Hiking Westward

Being the Story of Two Boys Whose Ambition

Led Them to Face Privations and Hardships

in Their Quest of a Home in the Great West

By

ROGER W. CONANT

ILLUSTRATED BY

FRANK T. MERRILL

W. A. WILDE COMPANY

BOSTON—CHICAGO

Copyrighted, 1920,

By W. A. Wilde Company

All rights reserved

Hiking Westward

FOREWORD

HIKING WESTWARD is really a chapter taken out of the lives of two wide-awake American boys who go West to make a home for their mother. Although ignorant of the conditions of frontier life, Phil and Ted Porter meet them manfully. They face their difficulties with a smile, work like Trojans on their quarter section and through the love which they bear their mother, as shown in their every act, they win the respect of the kind-hearted, but rough settlers: people who do things: to whom setbacks and difficulties are daily occurrences. Success crowned their efforts, developing a sturdy self-reliance and an ingenuity in surmounting the many obstacles which confronted them.

Originally this story appeared under the title of “The Young Homesteaders”, by J. W. Lincoln—my pen name, but the edition was quickly withdrawn and now, over my own name and with corrections and revisions, I desire to place it in the hands of all the boys I can as a true picture of early pioneer days.

Roger W. Conant.

CONTENTS

Hiking Westward

CHAPTER I

SOLVING A PROBLEM

“Phil, what should you and Ted do if you were suddenly called upon to support your sisters and me?” asked Mrs. Porter, as her family were finishing their supper.

“Play ball,” declared Phil.

“Be an aviator,” announced his brother.

“You might have known what their answers would be, Momsy, without asking,” exclaimed Sallie, with disgust. “Ever since Phil was elected captain of his school nine all he can think of is ‘play ball.’”

“Yes, and Ted’s just as absorbed in that old machine he is building—as if he could build anything that would fly,” interposed Margie.

“I tell you it can fly, Miss Smarty. It rose more than a foot from the ground and kept up for its whole length last week,” retorted Ted.

“That wasn’t flying, it was the shock caused by my lending you my week’s allowance,” retaliated Margie.

“You said you wouldn’t mention that, and anyway, I didn’t promise to pay it back until next month.”

“I’m sorry, Ted. That slipped out without my thinking. Do you suppose your machine would fly twice its length if I loaned you this week’s money?”

“Goody, sis, will you?”

“Don’t you do it, Marg,” warned her older sister. “Momsy, you ought to forbid Ted’s throwing away all his and Margie’s money on that crazy old airship.”

“I haven’t asked you for any, have I?” demanded Ted, his cheeks flushing.

“Good reason why—you know I wouldn’t lend you any.”

“You can turn up your nose all you like, but you’ll change your tune when you see me flying about.”

“I shall be so old my eyesight will be gone when you do.”

“Never you—” began Ted, only to be interrupted by his mother.

“There, there, son, don’t get so excited. It is all right for you to spend your own time and money on your flying machine, if you wish, but you must not borrow from Margie.”

“Now don’t scold Ted, Momsy,” broke in the younger girl. “I really owe him something because he helped me to pass my algebra exam.”

“Besides, I said I would pay her back next month—and I will.”

“All right, but I forbid you to ask Margie again. I think, too, it would be just as well if you all saved your allowances from now on—there is no knowing how soon they will stop entirely,” added Mrs. Porter, seriously.

At this statement, the boys looked blankly at their sisters, then at their mother, and as they searched her face, they noticed how unusually wan and frail she appeared.

“Why, Momsy, how tired you look!” exclaimed Phil.

“I am, son,—and ill. The doctor says I may,” and her voice quavered, “I may be obliged to give up my work and take a long rest.”

In shocked surprise, her sons and daughters heard her words, for, though they loved their mother dearly, with the carelessness of youth, they had failed to note the increasing look of weariness that was furrowing her face with lines.

“If Dr. Blair says you ought to take a rest, you shall,” declared Ted.

“Yet I can’t unless you and Phil are able to take my place as breadwinner, and flying and playing ball do not seem to be very reliable occupations.”

“We didn’t mean that; at least, I didn’t,” protested Phil, hastily.

“Nor I,” his brother quickly confirmed.

“Then what would you do?”

An instant Phil looked at his brother, who nodded, then replied:

“We’d take up a free homestead out West and raise wheat.”

