Rex Kingdon on Storm Island

Cover art

To the amazement of everybody, he was trying to steal home.—Page 257.

[Transcriber's note: the page number in the Frontispiece's caption was not linked because the caption's text does not appear anywhere in the book's main text. The Frontispiece may have been re-used from another book.]

REX KINGDON
ON STORM ISLAND

By GORDON BRADDOCK

AUTHOR OF
"Rex Kingdon of Ridgewood High," "Rex Kingdon in the
the North Woods," "Rex Kingdon at Walcott Hall,"
"Rex Kingdon Behind the Bat," etc.

Title page picture

A. L. BURT COMPANY
Publishers New York

Printed in U. S. A.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

[The Menace of the Law]
[In Stolen Plumage]
[The Catboat in the Squall]
[A Landing in the Dark]
[Behind the Lighted Canvas]
[Getting Back to the Boat]
[On the Verge of Something]
[A Bargain is Struck]
[A Challenge]
[Kingdon States a Determination]
[Enos Quibb Again]
[An Unexpected Difficulty]
[Rex Owns Up]
[A Lively Time]
[What's Sauce for the Goose]
[White Wings]
[An Off-Shore Blow]
["The Happy Family"]
[More of Mr. Quibb]
[Kingdon's Surprising Move]
[Revenge]
[The Boulder on the Hillside]
[A Threatening Sky]
[A Lucky Move]
[The Eight-Oared Shell]
[Pence Defends Kirby]
[Visitors]
[Horace Proves Himself]
[Something in the Offing]
[Facing Defeat]
[Horace Shows the Right Spirit]
[In Form at Last]

AUTHOR'S FOREWORD.

How would you like to spend a summer vacation on an uninhabited island off the Maine coast,—not alone, of course, but in company with a few chosen chums, all good fellows in their way and all of them ready for any sort of sport or adventure that might be found or borrowed? Surely, such a vacation would provide plenty of good fun, as well as some troubles and annoyances; but no vigorous, high-spirited American boy would mind a certain amount of inconveniences when he sets out to have a good time on a camping trip. In fact, he looks for some unpleasant things to happen, and he has a way of going right ahead and making the best of everything, so that many a time a source of irritation is turned into a spring of enjoyment and delight.

It was so with Rex Kingdon and his friends of the present story. When they arrived at Storm Island and found another party of campers located there, they at first were annoyed. They had understood that no one else would be given a permit to camp on that island. Imagine their astonishment when they discovered that the other party had deceived a local officer into letting them remain on the island by representing themselves to be "Rex Kingdon and friends," rightful holders of the camping permit. Trouble? Could anything spell trouble more plainly? But, after all, they managed to get more real fun out of it than they could have had if they had been the only campers on Storm Island. And, in the end, Rex wins a new recruit for Walcott Hall—and the prep. school baseball team.

This is the fifth story of The Rex Kingdon Series. It will be followed by the sixth and final volume of the series, which will bear the title, "Rex Kingdon and His Chums." In that forthcoming story Rex will finish his course at the Hall. As he regretfully bids good-by to the old school, the reader who has faithfully followed his career since he made his first bow in "Rex Kingdon of Ridgewood High" will have to bid good-by to him—as regretfully, I hope.

GORDON BRADDOCK.

New York, February 14, 1917.

Rex Kingdon on Storm Island.

CHAPTER I.

THE MENACE OF THE LAW.

"What's that noise? Say, Pudge, wake up and take a look."

"Hey? What noise?" stammered Pudge MacComber, startled out of serene slumber.

"Hear it? Sounds like a lot of soda-water bottles popping. Take a squint, Lazy."

The fat youth might have returned the compliment. Ben Comas lay on his back in the shade and did not even remove the cap over his eyes. Pudge, however, knew his cousin too well, and was too much in his debt, to file any objection to this command. Heaving a sigh, he struggled heavily to his feet. As he did so he became aware of a half-muffled put, put, put-a-put rising from the water which the camp site overlooked.

"Why, that's a motorboat!" he exclaimed before spying the craft in question.

"Noisy thing," grunted Ben, without moving.

"It's aiming this way," Pudge said, "right for our landing."

"Going to have visitors? Thought nobody ever came here."

"Wouldn't think many folks would, with the signs the Manatee Company have stuck up," chuckled Pudge. "Say!"

"Say it," grunted Ben.

"Only one man in the launch, an' I see something flash. Yes," Pudge gurgled, "I bet it is!"

"What's the matter with you?" grumbled Ben, finally sitting up. "You talk like a frog. What d'ye see?"

"He's got a badge," the fat boy said, solemnly. "I wish I could see his face."

"What d'ye mean?" Ben was now vastly and suddenly aroused. "Is it a constable? Where's Joe? He knows everybody 'round here—or he ought to."

"Joe's asleep."

"Wake him up. We didn't hire him to sleep, did we? Go on, you snail," ordered Ben.

