Part 10

But when they had turned the head of the _Arabella_ east to clear the point, and had made a half mile from the shore on this tack, the full force of the rising breeze became apparent, and the sky to the southeast was by no means reassuring. Allan gave the tiller to McConnell after they came about, and the two others set to work to take a reef in the sail—an undertaking to which Allan soon found that he was not equal. A peculiar weakness, the natural result of his mishap, made it imperative for him to drop on his knees and steady himself when the _Arabella_ careened to starboard.

They realized now that they had been foolish in not reefing before starting, if they had not been unwise in starting at all.

“Hold her as close as you can!” called Allan to Owen, as the latter took his place in the stern after abandoning the effort to reef. “We had better make straight for shelter.”

Presently it began to be plain that they could make little choice as to an anchorage. A low growl of thunder was accompanied by a spatter of rain, and in an incredibly short time the rain began to fall heavily. The wind whistled under the boom; whitecaps were all about them.

Allan and McConnell, who had drawn in on the sheet, now paid it out again, and Owen took care that the sail should not fill too full as he headed straight for the west shore.

With this precaution the boat made little headway, the sail was drenched, and its increased weight, added to the strength of the wind, kept the end of the boom much of the time in the water.

Right ahead was a shallow place and ugly rocks. To lift the centre-board here and attempt to come up into the wind would mean being blown on the rocks and the destruction of the _Arabella_.

“We must come up closer to the wind again!” cried Allan. “There is a cove a little farther to the south.”

But the savageness of the wind and the wet sail made this very difficult. When they drew in the sheet, the _Arabella_ took water on the starboard side. The boys were wet to the skin, and were up to their ankles in water.

“Straight for the beech tree,” muttered Allan, “the water seems deep there. Don’t swing her until the last minute. I’ll be ready to lower away and drop anchor. McConnell, you take this other line. I’ll hold the sheet free with my left.”

Owen found no fault with the directions. Plainly it was the only thing to do. Owen did not put down the tiller until they were within forty feet of the shore. Then Allan let go the peak, pushed over the anchor, and they all sprang at the flapping sail.

Fortunately the cove afforded shelter from the full vigor of the wind, and made less difficult than might have been expected the task of lowering the sail. The slight shelter made it possible also to hold the lowered sail in a position to cover the pit of the boat.

“All hands to the pumps!” shouted Allan, and all three (McConnell with a drinking-cup) bailed energetically until the boat had again been made habitable. The rain fell heavily on the sail over their heads; but the situation had a pleasant flavor of adventure, and Owen distributed rations as successfully as the cramped situation would permit.

“I wish we had something warm,” said Owen. The rain had chilled them, and their clothes had no chance of drying in the present situation.

Owen finally made known his determination to get ashore and reconnoitre. He took off his shoes and socks, rolled up his trousers, and slid over the stern with a line which he fastened to the low branch of a tree that overhung the water.

When he returned, in ten minutes, it was with news of an empty old house at a short distance, a house with a fireplace where they could “get a chance to dry up.” They clambered up to the old house, entered through a broken kitchen window, and soon had a blaze going in the front room fireplace. McConnell carried up the cooking traps.

“How are you feeling?” asked Owen, with a suspicious glance at Allan.

“Don’t worry about me,” Allan replied. “I only want to get my feet dried—and a cup of coffee,” he added, glancing wistfully at the kettle.

“You’ll have your coffee, Captain, in three minutes. Move up to the fire. McConnell, skin out and get me some water.”

It still was raining heavily, though the wind had modified.

“If the storm keeps up,” said Allan, “we shall have to spend the night here, and we might as well make ourselves as comfortable as possible.” They carried up some boxes from the cellar and McConnell found an old rocker upstairs.

“The Captain, being wounded, has the rocker,” declared Owen.

“The Captain doesn’t want to be babied,” said Allan. “The Captain will be as good as any of the crew in another hour.”

The prediction almost seemed to come true. Later in the afternoon, Allan insisted on going down with Owen and McConnell to make things more secure on the _Arabella_, and to carry up the cameras, further supplies of food, and the three blankets. They couldn’t reach home before dark unless with a fair wind and smooth water, and tide, wind, and water were all against them now, not to speak of the rain which continued until after dark.

