CHAPTER XVII.

A STRANGE ENCOUNTER.

On deck they found a scene of the wildest confusion. The wind had abated somewhat, but there was still a big sea running. To the east the sky was gray and wan with the first streaks of dawn, and the waste of tumbling waters was lighted dimly by the newborn light. Forward was a crowd of men, in the midst of them being Zeb Hunt. The wounded Bully Banjo had managed to claw his way forward along the swaying decks also, and stood by his mate’s side, holding on to a back stay.

Mr. Chillingworth and Tom Dacre hastened forward to see what had happened. They found the group of seamen clustered about some figures that they had just hauled over the side with life belts.

“Their boat went down like a rock when we struck her,” one of the crew, who had been on deck when the collision occurred, was explaining to another, as the boy hastened past.

But the next instant he stopped short with a gasp of astonishment. In the center of the group of sailors and rescued persons from the small craft the schooner had seemingly just run down, was one that was strangely familiar. As Tom drew nearer he heard a youthful voice pipe up. Its owner’s small form was hidden by the clustering seamen of the schooner:

“What kind of a boat is this, pa-pa?”

“This is a schooner, my child. It has just run us down,” rejoined the tall, lanky figure.

“What did they run us down for, pa-pa?”

“Professor Dingle!” cried Tom, recognizing first the questioning voice of the professor’s son and heir, and then the tall, bony figure.

“Tom Dacre, my boy!” cried the professor delightedly.

“How came you here?” asked Tom.

“I might ask the same question of you,” rejoined the professor. “I was cruising north toward the Aleutian peninsula in my little yawl-rigged boat, when out of the darkness this schooner came upon me and ran me down. My two faithful Kanakas and my boy and myself only managed to save ourselves by a hair’s breadth.”

“But how did you come to be hereabouts, professor?” asked Tom.

“Again the same question might apply to you, my lad, but the fact is that I’m off on a scientific cruise to the Aleutian Islands in search of rare specimens. We sailed from Victoria three days ago and ran into that terrible storm last night.”

The crew stood about grinning while the professor was making his explanations. They seemed to think the whole thing a rare joke, now that the shock of the collision was over and it had been ascertained that no damage had been sustained by the schooner. As for the professor himself, he accepted the situation as calmly as if it were an everyday matter. His two Kanakas, brown-skinned, black-haired fellows of slender, yet athletic build—of whom more hereafter—also accepted the situation, seemingly as an unavoidable stroke of fate.

Tom introduced the professor to Mr. Chillingworth. Surely never were introductions gone through amid stranger surroundings! Hardly had the ceremony been concluded than word came forward by one of the crew that Simon Lake wished them all to report aft in the cabin at once.

This was not a summons to be disregarded, and, headed by Tom and the professor, whose inquisitive offspring clutched tightly to his hand, they started along the plunging, rolling decks. On their way aft Tom explained the exact situation to the professor—or as much of it as he could in the few seconds of time he had. The man of science took it with as unmoved an air as he accepted most happenings in his life.

He was vexed, though, at the interruption of his scientific expedition, which he had undertaken in the interests of the Puget Sound University, whose intention it was to form a museum of Pacific Coast flora and fauna, second to none.

“However,” he remarked, with a philosophical shrug, “it is no use railing at fate. The only thing to be done is to make the best of it.”

Which, incidentally, was as good a bit of philosophy as the professor could have found in any of his books.

“And now,” he concluded briskly, “let us see what sort of a man is in command of this ship.”

The first object that met their eyes as they made their way down the steep companion stairs was not one calculated to inspire a timid man with confidence.

The tall Chinaman, his face contorted from the pain of his tight thongs, was still secured to the stanchion. His face worked as he saw the newcomers, and for an instant Tom thought he was going to make an appeal for mercy. But if such had been his intention, he thought better of it and remained silent. It was Simon Lake who broke the silence that reigned as the “passengers,” as they may be called, ranged themselves along the cabin bulkhead, awaiting Simon Lake’s announcement of the cause of his summons. It was not long in coming. Lake, who was sprawled out on the lounge with Zeb Hunt at his side, eyed them a minute as if in some doubt how to begin. His hawk-like face was not improved by the bandage which now enwrapped his head.

