Navy Boys Behind the Big Guns Part 26

The woman scowled at him and said nothing more. When Whistler had finished helping her he moved his chair back from the fireplace, for the heat from the live coals was intense. He saw a sc.r.a.p of torn paper upon the earth floor, near his foot.

His suspicions had been aroused now and he covered the paper with his foot until he could get a chance to pick it up without the old woman observing him. Having secured it he moved still farther back to the table. There was a smoky hanging-lamp over the board which gave him light enough to see by. Secretly he examined the torn paper.

It seemed to be part of a letter, and was closely written on both sides of the sc.r.a.p. On one side was the beginning of the missive, and after a minute Whistler realized that it was written in German script.

At the head of the letter was a line that not alone amazed, but startled the boy. Coincidence often has a long arm, and in this case the adage proved true. The letter was addressed to

"_Herr Franz Linder._"

CHAPTER XX

THE WITCH'S WARNING

Whistler had been a.s.sured when he attended the session in the sheriff's office at home, before joining the crew of the _Kennebunk_, that the enemy alien named Franz Linder, who was supposed to have blown up the Elmvale dam, was an influential member of that band of spies that were doing so much harm in the United States.

It was surprising to find this sc.r.a.p of a letter addressed to the spy in this island cabin off the coast of North Carolina. Yet it smacked of no improbability.

Whistler had heard the spy tell the skipper of the oil carrier, the _Sarah Coville_, that his work was done in that vicinity. Linder, or Blake as he was known at Elmvale, had naturally got well away from the neighborhood of the dam after it was blown up.

That he was on this island at the present time was not so likely; but that he had been here, and in this cabin, was very possible. Perhaps had the castaways from the wrecked yawl arrived a few hours before at the cabin of Mag they might have seen the German spy.

The old woman who tried to make Whistler believe she possessed second sight, or some gift quite as uncanny, was in league with or had some knowledge of Franz Linder. The boy was confident on this point.

She was of German descent at least, and she showed bitterness toward "the Yankees." However, she proved herself to be a hospitable hostess.

It was her southern, not her Teutonic, training probably that led to this.

Whistler could not read German, and he did not know that any member of his party could do so. Nevertheless, he crumpled the bit of paper in his hand and thrust it into his pocket, biding his time until he could show it to Mr. MacMasters.

It was ten o'clock before the stew was ready to be dished up. The aroma of it awakened the hungry men.

"This must be heaven, for it smells like mother's cooking!" declared Slim. "Oh, yum, yum! Oh, boy!"

"The old lady ain't no angel," put in Jemmy; "but she sure can cook."

"And angels can't, I guess," added Torrance, grinning.

"Say, boy!" grinned Rosy, "didn't you ever eat angel cake?"

Whistler found his chance to speak to Mr. MacMasters when the others crowded around the table. Mag put the steaming kettle of stew in the middle of the bare board and ladled it out into brown earthen bowls.

"See what I found on the floor here, Mr. MacMasters," Whistler said quietly, and thrusting the paper into the ensign's hand. "Don't let the old woman see it, sir."

Mr. MacMasters was cautious. He held the paper under the edge of the table and saw almost instantly what the communication was and to whom it was addressed.

"That's the name of that spy you boys say blew up the Elmvale dam, and was out on that oil tender we chased in the submarine patrol boat, isn't it?" whispered the ensign. "I declare! Did you find it here?"

"Yes, sir. You see, the edge of the paper is browned. The whole letter was probably thrown into the fire on the hearth and this piece failed to be destroyed."

"You've hit it right, I fancy," agreed the officer. "Something queer about this old woman and about this place."

"She knows we are from the _Kennebunk_, too. How should she know so much if she wasn't in with the spies?"

"And she knew too much about the steamer being mined in the channel over there," muttered Mr. MacMasters.

"It looks as if we were watched by the spies and that she is in cahoots with them," Whistler suggested.

"Humph! Maybe. You can't read this letter, I suppose, Morgan?"

"No, sir. None of us boys read German. Not even Ikey, although he understands the language quick enough when it is spoken. And poor Ikey isn't here!"

"Don't worry about that," advised Mr. MacMasters. Then: "I do not think any of the men can translate German. Of course there is probably nothing on this paper of present moment to us.

"What we should do first is to find the rest of our crowd and get off this island. The _Kennebunk_ will be coming back up the coast and we'll miss her altogether."

"I hope the other boys are safe," sighed Whistler anxiously.

"I hope they have as good a refuge and are treated as kindly as we are.

But we can't make a search of the island in the dark. Besides, they may not have landed on this island at all. There are other beaches quite as hospitable as this one proved, I have no doubt."

Whistler and Torry helped the old woman clear up and wash the bowls and spoons after supper. She sat in the chimney corner and puffed away slowly at a short-stemmed and very black pipe.

The seamen were rather afraid of Mag, Jemmy especially. He carefully crossed his fingers whenever she chanced to glance in his direction.

Mr. MacMasters went outside to a.s.sure himself that nothing could be done toward searching for the rest of the crew of the auxiliary steamer before daybreak. It was as dark as Erebus without, and the gale still blew strongly off sh.o.r.e.

The ensign politely asked the strange old woman what arrangements they should make for the night.

"We don't wish to turn you out of your bed, you know, Ma'am," he said.

She waved him away, the pipe in her hand. "Tumble into yo' bunks," she ordered. "Old Mag doesn't sleep--hasn't slept for more years than you-uns are bo'n already. That is why she knows more than others--yes!

The spirits of the night come and whisper to her while she stays awake."

"Arrah! D'ye hear that now?" whispered Irish Jemmy hoa.r.s.ely. "'Tis as much as our lives are worth to stay here."

Superst.i.tious as he was, Jemmy was afraid to leave the cabin alone.

Most of the castaways were glad to retire to the berths again and, blessed with full stomachs, it was not a great while before they fell asleep.

The two Seacove boys finished helping the old woman.

"You are a pair of good boys," she said after looking at them for some time and muttering to herself the while. "Why don't you run away? I'll get you off the island yet, befo' that officer man wakes up."

"Why, Mother! we don't want to run away," Torry told her, laughing. "We belong to one of the Navy's crack superdreadnaughts."

"Aye, I know. The _Kennebunk_," said Mag, nodding gloomily.