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?”

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[34] 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[35] 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[36] 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 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[38] 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[39] 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[40] 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[41] 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[42] 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 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.”