“What makes that man look so funny, pa-pa?” whispered the professor’s offspring inquiringly.

“Hush,” cautioned the professor; “he’s going to speak.”

“Waal, gents,” began Simon Lake harshly, “we’ve got considerable more of a crew on board this craft than we started out with. Ther only question in my mind is wot ter do with yer.”

Certainly Simon Lake had a way of coming to the point without beating about the bush, which might be imitated by some of our legal lights and other public luminaries.

As no one answered, and he did not seem to expect them to, he resumed:

“Of course, I might chuck the whole shootin’ match of yer overboard. But I ain’t goin’ ter do it. You, Chillingworth, I don’t see as you’re entitled ter any mercy. You’d hev made it hard fer me ef yer could. You’d hev seen me ahind bars ef you’d hed yer way—wouldn’t yer now?”

“Well, since you put it so directly, Simon Lake, I certainly would have done my best to secure your being put out of business, so far as your nefarious trade is concerned.”

“Ah, but yer didn’t,” grinned Simon Lake maliciously, “and now I’ve got yer right whar I want yer—an’ I’m goin’ ter keep yer, too. Lucky I nailed yer afore you could carry out yer little idee of settin’ ther Secret Service onter me—eh?”

“He knows nothing about Sam Hartley, then,” thought Tom, with a flash of distinct relief.

As Mr. Chillingworth made no answer except to look the rascal straighter in the eye, Lake resumed.

“Waal, luck, er fate, er providence, er whatever yer like ter call it, hez certainly turned ther tables on yer in a most re-markable way,” he went on, in a musing tone. “An’ I ain’t one ter fly no ways in ther face uv providence. Here you are, and here you’ll stay. I’ve got work fer you an’ ther rest, too, whar we air a-goin’.”

“And where is that, may I ask?” inquired Mr. Chillingworth.

Lake grinned.

“Why, to er delightful island thet we ought ter be raisin’ at any moment now.”

But if they hoped to hear any more about their destination just then, they were disappointed, for Lake went on without any further reference to it.

“This gent here is a perfesser, I understan’,” he said. “Waal, maybe I’ll hev a job fer him, too. Do you understand assaying, perfesser?”

“The science of gauging the value of the metals contained in any ore-bearing rock, do you mean?” asked the scientist.

“Waal, that’s a heap o’ fancy sail ter carry onter it, but ter come down ter brass tacks, by Chowder, that’s jes’ the idee I want ter convey. Do you understand it?”

“Why, to some extent—yes. Have you any ore you wish assayed?”

“I’ll tell yer abaout thet later,” said Lake, with a cunning leer. “Now, then,” he resumed, “what is them two black fellers you’ve got thar—Kanakas, ain’t they?”

The professor nodded.

“I hope you mean them no harm,” he said. “They are faithful, hard-working fellows, and excellent sailors. Their names are Monday and Tuesday, so called after the days on which they were hired.”

“Das so. Yes, boss, das so, fer a fac’,” said one of the South Sea natives, pulling his black silky forelock in true sailor fashion.

“I reckon we kin fin’ work fer them, too,” decided Lake. “Yer see, it’s jes’ this way: Whar we’re goin’ every one hez ter work, er else starve. I reckon you’d rather work then starve, so I’m goin’ ter give yer all a chance.”

“One question, Lake,” put in the rancher. “I’ve a home and wife back yonder on the Sound. In mercy’s name, tell me, and tell me the truth—am I ever going to see them again?”

Lake looked at him curiously, and then the wretch deliberately rose to his feet.

“Reckon the weather’s clearin’ quite a bit, Zeb,” he said, without taking the slightest notice of the perturbed rancher. “We’d best be gittin’ on deck. By the bye,” he said suddenly turning to Tom, “you did me a sarvice with that thar yaller devil. I’ll not forget it.”

He started for the companionway stairs followed by Zeb. It was his evident intention to pay no heed to Mr. Chillingworth. But the rancher intercepted him.