Behind one of the two tents, pitched in this open glade on the rather steep northern shore of Storm Island, sprawled a roughly-dressed fellow. When Pudge had done Ben's bidding and aroused this individual, the latter uncovered his face, revealing features unmistakably those of an Indian boy. He came sullenly down to the other two lads.

"What y'want?" he asked, yawning.

"Who's that coming this way, Joe?" Ben Comas questioned. "That fellow in the launch?"

The Indian's eyes snapped open and he stooped a little, shading them with his hand, the better to view the approaching boat and its single occupant. Then he straightened up again, turning as though to retreat.

"Know him," he said.

"Who is he?" Pudge put in. "A cop?"

"Him Quibb."

"What'd I tell you?" cried Pudge. "That's the name of the constable we saw at Blackport—Enos Quibb."

"The one Horrors had the growl with," Ben agreed, rather faintly. "He's coming straight for us."

The Indian youth had already disappeared. The motorboat was nearing the shore of the island just below the camp. The cousins could plainly see the constable's face, as well as the big star upon his vest. Enos Quibb was not a handsome person at best, and just now his face was inflamed with anger and his frown was most portentous.

"He's got it in for us," said Pudge, apprehensively.

"All because of that fresh up there tossing the ball. It's up to him—that's what it is," declared Ben warmly. "Run, tell Horrors to come down here."

With a groan, the fat youth turned and waddled up the path into the thicker wood which seemed to crown the island. In the very middle of Storm Island, however, lay about two acres of open and level lawn. While yet Pudge was some distance from this spot the resonant slap of a ball as it landed in the catcher's mitt echoed flatly from the wall of tall trees completely surrounding the natural amphitheater.

"Hey! That's enough, Horrors!" the puffing fat boy heard Harry Kirby shout. "It's too hot to keep at it any longer. Quit, I say!"

Evidently he had flung the ball to the pitcher after removing his padded glove, and, just as Pudge came in sight of the two, the one called "Horrors" wound up again and whipped a sizzler over the marked square on the turf serving as the home plate.

"Quit, I say!" again yelled the backstop, as he leaped into the air, letting the low ball pass between his legs. "Think I'd be silly enough to try to stop that with my bare hands? That arm of yours has got dynamite in it, Horrors."

The pitcher was grinning in reply when a wild yell sounded from Pudge at the edge of the wood behind the catcher's station.

"Hey, you fellers! What're you tryin' to do—kill me? Nobody but a wild squawpaw could send in such a bullet. Ouch!"

Pudge limped forward, rubbing his shin where the pitched ball had nicked him.

"Come on—retrieve it," ordered the pitcher, strolling toward the platter.

"Chase your own ball," returned Pudge. "I didn't come 'way up here to play Fido. Why'd Kirby let it go by him?"

The backstop was wiping his brow with a torn shirtsleeve. "Catch me trying to stop one of Horrors' fast ones without my mitt. Not much!"

"Say, you fellers!" exclaimed Pudge, remembering his errand. "Ben says come on down to the camp—and in a hurry. There's a motor launch in sight."

"Didn't you fellers ever see a motor launch before?" demanded Kirby.

"But it's aiming right for our landing."

"What if?" drawled the tall fellow whom his mates called "Horrors."

"Who's in the launch?" asked Kirby.

"It's that constable Horrors had the fuss with at Blackport. Remember?"

"Shall I ever forget him?" murmured the tall lad. "The chap with the big tin star and the lovely yellow freckles."

"Enos Quibb," Kirby said, chuckling. "He's one sure enough farmer—that's right."

"Just the same," said the fat boy, wagging his head, "I wish he'd keep away from here—and so does Ben."

"Poof!" scoffed Kirby. "If Ben expressed a dislike for the sunshine or the sweet air, you'd keep in the shade and put on an overcoat, Pudge. What Ben says is law and gospel for you."

"We-ell," drawled Pudge MacComber frankly. "You know I wouldn't be up here if it wasn't for Cousin Ben. He paid my way."

"Yes," muttered Kirby to the taller fellow, "and I know Ben didn't give Pudge any return ticket, either. Keeps Pudge in leash better if he has no money in his jeans."

The fat youth did not hear this aside. He was saying: "We shouldn't have camped down there so near the shore. It's too exposed. Ben said that in the first place."

"Aw—Ben!" scoffed Kirby, while the tall chap smiled quizzically at the fat boy.

"He was right just the same. Here comes Enos Quibb, and we're going to get the boot, sure. We haven't permission from the Manatee Lumber Company to camp here, and you fellows know it. We'll have to sing 'It's Moving Day,' all right-o—and just as we got comfortably settled, too," finished Pudge with a groan.

"Come on," said Kirby. "Don't stand there weeping over it."

Already their leader was striding into the wood, and Kirby hastened to catch up with him. Pudge MacComber plodded on behind. It was a hot day, and he suffered from his exertions.

"What'll we do?" asked Kirby, at the tall fellow's elbow.

