The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Boy Aeronauts' Club, by Ashton Lamar This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. Title: The Boy Aeronauts' Club or, Flying for Fun Author: Ashton Lamar Illustrator: S. H. Riesenberg Release Date: April 19, 2018 [EBook #57000] Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BOY AERONAUTS' CLUB *** Produced by Donald Cummings and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net cover The Aeroplane Boys Series The Boy Aeronauts’ Club OR Flying for Fun The Aeroplane Boys Series By ASHTON LAMAR I IN THE CLOUDS FOR UNCLE SAM Or, Morey Marshall of the Signal Corps. II THE STOLEN AEROPLANE Or, How Bud Wilson Made Good. III THE AEROPLANE EXPRESS Or, The Boy Aeronaut’s Grit. IV THE BOY AERONAUTS’ CLUB Or, Flying For Fun. V A CRUISE IN THE SKY Or, The Legend of the Great Pink Pearl. VI BATTLING THE BIG HORN Or, The Aeroplane in the Rockies. OTHER TITLES TO FOLLOW These stories are the newest and most up-to-date. All aeroplane details are correct. Fully Illustrated. Colored frontispiece. Cloth, 12mos. Price, 60 cents each. The Airship Boys Series By H. L. SAYLER I THE AIRSHIP BOYS Or, The Quest of the Aztec Treasure. II THE AIRSHIP BOYS ADRIFT Or, Saved by an Aeroplane. III THE AIRSHIP BOYS DUE NORTH Or, By Balloon to the Pole. IV THE AIRSHIP BOYS IN THE BARREN LANDS Or, The Secret of the White Eskimos. V THE AIRSHIP BOYS IN FINANCE Or, The Flight of the Flying Cow. VI THE AIRSHIP BOYS’ OCEAN FLYER Or, New York to London in Twelve Hours. These thrilling stories deal with the wonderful new science of aerial navigation. Every boy will be interested and instructed by reading them. Illustrated. Cloth binding. Price, $1.00 each. The above books are sold everywhere or will be sent postpaid on receipt of price by the Publishers The Reilly & Britton Co. Chicago Complete catalog sent, postpaid on request “* * * Pulling Himself Up to Safety.” The Boy Aeronauts’ Club OR Flying for Fun BY ASHTON LAMAR Illustrated by S. H. Riesenberg Chicago The Reilly & Britton Co. Publishers COPYRIGHT, 1910, by THE REILLY & BRITTON CO. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED THE BOY AERONAUTS’ CLUB CONTENTS CHAP. PAGE I The Creole Coffee House 9 II An Irregular Meeting of the Anclote Fishing Club 20 III An Early Taste of Salt Water 32 IV The Club Holds a Short Session 46 V In Which Jerry Blossom Suddenly Appears 58 VI The Three Sisters Sets Sail 72 VII Bob Makes Another Rescue 84 VIII The Escambia to the Rescue 98 IX A Feat of Seamanship 113 X A Little Luncheon on the Elias Ward 126 XI Bob Balfour Upsets Plans 139 XII The Committee Buys an Aeroplane 151 XIII A Midnight Compact Concerning the Black Pirate 164 XIV The Anclote Makes a Flight 177 XV One Use for an Aeroplane 189 XVI In Camp on Anclote Key 201 XVII Tom Lands a Tarpon and Bob a Tartar 213 XVIII Marie Ducroix’ Sea Chest 231 XIX The Secret City of the Seminoles 245 XX Tom’s Story and the End 259 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS Pulling himself up to safety Frontispiece Bob had enough strength to free one arm and grasp the line 43 Jerry already had the light high above his head 103 The colored boy was soon knee deep in a hole 227 The Boy Aeronauts’ Club OR, Flying for Fun CHAPTER I THE CREOLE COFFEE HOUSE The lower end of Palafox Street in Pensacola, Florida, ends in a busy shipping and fish wharf. On each side of this are to be found, always, scores of sailing vessels and a jam of oyster and fish boats. In other days, about the head of this old wharf was to be found a maze of cheap boarding houses, restaurants and saloons devoted to the entertainment of sailors. There were to be found, too, other resorts known as “coffee houses”— institutions adapted from West Indian life, which have now almost wholly disappeared. In these, might be seen by night motley collections of brown old tars sipping curacao and café noir to the strident chatter of captive parrots and cockatoos. At the present time, one only of these old coffee houses remains. In this, some of the maritime flavor of former days is retained in the person of an old Creole who conducts the resort. But, nowadays, the creole’s most profitable trade is from busy merchants who seek his cabaret at noon for a cup of old fashioned coffee. The sailors who once congregated in his shop have almost wholly passed away. Some of the picturesqueness of the creole coffee house remains, however, and it was this that drew Bob Balfour to the place just after dark on a fine evening in mid-February. Robert, or Bob Balfour, was the only child of a well-to-do manufacturer in Chicago. Between sixteen and seventeen years of age, it had been discovered suddenly that the boy’s health was failing. On the order of a physician Bob had gone south with his mother to await the return of pleasant weather in the north. “You’ll be all right in a short time,” the family doctor explained reassuringly, “if you live in the open air and sunshine and get plenty of sea breeze.” Here he paused and shook his head ominously. “But you must stay out of doors and give up books,” he added sweeping his hand towards Bob’s crammed bookcase. “That’s it,” exclaimed Bob’s father; “this reading is all right, but the boy has had too much of it. He reads everything. He’s got books that I’d never think of buying—regular histories and scientific things.” “All right,” laughed romantic-minded Bob, “I’ll promise. No more books for me until further orders. But,” he added, to himself, “I guess I won’t need any books when I get down there where Spanish buccaneers used to prowl around and where the last American pirates did business.” On the second day after Mrs. Balfour and Bob reached the ancient Spanish-founded city, they secured lodging just beyond the business center of the town. Having comfortably established themselves, the evening meal was scarcely over before Bob cajoled his mother into permitting him to take a stroll. Bob and his mother had planned to begin their sight-seeing the following day. Their first expedition was to be by launch from Long Wharf down the bay to the navy yard and Fort