Roy Blakeley Part 6

"We're stuck on the flats, that's all. Now we don't have to bother to tie her. When the tide changes, we'll float off and go on upstream all right. We're just as well off as if we were tied up in the channel."

Well, I guess he was right except for what happened pretty soon. So we settled down to wait for the tide to go down and change. After a while we began to see the flats all around us and there wasn't any water near us at all--only the water in the channel away over near the west sh.o.r.e.

We were high and dry and there wasn't any way for a fellow to get away from where we were, because he couldn't swim and he'd only sink in the mud, if he tried to walk it.

Well, while we were sitting around trying to figure out how long it would be before the water would go down and then come up enough to carry us off, Doc Carson said, "Listen!" and we heard the chug of a motor boat quite a long way off.

It was getting dark good and fast now, and there was a pretty wide stretch of flats between us and the channel. Pretty soon we could hear voices--all thin, sort of, as if they came from a long way off. That's the way it is on the water.

"She's coming down Dutch Creek," one of the fellows said. After a while another fellow said he thought it was Jake Holden. Then another one said it wasn't.

"Sure it is," Connie Bennett said, "listen."

Then as plain as day I could hear the words "Crab running," and then in a minute something about "bad news." Pretty soon, through the steady chugging I could hear a voice say very plain, "I'm glad it doesn't have to be me to tell her."

We couldn't make them out because it was getting too dark, but it was Jake Holden, the fisherman, all right. Pretty soon the engine began chugging double, sort of, and I knew they were going around the corner into Bridgeboro River, because there's a steep sh.o.r.e there, and it makes an echo.

I was a chump not to realize what they were talking about, but they had chugged around into Bridgeboro River and were heading upstream before it popped into my thick head. And even then it was on account of something else they said, as the chugging grew fainter all the time. It seemed as if I heard it while I was dreaming, as you might say. I knew they were pretty far upstream by now, but the voice was awful clear, like voices always sound across the water, especially in the night.

"He was a nice little fellow," that's what I said, "but he had a right to keep out of that place."

Then, all of a sudden, I knew. They were talking about me. They must have been up that creek fis.h.i.+ng and found that note of mine. And they were going to tell my people as soon as they got home.

"Holler to them, fellows!" I said; "quick-all together."

I guess the fellows must have thought I was crazy, but they hollered for all they were worth. But it was no use, for n.o.body answered. I guess the wind must have been blowing our way or something--anyway, they didn't pay any attention. Then pretty soon I couldn't hear the chugging any more at all.

Oh, jiminies, but I felt bad. Maybe you think that as long as I escaped and would get home all right I ought to be satisfied. But that's because you don't know anything about my mother. When my brother died I saw how she acted and the doctor said she had to stay in bed two or three days on account of her heart being not just right. Maybe he thought it would stop, I guess. And gee, I didn't want her to hear any bad news, even if it wasn't true. 'Cause I knew just how she'd act--I could just see her, sort of. I guess I was kind of thinking about it and how it would be when Jake Holden went to the house, and how she'd have to wait five or six hours, maybe till morning, before she saw me, when all of a sudden I heard Will Dawson of my patrol say, "What's the matter, Blakey?"--he always calls me Blakey. But I didn't pay any attention to him, because I couldn't speak--exactly. I didn't seem to see any of the troop, I only just saw my mother standing, maybe kind of unsteady like, and listening to Jake Holden.

Then all of a sudden I walked straight over to where the Ravens were all sitting on the cabin roof. And I spoke to Wigley Wig-wag Weigand.

I said--this is just what I said--I said, "Wig, I always claimed Ralph Warner was the best signaler in the troop and maybe you'll remember I was mad when you got the badge. But now I ain't mad, and I ain't jealous, only I don't want those men to go and tell my mother I'm dead--I--I don't. I forgot to take the note away and they're going to tell her and she--she has--her heart isn't very strong like. There's only one fellow in the troop can do it--it's you. You can do it. You can do anything, signalling. I've got to admit it now, when I need you.

You're a Raven, but I want you to signal, quick. They'll see it in town.

You're the only fellow can do it--you are. I got to admit it."

He didn't say much because he isn't much on talking. He's always studying the Handbook. But he jumped down and he just said, "I'll fix it." And I knew he would.

