Wilt Thou Torchy Part 35

It must have been about four o'clock, for I remember hearin' eight bells strike and remarkin' to Vee what a silly way that was to keep track of time. We was watchin' Rupert go through his Columbus-discoverin'-Staten-Island motions, and I was workin' up some josh to hand him, when he comes rus.h.i.+n' back to the wireless room. No, we didn't stretch our ears intentional, and if we sidled up under the cabin window it must have been because there was a couple of deck chairs spread out convenient.

"Isn't that some kind of wars.h.i.+p off there?" Captain Killam is demandin' of Meyers.

"Wait," says the operator, fittin' on his tin ear. "He's just calling." Then, after listenin' a while, he announces: "He wants to know who we are."

"Don't answer," orders Killam.

"Oh, all right," says Meyers, and goes on listenin'. Pretty soon, though, he gives out another bulletin.

"It's the United States gunboat _Petrel_, and he's demanding who and what. Real snappy this time. Guess I'd better flash it to him, eh?"

"No, no!" says Rupert. "It's no business of his. This is a private yacht bound for a home port. Let him whistle."

It struck me at the time as a nutty thing to do, but of course I'm no judge. I had a hunch that Rupert was registerin' importance and showin' how he was boss of the expedition--something he hadn't a chance to get over before. It ain't long, though, before Meyers begins talkin' like he was uneasy.

"He wants to know," says he, "if our wireless is out of commission, and if it is why we don't run up a signal."

"Bah!" says Rupert. "These naval officers are too nosey. It'll do this one good if we take no notice of him."

"All the same," insists Meyers, "I think Mr. Ellins and the Captain ought to know what's going on."

"Oh, very well," says Rupert. "I'll call them down and we'll talk it over."

Course, we had to clear out then, for it's a secret confab of the whole executive committee that develops, includin' Auntie. But we got a full report later. It seems Rupert was skittish about havin' naval officers snoopin' around the yacht. For one thing, he don't want 'em to find out that this is a treasure-huntin' cruise, on account of the government's bein' apt to hog part of the swag. Then, there's all them guns stowed away below. He explains how this _Petrel_ is a slow old tub that he don't believe could overhaul the _Agnes_ before dark. So why not make a run for it?

The reg'lar yacht captain was dead against anything like that. He wouldn't advise monkeyin' with the United States Navy, if they was askin' him. Better chuck the guns overboard. As for Old Hickory, he was sort of on the fence.

Who do you guess it was, though, that stood out for makin' the nervy getaway? Auntie. Uh-huh! All this panicky talk by Meyers and the yacht captain only warmed up her sportin' blood. What right, she wanted to know, had a snippy little gunboat to hold up a private party of perfectly good New Yorkers and ask 'em where they was goin'? Humph!

What was the government, anyway? Just a lot of cheap officeholders who spent their time bothering our best people about customs duties and income taxes. For her part, she didn't care a snap about the navy. If the _Agnes_ could get away, why not breeze ahead?

I expect that proposition must have appealed to Old Hickory, for he swung to her side at the last, and that's the way it was settled. They decided to make no bones about what was up. Mr. Ellins calls us together and makes a little speech, sayin' if anybody don't like the prospect he's sorry, but it can't be helped.

Then the crew gets busy. Black smoke begins pourin' out of the stack and the engines are tuned up to top speed. All the awnin's are taken in and every flag pulled down. The _Agnes_ proceeds to hump herself, too.

"Twelve knots," reports Old Hickory, inspectin' the patent log. "The Captain thinks he can get fourteen out of her. The _Petrel's_ best is sixteen."

"At least, we have a good start," says Auntie, gazin' off where a thin smudge shows on the sky line. "And before they can get near enough to shoot they can't see us. I suppose they'd be just impudent enough to shoot if they could?"

"Oh, yes," says Old Hickory. "We're outlaws now, you know."

"Who cares?" says Auntie, shruggin' her shoulders.

Say, I wasn't so much surprised at Mr. Ellins. He's spent most of his life slippin' things over on the government. Auntie, though! A steady, solemn old girl with her pedigree printed in the Social Register. You wouldn't have thought it of her.