“As you are human, Lake,” he pleaded, “answer my question. Think, man, what it means to me—to my wife——”

He stopped short, evidently afraid to trust his voice further. Lake turned and met his outburst with a cruel smile.

“We’re reckonin’ on hevin’ yer with us fer quite a stay, Chillingworth,” he said, setting his foot on the bottom step of the companionway, “so make up yer mind ter thet. We need yer ranch, and——”

Before he could add another word Chillingworth’s form was hurtling across the cabin. The rancher, distracted for the moment by his wrongs, flew at the bully like a wild beast. Lake staggered and almost fell under the unexpected onslaught, but the next instant he recovered himself and drew and leveled a pistol. That moment might have been the rancher’s last, but for Zeb Hunt. At the same instant as Lake drew his revolver, the mate of the schooner raised his heavy-booted foot and dealt Mr. Chillingworth a brutal kick in the pit of the stomach. As the pistol exploded the rancher sank down in a heap, groaning in agony. The bullet flew by Tom’s ear and buried itself in a panel of the cabin.

“Thet’s what any uv ther rest uv yer’ll git ef yer try ter cut up monkey shines, by Heck!” snarled Lake, blowing the smoke from the barrel of his revolver with the utmost calmness.

While Tom sprang forward to aid the suffering rancher, Lake and Zeb Hunt proceeded to the deck. Under the lad’s ministrations Mr. Chillingworth presently grew somewhat better, and Tom and the professor managed to help him into his cabin, where they laid him out on a bunk.

While they were all in the small stateroom, even the two Kanakas, who seemed to dislike the idea of being left alone, being with them, there came a sudden click of the lock of the door.

Tom, guessing what had happened, but still not permitting himself to believe it, sprang to the portal. He shook it furiously, but it resisted his efforts to open it.

“Prisoners!” he gasped. “They’ve locked the door!”

Realizing that it was no use attempting to force the portal open, they decided to await Lake’s pleasure in the matter of opening it. In the meantime, they turned once more to the subject of a possible chance for escape.

“One thing is certain,” the professor decided, at the end of the discussion of a dozen or more plans, “we are in no immediate danger. It is equally certain that we can do nothing while we are on board the schooner. The only thing to do is to wait till we reach this island. When we know just what is going to happen to us we can formulate plans better, in the meantime we——”

He stopped short. There was a trampling of feet in the cabin outside. It sounded as if a struggle were in progress. For an instant a voice broke out in wild pleadings—or so it seemed—but the cries were suddenly hushed as if a hand had been placed over the mouth of whoever was uttering them.

Then the trampling ceased and the sound of footsteps ascending the companion stairway could be heard. All this the prisoners in the cabin had heard in silence. As the sounds died away Tom turned to the others.

“It must have been that Chinaman! They——”

A sudden piercing scream assailed their ears. Their cheeks whitened as they heard it, so wild and ringing and appealing was the cry.

It was succeeded by deadly silence. What could have occurred? They all had a guess in their minds, but none of them dared to voice it. One thing, though, Tom was certain of, and that was that the cry had come from the deck. In that case——

But at this point of his meditations the cabin door was suddenly flung open and Zeb’s unwieldy form stood framed in the doorway.

“You kin come out now,” he said.

Was it Tom’s imagination, or did the mate’s voice seem less blustery than usual, and his cheeks not quite so red? Suddenly Lake’s voice came hailing down from the head of the companion stairs:

“On deck here, Zeb. We’ll be makin’ a landfall soon.”

It seemed to Tom that Lake’s voice, too, was subdued and quiet. It held almost a quaver. But he had little time for noticing these things, for, as they emerged from the cabin—with Mr. Chillingworth, who was now almost recovered—there came a sudden electrifying hail:

“Land ho!”

“Where away?” came Lake’s roar from above.

“Two points off’n the sta’bo’d bow,” came back the answer from somewhere forward.

As the castaways, excited by the sensation that the end of their strange voyage was in sight, sprang up the companion stairs, Tom noted one thing.

The cabin was empty of life. At the foot of the stanchion, to which the Chinaman had been tied, the ropes which had bound him lay in an untidy tangle. But the man himself was gone, nor did they ever see him again.