Thus it happened that they passed the night in the old house, the blankets folded up for beds. When he awoke in the morning, Allan caught sight of Owen in a far corner photographing the room and the sleepers.

“Keep still!” whispered Owen. “Let me surprise McConnell by and by, anyway.”

Their breakfast exhausted the resources of the commissary department. “You see,” said Owen, “we didn’t expect to be away until to-day, did we?”

“We’ll be late for church,” chuckled McConnell.

“We may be late for supper,” complained Allan. “Do you see the fog?”

“Yes,” said Owen; “you could cut it with a knife. We can’t budge until it lifts.”

“And all the grub gone,” sighed McConnell.

“We haven’t even a horn,” said Allan. “It makes you feel helpless. If it shouldn’t clear by this afternoon, we should have to strike over to a West Shore railroad station and get around that way. I shouldn’t want to worry the folks; but I haven’t but half a dollar with me.”

“I haven’t a cent in these clothes,” said Owen, as they stood looking out into the fog.

“Nor I,” said McConnell.

They returned to the boat, and, to be prepared for sailing the moment the fog should lift, stowed everything on board, and drew in the stern line.

XVI.

AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR.

PRESENTLY Owen suggested that they shift their anchorage to a more advantageous point; and they had just raised the anchor when Owen exclaimed, “I’ve forgotten the kettle!”

“Let it go,” said McConnell. It had been one of his contributions to the supplies.

“No,” Owen insisted, “I don’t feel like giving it up. It has been good to us and we mustn’t leave it behind. Back her a little with the oar, Allan, and I’ll skip up and get it.”

With the oar Allan pushed the _Arabella_ nearer the shore and Owen sprang out, landing on a broad stone, and disappeared among the bushes.

Dropping the oar on the deck, Allan sat down beside McConnell. The river was very still. They could see nothing but a few feet of the bank. Everywhere else was the gray, silent fog—a cold fog that made the boys shiver.

Less than a minute after he had seated himself beside McConnell, Allan felt something jar the _Arabella_. His first thought was that the boat had drifted into shallow water, and had either grounded or bumped a rock. As he turned his head he caught sight, over the bow, of a skiff, a low skiff without oars; and at the same moment the head of a man appeared above the deck line of the _Arabella_.

“Keep quiet,” said the man.

The voice in which the man spoke was neither loud nor harsh, and was not above a whisper in volume; yet it gave Allan a feeling of horror. It was the voice of one exhausted, of one desperate.

“Quiet!” repeated the man, this time more threateningly, and his eyes fixed themselves on Allan in a quivering stare. As he looked more definitely into the man’s face, Allan became aware that he had seen it before. Changed as the face was, there could be no doubt that it was that of the Ghost. And it arose beside Allan as the man stood up in the skiff, and, with a quick motion, stepped into the _Arabella_.

The boys now saw, with increased horror, that the man of the ghastly white face wore the clothes of a convict.

“Look here!” said the man, in the same voice, crouching beside Allan, “will you be pleasant and sociable, or must I—?” and he caught Allan by the neck with his thin hands, and struck the boy’s head against the centre-board.

Allan struggled to loosen the man’s hands, and then gasped, “What do you want?”

“What do I want? I want liberty. That’s what I want. I want it so bad that I have been three days and three nights in this skiff, watching my chance, since I got out of there,” and he pointed up the river.

“They are watching and they will get me unless I can get into New York—understand me?” and the man caught Allan by the shoulder, “unless I can get into New York—into New York _with other clothes_! Do you understand?—_with other clothes_.”

“I haven’t any clothes for you,” stammered Allan.

“You haven’t, hey? Stand up,” and the man enforced his order by half lifting Allan to his feet. At this Allan saw that, although the man had a large head, he was no taller than himself, and wasted by imprisonment, hunger, and exposure.

“No clothes, hey?” pursued the man, with something that seemed almost like a smile. “No clothes?—the very thing! Quick now, the fog helps. Quick!”

“What do you mean?” demanded Allan, who began to understand painfully well what the man did mean, and who also had begun to cast about for some plan of defence. McConnell crouched in the stern, stupefied. The _Arabella_ had drifted, and the untethered skiff with it, out of sight of the shore. They were shut in by the fog.