"About what?" countered the other, with a lift of his eyebrows and a tantalizing smile that seemed an index of his character. "What's fussing you up, Harry?"

"This Quibb can put us off the island. Of course, the Lumber Company did issue a permit for a party to camp here—and we're here first—huh?"

His friend had grabbed his arm suddenly, stopping dead in the path. "You do have an idea once in a while in that cranium of yours, Harry," he drawled.

"I don't feel any different from usual," said Kirby, rubbing his head and grinning. "If there's an idea milling around in there I don't sense it."

"But I do. Leave it to me." His friend started onward again, leading the procession to the encampment.

It was a beautiful spot they had selected in which to set up their tents—an open grove sloping easily to the edge of Manatee Sound which lay, on this particular June day, as smooth as a millpond between the island and Manatee Head, five miles away.

Ben Comas, much excited, hurried toward them. "Whatchu goin' to do about this, Horrors? See that fellow? He's mad's a hatter."

"He'll have a stroke—I shouldn't wonder," drawled the tall lad. "Too hot a day to let one's dander rise."

"You can joke," snapped Ben. "But he means business."

The launch was now close to the shore, and the exhaust ceased popping. Enos Quibb, the Blackport constable, stood in the bow boathook in hand, scowling threateningly at the group above him.

CHAPTER II.

IN STOLEN PLUMAGE.

"My, my!" murmured the only member of the camping party who seemed to take the visit of the constable with any degree of composure. "He seems savage enough to eat nails."

"Now, don't, Horrors!" begged Ben Comas. "Don't make it worse!"

"Better be smooth with him, old man," urged Kirby.

"See if you can pacify him," groaned Pudge. "I worked like a dog helping Joe get this camp fixed."

Their leader chuckled as he walked down to the natural dock where the two canoes, in which the party had reached Storm Island, were moored. The view of the sound, the rugged, well-wooded and scantily-inhabited mainland in the distance, expanded before his gaze. For several miles in either direction this mainland, as well as Storm Island itself, was either owned or leased by the Manatee Lumber Company. On the mainland the timber was properly policed by the company's guards; but Storm Island, far off shore, was considered secure from invasion by irresponsible fishing parties and the like, by the trespass signs posted upon its beaches. Blackport, the nearest town, ten miles from the western point of the island, was hidden from it by the wooded and rocky "crabclaw" sheltering Blackport Cove.

There was scarcely a habitation to be seen from the spot where the boys' camp had been established. There were fish-weirs visible at several points along the shore; but the catches gathered from these traps were, as a usual thing, taken to Blackport to be cleaned and iced, and then shipped to Portland or Boston by train. The locality was, therefore, as deserted as any spot along the entire stretch of the Maine coast.

Enos Quibb caught his boathook in the exposed root of one of the two great trees at the landing, drew the launch closer, and moored it. Then he sprang ashore. He was not a very big man save in his sense of importance. Being of a sandy complexion, his innumerable freckles were painfully yellow and prominent. His large, high-bridged nose was of a cold blue color even on this hot summer's day.

"Say, you boys!" he began. "Can't ye read them signs?"

"What signs, kind sir?" asked Horrors, languidly. Ben Comas, at his elbow, nudged the taller lad and whispered:

"Don't make it worse! Don't nag him!"

"Them 'No Trespass' signs," said the constable. "You know well enough they was put up to warn such chaps as you be off the island."

"But suppose we don't believe in signs? You know, I never was superstitious myself; I'd just as soon walk under a ladder—or take a bath on a Friday—as not."

Pudge began to chuckle, and the wrath of the constable was flagged in his thin cheeks by a rising flush.

"Stop it! Stop it!" ejaculated Ben Comas, under his breath. "We're in a bad enough scrape as it is."

The other gave no heed. He showed his even teeth in a sudden smile, that was all. Enos Quibb said, harshly:

"You're one smart boy, I don't dispute; but if you and your friends don't pack up and git off of this island shortly, you'll be smarter. Don't you know I can arrest you for trespass?"

"No," was the quiet reply. "I don't know that."

"Well, you'll find out!" declared the constable. "Nobody's allowed to camp on this island—not even to land here——"

"No-body?" put in the youth he addressed, in the same gentle tone.

"Why—we—well, say! The company did give a permit to one party for this summer."

"Well?" was the suave query.

"Say! Be you them?" demanded Quibb, flushing again. "I remember seeing you in Blackport, and you didn't say nothing to me then about comin' over here. Le's see," and he began fumbling in the inside pocket of his coat. "I got notice of this crowd that got permission from the Manatee Company to camp here——"

He drew out a letter. Ben Comas groaned. Kirby whispered emphatically: "Good-night! It's all off!" The constable unfolded the letter, and then quickly glanced up again at the quartette.

"This permit's issued to 'Rexford Kingdon and friends.'" Again he addressed the tall lad. "Does your name happen to be Kingdon?"

"Now you've said a mouthful," returned the leader of the camping party airily.

