Charlotte Harbor was so flooded with moonlight that the little wind ripples shone like frosted silver. The “Gazelle,” lying peacefully at anchor, floated like a shadow on the placid water. Kenneth lay asleep on the cabin roof, where he had moved from the more cramped position in the cockpit. Soundly as a tired man should, he slept; then, disturbed by dreams of battles with wind and wave, he stirred, working his arms and legs like a dog who has visions of the chase. At first he moved uneasily, but still lay in the same position, then, still dead asleep, began to work over to the yacht’s rail. A long, strong roller came in from the Gulf and rocked the yawl so that the deck sloped sharply; there was a sudden great splash, and then all was still, the ripples circling away from the agitated spot. Suddenly the waters began to show signs of a struggle below, and an instant later a bedraggled white figure splashed to the surface and began spouting and spluttering. Kenneth coughed and wheezed as he got rid of a large quantity of warm, salt liquid, and between gasps called himself all the names his water-soaked brain could think of. He finally pulled himself up on deck—rather weakly—and lay down in the cockpit to rest a minute.
“Well, I’ll be jiggered, if that wasn’t the greatest fool stunt! I am mighty glad the other fellows were not around. I should never have heard the last of it.”
He turned to go below, and, as he did so, he heard the far distant crack of a rifle.
“Must be something doing with the turtles,” he thought.
The rifle shot which Ransom heard was fired by Frank at the great turtle, which, in spite of the hatchet in its skull and the boy on its back, was making for the sea, determined to escape. The hatchet, half buried in the thick bone, had no more apparent effect upon it than the dropping of an oyster shell on it would have had.
“Shoot him again, Frank!” shouted Arthur from his perch. “We’ve simply got to stop him.”
The boy took careful aim at the sinister black eye, the only vulnerable spot visible, and fired. With a heave that threw Arthur from his feet, the great creature made its last struggle for freedom, throwing the sand in showers and digging great holes in the coarse sand, then, folding its legs and tail beneath its roof-like shell, it died.
For a minute, the victor gazed at his victim, and then, wiping away an imaginary tear of regret, went to search for eggs. In a hollow near the spot where the hunters had found Mrs. Turtle, her eggs were unearthed—several dozen of them. The boys put them in a canvas bag which they carried, and went on to hunt for more shellbacks.
Before long they came again upon the tell-tale tracks in the sand, and found a turtle at the end of them; smaller, but one even more active than the other.
It was with great difficulty that they managed to get a long piece of driftwood under the shell, and by the aid of this leverage “end her over.” Frank and Arthur immediately rushed forward to end her misery, and received a shower of sand in their faces that nearly blinded them. They retired out of range in confusion, and dug the sand out of eyes, ears, and mouths. With powerful sweep-like strokes, the turtle clawed the beach in its efforts to right itself, and scooped the sand until it had dug holes for each of its four legs, so deep that the coarse grains were beyond its reach, and it lay helplessly sprawling.
With a single hatchet stroke, turtle number two was despatched, and the victors sat a minute beside their game to rest.
“Gracious! I’d like to have these turtles in Chicago,” remarked Frank, with speculative instinct. “Just think of the gallons of green turtle soup they would make; and it cost twenty-five cents a half-pint plateful! Holy smoke, we would be millionaires in no time.”
“But what are we going to do with them now?” Arthur had a way of coming down to realities with a sickening thud.
As if in answer to the question, the lighthouse keeper came towards them out of the fast brightening dawn, and showed them how to dismember the creatures.
Taking two great hams, the two boys slung them on a pole stretched between them, and started back to the place where they had left “His Nibs.” The pieces of turtle meat, the guns, lantern, and bag of eggs made such a heavy load that they were glad enough when they reached the spot where the small boat had been left.
Arthur and Frank looked out over the water and saw the “Gazelle” swinging at anchor, glorified in the warm colors of the sunrise.
“What’s the matter with Ken?” Frank exclaimed, pointing with his gun barrel at the figure on the yacht’s deck, which waved and gestured frantically.
“He is pointing at something. What’s the matter with the chump? He is shouting.” Arthur stopped to listen. The faint sound of a voice came over the harbor, but they could not make out what it said.
“He is pointing.” Arthur was shading his eyes and looking intently. “What, in the name of common sense, is—By George, look at ‘His Nibs.’” Arthur was pointing now at the little boat, which, like a mischievous youngster, was bobbing airily about a short distance from shore.
“Jove! it’s well we came along when we did; that little tub would have been out to sea in a minute.”
As it was, Arthur had to swim for it, and only caught the truant after a long race. “The next time I leave you alone,” he said, as he pulled himself over the stern, “I am going to make you fast to a ten-ton anchor.”
It was a merry feast that the reunited three enjoyed that morning. Turtle steak, which Kenneth declared to be equal to porterhouse and much like it in flavor, was the pièce de résistance; but the talk and chaff were the garnishings that made the meal worth while.
“You have got to wash dishes, old man,” Kenneth said to his mate, when every vestige of the breakfast had disappeared, “while Frank and I get this old house-boat under way.”
