CHAPTER XV
AN UNEXPECTED VOYAGE
A FEW minutes later, so skilfully had Martin Ricks handled the “Fearless” that she was bobbing up and down on the leeward side of the monster steamer, which was still going slowly ahead under its own momentum. Its decks, rising high above them, and suggestive of some great building, seemed to have the singular effect of flattening the motor yacht almost down to the water’s edge.
Hundreds of heads appeared over the rails, and the comments which ran through the crowd sounded above the wash and swish of beating water.
“Where are you bound, Captain Bunderley?” asked the master of the whaleback.
“We are just out on a pleasure jaunt and intend to return to Kenosha at once!” yelled Uncle Ralph.
“Good, Bunderley! I’m going to introduce you to Judge Hampton, of Milwaukee.”
Captain Phillips indicated a gentleman at his side.
“A well-known man, too. His term of office recently expired, but everybody still calls him Judge,” commented the skipper, the next instant replying in his bluff and hearty fashion.
Judge Hampton, a rather elderly man, holding his eye-glasses in one hand and a paper in the other, looked down upon them gravely.
“Captain Bunderley,” he began, in much the same tone of voice as he might have used in charging a jury, “a wireless message has just reached me”—he waved the paper—“stating that my presence in Milwaukee is needed at once. Would it be possible for you to land me in Kenosha? The matter is of very great importance.”
“Certainly I can, Judge,” responded Uncle Ralph, politely.
“I shall be most heartily obliged to you.”
“Hey, Phil Malone!” shouted Captain Bunderley, “stand by to catch a line.”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
Uncle Ralph began to issue various orders. The bell in the engine room clanged loudly. The motor roared for an instant, then sank into a low, droning murmur.
“Mind yourself!” yelled a voice, suddenly.
A man on the lower deck of the whaleback was making ready to cast a rope.
On it came—a sinuous, snake-like line, hurtling straight toward Captain Bunderley, who stood near the bow. The throw was accurate, and, in spite of the rocking, slippery deck, the skipper managed to catch it. In another instant Phil Malone was grasping a second rope hurled from a point near the motor yacht’s stern.
Both lines were made fast, and the “Fearless,” struggling like some resisting monster against the grip of a giant foe, began closing up the gap of water which lay between it and the great white hull.
Although shielded by the towering whaleback, the yacht wobbled and shook to such an extent that the last particle of interest on Charlie Blake’s part vanished. Supporting himself with difficulty, he stood watching Phil Malone and the captain hang out fenders. He heard various shouts from both vessels, the bell in the engine room of the “Fearless” again clanging, and the creak of straining ropes. Then the last few feet of water was covered and the yacht sidled up to the larger boat with a dull, jarring shock.
Presently a rope ladder dangled its length from deck to deck. Judge Hampton trusted himself to its swaying rungs, and, with extreme care, descended to the motor yacht.
“When I started out I didn’t expect to have the honor of welcoming a former member of Wisconsin’s judiciary on board the ‘Fearless,’” said Captain Bunderley, assisting his passenger to a seat.
“The honor is mine,” smiled the Judge.
The skipper and his “first mate” cast off the lines. A great churning of water quickly followed. A hearty farewell cheer came from the whaleback’s deck, as the two vessels swung clear, and the “Fearless” seemed to leap away from the monster’s side.
Captain Bunderley consulted a railroad time-table.
“I suppose you are anxious to reach Milwaukee as soon as possible, Judge?” he asked.
“I am, indeed,” affirmed the passenger.
“Well, I find that we should arrive in Kenosha too late for you to catch the next express. That means an hour or more lost.”
“Too bad,” said the Judge.
Captain Bunderley swung around and faced Bob Somers.
“If you two chaps shouldn’t turn up at the hotel just when your chums expect, are they the sort to raise an awful howl or sit down and blubber?” he asked.
“Not much,” laughed Bob. “They’ll know it’s all right.”
“In that case, I’ll take you direct to Milwaukee, Judge,” announced the skipper, suddenly, much to Charlie Blake’s astonishment and disgust.
The jurist immediately protested that he couldn’t think of such a thing; but Uncle Ralph, with a smile, tersely ordered the yacht’s course to be changed.
“The time means practically nothing to me, Judge, while it may be of great advantage to you,” he said.
The “Fearless” was pitching heavily. Charlie Blake looked at the succession of waves following each other ceaselessly across the broad expanse, at whitecaps always forming, and at others always on the point of dissolving themselves back into the gray, somber element. The heaving, tumbling flood and the dark, ragged storm-clouds scudding low, apparently dipping down at the blurred horizon line to meet the water, made an impressive spectacle. But certain distressing symptoms prevented Blake from thoroughly enjoying it.