"Well! Well!" ejaculated the constable. "Why didn't you say so before?"

"You didn't ask me," the other returned, shrugging his shoulders, while his mates behind him stood in speechless amazement.

"Well! Well!" Enos Quibb exclaimed again, his watery eyes blinking. "If you air the right party I ain't got nothin' more to say. Only ye might have told me over to the port yesterday who ye was. I'd ha' been saved this trip, an' gas is mighty expensive." He seemed aggrieved.

The tall lad, who had dominated the situation so easily, may have considered the part of the pacifist just then a wise move.

"You didn't ask me who we were, my friend. You bawled us out over there at Blackport—told us we were blocking the sidewalk with our canoes, and drove us into the gutter. I suppose you had to do something like that," he added, gently, "or we might have overlooked the fact that there was a constable around."

Quibb flushed again at this last suggestion, but made no reply. He stepped into the launch, seized the boathook, and shoved off.

Kirby grabbed at his friend's arm. "He's never going to go without asking to see the permit?" he whispered.

But that is exactly what Quibb did. He spun the flywheel, and the exhaust began to spit.

"Dear me!" sighed Horrors. "And he's going without even bidding us good-by."

"Great Peter's uncle!" exploded Kirby. "The nerve of you, Horrors!"

"Now you've done it!" fretted Ben Comas. "What do you suppose he'll do to us when he finds out——"

"Dear, dear Bennie," sighed the bold youth. "You're at it again, are you? Always looking for trouble."

"Just as well be prepared for trouble when you're bossing things, that's sure," grumbled Ben.

"Oh, jumping mackerel!" giggled Pudge, who had dropped to the sod and was now having difficulty in smothering his desire to give broader vent to his delight. "The way you did it, Horrors! You're a dandy! You're a bird! And he swallowed it whole."

"He didn't have much to swallow," the leader of the party said quietly.

"Huh? 'Tain't much, I suppose, for you to string him along that you are this Rex Kingdon? Oh, no!"

"I didn't tell him I was," said the tall lad, smiling easily.

"What's that?" exclaimed Kirby. "Well, you just as good as did."

"I let him think so if he wanted to," the other returned, plainly enjoying the admiration of his companions. "Quibb did it all. He can't blame me."

"But you don't get me," continued Pudge, sitting up and with tears of laughter running over his fat cheeks. "You don't get me, Horrors. You to pose as this Kingdon chap."

"Well, why not?" asked the tall lad.

"You as black as Joe, yonder—almost; and him a strawberry blond. I remember him plain enough now. Saw him play against Winchester last year. In size you are not far out, old boy; but blond and brunette were never farther apart—believe me!"

"What do I care?"

"Maybe you will," Ben Comas put in. He begrudged Horrors the admiration of the other lads. He was not generous enough in any particular to be a leader himself, and he envied the good-looking youth's lordly ways and the subservience that he commanded so easily of his mates. "This business isn't finished."

"Well, we'll stay till the finish, Bennie," drawled the other. "What's the use of crossing bridges till you come to them? That doesn't get you anywhere."

"Aw—well," muttered Comas, shaking his head.

"But suppose this Kingdon and his gang walk in on us?" asked Harry Kirby, suddenly. "What about that?"

"The island's big enough, isn't it, for two camps?" demanded Horrors.

"Mebbe it isn't," grunted Pudge. "This Rex Kingdon is a fighter."

"Pshaw! You don't mean it, Pudge? Who told you so much, and your hair not curly?" drawled Horrors with lifted brows and his usual lazy smile that displayed the line of his white and even teeth.

That smile marred his rather attractive countenance, for the lift of the lip was almost canine. He was dark-haired, and his brows seemed painted over his steady eyes, so clear was his olive complexion. The contrast of his black hair and brows with his almost colorless skin was somewhat startling. The budding mustache on his lip was jet black, too. This "down" on a blond fellow would scarcely have been observed; it made Horace Pence seem several years older than he actually was.

"I suppose," he pursued, his drawling accents making Pudge MacComber flush, "you think this constable is going to put us all in the calaboose over at Blackport? That is what is troubling all you fellows."

"Well, of course he can do that. We're trespassing. Goodness knows there are enough signs all around the island forbidding landing upon it," Harry Kirby said.

"Bosh!" sneered Horace Pence. "I know the law against trespassing. They've got to prove we've done some damage by landing here and setting up our tents."

"And building fires," put in Kirby.

"That's all right," agreed the leader, quite unruffled. "We've only built one fire, and it is properly guarded. I saw to that. And Joe knows the fire law, you bet. Don't you fellows fret; I know what I am about."

"You seem to," admitted Harry Kirby admiringly. "I never knew a fellow like you, Horrors. You are always just skirting the edge of trouble, but never get into it."

"He'll get into it now, all right-o," grumbled Ben Comas. "We know well enough that there's a party did get a permit to camp here this summer; that's why my father couldn't work it for us—and he owns some stock in the Manatee Company, too."