Barancas. For that reason, he hastened at once toward the wharf, determined to secure all the information he could concerning the launch and the hour of its departure. The orders of the Balfour family physician prohibiting the use of books had not been so imperative as to preclude Bob reading a “Florida Guide Book”. Therefore, as he approached the shipping end of the city’s main street, his ears were open and his eyes were alert for traces of the picturesque past. Although he had just left the Plaza Ferdinand VII, with its illuminated fountain casting its scintillating rays on beds of narcissus, hydrangea and roses, it would not have struck Bob wholly out of place to have stepped at once into an old sailor rendezvous redolent of pitch and bilge water. On the contrary, he found, in the main, nothing but modern lunch counters, commonplace pool rooms and beer saloons. Long Wharf itself was dark and the excursion boat piers were deserted. Deciding that the vicinity was no place for a boy of his age, particularly a stranger, Bob turned and retraced his footsteps on the opposite side of the street. Within two blocks, he noticed the creole coffee house. There were neither door nor window screens, and, in spite of a modern lunch counter on one side of the room, Bob saw, on the opposite wall, several old fashioned prints of sailing vessels. Beneath these were several tables. At one of them, with a steaming cup before him, sat a man gazing toward the door. What instantly fixed Bob’s eye was that, for the first time in his life, he was looking at a genuine old salt-water sailor. [9] [10] [11] [12] [13] Rates Reasonable At the lunch counter, were two boys, but before the curious Bob could give them a second glance, he was surprised to see the man straighten in his chair and, with the slow motion of a weather beaten forefinger, beckon to him. “I mean ye, lad. Come in,” said the sailor, throwing his head back by way of invitation. It wasn’t a bad face the sailor had. An old yachting cap lay on the table before him. But what had been immediate notification to Bob that the man was a sailor was the fact that he wore small gold earrings, and that, beneath his loosened shirt, were the tattooed outlines of a ship. The room was well lighted, and, although Bob was conscious that the two boys were near by, the picturesque “old sea dog” (for such, the romantic Bob at once dubbed the stranger in his always active imagination) was irresistible. The boy stepped into the coffee house and approached the sailor’s table. “How do you do?” began Bob. “Fair an’ clear,” was the response, in a foreign accent. “Tourist, eh?” “I’m here for the winter,” answered Bob, “if that’s what you mean. I suppose you’re a sailor.” “Si, senor.” Then the man shrugged his shoulders. “I have been sailor. Now I am fisher—Joe Romano. My schooner she is de bes’ on de bay. Yo’ fadder is wis you?” There seemed no reason why Bob should refuse to answer the fisherman’s question, so he explained how he had come to be in Pensacola. The man seemed disappointed, but he took from his pocket a soiled card and handed it to the lad. It read: CAPTAIN JOSEPH ROMANO Schooner Three Sisters Conducts Parties for Sea Trout, Red Fish, Spanish Mackerel and Pompano Tarpon Guaranteed in Season “If yo’ fadder shall come,” said the sailor, “an’ he go for de fine fish, yo’ shall bring him to Captain Joe. I take him to de bes’ fish in Santa Rosa Soun’.” Bob’s father cared no more about fishing than he did about history, but the boy had an idea. Why couldn’t he and his mother try their luck in a day’s outing with the tattooed, gold-earringed sailor? “My father won’t be here,” answered Bob, “and I’m not much of a fisherman; but my mother and I may go with you some day. What are your rates?” “You go wis yo’ mama, alone?” exclaimed Captain Joe, with sudden animation. “I take you in ze fine Three Sisters, cook yo’ fish dinner, stay all yo’ like, ten dollars.” “Where can I see you in the morning?” asked Bob with enthusiasm. “At ze wharf,” responded Captain Joe. “Any one tell yo’ where to find ze Three Sisters.” “I’m much obliged,” responded Bob. “I may bring my mother to see you in the morning.” His face aglow, Bob bid Captain Joe good night, and hurried from the place. Already framing in his mind the allurements of the cruise, he turned into the street, head down. “Hello there, Kid,” sounded suddenly, as he passed out of the Coffee House. Surprised, Bob paused. Standing on the edge of the sidewalk were two boys—about his own age. Undoubtedly they were the ones he had just seen in the Coffee House. Each carried under his arm a loaf of bread wrapped in paper. “Hello yourself,” responded Bob. Then, one quick glance establishing the free masonry that exists between all boys of that age, he added: “What’s on your minds?” Both boys were plainly dressed. One, wearing a soft hat with a colored ribbon band, low tan shoes (needing polishing) and a “snappy” coat, suggested northern styles. The other, not so athletic, wore a cap, a coat that was anything but “snappy,” newly polished dark shoes, and a small, old fashioned “made-up” blue necktie. “You ah on ouah mind,” answered the latter boy, with a pronounced southern accent. “And we’re waitin’ to hand you a piece o’ dope,” added his companion. “We all’s been a watchin’ yo’ an’ Cap’en Joe,” continued the boy of the cap. “An’ we ah a reckonin’ you all’s a strangah.” “I sure am,” answered Bob. “But what’s the matter with Captain Joe?” “Not a thing in the world,” said the soft hat boy. “He’s out o’ sight. But, bein’ a tender foot, you ain’t in right. We’re waitin’ to put you wise.” Bob laughed. The two boys were smiling and evidently amused. “I reckon,” continued the boy with the southern tone, “that we all ain’t no bus’ness a overhearin’ what yo’ told [14] [15] [16] [17] Captain Joe, but we was waitin’ fo’ ouah crab loaves, an’ we kain’t hep it.” As his smile broadened, he lifted the loaf under his arm to Bob’s nose. From its interior came a most appetizing odor of something newly fried. “What’s that?” asked Bob, his mouth watering. “That?” repeated the other boy, also holding up his