CHAPTER XXI
"I HATE TO GIVE UP"
"Five days marooned on an island? Five days fighting mosquitoes? Well, well, boys, you have had a time of it, sure enough. You're almost as brown as Indians—every one of you."
Mr. Wingate was pacing the floor of a room in the Badger State Hotel. He glanced with an amused look from one to another of the nine boys who sat or stood around the room.
The boys had met with some strange experiences.
"Crusoe Island," as Nat had named it, was quite a distance from the track of boats, the Clair Bay line of steamers passing so far away as to be scarcely visible. It was not inhabited, and even fishing boats rarely came to its shores.
The boys, thanks to the strange kindness of the "honest man" who stole, were well provided with food. They found game very scarce, and, indeed, there was little to be said in favor of the island. Swampy pools, wild, desolate expanses of meadows stretched along the shore, while back of these were areas of sand and rocks. The spot on which the boys had happened to land was about the best part of the entire place.
They made every effort to attract the attention of the few boats which were seen, and, after five weary days, most of which were spent in fighting mosquitoes, succeeded.
Bob Somers, waving a huge cloth attached to a pole, attracted the attention of a couple of fishermen.
Arrangements were made to take them to the mainland, where they camped out over night. Then the boys took a train at a small station some miles away and rode back to Clair Bay, reaching that town early in the morning.
They were heavily laden with their camping outfits, and it was a weary lot of boys that trudged up to the Badger State Hotel.
"My uncle told me he was going to stay here for a couple of weeks," said Nat; "I hope we shall find him in."
Mr. Wingate seemed to take the loss of the motor boat very calmly.
"It wasn't your fault, boys, I know," he went on; "still—and I speak to all of you—I think you had better return to Kingswood with me this afternoon. Let me see, there's a train at 4:15. Your parents must be very much worried about you."
"I'd like to stay here a while," ventured John Hackett.
The proposition did not seem to please Mr. Wingate at all. His affable expression for an instant vanished.
"I don't approve of that," he said, tersely. "You have earned a most unenviable notoriety. Listen to this!"
Walking over to a table, he picked up a newspaper and began to read an article.
It told about the affair with Douglass Brown, and pictured the actions of the Nimrods in a most unfavorable light. The destruction of the "Rambler" was also mentioned.
"This account closes with the following words," said Mr. Wingate, emphatically; "'We question the judgment of parents in allowing boys to indulge in such a dangerous pastime as motor-boating.' You can see, boys, that such publicity is decidedly unpleasant."
There was no reply, and Mr. Wingate continued, "I am sure that Mr. Somers would prefer to have you return."
"I knew we'd have to go back," whispered Nat in Bob Somers' ear.
"Did you?" responded Bob, dryly.
"Then we leave at 4:15, Uncle Parsons?"
"Exactly! Boys, you will kindly be ready in time."
"I'm not going back, Mr. Wingate," said Bob, quietly.
"What! Not going back?" echoed the gentleman, in considerable surprise. "I think it is only due to your parents, Robert, that you should return."
"My father will get a letter from me to-morrow morning," said Bob; "he expects us to visit his land in Michigan."
"Now, Robert, don't be stubborn. If your father consents, it would be a very easy matter for you to start out again."
Mr. Wingate's tone was mild and pleasant.
"That's so, Somers; you might as well go with us," chimed in Nat.
But Bob shook his head.
"I appreciate your kindness, Mr. Wingate," he said, "and I only hope you'll excuse me."
"It can't be that you are sensitive on the subject? I wouldn't have you think that I am reflecting on your ability to take care of yourself."
"No, sir!" replied Bob, with a smile. "But when I once start out on a thing I hate to give up."
"Very commendable indeed, in certain cases. But sometimes older heads are wiser."
"I don't doubt that, sir!"
"At any rate, your friends will see the wisdom of my course?" said Mr. Wingate, glancing at the Ramblers interrogatively.
"I think I'll go with Bob," replied Dave Brandon, slowly.
"So will I," added Sam.
And each in turn, apparently to Mr. Wingate's annoyance, announced a similar determination.
"Boys, boys!" said the gentleman, raising his hands, "I certainly am disappointed."
"Can't I go with them, uncle?" asked Nat, meekly.
"Most certainly not! All of the Nimrods must return with me."