"We heard about that before," said Kirby. "Is it true or just one of your false alarms?"

"That's no false alarm," defended Ben, vigorously. "It's straight. A bunch from that prep. school out Scarsdale way, with this Rex Kingdon at their head, got permission to come here, and the company wouldn't allow two camps on Storm Island."

"What prep. school's that?" demanded Kirby.

It was Horace Pence that made answer, to the surprise of his companions. "Walcott Hall," he said briefly.

"Huh!" exploded Pudge. "How'd you know?"

"I heard about this crowd coming here, in town before we started," confessed the leader of the camping party.

"Say! An' you never told us!" Kirby complained.

"Because that Rex Kingdon and his crew were coming is why I suggested Storm Island. Say, Kirby! don't you remember that slim, slick, blond chap who played with the Ridgewood High only a couple of years ago when they beat our nine so badly? I haven't forgotten him, if you fellows have. That's Rex Kingdon, and I've had it in for him ever since they gave us such a walloping. Kingdon and I had words after the game, too—some!"

"Why didn't you lick him then, and get it over with?" scoffed Ben Comas.

"He got out o' town with his crowd, that's why," Pence responded rather more earnestly than was his wont.

"And did Kingdon go to this Walcott Hall School?" asked Kirby.

Horace nodded. He was not much of a talker and, if he could convey his meaning without speech, he seldom troubled to open his lips. He felt as though he had been actually garrulous in speaking of Rex Kingdon.

"I know who you mean," Pudge said; "he's catching for the Walcott nine. And he's a bear at football, too. Played on the Hall 'leven against Winchester last fall I tell you. And, say, Horrors!"

The tall youth looked at him questioningly, and the fat boy continued:

"You don't want to be too sure of that blond fellow. He's a fighter. He can use his fists."

"So can I," said Pence succinctly. "If he and his crowd land here and make camp, maybe we'll find out who's who, eh?" His lip lifted again with a sneering smile.

"Hoh!" ejaculated young MacComber. "You don't suppose those prep. school fellers would stand for us being here, too, do you?"

"Why not?"

"Why, if they've got a permit, and know that they're responsible for what's done over here——"

"Forget it!" exclaimed Pence, now rather tired of the controversy. "Let's wait till they come. You're as bad as your cousin, Pudge. Maybe this Kingdon fellow and his gang won't show up at all. If they do——"

"Well, what if they do, Horrors?" asked Kirby eagerly, as the tall fellow became silent.

"We're here first. I don't know why we shouldn't stay. Quibb says we can. Let the other fellows worry—not us."

"Whew!" murmured Kirby, his eyes flashing. "I see. As one of our professors says, 'the onus of proving the case is on the other party.'"

"I s'pose you're right," grudgingly admitted Ben Comas. "My father says that 'Possession is nine points of the law.'"

When Joe Bootleg, the Indian, appeared and asked for particulars, Pence left it to his mates to answer.

Without being in the least "grumpy" Horace Pence was a strangely silent lad. He had a good mind and a quick wit. Had he not been lazy he might have already matriculated at college, for his people were in circumstances to send him there. But for nearly two years he had loafed around his home town, having had trouble with his instructors in the last school at which he was entered, and thenceforth refusing to go to another.

In a fair way of becoming rather a useless member of society, if he maintained his present irresponsible attitude toward the world, Pence had thus far been saved from any very pronounced vices by a natural distaste for them. Honor meant little to him, however, as his present action showed. He had usurped the name and status of another fellow to his own advantage, and he really thought that he had turned a very smart trick by doing so.

If he and his friends, being first on the island, could "put over" this substitution of identity, Pence considered only the fun of the situation and the fact that they would not have to move camp. There was no place for miles along the mainland where they could make camp without being warned off by the lumber company's fire warden. Storm Island was a "beauty spot," and Horace determined to remain here with his companions.

The sound offered sheltered and quiet water for small craft while the Atlantic billows soughed upon the southern beaches and, in time of storm, the foam-crested surf drove high against the rocky interland of the island. These outer beaches of Storm Island were not considered perilous to shipping, however, as the course of deep-bottomed craft lay well off shore. The nearest light was at Garford Point, just visible in the East, while the only life-saving station within twenty miles was on Blackport Beach beyond the mouth of the cove.

It seemed as though there might be plenty of fun and chance for adventure on and about Storm Island, but these five fellows, who had established their camp here, had made a false step at the very outset of their vacation.

CHAPTER III.

THE CATBOAT IN THE SQUALL.

"If we had some more fellows here," Kirby said as he stopped another of Pence's hot ones, Pudge having swung at it with a ferocious grunt, "we might at least get up a decent game of two-old-cat. But Joe's struck; says he won't chase any more balls. And Pudge and Ben want to bat all the time."