“Quick, I tell you!” cried the man, wrenching at Allan’s jacket until it had been removed. “Now the sweater and the trousers. If I have to speak again, I will speak with these,” and the man shook his thin hands in Allan’s face.

It was an extraordinary sight that McConnell saw,—the boy and the man exchanging clothes there in the boat; for Allan mechanically lifted the clothes the man threw from him and drew them on. On so cool a morning there was no room for debate. Excited as he was, Allan could not but foresee, with the boat adrift, that some action would soon become necessary, and the necessity for action would preclude dressing in a blanket.

“Good!” grunted the man, then he gave a start at the sound of a shout. It was Owen calling through the fog. “I see,” he said, “one of you was ashore.”

Allan nodded. He guessed by the sound of Owen’s voice that the tide had carried them some distance, but it was impossible now to tell from which direction the voice came.

“Quick!” said the husky voice of the man, “you can join the other one. I want this boat.”

“How?” faltered Allan, whose horror had been succeeded by a growing anger.

“The skiff,” said the man. “There it is. If you waste a minute I’ll pitch you both overboard!” As he said this, he made a stroke with the oar and soon brought the _Arabella_ close to the skiff. Then he dropped the oar, clambered to the stern, McConnell making way for him, and reached for the boat with his hand. “Jump in!” he cried.

Allan had watched every movement with lips drawn, his heart beating high. To give up the _Arabella_, their cameras, and outfit without a struggle was more than he could bear. To see the man drop the oar had been a great surprise. It gave him a moment of hope, and when the man reached for the boat he saw his chance, and springing with all his force he pushed the convict over the stern into the river.

“McConnell—the sail!” he yelled, and grasping the oar gave a couple of quick splashes in the water that put the _Arabella_ out of the man’s reach when he had risen to the surface, spluttering and cursing.

McConnell had started forward to the lifts. Allan followed and they gave several quick hauls together, enough to lift the gaff five or six feet. The sail indicated that there was almost no wind.

Allan sprang back to the oar and called to McConnell to make the lines fast and get at the other oar. The man had climbed into the skiff and Allan saw him crouching in the bow paddling furiously with his hands—a means of propulsion which evidently he had practised in effecting his escape. His face now wore a frightful expression.

The sight of the fury in the man’s eyes gave energy to the paddle stroke which Allan applied to his oar. They drew away three yards, four yards, five yards, from the skiff. McConnell’s oar now joined on the port side of the _Arabella_; but the man paddled with a dreadful steadiness, fixing his upturned eyes upon them and cursing in his husky voice.

Then McConnell’s foot slipped, he stumbled in the boat, and his oar went overboard. Allan made a quick reach with his own oar but could not catch the drifting blade, without turning the boat. In a few moments the convict would have the lost oar.

Again Allan sprang to the sail. “All the way up, McConnell!” he cried, and they tugged at the lines, the blood in their faces. Twice the throat of the gaff hitched; but at last the sail rose full and free, and flapped in the faint wind.

“Hold her this way!” exclaimed Allan to McConnell, and loosened the sheet.

The man had the oar. They would have known this without looking, for they could hear frantic splashing in the water. Allan added desperate strokes of his own oar to the pull of the sail. If the wind died, they were lost. The man in the skiff would have an immense advantage the moment the sail ceased to draw. Allan fancied that the convict was calculating on this chance.

Partly because of the oar, and partly because the fog left them no guide as to direction, the _Arabella_ crossed the wind and the boom swung to the other side, tangling the sheet in the tiller and throwing Allan across McConnell’s knees. While they struggled with the lines they lost much of their headway, and they could hear a husky yell from the man as he gained upon them. But the accident told good news. It told of a puff of wind, and when the sail had filled on the other side with the wind astern, the _Arabella_ very soon led very rapidly in the race.

“We are getting away!” cried McConnell. They were the first words he had said.

The skiff and the convict grew dim in the fog.

“We have beat him!” ejaculated Allan. “He’s welcome to the oar; I don’t want to see him caught. But I didn’t want him to take the _Arabella_—and everything.”