So utterly different from anything they had expected was this announcement that Mrs. Porter and her daughters simply sat in silence.

Confronted with the necessity of bringing up four young children with only a small life insurance as a basis, the mother had courageously set about the task.

Artistic by nature, through the aid of friends, she obtained a responsible and remunerative position with a large department store which had enabled her to make their home in Weston comfortable and attractive, even, indeed, through the strictest economy, to save a few hundred dollars—but the effort had been at the expense of her strength and health.

“A lot you kids know about farming,” exclaimed Margie, the first to recover from her surprise.

“Or about anything else that’s practical,” retorted Phil. “But we can learn—and there’s a better living to be made from a farm, say out in Washington State, even the first year, than we could provide you in the city in five.”

“You think you would be happy to leave Weston, with your amusements and all your friends?” quietly asked Mrs. Porter.

“We know we should be,” asserted Phil. “Why, Jack Howell told us it took all the money he could earn just to buy his clothes and go round—and he receives twenty dollars a week. So how could we take care of you and the girls, too, even if we were able to get that much?”

“Which we wouldn’t be,” promptly declared Ted. “If a fellow can get ten dollars a week when he starts in, he is lucky. I know, because I’ve been trying to find a place where I could earn some money to put into my flying machine.”

“Why go way out to Washington?” inquired Sallie. “If you are set on going in for farming, there must be no end of places nearer where you could do as well.”

“If we had the money,” returned Phil. “As we haven’t, the thing for us to do is to take up some of the land that is given away by the government to settlers, and there is none easier to clear than in Washington. Oh, we know,” he added, forestalling the exceptions he knew his sister would take to this statement, “because Ted and I have been looking it up.”

“I thought lumber was the chief product of Washington,” declared Margie, cocking her head on one side, as though she were obtaining a mental picture of the products of that State as they were printed in her geography.

“So it is, but there are thousands of acres which are particularly adapted to wheat; that is, the climate is, and the soil is fertile,” replied Ted.

“But there are bears out in those forests,” protested Margie. “Just imagine Phil and Ted at work in their fields when up comes Master Bruin behind them and gives them a swat with his paw, knocking the mighty captain of the Parker School Base Ball Nine out with the first blow. Why—”

“Be sensible, Marg, if you can,” snapped Phil.

“Very well. Where do Momsy and Sallie and I fit in your plan? Dr. Blair says Momsy must have a rest. But all I can see in your scheme is a lark for you and Ted while we stay on here in the East.”

“We’d have Momsy and Sallie come out just as soon as we had filed our entry to the land and put up a cabin,” declared Phil.

“Leaving me to the tender mercies of some orphans’ home here?” bantered Margie.

“The bears would get you if you came out there; they like chicken,” grinned Ted.

Margie was on the point of retorting, when her mother interposed.

“This is too serious a matter to be turned into a joke, children. I—”

What Mrs. Porter intended to say, however, was left unsaid, at least for the moment, for before she could proceed, the door opened and in burst several young people.

“Hurry and finish your suppers; we want you to go canoeing,” exclaimed one of the girls. Then, as she noticed that Mrs. Porter seemed about to refuse, she added: “Now you mustn’t say ‘no,’ Momsy Porter. It’s concert night, and we can’t go unless you let Sallie and Margie and the boys go, mother said so.”

“We’re going to sow wheat instead,” asserted Margie.

“That will do, daughter,” rebuked her mother. “I—”

“You will let them, won’t you?” begged another girl.

“Yes. Dr. Blair is coming to talk with me, so I shall not be left alone.”

With a swish of skirts the girls swooped upon the frail little woman, almost smothering her with their hugs and kisses, then rushed away, her “be careful!” ringing in their ears as they trooped off, the boys trailing behind, their arms loaded with cushions.

CHAPTER II

TEMPTATION

Sallie’s remark about her brother’s absorption in his nine might have been applied with equal truth to every boy in the Parker School. When any of them met, the playing of the team was the one topic of conversation, especially since, under Phil’s leadership, there was the possibility of the interscholastic championship coming to Parker School, an honour which had not been attained for almost ten years.

It was but natural, therefore, that, with the captain of the team as their companion, the boys should deluge him with questions, and they did.

“Honestly now, Phil, do you think Parker can beat Mercer Academy?” asked one of them. “If our pitchers work well, we ought to.”