package. “Them’s soft shell crabs—fried. They jist melt in yer mouth. Want some?” Bob’s smile was answer enough. The other boys looked at each other as if to say, “It’s all right, he’ll do.” Then the boy in the cap said: “We all heard yo’ tell Cap’en Joe about yo’sef. My name’s Tom Allen. I live hyah in Pensacola. This is Harry Burton. Yo’ can call him Hal right away, so he’ll know whom youah addressin’. He lives in Cincinnati, but he comes hyah each wintah. We jes’ been to the Coffee House a securin’ some refreshments. An’ we ah now on ouah way to dispose of them.” “You got to mix it sometime,” interrupted Hal. “You got to know us kids.” “Well,” said Bob, a little embarrassed, but shaking the hand of each boy, “my name’s Balfour. I’m here for my health —” “So’m I,” laughed Hal. “But I go to school just the same. Pretty tough. You goin’ to school?” “No,” answered Bob. “I’ve got to stay outdoors and rough it. I’m goin’ fishin’ with Captain Joe to-morrow.” “Rot!” snorted Hal. “Ten dollars to a dago for a day’s fishin’? Not on your tintype. Stick to us, and we’ll give you all the fishin’ and the roughin’ it you want. And it won’t cost you nothin’—much.” “What do you mean?” asked Bob, eagerly. “Say, you fellows are all right, and I’m mighty glad to know you; but ain’t it pretty quick work pickin’ a kid up on the street and offerin’ to chum with him right off the reel?” Tom Allen reached out his arm and dropped it on Bob’s shoulders. “Yo’ all’s comin’ aroun’ to my house now, an’ meet Mac. We’ll have ouah spread—Mac’s gone fo’ the pralines—” “Here’s the idea,” broke in talkative Hal. “The minute we laid eyes on you, we cottoned to you. If Mac takes to you like we do and you don’t kick over the traces, we’re goin’ to ask you to join our club.” “If Mac is your chum,” answered Bob, laughing, “I won’t kick. But I don’t understand—” “You like boatin’ an’ fishin’, or you wouldn’t be willin’ to cough up ten a day to old Joe. All right. We’re all dead stuck on boatin’ an’ fishin’ an’ shootin’. An’ we’re fixed to do ’em all,” continued Hal. Drawn along, not unwillingly, by his two companions, Bob was led down the first street to the right and, in the second block, the trio paused before a white picket fence in which was a tall gate. As this swung open, and Bob found himself on a shell path between walls of scented flowers, he saw ahead, a low, one-story house. On its little gallery opened four latticed windows. “Is this your home?” whispered Bob, thrilled with the charm of the place, and turning to Tom. “Paht o’ the time,” responded the southern boy. “Come in.” CHAPTER II AN IRREGULAR MEETING OF THE ANCLOTE FISHING CLUB When Tom Allen swung open the door, Bob saw that he was in a home of refinement. On the walls, hung several old oil paintings; a wide, doorless opening led directly into a little parlor. “Gran’mothah,” said Tom, with deference, addressing an aged lady sitting by a window, “this is Robert Balfour, of Chicago.” As Bob bowed, Tom added: “Bob, this is my gran’mothah, Mrs. Mendez. She lived in Pensacola befoah the Indians—almost.” The venerable lady was rising, with a smile on her wrinkled face. “Please don’t,” urged the boy. “I’m very glad to meet you. I’m a stranger, and the boys have taken me in. It’s beautiful here,” added Bob, glancing at the old-fashioned furniture; “my mother and I have often talked of such a place.” “You are a strangah to the south, then?” said Mrs. Mendez. “It’s the first time I ever saw pond lilies in the winter,” answered Bob, looking toward a bowl of white blossoms on the marble-topped table. [18] [19] [20] [21] “They are magnolia buds,” explained Tom’s grandmother. “I have them for old time’s sake. When I was young, the gulf shore was lined with magnolias. They are gone now,” she added, with a sigh. Hal Burton, after speaking to Mrs. Mendez, disappeared into a rear room with Tom, where an animated conversation was already to be heard. The words of Tom’s grandmother carried Bob back to vague pages in his history reading. “You have lived here a long time,” he suggested. “Since Pensacola was a trading post,” said the old lady. “But, in the early days, there was a cypress stockade about our cabin. Then, the gulf came up to our yard.” Three blocks crowded with buildings now stood between the little house and the sea. “Your father was Spanish?” asked Bob, his thoughts already fired with the passed away romance of those early days. “A tradah among the Creek Indians,” answered Mrs. Mendez. “Are there any relics of those times in Pensacola now?” went on Bob eagerly. Mrs. Mendez smiled. “The big house you just passed on the corner is fifty years older than I am. Within it, are the beams the Indians helped to raise.” “What was it?—A fort?” asked Bob. Again the old lady smiled. “If my son, Tom’s father, were alive, he could tell you its story—I am too old. But it was where the Indians came to sell furs. Mr. Mendez was a clerk there.” At this moment, the two boys and a middle-aged woman entered the room. “This is Bob, mothah,” exclaimed Tom Allen, and Mrs. Allen gave young Balfour the hand grasp of southern hospitality. “They picked me up on the street,” repeated Bob, with renewed embarrassment. “You ah certainly most welcome to ouah home,” interrupted Mrs. Allen. “An’ as fo’ pickin’ yo’ up on the street,” she continued, with a smile, “I found a real gold ring on the banquette mahsef once.” Then, as Bob’s confusion deepened, the pleasant voiced woman added, “These young prowlahs ah about to pahtake of some refreshments in the next room.” “Charlotte,” exclaimed Mrs. Mendez from her rocking chair, “the young gentleman asked me about the old post. Won’t you tell him?” Bob heard a sigh from Tom, who immediately stepped to his side and whispered: “Them thah crabs is gittin’ cold. I’ll tell you all about it latah.” “My own grandfathah helped hew its timbahs,” explained Mrs. Allen. “It is now a fo’gotten monument.” She was leading the little party into the rear room. Hal, bearing the lamp, nudged Bob with his elbow. “Cut it out,” he whispered. “Them ducks are all dead an’ gone. Come on. Don’t you hear the crabs shiverin’ with the cold?” “Some day,” continued Mrs. Allen, “I’ll be glad to tell you the story of the old warehouse. It was wheah colonial day tradahs made fortunes on the gulf as the Hudson Bay Company drew wealth from the Indians of the no’th. It is now a boa’din’ house,” she concluded, with a curious smile. “Perhaps youah mothah would be glad to come and see it?” Thanking his hostess, Bob was about to enter upon another line of inquiry when Tom caught him by the arm. “You’ll excuse us, mothah,” said Tom, “but this is a regulah meetin’ night. We ah about to considah impo’tant mattahs.” “Say,” exploded Hal at once, “can’t you get all o’ that mossy dope you need in the history books?” “Plenty of it,” laughed Bob, “but that’s at long range. I’m comin’ to-morrow and look all over the old building.” Tom grunted. “If that’s what yo’ all come to Pensacola fo’, I reckon you’ll have yo’ hands full.” “You can read all that,” went on Hal. “And, take it from me, there’s too much to do to be nosin’ around lookin’ for Spanish things.” Bob grinned and pointed to the table and the cooling loaves. “These aren’t Spanish, are they? I’m ready.” Tom had just lifted the top off one loaf and the savory steam was welling into the room, when he dropped the section of bread. “Where’s Mac?” he exclaimed. Then he hastily stuck his head into the parlor. “Mothah,” he called, “where’s Mac Gregory? He went fo’ some pralines.” Mrs. Allen came quickly into the room. [22] [23] [24] [25] “Gentlemen,” she exclaimed, holding her hands before her face as if to hide her confusion, “I must confess mah inexcusable ovahsight. Youah friend and colleague was heah and left a message which I neglected to delivah. He can not be with you at youah meetin’. A friend presented him a ticket to the ten-cent pictuah show, and he has repaired to the theatah.” Tom’s eyes twinkled, but matter of fact Hal growled: “Went to the movin’ picture show on a regular meetin’ night?” “So it appeahs,” laughed Mrs. Allen, as she withdrew. “Well,” growled Hal, “it’s that many more crabs for us, anyway.” It required no education for Bob to master a freshly fried soft shell crab. But by the time three of them had disappeared with crackling crispness, he was ready to ask: “Say, kids; what’s the meeting all about?” Hal and Tom were too busy to reply at once, but, finally, both loaves were empty. After a search for loose crumbs, Hal pushed an empty loaf aside. “Before we go any further, I’d like to know one thing. You look all right, and you eat all right—though you can’t tell much by crabs, there bein’ a limit to ’em, but are you one o’ them ducks ’at would rather get off in a corner an’ read a book than go boatin’ or fishin’? O’ course, you don’t have to answer lessen you want to, but business is business.” “I can’t read a book while I’m in Pensacola,” answered Bob. “That ain’t the point,” continued Hal, leaning over the table. “Would you like to do it?” Bob could not resist laughing outright. “I don’t know what I’d do or want to do if I had to mosey around town here for three months all alone. But if you fellows have anything on that you’ll let me in on, I’ll cut the books.” “We’ve got a club,” spoke up Tom, who seemed satisfied with the statement, “but it ain’t a ‘gang’. We ah very pahticulah, because we got to be. Ouah by-laws permit but fouah membahs, not includin’ Jerry Blossom. About the end of the season last yeah, we were fo’ced to expel a membah foh absentin’ himself from a reg’lar weekly outin’ to attend a picnic with a girl. Are you co’espondin’ with any girls?” “I am not,” answered Bob promptly. His interlocutors gazed at each other a few moments in silence. “I reckon Mac ought to be hyah by rights,” suggested Tom, as if in deep thought. “He ought to be expelled hisself,” blurted out Hal. “But he owns the boat,” argued Tom, seriously. “And, besides, it was a free ticket.” “’Scuse us,” remarked Hal suddenly, as he beckoned to Tom. “We got to confer a minute.” Bob used the interval to look about the room. On the wall hung a framed set of engrossed resolutions. They were dated only five years before, and signed by the officers of the Mexico and Florida Steamship Company, deploring the death of Captain Malcolm Allen, who had been in the service of the company in the Mexican trade for many years as master of the steamer Mazatlan. This then was Tom’s father. “Balfour,” said Tom Allen at last, touching Bob on the arm, “we’ve elected you a membah of the ‘Anclote Island Fishing Club’.” “I’m sure I’m glad,” exclaimed Bob. “I hoped it was something like that. But how about Mac? What if he don’t approve of me?” “Then I reckon you’re fired,” answered Hal, bluntly. Bob could not help showing some chagrin. “I don’t see why that troubles you,” went on Hal. “We’re takin’ a chance, too. You’ve got the privilege o’ sayin’ you don’t accept.” “But I do,” insisted Bob. “That is, if my mother consents.” “There you go,” snorted the doubting Hal. “I knew there’d be somethin’.” “Well,” responded Bob, “there’ll have to be that condition. My parents pay my way, and they tell me what I’m goin’ to do.” Tom reached out his hand. Thereupon, Hal could do no less. As the three boys, acquaintances of but a little over an hour, awkwardly shook hands, Tom said: “If everything is all right, an’ youah mothah lets yo’, come to my house about three o’clock to-morrow. Hal and I ah fo’ced to attend school till that ouah.” “I hope Mac approves,” added Bob, still nettled over this condition. “I suppose you make fishin’ trips now and then,” he went on. “Do you ever camp out?” [26] [27] [28] [29] Hal snorted, and slapped Tom on the back. “Say,” he chuckled, “do you hear that? Go fishin’ sometimes? Do we camp out? Kid,” he added solemnly, “we do go fishin’—sometimes. And them sometimes is every Friday at noon, when our season opens, and that’s now, and we camp out from that till Monday mornin’. That’s all.” Bob’s jaw fell. From Friday noon till Monday morning. The possibility of parental protest fell on him like a wet blanket. “Where do you go?” he asked hastily. Tom thereupon disclosed the nature and practice of the select quartette of