Idleness was beginning to wear on the party of campers. Horace Pence was satisfied to exercise his pitching arm a little every day. They had plenty to eat, and nobody seemed to care much for fishing. If idleness can be condoned, it is not in camp—that is one sure thing. Something doing all the time is the only way to spend a pleasant vacation. One kind of work offsets another. If the mind goes stale, rest it by vigorously using the body; if the latter is overworked, nothing so quickly and easily aids in resting it as mental exercise.

These boys in camp on Storm Island were using neither their minds nor their muscles sufficiently. They were not happy. The days already began to seem too long, although they had not been in camp a week. They were becoming more and more quarrelsome. Instead of enjoying their vacation, they were likely to be bored to distinction very shortly.

Pudge threw away his bat. Horace came in from the mound and seated himself with the others upon the turf under a spreading tree.

"We ought to do something," complained Kirby.

"You'll have a chance shortly," drawled Horace Pence, squinting skyward. "A home run for the tents. It's going to rain."

"Those are thunder-heads all right," Ben admitted.

"Let's go over to t'other side of the island. Can see the storm roll up. She's coming from seaward," proposed Kirby.

"Let 'er come," grunted Pudge.

"I've seen a thunder storm before," stated Ben, without moving.

"Never on Storm Island," snapped Kirby. He was fretful from lack of occupation. But it was not until Horace stood up that Harry moved. "What, ho?" he cried.

"Good idea," said the languid Horace. "I never saw a tempest at sea."

"Then you're going to improve your mind?" asked Pudge.

"Aren't you coming?"

"My mind doesn't need improving," announced the fat youth, lolling back again and pulling the cap over his eyes.

As Pudge stretched out his short legs more comfortably, Horace and Kirby passed, one on either side of him. At a given signal from the former, they stopped, each seizing one of the fat youth's ankles. They started off at a trot, dragging Pudge with them over the smoothly slipping pine needles that covered the ground.

"Leggo! Stop it!" bawled Pudge as his coat crawled up his back and he lost his cap and a suspender button in his struggles. He flopped about like a sea turtle turned on its upper shell—and just as gracefully—to the delight of Ben Comas who followed, kicking his cousin's cap.

"You'd oughtn't to complain, Pudge," Ben said. "You're going without any exertion on your part."

"Hey! Quit, you fellers!" cried the fat lad. "What d'ye think I am? There goes another of my suspender buttons. Ouch! stop it——"

He managed to kick free of Kirby's hold, and the laughing Pence had to release the fat boy's other ankle to save himself from being kicked. Pudge scrambled up, breathing dire threatenings.

"How'd you think I'm going to hold up my pants—two buttons busted off?" he grumbled. "And they're lost, too."

"Use a belt, like a normal human being, son," advised the much amused Pence.

"Huh!" Pudge responded, patting his protuberant waistline ruefully. "I don't like a belt. 'Tain't comferble. Ow!"

A startling clap of thunder broke directly over their heads. A chill breath of air swept through the aisles of the wood.

"We're going to get wet," sang out Ben.

"Well, we're neither sugar nor salt. We won't melt," Kirby returned. "There's the sea. My! Get onto the whitecaps, boys!"

A vivid flash of lightning stained the slate-colored horizon. Again the thunder broke and rolled away in reverberating echoes. The sky was completely overcast on the seaward side of the island, and the clouds were now rolling up to the zenith. The sun was wiped out, while the wind soughed in the treetops.

"My!" murmured Pudge, having recovered his cap and his good temper. "Going to be some storm."

It was Pence who spied the catboat. Not a sail nor a smudge of smoke betrayed the presence of any larger vessel upon the skyline; but close in under the island—so close that it seemed Horace might have thrown the ball in his hand into her cockpit—sailed a catrigged boat, perhaps twenty-four feet long, and broad of beam.

She was just tacking and, as her boom swung heavily to port, the boys on the brink of the wooded cliff noted that there were five figures visible in the boat. They were evidently preparing for the coming squall, although no reef had been as yet taken in the sail.

"Getting into their slickers," said Harry Kirby. "They're all young chaps, aren't they?"

"Don't see any that look as though they'd voted many times," drawled Horace.

"See!" cried Pudge. "One's just a kid—that little feller."

"There's one with hair as red as a rheumatic bandage," chuckled Kirby. "Some hair, that! Now he's put on his hat and quenched the sunset."

"How about the fellow steering?" asked Ben. "Hi! There goes his hat."

The sou'wester the steersman had carelessly clapped upon his head, without fastening the chinstrap, suddenly sailed like a hydroplane over the leaping whitecaps. The wind tossed his blond hair like a girl's.

"Observe that football mop!" yelled Pudge. "That's some hirsute adornment, Harry—eh?"

"Look at that sail belly, will you?" Kirby was saying, for he knew something about boat-sailing and was keenly watching the handling of the catboat. "He must be mighty sure of his stick."

"Got to claw off shore," Horace said briefly, likewise watching the maneuvering of the craft with interest. "This squall came suddenly when the wind shifted. She's too close in for comfort."

"Suppose they'll be capsized?" asked Ben.

"Wouldn't want to be in their shoes right now," grunted Kirby. "There! The wind's puffing again. This squall is dangerous."