John Hackett, wearing an extremely sour expression, ventured to protest, but Mr. Wingate shook his head.
"I shall insist that you act according to my desires," he said, firmly.
"Say, Somers," whispered Nat, "are you really going to keep on?"
"Of course I am," returned Bob.
"Let me go with them, Uncle Parsons?" pleaded Nat. "I don't see why I can't."
"No, Nat, I can't think of it. Be a good boy. Boating and fishing around Kingswood should satisfy you. Possibly Robert, too, may reconsider his determination on second thought."
"No, sir!" replied Bob, firmly, but respectfully.
"Of course, then, if anything further happens, you will tell your father that I did the best I could to get you to return home? Will you go by boat or train?"
"By the Clair Bay line of steamers, Mr. Wingate."
"My eye!" exclaimed John Hackett, in an angry voice; "we ought not to miss anything like that."
Nat's uncle cast a look at the long-legged youth which effectually enforced silence.
Feeling that there was no necessity of prolonging the interview, Bob politely bade good-bye to Mr. Wingate and the disconsolate Nimrods. His companions did likewise, and they soon found themselves on the street.
"We won't have to hurry," said Bob; "the boat does not leave until eleven, and that will give us time enough to go to the post-office and send off our letters."
"Hasn't this been a funny trip?" remarked Dick Travers; "always something queer happening."
"Didn't Mr. Wingate want us to go back, though?" said Tommy Clifton; "and John Hackett was almost ready to boil over."
"Nat has caused all of them to be punished," added Dick; "it is our innings now."
"The Trailers surely have come to grief at last," said Sam Randall; "guess they don't think it so amusing when they happen to be on the wrong side of the game."
"Guess my dad will be frightfully worried," observed Bob, as they turned into the post-office.
Each of the Ramblers found several letters awaiting him. As Bob had thought, his parents were much agitated, fearing that the boys had been in considerable danger. Mr. Somers was greatly mystified at the various attempts on the motor boat, which had culminated in its final destruction, and intimated that there must be something back of it.
"Your mother and I don't want you to take any risks," read the letter. "The loss of the motor boat does not worry us so much as the fact that some one seems to be taking an extraordinary interest in your movements. While I would prefer to have you return home, I leave it to your own judgment as to what course to pursue."
"All right, Bob?" questioned Sam.
"Yes! Dad isn't kicking as much as I thought he would. Hurry up, fellows, scribble your letters and come."
"Oh ho!" drawled Dave. "Now for the 'bounding deep.' I can hardly believe," he added with a smile, "that we have seen the last of the Trailers."
In a short time, the boys trooped out on the street, walked rapidly along the main thoroughfare, passed the Badger State Hotel, and kept on to the pier, where one of the great bay steamers was making ready for departure.
The usual scene of activity was going on. Great boxes and bales, and apparently many kinds of merchandise were being hustled on board. Shouts and cries, altercations and commands filled the air, while passengers crowded up the gangplank. A loud blast of the whistle floated off on the breeze.
As was usually the case, the five boys, with their guns, attracted considerable attention, but to this they paid no heed.
"The 'Lake Michigan' is a mighty fine boat," observed the poet laureate, as they strode through the saloon.
"Must have cost a sight of money to build; it's a regular palace," commented Dick Travers.
Up on the main deck, the boys provided themselves with camp chairs, and, taking a position near the stern, watched the ever-changing scene below with interest.
Another blast of the whistle, and finally the "Lake Michigan" swung slowly out from the wharf.
"I'm glad we are going," said Bob, with satisfaction. "No more motor boats, no more Trailers—seems queer, doesn't it?"
"It certainly does," answered Sam Randall; "and it was queer, too, how Mr. Wingate tried to euchre us out of it. Seemed to consider himself the guardian of the whole crowd."
"Got any new ideas, Bob, about that mysterious finish of the 'Rambler' and all the other strange happenings?"
"No! But it will be our fault if we don't find out."
"Clair Bay is quite a town," broke in Tom Clifton; "look at all the mills and factories."
The shore line, rapidly receding, enabled them to get a good view of it. From many chimneys smoke was pouring forth, while jets of white steam here and there spurted upward amidst the darker masses.
"Hello, fellows!"
This exclamation, uttered by a familiar voice, caused them to turn quickly.
Nat Wingate stood close by, grinning down at them.