CHAPTER IX.

HOME AGAIN—AND AWAY.

Though the crew of the vessel was saved, the surfmen’s work was not yet over. The breeches-buoy had to be disentangled from the broken mast, spars and ropes, and the other apparatus had to be packed on the beach wagon and returned to the station. All this occupied some time. The hands of both sailors and lifesavers were sore and slippery with brine, the ropes were badly snarled, and the wind and waves tore viciously at the tackle. The task was completed at last, however, and then all made their way to a small shanty or refuge adjoining the boathouse. Here the shipwrecked men were provided with dry clothing and with food which they devoured ravenously.

“My stars! that grub looks good to little Willie!” declared one of the sailors, hastily climbing into dry flannels and a suit of overalls. “Thank’ee, cap’n; I’ll take corned beef an’ brown bread an’—an’ a swig o’ the hot coffee that ye have handy. Here’s to ye all, sir, with many thanks and a blessin’ on ye!”

All joined in the toast, and then made an onslaught on the plain but bountiful repast set before them.

One man, the captain of the ill-fated schooner, dejectedly explained between huge mouthfuls that they had been making for Santario, to get provisions for a voyage to Key West. The schooner’s rudder had broken on a reef, and they had drifted for thirty-four hours without food, each man filling “the aching void” with nothing more substantial than water.

While the process of refreshment was going on, two patrols outside were continuing their beat, watching for portions of the ship’s cargo of bales of cotton to be washed ashore. Without regard to the hardships already undergone, these men, taking turns, remained on duty all that stormy day.

Late in the afternoon the wind died down, and at ebb tide the crew of the _Mary Jane_ and the four scouts took leave of their brave friends.

“We’ll never forget this experience as long as we live,” Hugh said as he grasped Keeper Anderson’s hand. “It’s meant a lot to us and has taught us more than we could ever learn from books.”

“Well, well, guess that’s true, son,” replied Anderson. “Perhaps I ought not to have let you boys—but we won’t say anything more about that, since there’s no harm done.”

“Hope we weren’t too much in the way, sir,” said Billy and Chester, and Alec added his word to the general chorus. Then, with a parting invitation from the surfmen to come again, they departed.

It was a long time before the boys were to pay another visit to the Red Key Life Saving Station, and when they did so, it was to be under very different conditions, They saw it next at midsummer when the great ocean was calm, when gentle breezes filled the sails of vessels passing along the horizon, and when the sun shone benignly over land and sea.

Meanwhile, soon after their arrival at Palmdune, and in the midst of preparations for their cruise on the _Arrow_, they wrote a joint letter to Keeper Anderson and his crew thanking him again for his kindness to them. To this letter Mr. Sands added a pair of field-glasses for each of the crew,—even better than those they already possessed,—and a huge packing-case full of books and magazines.

Roy Norton arrived on the day following the boys’ return. He had read newspaper accounts of the unusual storm along the coast, and he was much interested in hearing all about the adventures of the youthful lifesavers.

From the first, the boys liked Norton; in many ways he reminded them of George Rawson, their assistant scout master at Pioneer Camp. Unlike Rawson, however, who was tall and lean and sinewy, Norton was a young man of medium height, rather thick-set and muscular, yet agile and quick in action. He, too, possessed an apparently inexhaustible fund of energy and good humor.

Captain Lemuel Vinton, who met them one morning on the main fishing dock at Santario, proved to be a stout, grizzled, salt water veteran of fifty years or more. He greeted them with gruff cordiality and escorted them aboard the _Arrow_, where he assigned them their sleeping quarters.

With him, as their future guide through the Everglades, was Wastanugee, a Seminole Indian who answered to the more convenient nick-name of Dave. He was much given to living among the whites, and, while it was clear that he liked civilized ways and also hard dollars, or “chalks,” as the Indians term them, it soon became evident,—toward the end of the first day’s cruise,—that he disliked and dreaded “the big salt,” as he called the ocean.

“Uh! Bad medicine!” he grunted. “Bad weather. Dave better stay home. Go home, anyhow, when get Big Cypress Harbor. Incah!”

Having baited the boys’ hooks, he settled himself resignedly within the folds of his blanket, stretched out his trousered legs and moccasined feet, and yawned loudly.

“Best kind of fishing weather, this,” said Alec. “Tarpon are bound to bite now, aren’t they, Captain?”

Captain Vinton shook his head slowly.

“You can’t never tell ’bout tarpon,” he answered. “Sometimes they will, then ag’in they won’t. Mostly they’ll do as they durn please, which is likely to be jest w’at you don’t want ’em to do. One thing, though: we’re goin’ to have wuss weather afore we have better, mark my words.”

Hearing this, Dave grunted dolefully.

Vinton’s remarks about the tarpon seemed to be verified, for the boys had such poor luck in getting bites that presently they made their lines fast by wedging the poles under the thwarts and turned their attention to a faint blur of smoke rising far out against the brilliant blue horizon.

“Wonder if Cap’n Bego really did git out?” said Vinton, as if communing with himself.

But Norton overhead the query. “Who’s Captain Bego?” he inquired casually.

“Oh, he’s a greaser who’s been havin’ some trouble with a United States revenue cutter from Havana. Cutter’s the _Eagle_. If Uncle Sam gits after Bego ag’in, there’ll be one set o’ rascils turned back, I reckon.”

“You mean——”

“Filibusters,” was the startling answer.