“Gazelle, Gazelle,
She’ll run pell-mell
With every stitch a-drawing;
O’er waters smooth,
And waters rough,
The seas her forefoot spurning.”
He sang light-heartedly as he went on deck.
Soon Arthur heard the cheep, cheep of the halliard blocks as the mainsail was hoisted, then the metallic clink of the ratchet on the capstan; Frank’s cry, “She’s broke!” was followed by the swift whirr of the jib halliards hauled taut and the creak of the blocks as the mainsail was sheeted home. Then the slap, slap of the little waves against the yacht’s sides as she heeled to the fresh breeze told Arthur that they were under way again.
“There’s no use talking, this beats farming,” Arthur said to himself. “But, Je-rusalem, we had it hard on the Old Mississippi. I don’t hanker for any more of that.”
After getting under way, the order was: “All hands and the cook prepare meat.” There was a large amount of turtle meat left that was too valuable to be wasted. The flesh was cut up into strips, thoroughly sprinkled with salt, and hung up in the rigging, where the sun shone full upon it, to dry. It was not a very appetizing job, nor did the yacht herself present a very attractive appearance, but the product turned out all right. Turtle meat and turtle eggs were on the bill of fare for some time.
Kenneth made the unsavory remark that if the meat-preserving experiment proved a failure, the “Gazelle” would be about as fragrant as a sponge-fishing boat.
After a four hours’ run, Frank, who climbed up into the port rigging, glass in hand, made out Captive Island, a low-lying strip of land that just showed above the surface of the water.
As they drew nearer, they could see that it was densely wooded—palms tossed their feathery heads; the great live oaks stretched out their mighty arms sturdily; and here and there a cedar stood out black in contrast with the lighter greens.
“I’d like to explore that island,” said Arthur. “What’s the matter with laying off there for the night?”
“All right; harbor is good and water enough,” Kenneth admitted, after looking at the charts.
The anchor was let go into three fathoms, off a sort of rude landing, which they afterward found was built by a man who lived on the island and raised vegetables for the northern market.
After supper, Frank and Arthur went ashore, but soon returned, driven away by mosquitoes. Frank declared that he had seen enough of that place at close quarters, and that if the skipper and Arthur wanted to explore, he was satisfied to stay and tend ship.
“Why,” said he, “except where the fellow has his vegetable patch, the whole place is a morass right down to the water’s edge. I guess there is a beach on the Gulf side, now I think of it.”
“That’s it—that beach! That’s what I want to explore.” Arthur was of an investigating turn of mind.
It was unnecessary to go through the usual plan of drawing lots to determine who should go and who should stay; Frank stuck to his previous statement that he would not go “chasing round in that miserable mud hole.” After all the morning’s work was done, the skipper and the mate got into “His Nibs” and rowed off.
The little landing was a primitive affair, hardly strong enough, the two boys thought, to allow of very heavy shipments being made from it; but it was sufficiently sturdy to bear their weight without a tremor. From it led a path through tilled land, green with the young shoots of a freshly-planted crop. This road Kenneth and Arthur followed for some distance. Fields crowded it closely on either side, then it branched, and the boys found themselves walking on a narrow strip of solid ground, hemmed in on both sides by a morass so deep and uncanny that they shivered. Tall palmettos grew out of the slimy ground, and vines twisted and wound in every direction like thin, green serpents; gray moss hung from the branches everywhere, like veils placed to hide some ghastly mystery. The path was well trod and firm, and the two boys, feeling that it must lead somewhere, went on quickly. For an hour, they travelled through the swamp, the way winding in and out among the trees wherever the earth was firm.
“I wonder if this is another case of ‘Lost in the Dismal Swamp,’” said Arthur, whose looks belied his cheerful tone.
“No; this path is perfectly clear. It will be easy enough to get back, if we want to,” Kenneth replied. “Getting cold feet?”
“No, sure not; but I would like to get out into the open, all the same.”
The thick trees shut out all the breeze there was, and the damp, currentless air was heavy with the odors of decaying vegetable matter. Perspiration was running down the boys’ faces, and spots of dampness began to show on the backs of their white jumpers.
“Hurrah!” shouted Kenneth, “there’s the beach.”
A rift in the trees showed the blue sky, and the invigorating sound of surf reached their ears. Soon they came upon a stretch of sand that shone white under the morning sun—smooth and hard and clean as a newly-swept floor.
In a minute the two were running races up the beach that stretched before them like a straightaway track. They ran and frolicked from the pure joy of living. Under the clear sky and shining sun, they forgot the gloomy forest and the stagnant marsh. Not till they were all out of breath, did the rollicking skipper and his undignified mate stop to rest; then they stretched at full length on the clean sand, and gave themselves up to the joys of doing nothing, when there was no need to work under the stress of an exacting conscience.
Neither of the boys realized how long they had lain there, supremely comfortable as they were, until the pang of hunger began to make itself felt.
“Look at that, Ken,” Arthur exclaimed, pointing to the sun long past the meridian. “Why, it must be afternoon.”
“My stomach feels like it,” the other admitted. “Better be going back, I guess.”
They got themselves up, and began walking leisurely along the beach, stopping now and then to pick up a shell or to ............