Johnstone of the Border Part 42

A dark object, planing downward on extended wings, shot out of the mist; another came close behind; and the gun-b.u.t.t jarred Whitney's shoulder while smoke blew into his eyes. He swung the gun as he pulled the second trigger, and saw a red flash leap out; and then the dark was filled with a harsh clamor and the furious beat of wings. Andrew jerked his gun open and the burnt cartridges shot out while smoke curled about the breach.

"Two, I think," he said. "Yours is up the bank."

Whitney found it presently: a small, black-breasted goose.

"My first bernicle!" he said with a thrill of pride. "They're more like a big duck than the heavy lag birds we've already bagged. Do you think d.i.c.k will get a shot?"

"He ought to. They were flying straight up the bank."

They waited a few minutes, but no gunshot came out of the mist, and when everything was silent they turned back down the gutter.

"The geese won't alight again," Andrew said. "As d.i.c.k knows that, he'll probably launch the punt and come to meet us."

When they reached the edge of the water, Whitney stopped and lighted his pipe.

"It's pretty soft farther on. Let's wait here for the punt," he suggested.

He had nearly smoked his pipe out when they heard the splash of a paddle, and presently the punt crept out of the mist. Its low, gray-painted hull was hard to see; but d.i.c.k's form was more distinct and Andrew made an abrupt movement as he watched him. He sat facing forward, on the after deck, and he lurched clumsily from side to side as he dipped the paddle. The punt was not going straight, but sheered about, and d.i.c.k did not seem to be making for the bank. This projected in a short cape, not far away, and then the sand ran back toward the east, leaving a stretch of rippling water that vanished in the haze.

The tide was rapidly running seaward and the wind blew off the flat.

"Dip to leeward!" Andrew shouted. "Head her up for the point!"

d.i.c.k stopped and flourished his paddle.

"I'm not coming ash.o.r.e," he answered with a chuckle. "Do you good to walk back. Jim's getting fat!"

Whitney looked at Andrew in alarm.

"Yes; he's drunk!" Andrew said with an impatient sign.

It was plain to both that the situation was not free from danger. A shooting punt, with its sides only from six to eight inches high, is essentially a smooth-water craft and is easily swamped, in spite of her deck. There was a good breeze, and if d.i.c.k pa.s.sed the short point, he would risk being blown out to sea. The tide did not follow the sweep of bank but ran straight out.

"Don't be a fool!" Andrew shouted. "Run her in at once!"

d.i.c.k sat hunched up, with the paddle on the deck, and they heard him laugh.

"It's quite oll ri'," he answered. "Needn't bother about me. I'm going to look for submarinesh."

Andrew ran toward the point, and Whitney, following, tore two b.u.t.tons off his oilskin jacket as he tried to unfasten them with numbed fingers. He wore ordinary serge trousers and heavy sea-boots, but the punt must be stopped before she drifted past the little cape.

Afterward, it would be too late.

Andrew reached the spot first, while the punt was still upstream of it, and at once plunged in; but Whitney, who had now got rid of his oilskin, stopped and tried to pull off his long, wet boots. He hardly thought Andrew could wade out far enough, and one of them might have to swim. He was furious with d.i.c.k; but the boy must be rescued. He got his boots off and went in up to his knees; but then he stopped; for he would not be needed if his comrade could reach the punt. Andrew was waist-deep but still floundering on, when d.i.c.k, laughing hoa.r.s.ely, threw something at him. It fell into the water, but the next shot was better aimed, for Whitney saw an egg smash on Andrew's oilskin cap.

Another struck him in the face; but the punt was near now, and after a few more floundering strides, Andrew threw himself forward. The craft lurched as he fell across her deck, and Whitney thought she would capsize; but the next moment Andrew flung d.i.c.k into the well and then, kneeling on the deck, brought the craft ash.o.r.e with a few strokes of the paddle.

Whitney felt very cold, and he was getting stiffly on board when Andrew asked:

"Hadn't you better bring your coat and boots?"

Whitney found it a relief to laugh as he went back for the things; and Andrew pushed the punt off when he got on board.

"I'll paddle while you keep the young a.s.s in the well," he said.

"Knock him down if he tries to get up."

"Don't want to get up," d.i.c.k remarked. "Quite snug down here. Only trouble is I'm sitting in the eggs."

"I think that's correct," said Whitney. "_In_ is the proper word.

There's rather a mess on your face, too."

"Good shot, ole man," d.i.c.k observed with a grin.

Andrew said nothing as he swung the long paddle, for the ripples were getting larger as they left the sand, and the breeze was freshening, but at last the yacht's light twinkled in the mist. Getting on board, they hustled d.i.c.k below, where Andrew stripped off his wet clothes and put him into his berth, while Whitney got the stove to burn.

After a time, d.i.c.k put out his head.

"Feel I'd like some supper, before I go to sleep."

"You can go to sleep without it," Andrew said sternly. "I suppose there's no use in talking about it now, but you've been warned that this kind of thing may kill you."

"I'm 'shured," d.i.c.k rejoined. "Good big policy and I don't pay the premiums."

"Who does pay them?" Andrew asked, in a quiet, insistent voice; but d.i.c.k only grinned.

"That'sh secret, ole man. You're very good fellow, but don't know everything. Don't bother me any more; I'm sleepy."

He was silent after this, but Whitney waited until he thought d.i.c.k was really asleep.

"He looked sober when he joined us at the village," he said.

"I think he was," Andrew agreed. "Perhaps he'd drunk enough to make him want more, and brought a bottle away. No doubt, we'll find it when we clean up the punt." Then he forced a smile. "You'll have to go without your eggs."

"That's obvious. But what did he mean about his being insured, and somebody else's paying the premiums?"

"I don't know, and don't expect to get any more information when he's sober, but I'll see what Mackellar thinks. Sometimes I feel like giving up the whole business. d.i.c.k's too clever for me; and when I turn to the other matter, I'm brought to a full stop."

Whitney nodded sympathetically.

"It's an awkward job, but you won't let up. You're not a quitter, and luck or Mackellar may help you through."

He got into his cot, and the regular splash of ripples against the boat's side, and the soft slapping of the halyards on the mast, soon made him drowsy, but the last thing he saw was Andrew sitting on the opposite locker with a stern, thoughtful face.

CHAPTER XXV

A CLUE