosts had received a severe knock, still, to be all alone about the place after dark – well, it was a bit fearsome, anyway!

“Have any ghosts called, Ham?” laughingly demanded Henry Tremaine, as he caught sight of his black servitor.

“No, sah; no, sah,” admitted the darkey, grinning sheepishly.

“Then the officers must have succeeded in keeping all the members of the ghost safely locked up in jail.”

“Ah reckon so, sah – unless – ”

“Well, unless what?”