adventurers. Three years before, Hal Burton, Mac Gregory, Tom Allen, and the now expelled boy, had come into possession, through Mac’s father, of a serviceable old life-saving boat. Rigging up a sail, the four boys had made a long cruise out of Pensacola Bay and along the gulf coast to Perdido Bay. On the eastern shore of this ocean bayou rises a considerable bluff crowded with dense pine trees. On this, about ten miles from the gulf, the boys on their first cruise located a camp. The following spring, Hal brought with him enough money to purchase a 10-horsepower motor, which was installed in the life boat—the Escambia. That year, by purchase of “culls” from the Perdido River saw mills and a vigilant search for drift timber, the club managed to secure material to build a cabin. “Fine,” shouted Bob at last. “If Mac Gregory don’t vote for me, I’m goin’ to miss the best thing I ever read of. But say,” and he asked the question that had been on his tongue for some minutes, “why is it the Anclote Club? And where is Anclote Island?” “About three hundred miles from here, over near Tampa,” answered Hal soberly. “And do you cruise over there?” “Nope,” snapped Hal, “but say—listen! That’s the greatest tarpon fishin’ ground in the world. Quail are great over on old Perdido, and fishin’ in the bay is fine and dandy. But that ain’t tarpon. Some day we’re goin’ for the big fish—on the long voyage. We’re workin’ for a big boat and enough time. When we get ’em both, it’s the Anclote Fishin’ Club for Anclote Island at last.” “Are you going this year?” asked Bob eagerly. “I reckon not,” answered Tom with a smile. “But we are a goin’ to think about it mighty hard.” Bob sprang up, his face aglow with enthusiasm. It was nearly ten o’clock. “Boys,” he said—nervous in his eagerness—“I’ll be here at three o’clock to-morrow. If Mac turns me down, hang a black rag on the gate.” CHAPTER III AN EARLY TASTE OF SALT WATER In the early morning, Bob and his mother had an animated conference. Mrs. Balfour forgave Bob’s late return only after she heard the story of his kidnaping by Tom Allen and Hal Burton and had listened to his account of Mrs. Mendez and Mrs. Allen. When Bob had finished a description of Captain Joe Romano and of the Anclote Club, his mother at once vetoed a membership in the latter body. But the boy expected this, and in a short time, with many arguments, he had made the prohibition conditional. When Mrs. Balfour said she “would see about it,” Bob knew the worst was over. Mrs. Balfour had plans for a little tour of her own in the shopping district, in which her son was to be a guide. And Bob was now too much concerned with his afternoon program to urge very strongly the launch ride on the bay. As his mother seemed to have forgotten this program as outlined the previous day, he did not revive it. While Mrs. Balfour and the landlady fell to discussing desirable “French organdies” for sale in a certain shop, Bob decided to begin the day with an examination of the boarding house premises. A shell walk led around the house. In the rear, on each side of a deep, wide lot, were low, white buildings. Their roofs were green, with moss-covered shingles, while three wide-spreading oaks between them were garlanded with long strands of sombre but picturesque Spanish moss. The kitchen yard beneath the oaks was of hard packed earth. In one of the buildings, Bob heard a colored woman’s voice. The odor of coffee, the soft sizzle of something frying, and the sharp clatter of dishes told him it came from the kitchen, isolated as usual in southern homes from the dwelling house. The woman seemed in a critical mood, to say the least. As Bob stopped to watch a scurrying fat hen, he could not avoid hearing what the unseen speaker was saying. “What yo’ done wid dat two bits I done guv you day befo’ yistiday?” [30] [31] [32] [33] There was an undistinguishable reply. “Yo’s a liah, yo’ good fo’ nothin’ loafin’ niggah. Los’ it? How yo’ gwine lose a piece o’ real money? Dat two bits nevah git cole in yo’ pocket. Craps—das what. Ef de money goes wid craps, let it come back wid craps. No sah, not a nickel.” There was a feminine sob or two, but they did not sound real. “Yo’ reckon Miss Franko’s gwine feed yo’ eber day? No sah! Go long now, boy. Yo’ ole mammy ain’t no use fo’ no crap shooters. An’ Miss Franko ain’t nuther. She sho skin yo’ ef she fin’ yo’ snoopin’ roun’ hyar.” There was a gurgle as of some one drinking, and then the other person said: “Yo’ done ’sult me, mammy. I’se gwine ’way to stay. Yo’ ain’t goin’ to see me no mo’.” The other grunted. “Huh! You’ all don’ go no furder ’an you’ kin walk. An’ ah reckon de tas’ o’ dat meat an’ coffee’ll be gone by to-morrer.” “Yo’ don’ know what I’se gwine to do,” retorted the other speaker. “I’se got a job.” “Yo’ got a job?” snorted the woman. “Ain’t dat sun hu’t yo’ haid, chile?” “Marse Tom Allen allows he ain’t gwine campin’ dis spring lessen I goes wid him. Das all.” Bob started. Tom Allen! That was his new friend. This must be Jerry Blossom. Bob advanced to the end of the yard. Pretending to examine the chickens, he turned back toward the house, and, as he did so, had his first sight of Jerry. A colored boy, heavy for his height, and perhaps eighteen or nineteen years old, was coming jauntily toward the gate in the rear, intently examining a silver dollar. “Hello, Jerry,” exclaimed Bob. “Mawnin’, sah,” answered the boy, touching his hat. “Fine mawnin’, sah,” he added hastily pocketing his coin. “Ah yo’ a boada hyah, sah?” he continued. Bob nodded his head. Beyond question, the colored boy was decked in garments inherited from older persons of various tastes. His hat was too small, and his white shirt too large. He wore neither coat nor vest, and his shirt sleeves were held up with brass sleeve holders. His trousers, a loud black and white check, were hitched far toward his shoulders with most intricate and complicated suspenders. This, however, did not prevent their frayed ends from trailing behind Jerry’s shoes. These were of patent leather, worn and cracked, with gray cloth tops and large white bone buttons. “Yes,” said Bob, with