CHAPTER XVIII

A FEARFUL TWO MINUTES

RUSHING aft, Jeff dropped into a seat beside the motor. In another instant he had swung the speed on with his left hand, while his right grasped one of the rudder ropes.

Chug-chug! With the speed beginning, Jeff turned the launch in the shortest possible circle, then headed toward the people in the water.

“Yell!” he shouted. “Voices often scare ’gators!”

The Florida men in the rowboat won with the first yell by a margin of a second or so. Then everyone joined in.

The two who bent at the oars of the rowboat were putting in all their strength at a rapid, strong pull. One of the others crouched in the bow of the little craft, waiting until he should dare to fire.

Two of the alligators had slowed up, as if waiting to see what menace to them was conveyed by the chorus of wild yells. Then one of them sank below the surface.

The ’gator nearest Tom Halstead kept straight on, coming slowly, jaws moving and eyes blinking, as though the great reptile were figuring out the chances of successful attack.

“You just look out for Miss Silsbee, Joe,” warned Tom. “I’ll keep off this big fellow if I have to shove an arm down his throat!”

Ida Silsbee was wholly conscious. A brave girl, she had the good sense to realize how much depended upon her keeping cool and quiet, allowing her rescuers free hand to do what they thought best.

Tom Halstead had brought out his sailor’s clasp knife, opening the blade. He now held this weapon in his right hand, ready to strike, no matter how uselessly, as a means of attracting the attention of the nearest alligator.

In the launch Henry Tremaine watched, with a horrible fascination, for the alligator that had dropped below the surface. If hunters’ tales were true that vanished alligator was likely to try to drag down one of the helpless three from underneath.

Tom would not swim away from a straight line between Ida and the oncoming alligator. He watched, unflinchingly, the approach of the dangerous foe, wondering whether he could strike hard enough with his knife to make the ’gator retreat.

All this had occupied only seconds.

Now, Jeff Randolph had a chance to show what he meant to do. He drove the launch straight for the big alligator. The changed position of the boat gave Tremaine a possible chance to shoot without hitting any of those in the water.

“Don’t fire!” warned Jeff, quickly. “Wait, suh.”

Knowing that the Florida boy understood the points of the game vastly better, Tremaine removed his finger from the trigger.

As the launch sped up, the alligator from which most was to be feared veered slightly.

Jeff Randolph, however, was watchful and ready. He slightly veered the launch from its first course, then, as he had intended, drove the bow of the craft straight against the ’gator’s broadside.

The force of the impact almost capsized the launch. His hand on the reversing gear, Jeff shot the launch back a few yards, swinging around.

This changed position gave Tremaine a chance to fire—not at the alligator the launch had just struck, but at the other visible one. His rifle spoke out instantly, just before a shot came from the rowboat.

By this time the alligators had all they could do to attend to their own safety. The creature that Jeff had struck with the bow of the launch had rolled partly over, recovered its balance, and then lashed its way to greater safety. At this one, too, Tremaine now fired, hitting, while Oliver Dixon followed it up with another bullet that registered.

Half standing, and seeing how the day was going, Jeff Randolph now steered toward Joe and Ida. In a twinkling Dixon reached out for the girl. Tremaine helped him to haul her into the boat. Joe Dawson pulled himself in, with slight help from Tremaine. Joe’s first move was to lean over the opposite gunwale, and aid Captain Tom Halstead into the boat.

“Yo’ can get one of the ’gators, suh,” reported Jeff, pointing. “He’s hurt, but floating.”

Henry Tremaine again raised his rifle, sighted and fired. A second shot from him finished the ’gator.

“Two! That’s good enough sport for one day,” declared the host. “Ida, child, we’ve got to get you into something drier if possible, or you’ll have pneumonia. Didn’t you ladies bring some sort of extra clothing?”

“Yes; we’ve some makeshifts in the way of clothes that will make the child drier and warmer,” replied Mrs. Tremaine.

“Then we’ll run in to shore, disappear under the trees, and let you get Ida into those clothes,” replied the host, noting that his ward was already beginning to shake.