“I was afraid we were goners when I lost the oar,” said McConnell.

They strained their eyes through the fog, but could see no trace of their pursuer. Yet Allan did not feel that they were safe from him unless he could keep the wind astern, and thus be as sure as was possible that they would not cross his track in the fog.

For fifteen minutes Allan kept the _Arabella_ with the wind, utterly uncertain of their direction.

All about them was the gray, still mist that filled the boys with a strange sense of mystery.

Overhead the mist was silvery, as if the sun was threatening to come through; yet when they looked on either side of the boat the veil was impenetrable.

“Did you hear something?” asked McConnell.

“No, what was it like?”

“Like a boat whistle.”

Allan’s face changed. Yes, he could hear the sound himself. It was distant, but he could discern the deep-throated note of a large river steamer.

“What can we do?” asked McConnell, with a new anxiety.

“I don’t see what we can do. I don’t know whether we are going across or down the river, and I can’t tell from which direction the sound is coming.”

The whistle could now be heard distinctly every few moments, and presently they decided that it was astern. “In that case,” said Allan, “we are going down the river, for that must be one of the delayed night boats, and it will be best for us to keep to the west. We couldn’t have gone far enough out to get into the track of the steamers.” The course of the _Arabella_ was turned slightly to starboard, and then the boys were thrown into new confusion by finding that the whistle was sounded on the port side. The rumble of the paddle had grown very distinct.

Allan turned the _Arabella_ farther to the starboard, drawing in the sheet.

“We must make some noise—all the noise we can,” said Allan; “it will be better than any signal. They would never see us in time.” Thereupon Allan took two of their pans and began clashing them together as violently as he could. McConnell took two flat pieces of wood from the bottom of the boat and produced sounds like pistol shots by clapping them together. But the rumble of the paddle wheels grew louder, until Allan began straining his eyes for a sight of the approaching danger. He had never fancied it could be so difficult to tell the direction from which sound came in a fog.

“They hear us!” shouted Allan.

Several quick blasts came from the steamer whistle, the paddles turned slower, and then stopped. At the same moment the bow of a steamer seemed suddenly to grow out of nothing within a hundred feet of them, and the whistle was giving a resounding roar.

“They are passing us—it’s all right!” cried Allan, with an excited laugh. Indeed, the paddles had started again.

“Now for the shore.”

“Which shore?” asked McConnell.

“The west shore. We couldn’t risk going across yet.” Allan, with the hint offered by the wake of the steamer, turned the _Arabella_ so as to head southwest. As nearly as he could guess, this was at right angles to the course he had established in getting away from the convict.

It was not until he had left the two dangers behind him that Allan began to think of the plight he was in. Then he laughed, and McConnell joined him.

“Don’t you want to sit for your picture?” asked McConnell.

“No, thank you. I don’t think I want to see myself in a striped suit, even for fun. I must get you to hunt up some one who will send word to Hazenfield, even if I can’t go myself.”

The wind drew a little stronger, and Allan began to think that the fog was lifting. It had grown sufficiently thin to justify him in running straight for shore.

“Go to the bow,” Allan said to McConnell, “and yell when you see anything.”

They both watched eagerly for the shore, but it was nearly ten minutes later that McConnell shouted, “A dock!”

They would have crashed into it in a few moments. Allan swung the _Arabella_ and ran the boat up under the lee of the dock.

It was a small private dock adjoining a boat-house. Making fast to one of the rings, the boys climbed out.

Allan looked down at his clothes. “I wonder what any one would think of this?”

McConnell laughed. “You’ll have to explain,” he said.

The boys turned up the dock, and they had scarcely done so when a man stepped from behind the boat-house and caught Allan by the shoulder.

“No, you don’t!” said the man, “no convicts here, please. If this don’t beat all! Mike!” And the man shouted again, until another man came strolling from beyond the boat-house. At the sight of Allan, Mike stopped, and his jaw dropped. “Holy saints!”

“I don’t mind yer gettin’ away,” said the first man; “but makin’ use of us is too much—too much, I say.”

“I’m not a convict,” said Allan, “I—”

“Of course not,” said Allan’s custodian, “of course yer innocent. You all are.”