a smile, “I’m a boarder here. I’m goin’ to be here several months. Do you live with Mrs. Franko?” “No, sah,” replied Jerry, promptly. “No, sah. Not prezackly—not now. Ah used to be a waitah hyah, but Miss Franko an’ me we done have a fallin’ out.” Bob already had an idea. Jerry didn’t know him. Why not utilize the black boy to pick up a little information? “Haven’t you got a job now?” continued Bob. “Me?” replied Jerry. “Sure, Ah has got a job. Ah wuk reg’lar ebery year—sometimes.” “What are you doin’ now?” went on Bob. “Well, sah,” replied Jerry, throwing out his chest, “Ah is what yo’ call a chef—dat means a cook, speakin’ common. Dey is a few rich gemmen in dis city ’at won’t eat no cookin’ ’ceptin’ mine. Dey constitute sah, what’s called de Anclote Club.” “Oh, I see,” commented Bob. “I suppose it’s one of those rich country clubs.” “Yas, sah,” continued Jerry. “Ah reckon it is about de riches’ club in de south. Ah has hearn tell dey ain’t nothin’ in de north kin tech de Anclote club house fo’ bigness an’ costiveness.” “Must be pretty fine,” said Bob, without a smile. “And so you are the chef of this club.” “Dat’s my reg’lar job,” answered Jerry. “O’ course, outen de club season, Ah has othah business.” “What’s that?” asked Bob relentlessly. “Well, sah, recently Ah was assistant janitor down to de Creole Coffee House. But Ah is restin’ now, preliminahy to my wuk at de club.” “Then the club isn’t open at present?” “We open day after to-morrer, Friday. Mos’ ob de membahs ah engaged in de banks and de countin’ houses till de end ob de week. Ef yo’ ’ll ’scuse me, I mus’ now has’en on as Ah have an appintment to engage some ob my assistants.” Bob could not refrain from laughing. “Wha’ fo’ yo’ laffin at, boy?” exclaimed Jerry. “I’m laughing at you, Jerry. I’m onto you. I know about the Anclote Club, and I know some of its members. Tom [34] [35] [36] [37] Allen is my friend.” The inflated Jerry collapsed like a pricked toy balloon. But he made a feeble stand. “Ah is de cook,” he blustered. “I know,” said Bob. “It’s all right. I’m not going to say anything about it. Now tell me about the real club; where it is, and what you do.” By following the still alarmed Jerry out into the back street to a convenient seat on the curb, Bob coaxed out of him the history of the club a membership in which he was a candidate. By the time Bob rejoined his mother ready for her shopping tour, he was poorer in money by a quarter, but considerably richer in information. It was tedious work shifting from one foot to another while his mother leisurely looked over organdies and summer silks, and it required the bracing influence of two surreptitious lemon phosphates. At last, about half past ten o’clock, Bob got his mother on a street car and they went to the Long Wharf. It was hot, and, somewhat over her protest, the boy persuaded his parent to accompany him in search of Captain Joe. The first sight of the Three Sisters schooner, freshly scrubbed and resplendent in its spring coat of green and blue paint, was reward to Mrs. Balfour and Bob for the hot walk on the long, fishy, crowded pier. Captain Joe, pipe in mouth, was lounging on the dock. The fishing excursion was out of the question, but Mrs. Balfour—somewhat to Bob’s surprise—at once acquiesced in Captain Joe’s proposal that she and her son go for an hour’s sail. The boat was roomy and substantial, and the ease with which the old red-girdled sailor handled his spread of canvas reassured Mrs. Balfour. As the Three Sisters heeled over and slid out into the rippling harbor, its feminine passenger even gave a little exclamation of delight. After a half hour’s sail out soundward, the Three Sisters came about. With several short tacks, Bob almost on the bowsprit to enjoy the zest of the salt spray (despite his mother’s half-hearted protests), Captain Joe laid over on his last haul for the wharf landing. Then came the accident that turned the pleasure sail into a catastrophe. As the little schooner sped gallantly forward, all on board had busied themselves watching a heavily laden tramp steamer making seaward. She had loaded with lumber at a private dock, her bow shoreward, and a puffing little tug had just finished heading her out into the bay. The Three Sisters was well to starboard, but, the steamer being just under way, Captain Joe, it could be seen, would pass close astern. At the moment when the swell from the steamer’s screw first struck the Three Sisters and the lumber tramp’s rusty red sides rose almost above the swiftly scudding schooner, a little leg o’ mutton rigged boat shot across the big boat’s stern. The fragile craft had been concealed from Captain Joe by the hull of the steamer. Who ever was in the approaching boat was apparently unaware of the impending collision, as the occupant was out of sight behind the sail. Captain Joe, astern at the helm, could escape the little boat only by falling further off the wind and that meant a collision with the steamer stern or its low-hanging starboard boat. With a shout of warning, he took one quick glance at Mrs. Balfour and hesitated. The moment was long enough to bring about the threatened collision. Mrs. Balfour screamed and caught Captain Joe’s arm. Bob, still astride the bowsprit, threw his legs backward onto the deck, and, grasping a stay, lunged downward in an effort to fend off the little boat. But, as he did so, a full swell from the now rapidly churning screw of the steamer caught the schooner and lifted it on a foamy crest. Checked in its course, the heavy schooner hung for a moment, its sails flattening, and then, almost jibing, pounded downward into the eddying swirl and smashed the slender mast of the cockle shell crossing its bowsprit. There was another piercing scream from Mrs. Balfour, and Captain Joe threw the schooner into the wind. Its sails flapping, he sprang forward to the wreckage. Quickly as he did so, Bob beat him, and as the bronzed seaman saw the boy throw himself overboard, he caught up a line and ran out on the bowsprit. A moment later, the captain of the Three Sisters was in the bob stays with firm grips on the unconscious