The launch was ran to the nearest land, the rowboat following. As soon as both craft had been made fast the men-folks stepped out. Tom lifted a service-worn telescope bag from under a forward seat, remarking:

“Joe and I carry a few extra things with us, too.”

The Florida men led the way over the bogs, watchfully alert for rattlers or other dangerous snakes. Jeff encountered one young rattler, and killed it with a few well-directed blows of a stick. Out of sight of the boat, Tom and Joe quickly shed their dripping garments, rubbing down and putting on dry clothing.

After waiting a sufficient length of time, Henry Tremaine shouted to his wife, receiving answer that the men might return.

They found Ida Silsbee reclining comfortably at the stern of the boat, wrapped in an overcoat and tucked in with steamer rugs.

“I’m as warm as toast,” she declared. Then, gratefully:

“I hope you boys are as well off.”

“Oh, we are,” Joe nodded. “We’re used to going overboard, or standing in pouring rains. We never go far without a clothes kit.”

The Florida men now devoted their attention to securing the second alligator and adding it to the tow behind the launch.

“Mo’ hunting, Mr. Tremaine?” inquired Jeff, coolly.

“Not to-day,” responded the host, with emphasis. “We’ve had very fair sport, not to speak of a miraculous escape for my ward. We’ve had quite enough excitement. I think the old bungalow at the head of Lake Okeechobee will look very cheery to us when we get there.”

Ida had already made some attempt to thank the young motor boat boys for their gallant conduct. Now, she tried to say much more. Mr. and Mrs. Tremaine and Oliver Dixon now started to overwhelm the boys with their gratitude, but Joe Dawson interposed quietly:

“The least said is soonest mended, you’ve heard, and I guess the same idea applies to thanks. We’re glad we could be useful, but there is no use in making a fuss about us.”

“That’s about right,” smiled Halstead. He turned to take his seat by the steering wheel, then observed the wistful looks of Jeff Randolph.

“I didn’t know, before, Jeff,” remarked the young captain, pleasantly, “that you knew anything about handling motor boats.”

“I won’t claim I _do_ know a heap,” rejoined Jeff, modestly, “but I will say that there’s nothing I enjoy mo’ than taking the wheel of a launch or cabin cruiser.”

“Help yourself, then,” invited Halstead, moving back. “You surely do know more about these black waters than I’ll ever know.”

Jeff’s eyes gleamed with real pleasure as he seated himself at the wheel. He gave the engineer’s signals, and backed the launch out neatly, then headed northward.

“Say, you’ve been on boats a good deal,” remarked Skipper Tom, after watching him.

“Some,” admitted the Florida boy, quietly. “I reckon I’d rather be on a boat than anywhere else in the whole world.”

Jeff remained at the wheel until he had piloted them out of the Everglades and back into Lake Okeechobee. The two dead ’gators were rigged to the stern of the rowboat, in tow, and the small boat’s bow line made fast astern on the launch. In this order the start was made for the forty-mile trip up the lake.

“I’m going to spell you at the wheel a bit, now, Jeff,” said Tom Halstead. “But you can have the wheel again, whenever you want it.”

“That’ll be most all o’ the forty miles ahead of us, then, I reckon,” declared young Randolph.

It was slow work, indeed, getting back, not much more than seven miles per hour being possible. Supper, picnic-style, was served not long after dark. It was nearing the hour of ten when the boat at last rounded slowly in at the pier.

“Let me take her in,” begged Jeff Randolph, who was again at the wheel.

“Go ahead,” nodded Tom Halstead, good-humoredly. “I know you can do it.”

“Jeff,” laughed Henry Tremaine, “you ought to apply for membership in the famous Motor Boat Club of the Kennebec.”

“Wouldn’t I like to belong, though?” sighed the Florida boy.

“Would you?” queried Captain Tom.

“Don’t poke fun at me,” protested young Randolph.

“I’m not poking fun,” rejoined Halstead, soberly. “Did you ever have any experience out on deep water?”

“I’ve been on sailing craft a good deal, and out fo’ two trips on a motor cruiser,” answered the Florida boy, in a low voice.

“How’d you like to come out on the ‘Restless’ for a while?”