“You don’t understand,” said Allan; “a man escaped and I—”

“Yes, and you couldn’t resist keeping him company. Right you are, my boy, and I suppose I’d do it myself if I was in your shoes; but I’m not, and I’m goin’ to keep my conscience clear. I’ll hand you over and save all trouble. And yer only a kind of kid, after all.”

“You’re making a break,” spoke up McConnell; “he’s no convict. He had a fight with one, and he—”

“Now you keep quiet, young feller,” said Mike. “Don’t complain to us. You don’t suppose we’re goin’ to git ourselves in a scrape, do yer?”

“What’s this?” demanded a voice.

“An escaped Sing Sing man, sir,” said Mike.

“A what?—dear me!” said the voice.

Allan and McConnell had started at the first sound of the voice. When they saw its owner, their suspicions were confirmed. It was Mr. Prenwood.

“Dear me! a convict!” continued Mr. Prenwood. “Why, it’s not a man at all; it’s only a boy—”

“Mr. Prenwood!” cried Allan, “don’t you know us?”

“Know you?” stammered Mr. Prenwood, stepping closer.

“Don’t you remember—Coney Island?” interposed McConnell.

“Why—upon my soul—yes, you—you are the kodak boys!”

“Yes,” said Allan, “we were attacked by a convict, and he forced me to give him my clothes, and so—”

“And so you had to take his! Yes, yes. Blickens,” said Mr. Prenwood to the man who had first encountered Allan, “you’ve got the shadow; the substance has escaped.”

The man laughed. “I never knowed, sir.”

“Come into the house,” said Mr. Prenwood, who was laughing a little to himself. “Well, well! I never expected to see you this way, Mr. Allan Hartel. You see, I remember your name. And I’m glad to see you again. And what a monster this convict must have been to treat you so! Though I suppose you got off very well. Tell me all about it. Milicent,” Mr. Prenwood now spoke to a lady who stood on the porch. “Don’t be frightened. This is not a convict, but only a boy who was attacked by one; and these are boys I met last month at Coney Island. And I know they are hungry. Won’t you get us up something nice?”

Allan expostulated that he was not hungry, that he only was anxious to get home as soon as possible, or at least to have word sent to Hazenfield.

“Blickens,” called Mr. Prenwood, “get things ready on the launch. The fog is lifting, and I shall want these boys and the cat-boat towed over to Hazenfield in half an hour. Meanwhile, Allan, I’m going to get you some clothes and make you comfortable. Come upstairs and let me see if I can’t fit you out while they are getting that bite ready for you. You don’t look exactly right to me. Did that brute hurt you?”

Allan said the man had not hurt him, but admitted that he had not been feeling just right since he met with the accident on the bluff the day before. “I knew it. I knew you weren’t right.” Allan went on with his story while Mr. Prenwood rummaged in a closet and several trunks. “You see this is Sunday,” continued Mr. Prenwood. “You couldn’t go home on a Sunday without looking trim and nice. There—slip into these things. I guess that shirt will fit you.”

Though they were both too greatly upset to eat much, the boys made an effort to do justice to Mr. Prenwood’s hospitality, and were delighted by his cordial talk.

As he walked with them to the dock, Mr. Prenwood said he knew Owen would get home all right, somehow, and he made the boys promise to come and see him.

Blickens sat in the launch. “I’m sorry I was so rough,” said Blickens.

“I didn’t think you were so rough,” said Allan, reassuringly, as he stowed the convict’s clothes in the _Arabella_.

“A souvenir?” laughed Mr. Prenwood.

Allan explained that he had made up his mind to hand the clothes over to Detective Dobbs. “He owns the _Arabella_,” said Allan, “and we can go right to his dock.”

“I understand,” said Mr. Prenwood. “Make the best time you can, Blickens. You see you are to take him to a detective after all.”

Blickens looked rather uncomfortable. He did his utmost to make things right with Allan. The _Arabella_ was made fast to the launch by a long line, the boys taking their seats in the launch.

Mr. Prenwood waved his hand, and shouted a cheery good-by as the launch and cat-boat slid out into the river.

XVII.

WINTER DAYS.