sailor of the wrecked boat and the white-faced Bob. In truth, Bob’s physical ailment had been largely caused by his overindulgence in indoor aquatics. He had twice been a candidate for a place in the Y. M. C. A. polo team, and he had plunged into the foam of Pensacola Bay with no more fear than if he were starting on a game in the tank. He had not stopped to consider the handicap of a full suit of clothes, minus his coat which he had laid aside because of the summery sun, and it was too late to do so after he sprang overboard. He had caught only a glimpse of a boy, had seen him pitch forward as the little boat sank and he knew that help was needed. Bob came to the surface—blowing water as if in a forty-yard dash—his hat well adrift and his shoes already like lead, but with the unconscious form of their victim in his arms. Captain Joe threw true, and Bob had enough strength to free one arm and grasp the line. Mrs. Balfour screamed again, but the experienced seaman reassured her with a smile. Then the agitated woman even helped pull the limp form of the rescued boy into the schooner. Thereupon, although Bob was able to clamber aboard, almost unassisted, she became hysterical. Bob, a little weak in his legs and arms, applied himself to her pacification, and in a short time, they were both able to give attention to the boy on the deck. “All right,” exclaimed Captain Joe, “breathin’ reg’lar. Got de boom on ’is ’ead. Ain’t no drown.” A red spot on the unconscious boy’s temple indicated that he had been struck by a bit of wreckage. While Captain [38] [39] [40] [41] [42] Joe hastened to the helm again, Bob and his mother raised the boy’s head, wiped his face and in a few moments, he groaned slightly. Just before the schooner reached the wharf, the unconscious boy was able to move, and, after coughing and clearing his throat, he turned on his side. Bob Had Enough Strength to Free One Arm and Grasp the Line. “Captain Joe,” said Bob, “you know who we are and where we are stopping. If the boy is all right, don’t say anything about us. Take care of the boy, and if he thinks we ought to pay for his boat, come and see us. Here’s the money for our sail, and the next time, I hope we’ll have better luck.” As the Three Sisters came alongside the wharf, her forward sail came over and hid the still unconscious boy in its shade. Urged on by Bob, Mrs. Balfour climbed ashore. At the last moment, the still dripping Bob remembered a five dollar bill his father had given him. Slipping it to Captain Joe, he whispered: “Give him this for his doctor’s bill, if he needs attention.” CHAPTER IV THE CLUB HOLDS A SHORT SESSION Although only mid-February, the sun was far too warm for Bob’s Chicago blizzard clothes. His mother decided to buy him part of his summer outfit at once. It didn’t take long to lay in a new stiff hat for evening wear, a cap for knocking about in, a light rough coat and trousers and a pair of waterproof outing shoes. The water sogged garments were left at a clothing store, to be sent to the boarding house later, and when Bob reappeared on the street, he felt comfortable for the first time in three days. “Why were you so particular about those shoes?” asked his mother, as they boarded a street car. “Particular?” repeated Bob. “They’re just the thing for the boat club—if I’m elected.” “The boat club?” gasped his mother. “You don’t think that I’ll consent to that now—after what happened this morning?” “Of course,” answered Bob, with a smile. “That’s just why you will. You saw that I could take care of myself.” But his mother shook her head. “I suppose any boat the club has will be like the little thing we ran down. I can’t let you join—not now. I’ll be thinking all the time about the narrow escape that boy had.” “I don’t know that they’ll take me,” explained Bob. “Why not?” asked his mother indignantly. “Boys don’t give reasons,” answered Bob. “If they don’t like you, they don’t—that’s all.” Before his mother could interpose further objections, Bob immediately began a long description of the advantages of an outing on the shores of Perdido Bay. “You know what the doctor told us,” he added. “He said exercise was no good unless it comes in the form of pleasure—something you want to do. I never had a chance to get this sort of fun, with boys. And everything we’ll do is something I’ve wanted to do all my life.” Then he explained the natural wonders of the bay on which the Anclote Club had its house. Next followed the tales of pirates who had infested the wide silver sheet. There, only in the preceding century, the buccaneers of the gulf had made rendezvous and thereabout lurked the legends of buried gold and lost treasure. Never an ancient oak upon Perdido’s shores but what had, in Bob’s fervid imagination, tangled within its gnarled roots, the possibilities of iron crusted strong boxes. “I’m not really going to look for old Spanish pieces-of-eight or gold doubloons,” explained Bob, “but I’d like to go where people have looked for them. I can imagine the rest,” he added laughing. “This is where we get off,” smiled Mrs. Balfour. But Bob had made his point. After luncheon when his mother again revived the subject of the club, Bob tempered her objections to it with an account of Jerry Blossom. But he did not remind her that at three o’clock, he was to meet the boys to hear the verdict as to his eligibility. When the hour for Mrs. Balfour’s afternoon nap approached, she suggested to Bob that he write a letter to his father. His room adjoined hers. When the dutiful son heard breathing indicating that his mother was asleep, the letter came to a sudden termination. As soon as Bob knew that his mother was asleep, he concluded: “But it is too hot to write more to-day. Please send me another five dollars. Your obedient son, Robert.” Then, eager to be at Tom Allen’s home on time, he made his way quietly downstairs and was off for Zaragossa Street. When he found it was only a little after two o’clock, he idled along in front of the main shops. Within the window of a book store, he saw a map of the gulf coast. Examining a map wasn’t reading, so he went