CHAPTER XI
THE MYSTERY THAT CAME WITH THE NIGHT
Into the night, in the direction of the Oak Island wide waters, four miles ahead, the Sally Ann slowly and steadily made its way, the engine throbbing under its load, the rudder squeaking on its rusted hinge pins as Peg moved the tiller first one way then another.
It was our plan to put up for the night within a mile of the big wide waters. Then in the morning, in continuing our passage to Steam Corners, we could conveniently stop at the island and fill our water cask at the spring in the rocks on the island’s north side. We really didn’t have a cask; what we had for a water container was a pail, but Scoop spoke of it as a cask in shaping our plans. Ships, he told us, always filled their “casks” with water—he never had read in a story of a ship filling its “pail.”
We liked to have him talk that way. For it lent an added touch of adventure to our cruise. We could almost imagine, in our talk, that we were hardened south sea buccaneers bending a course to strike a rendezvous, as they tell about in pirate stories, where needed food and drink awaited us.
Having covered at least three miles in our moonlight passage, we stopped the engine and tied the Sally Ann to the stubbed bushes that grew along the water’s edge.
It was now close to twelve o’clock. And as we got ready to turn in, removing our shoes and outer clothing for sleeping comfort, we joked back and forth, telling each other that the “friendly ghost” was probably pacing the tow path, impatient for us to settle down for the night so that it could board our boat at the customary midnight hour.
And the funny part is that in our crazy talk we actually got Red scared. When we lay down on the stage, wrapped in our blankets, the frightened one sort of snuggled up to me, hanging to my arm. I didn’t shove him away. As a matter of fact I kind of liked his evident dependence in me. It gave me a sort of steady, capable feeling.
There was some final scattered talk about the greased pig and the Strickers. Certainly, we boasted, laughing, we had turned a neat trick. We had outclassed the Strickers in our smartness. They’d think twice hereafter before electing to pester us.
“If I can find a pig post card in Steam Corners,” Scoop laughed, “I’m going to mail it to Bid Stricker. For I don’t want him to be in any doubt as to who dropped the greased porker on top of him.”
I often think of that night. It seemed to me as I lay in the moonlight, lulled by the gentle night sounds, that the exciting and hazardous things in life were a million miles away. Yet I was to learn, within a very few hours, that perils, grim and deadly, were fast swooping down upon us.
As Scoop said afterwards in recalling our evening’s light-hearted fun, those were the last really care-free hours that we enjoyed throughout the remainder of our cruise. After that night things moved swiftly—and the things that happened to us were not pleasant things, as you will learn.
But, as I have pictured in my story in the preceding paragraphs, we went to sleep with untroubled, contented minds. It was a great lark, we told ourselves. Days of hilarious fun lay ahead of us. Even Christopher Columbus’ voyage across an uncharted ocean was scarcely less thrilling than this voyage of ours into the canal’s hidden haunts.
I must have been asleep for an hour or two. I was having a dream about the engine. I was trying to start it, and couldn’t. The other fellows weren’t in the dream. I was alone.
After a lot of back-breaking work I managed, to get the engine started. As I straightened I could hear the singing put! put! put! of the exhaust. Bending to its task, the engine quickly picked up speed. I could feel the Sally Ann quiver as the propeller blades bit into the water. Another such dream, so real and so vivid, I never had had.
Suddenly I sat up, rubbing my eyes. Was I awake? I pinched myself. No, I wasn’t dreaming. My mind wasn’t sleeping. And what I had dreamt to a result had actually taken place—the Sally Ann was under way, was moving slowly down the canal, its motor singing in full speed.
I jumped up. The others were still asleep. So I knew it wasn’t one of my chums who had started the engine.
“Wake up,” I breathed in Scoop’s ear, trembling in my excitement.
“What the dickens?…” he gasped, sitting up. He blinked his eyes. “We’re moving!”
“Some one’s stealing our boat.”
He leaped to his feet.
“Where’s Red and Peg? They may be playing a joke on us.”
I pointed to the two sleepers.
“Get up,” Scoop shook them. “We’ve got a fight on our hands.”
“Who—who started the engine?” Red mumbled sleepily.
“That,” Scoop gritted, “is what we’re going to find out.”
The freckled one, now wide awake, went into a frightened panic.
“Oh!…” he gurgled. “Maybe it’s the—the ghost.”
Scoop grunted.
“The Strickers probably. Git a club, fellows. Here’s an extra one. Come on.”
Peg was directly behind the courageous leader, I came next, then Red. He was hanging to me and gurgling. In other adventures of ours I had seen him scared, but never anything like this. I could feel the thumping of his heart in his grip on my arm. Maybe, though, it was my own heart that I detected.
We tiptoed single file across the scow’s pit. It was still moonlight, but the silver light was of no aid to us in identifying the engineer who was running off with our boat, for the motor and tiller were hidden from our sight by a hanging canvas that we had put up to keep the engine’s flying oil from spattering the clothing of our back-row customers.
That a steady hand was holding the tiller we could not doubt. For the scow was keeping its proper course. Yet, as we bent our ears we could detect no human sounds from behind the screen—there were no whispering voices or the scraping of feet on the wooden deck.
Gosh! I began to share Red’s panicky fear. For I suddenly realized that there was something ghostly in our experience.
As I say, in my stealthy approach on the curtained engine, I was directly behind Peg, He was close on Scoop’s heels. So, when the leader slowly lifted the hanging canvas, I had a clear view of the engine deck over my chums’ shoulders.
There was a lantern beside the engine. I saw that it was a lantern that didn’t belong to us. From the attracting spot of light I lifted my eyes to the helmsman. And then.…
We went back in a heap, Red groaning at the bottom of the human pile.
“Did—did you see who it was?” gasped Scoop, gaining his feet.
“The girl in the blue tam,” I breathed, dizzy.
Here was an amazing mystery. Our boat was being stolen by a girl. Beyond all doubt she was acting to a purpose. But what that purpose was I could not conceive.
Yet in my dizziness I had a crazy grinning thought. Here we were, four big boys, armed with clubs, creeping up on one lone girl. Four boys, I might add, who were only half dressed.
“Go-osh!” shimmied Red, weak-kneed in his tumbling embarrassment, “where’s m-my p-pants?”