CHAPTER IX

THE LOST LETTER

Then Elmer Sawyer (he's a Raven) came up to me and said, "He'll do it, Roy; don't worry. And they'll get it too, because everybody in town is out these nights looking at the searchlights down the Hudson."

That was one lucky thing. A lot of cruisers and torpedo boats were down in the harbor and up the Hudson, and we could see their searchlights even in Bridgeboro.

Wig looked all around the cabin as if he was hunting for something and then he said, "No searchlight, I suppose." If we had only had a searchlight it would have been easy, but there wasn't any on board.

"Don't you care," Pee-wee said to me, "he'll think of a way." Oh, jiminy, but he was proud of Wig. I could see that Wig was thinking and for just a few seconds it seemed as if he couldn't make up his mind what to do.

"Can you smudge it?" Connie Bennett asked.

"Guess so," he said, "you fellows rip open the ends of these cus.h.i.+ons, but don't tear the covering any, and somebody get the stove cleared out; see if there's a damper in the pipe, and see if there's any bilge under the flooring. It'll take those fellows about twenty minutes to chug up to Bridgeboro."

Well, in two seconds he had us all Hying every which way, Elks, Silver Foxes and all. We didn't have to open more than one of the seat cus.h.i.+ons and, lucky thing, we found it full of excelsior. That makes a good smudge.

"Only you've got to treat it," Wig said.

"Treat it!" I said; "I'll treat it to all the ice cream it can eat, if it'll only help you to send the message." I was feeling good now.

"Take it down in the bilge and treat it," he said, very sober like, to one of his patrol.

"Don't let it spend a cent," I called after him.

But I didn't go because I could see he would rather have Ravens help him. You can't blame him for that. In about half a minute they came upstairs and they had a lot of the excelsior all damp, but not exactly wet, and I don't know how they got it that way, except I know there was bilge water down under the flooring. They're a lot of crackerjacks on signalling, I'll say that much for them. There was a stove in the main cabin with a stovepipe going straight up through the roof like a smoke stack and there was a damper in it right near the stove.

"Get a handbook or a pocket code," somebody said, "so he'll have the signs right near him."

"He doesn't need any signs," Pee-wee shouted, disgusted like.

Well, this is the way Wig did it, and after he got started, most of us went up on the roof to see if we could read it. But that's mighty hard to do when you're right underneath it.

By the time the fellows came upstairs with the damp excelsior (that's what they call the smudge) Wig had a good fire started in the stove.

"Lay that stuff down here," he said; then he said to me, "What do you want to say?"

"Just say I'm safe, Wig," I told him. "Say for them not to pay any attention to what they hear."

I only waited long enough for him to get started, just so as to see how he did it, then I went up on the roof and watched the long black smoke column. Cracky, I was glad it was moonlight, that's one sure thing.

As soon as he had a good fire started he stuffed some of the damp excelsior in and shut the door, and told Artie Van Arlen (he's their patrol leader) to hold a rag over the crack in the door, because the black smoke was pouring out that way, especially because the damper in the pipe was shut.

I didn't stay there long, because the smoke was too thick for me and when I saw Artie bind a wet rag over Wig's eyes and mouth, I knew then it was going to be mighty bad in that little cabin.

"Have another ready," I heard him say; "better have three or four of them."

Then he put his hand on the damper in the pipe and turned it and then the smoke in the cabin wasn't so bad. He just turned it around quick and kept turning it around and that let little puffs of smoke through, and I heard the fellows up on the roof shouting, "Hurrah!" so I knew it was working all right. He sent up a lot of little puffs like that, just so as to draw attention, and he; kept doing it so long I got impatient.

"No use talking till you know somebody's listening," he said, kind of pleasant like to me. I guess maybe he never liked me very much, because I didn't want that badge to get into their patrol and anyway he's kind of sober, sort of, and maybe he thought I had too much nonsense. But, oh, boy, I was strong for him now...and I could see how he began to cough and I was worried.

Then he groped around to get hold of the damper, for he was blindfolded and the smoke in there was getting thicker and thicker. Then he gave it a quick turn, then waited a few seconds, then held it lengthwise with the pipe for about twenty seconds.

"R," I said to myself.

Then he opened the damper three times, each about twenty seconds, and I could hear the fellows up on the roof shouting.

"O! It's a good O! Bully for Wig Weigand!"