in, purchased a copy of [43] [44- 45] [46] [47] [48] [49] the chart, and, finding a dusty chair in a half lighted corner of the shop, he fell to studying the bays, sounds, islands and river mouths of the coast round about Pensacola. The scene of all his present dreams, Perdido Bay, was about as regular as a splash of gravy on a hot plate. To reach it by sea, one had to sail across the corner of Pensacola Bay, around the point of Santa Rosa Island, and then, about ten miles to the twisting mouth of the bay. Bob’s heart throbbed with excitement at the thought of the possibilities in store for him. Then he recalled himself—he remembered Mac Gregory. At exactly three o’clock, Bob walked briskly up to Tom’s house. There was no black rag on the gate. That was encouraging. By some occult boy’s reasoning, he knew that the club members were in the back yard. He had advanced but a few steps on the shell walk when Tom Allen appeared. “I didn’t know whethah yo’ all ’d come. Mac’s hyah,” he said in a rather awed voice. Bob noticed this, and some of his last evening’s resentment revived. “Look here, Tom,” he said, “I like you fellows fine, and I’d like to chum with you anywhere, but I don’t want to butt in. I’m not askin’ any favors of Mac.” “Oh, Mac’s all right,” said Tom apologetically, “only he’s kind o’ cranky sometimes. But you’ll like him when you know him.” The much discussed Mac turned out to be a very ordinary boy with no education and little natural refinement. He was older than any of the other boys, but less in stature, although strongly built. In short, Mac was a shiftless boy, the son of a coast steamer captain, who had been left to grow up pretty much as he liked. As this meant mainly a love for boats and sailing and a consequent knowledge of all the adjacent waterways, he was easily the leader of Tom and Hal in cruises afloat. As Bob, with a quick scrutiny of the stocky Mac, stepped forward to greet him with a handshake, the great Gregory nodded his head, and busied himself lighting a cigarette. Bob was surprised and indignant; but he showed neither. “So yer the kid ’at wants to hook up wid us?” commented Mac. “I was invited to join the club,” said Bob with a forced smile. “But I was given to understand that it was only if you liked me.” “’Tain’t a question o’ like ur dislikes,” commented Mac, blowing out a cloud of smoke. “Kin ye deliver the goods?” “That can mean a whole lot,” answered Bob. “There are a good many things that some boys can do that I don’t know anything about.” “Don’t get fresh,” Mac retorted. “There’s a good many that would give a lot to git in our club. We don’t know nothin’ about you.” “I’ll tell you anything you want to know,” volunteered Bob. “Talk’s cheap,” exclaimed the critical Mac. “Ever do any shootin’?” “No.” “Know how to fish?” “No.” “Kin you sail a boat?” “Don’t know one sail from another.” “Humph!” commented the autocrat of the club. “I don’t see where you belong in no first class fishin’ club.” “All right,” said Bob with growing indignation, but showing only a smile outwardly. “Since I haven’t been elected, it won’t be necessary for me to resign.” Mac scowled, but evidently felt somewhat ashamed. “Say, Kid,” he half sneered, “ye look kind o’ decent, ef ye are kind o’ sissy—” The next moment, the slouchy Mac had sprung backward, and the white-faced Bob was standing before him with clenched fists. “I don’t know what you fellows down here mean by ‘sissy,’ but up where I live, a boy couldn’t call me that. Take it back!” For answer, Mac laughed scornfully. He saw trouble coming and welcomed it. He did not wait for an attack, but darted under Bob’s ready arms and closed about the boy’s waist. The next moment, the two boys were locked in each other’s arms on the hard ground. Mac was tough in muscle and sound in wind. Bob’s lungs were just then his weak point. In muscular build he had only the strength of the average boy, lessened by his far from robust physical condition. But he forgot these handicaps. The only knowledge he had of wrestling was what he had picked up from observation in the Y. M. C. A. gymnasium. And this was all he had to use against his enemy. As if attempting to escape, Bob, who was beneath, started to roll over on his right side. Mac’s right hand flew from Bob’s left arm to his left shoulder, and the boy underneath shot his left [50] [51] [52] [53] arm below Mac’s chin, forced it around his opponent’s head and closed down with a blow on the uppermost boy’s neck. This simple wrestling hold was a thing Mac had never encountered. As his head sank downward and sideways under Bob’s arm lock on his neck, the under boy, with all his strength, threw the upper part of Mac’s body over, and before the astounded leader of the Anclote Club knew what was happening, he was on his back and Bob was astride him. But the effort was too much. Bob’s face was pale now from something more than anger or excitement. At the sight of a scarlet tinge on his lips, Tom Allen and Hal Burton sprang forward and pulled the combatants apart. Bob swayed weakly on his feet for a moment, then braced himself and wiped away the traces of the little hemorrhage that his effort had cost him. His weakened lungs had failed him, and his mouth was full of blood. “Come on,” sneered Mac, his face almost livid with rage, “finish what ye started. Ef ye think ye kin do that agin, try it.” Again Bob’s handkerchief removed a mouthful of blood. He cleared his throat, shoved his handkerchief into his pocket and began to draw off his coat. But just then Tom Allen stepped before his leader. “Mac,” he said in an alarmed voice, “he can’t fight. Bob’s sick.” “Sick?” sneered Gregory. “He’s sick where I pasted him, I reckon. Come on,” he snarled, “an’ I’ll give it to ye where ye ain’t lookin’ fur it.” Bob attempted to push Tom aside but by that time, Hal had also interfered. “You got to wait till he’s right, Mac—’tain’t fair.” “That’s all it takes fur some of ’em,” almost shouted Mac. “A little punch an’ a little blood an’ it’s all over. Ain’t that right, sissy?” Even Tom and Hal could no longer restrain Bob. The angry lad pushed them hastily as...