"Here comes the rain, fellows," cried Pudge in his high-pitched voice.

The curtain of falling rain swept over the sea, beating down for the moment the jumping waves. It struck the staggering catboat. Through the half-opaque wall of it the watchers on the cliff could still see the tall fellow standing at the tiller, hanging on with both hands.

"Looka that feller!" gasped the excited and admiring Pudge. "Some lad that—what d' you say, Horrors?"

"He's no quitter," admitted the tall lad, his gaze never leaving the chap managing the staggering catboat.

"Shucks!" grunted Ben. "He's just got to hang on. Who wouldn't?"

"You!" snapped Kirby like the bark of a spaniel. "You never scarcely smelt salt water before. You don't know what it means to cling to that kicking tiller!"

"You've said it," rejoined Horace softly.

The curtain of rain lifted a little. The boys in the catboat had managed to reduce sail; but if she lost headway and fell into the trough between two waves, she might wallow over, and turn turtle entirely.

"He's trying to keep in the shelter of the island, isn't he?" Pudge asked.

"Trying to wear 'round the easterly point of it. The water'll be smooth there, and the island will break the force of the wind," Kirby replied. "Ah! Good for him! 'Atta boy!"

The fellow with the flying hair had tacked again—a move calling for much judgment and no little courage. When the boom went over it almost carried the craft upon her beam ends.

Her counter rose till the watchers could see the green water wash into the cockpit over the starboard rail.

But she righted, and before the rain-curtain shut down again the spectators saw that the boat was headed right for the sheltered point of the island.

"Say, you fellows," Ben objected, "this rain is no fun. I'm going to hustle for the camp."

"Me, too," agreed his cousin, clutching at the waistband of his trousers. "I wish I could find them buttons."

"We'll all go," Horace Pence said. "That boat will show up in the sound in half an hour—or she won't show up at all."

"She won't be swamped? Not as bad as that?" cried Pudge, somewhat worried.

"She'll pull through," said Horace more confidently.

"Of course," agreed Kirby. "I'd like to see that fellow close to," with increasing admiration. "The one sailing her I mean. He's some pilot, all right."

The heavily falling rain now shut out all view of the staggering catboat. How she fared could not be learned from the point where the quartette stood. They returned through the wood, the rain drumming sharply upon the leaves overhead.

CHAPTER IV.

A LANDING IN THE DARK.

As suddenly as it had swept down upon the catboat, the squall passed. But the veering wind drove the billows in from the open sea until, before it arrived in the shelter of the eastern point of Storm Island, the Spoondrift was riding a series of rising waves that would have threatened the safety of a much larger craft.

Her centerboard, however, aided in keeping the boat on even keel. The coolness of her steersman, and his knowledge of how to handle a cat, did the rest. The wind, driving behind, threatened no danger once the craft was headed right. There were five young fellows aboard the Spoondrift. Four of them were lined up along the weather rail and hanging on for dear life. Their expressions of countenance were as varied as their characters.

The red-haired chap, stout and stocky of build, looked calm enough; but the lids of his eyes were narrowed and his steady glance seldom left the foaming seas boiling under the lifting bow of the boat. His keen attention was given to what lay ahead.

Beside him was a little fellow with rosy cheeks, who clutched the "lubber line" till his knuckles were white. He was plainly excited and, perhaps, not a little fearful. At every plunge or kick of the boat he seemed to jump and grip the line more tightly if possible.

The third youth in the row was a long-limbed chap—a giant beside the little fellow—whose brick-red countenance, glistening with spray, gave no hint of fear, only of wonder. He was staring out over the tumbling waves with wide open orbs.

"What d'ye think of it, Applejack?" squealed the younger lad shrilly. "Not much like your bounding plains, eh?"

"She's a-bounding all right," croaked the one addressed. "And then some!"

The fourth chap uttered a harsh laugh. "It's only a squall. Wait till you see a real storm, Cloudman," he said.

"This is sufficient—ab-so-lute-ly!" squealed the little fellow. "Old Mid takes this like he does everything else—as though it were for the good of his soul."

The person thus referred to was rather a grim looking chap. His eyes were gloomy, his brow frowning, his lips set in a tight line. There was more strength and determination in his features than beauty, that was sure. Only when his gaze turned upon the steersman, standing like a young Viking at the helm, did his expression seem to soften.

The latter was curly haired and comely of both face and figure. Even the bulky oilskins he wore could not hide the grace of his posture. He smiled, too, as he handled the kicking tiller and gazed out over the tumbling sea as though he really enjoyed it and was exhilarated by the danger of the moment.

The red-haired youth turned suddenly and yelled to the steersman: "Hi! You peroxide beauty, you're running in too close to that point! You'll have her stubbing her toe on some sandbar, first you know."

"No such animal hereabout, Larry," drawled the helmsman serenely. "I didn't wrestle with that chart for nothing. Leave it to your noble pilot. The beach there drops away to four fathoms within thirty yards of high water mark. Hold your breath, fellows; I'm going to tack again.