He determined, however, not to let Bob Somers see how badly he was affected. “He’ll think I’m a quitter,” he mused.
His mind fully occupied, Blake only heard the conversation going on around him as a confused jumble of words.
“I do wonder how long it will be before we get there?” he murmured, impatiently.
Time, to him at least, seemed to drag out interminably. But, at length, to his great joy, Uncle Ralph spoke up.
“The lighthouse at the entrance to the harbor of Milwaukee, boys,” he said.
“Thank goodness!” came from Charlie Blake. Then, sotto voce, he added, “No more motor yacht motoring for me.”
The “Fearless,” apparently racing at almost the speed of a railroad train, had brought into view what appeared to be but a small gray vertical streak. The four watched it and a confused blur of lights and darks on the distant shore slowly shaping themselves into definite form.
Finally, towers, domes and chimneys sprang out from the shadowy masses, to form gray silhouettes against the sky. Before long the largest city in Wisconsin was clearly revealed to the gaze of the interested boys.
The motor yacht soon swung abreast of the lighthouse, and, at length, glided smoothly into the picturesque Milwaukee River, where a variety of interesting sights began to pass in a steadily-moving procession.
A bridge opened to let them by, then another. Near the third, which Captain Bunderley explained was the East Water Street bridge, he pointed out a landing.
“There’s where I usually moor the ‘Fearless,’” he said.
“Why not follow your general custom now?” asked the Judge.
“For two reasons,” answered the captain: “your office is considerably further in town, and the boys will have an opportunity to see more of the water-front.”
“Objection sustained,” laughed Judge Hampton, “with my thanks added.”
At the Grand Avenue bridge a small steamer, coming from the opposite direction, held the motor yacht up for a few moments.
Great warehouses, with long rows of staring windows and having only a narrow footway between them and the water, lifted their time-stained walls grimly against the clouds. The river, hemmed in on every hand, assumed a peculiar appearance of narrowness, which to the boys was heightened by contrast with the broad open lake so recently left behind. To their right a great modern structure surmounted by a tower was surrounded by buildings of all heights and sizes, the old and new standing side by side. Still further beyond, another towered structure, the city hall, rose high in the air.
“But for the character of the buildings this view might suggest a bit of Holland,” remarked Captain Bunderley.
Other bridges were passed. Finally, beyond a bend in the river, the skipper gave orders to bring the yacht up alongside a wharf. This was done in an orderly fashion, and within a few moments she was made fast.
“We’re here, and here we stay,” said Captain Bunderley. “No East Water Street bridge for the ‘Fearless’ to-day, boys.”
The Judge shook hands warmly with the three and gave the captain his card.
“Don’t forget that I’m ready to return the favor at any time,” he said, cordially. “This applies to all of you. Good-bye!”
They watched the tall, dignified Judge until his figure had disappeared behind a building.
“Judges can be mighty nice, after all,” thought Charlie. “Still, I’d a heap rather meet this particular one off the bench than on.”
“Now, boys,” spoke up Uncle Ralph, “a telegram must be sent to your stout friend Brandon announcing our safe arrival. Tell Victor to take a room at the hotel and expect me back to-morrow. Now, we’re thirty odd miles from your motor car. Going with me in the morning, or will——”
“Not for mine,” declared the “grind,” decidedly.
“Either Dave or Tom can drive the car,” said Bob. “So we’ll let ’em come to us.”
“Very good.”
The hotel and restaurant which Uncle Ralph generally patronized on his visits to the city was some distance from the wharf. As no telegraph office was passed on the way they concluded to defer sending the missive to Dave until after their meal. And this took considerable time.
But the telegram was finally flashed over the wires with the request that Dave should send an immediate response. Then nothing remained but to see the sights and amuse themselves.
Captain Bunderley, after exacting a promise that they would meet him at the hotel about six o’clock, returned to the yacht.
After they had wandered about the busy streets for some time Charlie exclaimed:
“Now, what’s the program? My legs are beginning to put up a kick.”
“We are right close to that East Water Street bridge,” said Bob, as he consulted a pocket map. “Looked like an interesting section to me. Suppose we take it in?”
“One way is about as good as another, I s’pose,” replied Charlie, wearily.
As the two came in sight of the bridge a tall, thin boy standing near a little building at one end attracted Blake’s attention.
“By Jove!” he exclaimed, “I never expected to see another chap in this part of the country with a shape just like Tom’s! What’s the matter, Bob?”
Bob Somers’ expression had undergone such a sudden and startling change that Charlie repeated his inquiry with a rising inflection.
“Don’t you recognize him?” demanded Bob, sharply.
“Recognize who?”
“Why, Tom—our Tom Clifton, of course!”