"Some plunger, Auntie, eh?" says I to Vee. "She don't seem to care what happens."

"I never knew she could be so reckless," says Vee. "Getting us chased by a wars.h.i.+p! Isn't that rather dangerous, Torchy?"

"I shouldn't call it the mildest outdoor sport there was," says I.

"And the casual way she talks of our being shot at--as if they'd fire tennis b.a.l.l.s!" goes on Vee.

"I didn't care for that part of the conversation myself," says I. "I'm no hero, like Rupert. If there's any shootin' takes place, I'm goin'

to get nervous. I feel it comin' on."

"You don't think Auntie and Mr. Ellins would let it go that far, do you?" asks Vee.

"It would be just like Auntie to fire back," says I. "What's a navy more or less to her, when she gets her jaw set?"

"I--I wish I hadn't come on this old yacht," says Vee.

"If I could row you ash.o.r.e," says I, "I wouldn't mind stayin' to keep you company. Look! That smoke off there's gettin' nearer."

If Auntie and Old Hickory was pinin' for thrills, it looked like they was due to get their wish. Just what would happen in case the _Agnes_ was run down n.o.body seemed to know. The only thing our two old sports was interested in just then was this free-for-all race.

Anyway, we had a fine evenin' for it. The ocean was as smooth as a full bathtub, and all tinted up in pinks and purples, like one of Belasco's back drops. Off over the bow to the right--excuse me, to the starboard--a big, ruddy sun was droppin' slow and touchin' up the top of a fluffy pile of cottony clouds back of us, that looked like they was balanced right on the edge of things. Bang in the middle of that peaceful background, though, was this smear of black smoke, and you didn't have to be any marine dill pickle to tell it was headed our way.

We groups ourselves on the after deck and watches. Everybody that could annexes a pair of field gla.s.ses; but, even with that help, about all you could see was some white foam piled up against a gray bow. Now and then Rupert announces that she's gainin' on us, and Old Hickory nods his head.

"Only an hour until sunset, though," Auntie remarks.

"I suppose," suggests Rupert, "we could change our course after dark and slip into Miami Bay."

"No," says Old Hickory, waggin' his head stubborn. "We will hold our course right down through Florida Straits. We ought to make Key West by morning, if we're not over-hauled."

"If!" I whispers to Vee.

Dinner was announced, but for once there's no grand rush below. Mr.

Ellins orders a hand-out meal to be pa.s.sed around, and we fills up on sandwiches while keepin' watch on that black smudge, which is creepin'

closer and closer. Don't take long for it to get dark down in this part of the country after the sun is doused, but the stars s.h.i.+ne mighty bright. On the water, too, it seems so much lighter.

Then the _Petrel_ turns on a couple of search-lights. Course, we was 'way out of range, but somehow it seemed like them swingin' streaks of light was goin' to reach out and pick us up any minute. For an hour or so we watched 'em feelin' for us, gettin' a bit nearer, reachin' and swingin', with the _Agnes_ strainin' herself to slip away, but losin' a little of her lead every minute.

Must have been near ten o'clock when Rupert announces cheerful: "By George! She's falling behind. Those searchlights are getting dimmer."

"I believe you're right," says Old Hickory.

Half an hour more and there was no doubt about it.

"Humph!" says Auntie. "I was sure we could do it."

And Mr. Ellins is so tickled that he orders up a couple of bottles of his best fizz, so all hands can drink to the U. S. Navy.

"Long may it wave," says J. Dudley Simms, "and may it always stick to its new motto--Safety First."

He got quite a hand on that, and then everybody turned in happy. As I went to sleep the _Agnes_ was still joggin' along at her best gait, and it was comfortin' to know that our wrathy naval friends had been left hopelessly behind.

I expect I must have been poundin' my ear real industrious for five or six hours when I hears this distant _boom_, and comes up in my berth as sudden as if someone had pulled the string. Suns.h.i.+ne was streamin' in through the porthole, and I was just wonderin' if I'd slept right through the breakfast gong when _boom_! it came again. There's a rush of feet on deck, some panicky remarks from the man up in the bow, a quick clangin' of the engine-room bells, and then I feels the propellers reversed.