LEAVING the motor car at a garage, the boys made their way to the harbor. Down by the river they found a great deal to attract their attention. Factories with tall chimneys sent columns of smoke whirling upward; schooners, barges and a number of smaller craft were moored along the stream; and these, together with picturesque buildings, big lumber sheds or great pilings presented so many pleasing combinations to the eye that the artistic soul of Dave was enraptured.
The smell of fresh water was in the air, and along with it came a faint odor of things belonging to shipping. The gurgle and splash of lapping waves and the creaking of boats vainly tugging at their moorings formed a steady accompaniment to the occasional puffing of passing tugs or the hoarse blasts of whistles.
Close alongside a big lumber schooner the boys, who had taken turns in carrying Victor’s heavy luggage, finally discovered the motor yacht “Fearless.”
A big, burly man busy at some work on the wharf looked up as they approached.
Captain Ralph Bunderley had been successively the master of a barge, a coastwise schooner and a windjammer on the Atlantic. Having been left a comfortable fortune by a relative, he finally retired from the sea, but, feeling that to get away from the sight of land occasionally was as necessary to him as water to a fish, he had built a motor yacht some sixty feet in length designed for speed, as well as to withstand the rough weather on the lake.
Victor, still in a surly mood, felt considerably embarrassed, for Uncle Ralph, attired in a suit of faded blue overalls and a greasy cap, gave more the impression of being a man out of a job than one of the richest citizens in the community.
The boy glanced slyly around to see if any of his companions were wearing suspicious grins, but, to his relief, they were too busily engaged in inspecting the graceful lines of the motor yacht to pay attention to the captain’s appearance.
Uncle Ralph cordially shook hands. His bluff, hearty way caught the fancy of the crowd, and before long they were talking together like old acquaintances.
“There is certainly a lot of class to that cruiser, captain!” exclaimed Tom, in his gruff tones, “and I’ll bet it can go some, too.”
“Over twenty miles an hour,” answered Uncle Ralph, smilingly. “We’ll go aboard now.” He raised his voice. “Hey, you Phil Malone!”
Like a jack-in-the-box, a face popped quickly to one of the cabin port-holes.
“That’s Phil,” explained the captain. “My first mate, I call him—a bashful young chap, especially among strangers. Consider yourselves introduced.”
The boys heard a few mumbling words. Then the face disappeared.
The “Fearless,” a raised deck cruiser with a rakish bow, painted a creamy white, and relieved here and there by touches of blue and gold, made a striking appearance against the background of restless water. Like a racer impatient for the start she strained and tugged at her cables, occasionally rolling slightly as heavier onslaughts of choppy waves gurgled and splashed against her hull.
Before the crowd could set foot on deck Phil Malone appeared. He was tall and angular, with red hair, a long, gaunt face and deep-set eyes. He looked at his visitors with such a comical expression of astonishment that Victor, forgetting his ill-humor for the moment, burst into a hearty laugh.
“You never expected to see a bunch of Indians like this, hey, Phil?” he asked.
“Naw—I—I sure didn’t,” agreed Phil, as he diffidently backed away.
“Here now, don’t you run off. Give us a song.”
“Let Phil alone,” commanded Uncle Ralph. “Singing isn’t his forte. He’s better at polishing brass.”
“Clifton has an awful lot that needs attention,” mumbled Victor.
“Oh, I say, fellows, this isn’t seeing the yacht,” broke in Bob.
“Let the inspection begin at once,” returned Captain Bunderley, with a smile.
They followed him to the companionway and then down into the dining saloon.
Standing in the cozy interior the boys with the exception of Victor voiced their enthusiasm in words that brought forth chuckles of satisfaction from the old salt’s lips.
Never did woodwork, or door-knobs, or furnishings appear more spotlessly clean than those revealed by the cold gray rays streaming through the open port-holes.
“These,” remarked Captain Bunderley—he indicated the ports—“are provided with heavy plate glass and can be so locked as to make them practically water-tight. With ordinary windows, after a heavy sea has been pounding against the boat for several hours, the cabin would probably be in a mess.” Walking across the floor, he opened a door. “Let me introduce you to the engine room and galley.”
“Phil’s the galley-slave,” confided Victor, in a loud whisper.
“Who’s the engineer, captain?” asked Bob.
“Jack Stubbs, a sailor I had with me on many a sea voyage. Martin Ricks is the helmsman.”
“Now, uncle, please show the bunch your stateroom,” put in Victor.
The captain led them to a passageway abaft the engine room, presently stepping into a compartment finished in enamel white.
“This is enough to make even me feel like becoming a skipper,” commented Dave.
“If only it weren’t so dreadfully dangerous,” ventured Charlie Blake.
“Certainly would be with him as skipper,” piped Victor.
Out in the open air again the crowd found an awning extending from the stern to a point where the raised deck began. Dave expressed the opinion that it must be very delightful to sit there on a pleasant day, with the water sparkling in the sunlight and a gentle breeze sighing past.
“I guess some howling blasts would make you the sigher, instead,” laughed Victor.
“Say, Bob!”
Tom Clifton’s voice cut sharply into the conversation.
“Let’s hear it, Tom.”
“I’ve been thinking about that ball nine of ours. Kirk Talbot had an awful nerve to——”
“Ha, ha!” grinned Victor. “Can’t you get that off your mind, Clifton?”
Tom tossed his head.
“I don’t want to,” he snapped. “Besides, I’ve got an idea, and a mighty good one. I’ll tell you all about it to-night.”
“Don’t hurry yourself. We can wait.” Victor nudged Charlie sharply in the ribs. “Say, Blakelets, don’t you wish you were going along with us on the ‘Fearless’ to-morrow?”
Charlie was one of those lads who possess a certain ill-defined dread of the water. At almost every roll of the deck rather shivery feelings coursed along his spine.
“Gracious! I don’t see why in the world Victor wants to go to Milwaukee by boat,” he thought, nervously. He took a long, earnest look at the sky, then exclaimed, with considerable emphasis:
“No, Vic, I most certainly do not!”