“Do yo’ mean it?” asked Jeff, anxiously.

“I certainly do. Still, at the same time, I must warn you that your duties on the ‘Restless’ would be mixed. You’d have to cook, be steward and take an occasional trick at the motors or the wheel.”

“I don’t care what it is,” retorted Jeff, stubbornly, “so long as it’s something on deep salt water, and on a motor boat at that.”

“Make a good landing then,” proposed Tom Halstead, smiling, yet serious, “and we’ll talk it all over on shore.”

Jeff Randolph laid the boat in at the pier without a scratch or a jar, with just enough headway and none to spare. Tom leaped ashore at the bow, Joe at the stern, and the little craft was made fast at her berth.

Ham Mockus was glad enough to see them back. He was hanging about at the land end of the pier. Though the black man’s faith in ghosts had received a severe knock, still, to be all alone about the place after dark—well, it was a bit fearsome, anyway!

“Have any ghosts called, Ham?” laughingly demanded Henry Tremaine, as he caught sight of his black servitor.

“No, sah; no, sah,” admitted the darkey, grinning sheepishly.

“Then the officers must have succeeded in keeping all the members of the ghost safely locked up in jail.”

“Ah reckon so, sah—unless——”

“Well, unless what?”

“Wy, sah, it jest might be, ob co’se, dat some restless fo’ks done take dem Eberglades trash out an’ hitch ’em to a tree, wid deir feet off en de groun’.”

“Oh, I guess it could not be as bad as that,” smiled Mr. Tremaine.

“What have you been doing all these hours, Ham?” inquired Mrs. Tremaine.

“Wy, Ah done ’low, ob co’se, dat maybe yo’ don’ feel much satisfied wid dat cold food yo’ done had erlong in de bo’t, so Ah’s done got some hot food up at de house—ef yo’ want it.”

“Ham,” cried his employer, enthusiastically, “you’re kind-hearted and proper. Lead us to that hot banquet.”

It was over the table, an hour later, that Mrs. Tremaine asked her husband:

“How many more days do you intend to remain here hunting?”

“Have you ladies had all you want of it?” queried the host, looking at his wife and his ward.

“More than enough for my part,” answered Mrs. Tremaine. Ida Silsbee added that she, personally, did not care to go alligator hunting again.

“You’ll both of you be more contented,” decided Mr. Tremaine, “if we run down to Oyster Bay and hoist anchor for Tampa. Up at Tampa you girls will have a chance to wear your pretty dresses. Jeff, can you start, before ten in the morning, and get the wagons back here to convey us to the coast?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then we’ll leave here to-morrow afternoon,” announced Mr. Tremaine. “We have alligator skins enough, anyway, to answer all purposes, including the making of an alligator leather bag for Halstead’s mother. I’ll have the bag made, Tom—a good, generous and handsome looking one.”

“Captain Halstead,” called out Jeff, following the young skipper away from table and speaking almost ceremoniously.

“You want to talk to me about going on the ‘Restless’?” asked the young sailing master.

“Yes. Yo’ wa’n’t fooling, were yo’?”

“Of course not,” rejoined Tom, heartily.

“And—and—would there evah be any chance fo’ me to get into the Motor Boat Club?”

“We’d be only too glad to have you for a Florida member,” replied young Halstead, “just as soon as you’ve shown that you can handle a boat of our kind.”

Then Halstead and Joe discussed with Jeff his pay in his new position, and the exact nature of his duties.

“I reckon it all seems too good to be true,” sighed Jeff Randolph, but he knew, just the same, that it was no dream, and he was happy.

“Now, I’ve got to keep mighty cool and lull any suspicions Dixon may have,” muttered Halstead to himself. “Of course he knows I received that letter from Clayton Randolph. Perhaps, until we get back to Oyster Bay, I can make Dixon feel that I don’t believe any such thing possible of him. Once we get there, and Clayton Randolph backs up what he wrote me, I’ll take the whole thing to Mr. Tremaine. Then, Dixon, if you _are_ as big a scoundrel as I think you, your time will have come to pay back and take your medicine!”