"Great glory, Rex! You'll have the stick out of her!" shrieked the more than a little frightened Peewee Hicks.

"Calm yourself," urged the other, smiling indulgently at the little fellow. "Don't be such a calamity howler. Now! Low bridge, everybody."

Larry Phillips—he of the auburn hair—handled the sheet. The boom swung over, the hand's breadth of sail filled on the other tack, and it seemed as though on the instant the Spoondrift darted into comparatively calm water, the shoulder of the island intervening between them and the wind. But the rain, now descending in torrents, quite blotted out all view of the land so close to them.

"Get over the iron, Jawn," advised the fellow at the tiller, speaking to the dark and gloomy-looking chap. "We don't want her to climb aboard the island. Careful, boy! Don't throw yourself after the anchor. Whew! I think this shower will lay the dust on the ocean."

"Now you've said something, Blue Eyes," grunted Phillips. "It's just as wet rain as ever I felt."

"Looka the boat," complained Peewee Hicks. "It's all a-wash."

"Reach into the locker there, get a bailer and set to work," ordered the skipper of the Spoondrift. "You need exercise, Runt."

"I didn't ship aboard this old hooker to work."

"We know you came to give us the pleasure of your society, but right now it's up to you to imitate the busy little bee."

"Didn't you tell us this would be a pleasure trip?" demanded Hicks. "I thought I could bank on your word, Rex Kingdon."

"Of all the ungrateful persons!" cried Red Phillips. "You shipped as cabin boy, and you haven't done a lick of work yet."

"I feel like I'd been working for the last hour, all right. Hand's blistered holding onto that line to keep from flopping overboard. Ouch!"

"Never mind that," grunted the serious Midkiff. "It would have been small loss."

"And that's off your chest, Grouch," laughed Phillips.

"There aren't any of you fellows worked on this voyage but Kingdon and me," quoth the heretofore silent Cloudman. Despite the pouring rain he had fished an apple out of some pocket underneath his oilskins, and now he bit deeply into it.

"Oh, we'll do our share later," Phillips said airily. "Don't worry about the division of labor, Applejack."

"That's right, Rusty; but I always notice you dodge everything that looks like work, if you can," Cloudman returned.

"That's what he does," sputtered Hicks, who was splashing about in the cockpit, his trousers rolled up to his knees, and trying to use a tin bailer effectively. "And the rest of you are in the same class. Why don't you come on and help me? Think I can bail the whole Atlantic Ocean out of this blame' boat, alone?"

Midkiff had come aft after pitching the anchor overboard. The catboat tugged at this mooring with the action of a calf jerking at a lead-line. It was not at all an easy matter to move about in the jouncing craft.

"Say," said Midkiff to Kingdon, who seemed not at all troubled by either the beating rain or the pitching of the boat. "Say, can't we crawl into the cuddy and get dry? I'm not in love with this."

"Jawn," drawled the good-looking skipper, "I've got a hunch."

"What about?" asked Midkiff. "If it's anything to do with getting dry and comfortable, I vote we follow it."

"I think we'd better get our feet on terra firma as soon as possible," said his friend more seriously.

"In this rain? We'll get everything sopping wet. And it's going to be dark pretty soon anyway."

"You'll find most of our plunder extremely damp, as it is," returned Kingdon. "We took aboard a heavy cargo of water out there. Another night in this crowded cabin isn't a thing I yearn for with joy, old scout. And then—I want to get on to that island as soon as possible."

"Why the haste?" asked Midkiff eyeing Rex curiously.

"To satisfy an ingrowing suspicion," was the smiling answer. "I don't know that you saw what I saw when we were out yonder. Up on the heights of the island, I mean."

"Didn't see anything on the island," grunted his friend. "Wasn't even looking that way. The sea filled my eye, literally. And I should think it would have yours while we were floundering through those waves in this clumsy old cat."

"Don't imbitter your sweet young life, Jawn, by dwelling upon troubles past and gone," drawled the skipper. "The old Spoondrift is considerable of a tub, I admit. She'd been all right, though, if that auxiliary engine hadn't fainted dead away. But we'll fix that."

"Well, what about your hunch? What did you say you saw on the island?"

"Didn't say."

"Well, for the love of peace, say it!" implored Midkiff impatiently.

"Keep your hair on, Jawn," drawled the blue-eyed chap, casting a hasty glance at their trio of friends and drawing Midkiff into the stern. Here, with their backs to the beating rain, they were quite out of earshot of the others. "Listen. Didn't you see those fellows up there on the island?"

"What fellows?" demanded John Midkiff. "You told us the island was uninhabited, and that nobody would be allowed to camp there but us."

"Ke-rect! The Manatee Company's mighty strict, too. Just the same, my eagle eye perceived several figures on the heights on the other side of the island just as the squall broke," Kingdon declared earnestly.

"How many? Men or boys?"