“If our pitchers work well,” repeated another, in amazement. “What’s the matter with you, Phil? Aren’t you the best pitcher in the school league, according to the coaches? Why, you did the most of the work last season and you’ve done all of it, practically, this year. And then you say if our pitchers go well we may win.”

“What’s up, anyhow?” demanded several of the others, astounded at the words of their captain.

“There’s going to be a change in the team,” replied Phil, quietly.

This statement elicited a veritable avalanche of comment and questions, but to them all the captain of the team would make no reply except to tell them to wait and see.

This answer was so unsatisfactory, serving as it did only to whet their curiosity the more, that finally Phil broke away from his companions and hurried ahead to join the girls. Yet no sooner had he caught up with them than he wished he had remained behind.

“Hello, Farmer Phil!” cried several of them, as they caught sight of the popular pitcher. “How’s crops? What’s the latest quotation on wheat?”

For the moment he thought to rebuke his sisters for disclosing the plan which he had intended to keep secret, at least until he should announce it on the morrow to his team-mates.

But Sallie and Margie wisely kept on the side of their companions farthest from him, and so riotous did the badinage become that Phil soon realized that anything he might say would only make the matter worse. Yet the glance he threw at his sisters was eloquent.

“Oh, you needn’t blame Marg or Sallie,” exclaimed one of the others. “I heard part of what you said before I entered the dining-room. So I bullied Marg into supplying the missing links.”

By this time the rest of the fellows had caught up, and the group quickly divided into couples, all of them talking excitedly over the surprising bits of news.

As they proceeded toward the boathouse, Phil was seemingly unconscious that he was walking beside the girl who had sought to appease his wrath against his sisters, and so absorbed was he in his own thoughts that it was not until she spoke that he was aware of her presence.

“I think it is perfectly splendid,” she exclaimed, tenderly.

“What?” demanded Phil, almost savagely.

“Why, your giving up the captaincy of the school team when you are certain to win the championship, just to help your mother.”

“Splendid nonsense! I should be worse than a cad if I didn’t.”

“But you could wait about going out West until after school closes, you know, and then you wouldn’t sacrifice the honour of bringing the championship to Parker.”

“You mustn’t say such a thing,” returned the boy, in a tense voice, as he heard with revulsion the very idea expressed in cold words which had been persistently surging through his mind.

“Why not, pray? I am as keen to have Parker land the championship under your captaincy as you are yourself, and what difference would a few weeks—it’s only seven—make to your mother? Besides—”

“Don’t, Helen, don’t,” pleaded Phil. “You know perfectly well how I feel about the team. But what would you, or any one else, think of me if I should let my selfish desire for school honours interfere with my mother’s health?”

“Yet it would only be for seven weeks. Besides, Blair simply said she needed a rest, but he didn’t say an immediate rest or—”

“It makes no difference if it were only for seven minutes, Helen, I should be ashamed of myself all the rest of my life if I let my own feelings weigh against Momsy’s health. Just think of all that she has done for us. Do you suppose she has ever thought of herself when anything for our benefit was at stake? It would have been better for her if she only had—I’ve been a selfish prig not to see before that she was killing herself. Besides, you can be certain she would not have told us that Dr. Blair said she must have a rest if he had not told her a great deal more. So if it is in my power, I am going to do everything I can to make her well and show her that I appreciate all she has put up with for me and the others.”

“Spoken like a man, Phil,” exclaimed a voice so close to the young people that they jumped in surprise; for so absorbed had they been in their conversation that they had not noticed the tall figure striding along behind them.

“Why, Dr. Blair, how you frightened me!” gasped the girl, confused and angry to think her words urging Phil to put the success of his team above all else had been overheard.

The physician, however, gave no heed to the remark, keeping his eyes fixed upon her companion, as he said:

“I really owe you an apology for playing the eavesdropper, Phil. But just as I caught up with you, I could not but hear Miss Howell’s pleading, and, as the matter had also occurred to me, I was unable to refrain from listening to your reply. I am on my way to talk with your mother now, and I felt I was justified because your attitude could not but have an important bearing upon my advice to her. What it is that you propose to do I don’t know, and it really doesn’t matter so long as you intend to do it at once. Your mother has worked till she is on the verge of a breakdown to give you young people a comfortable and happy home. As a matter of fact, I told her this afternoon that if she gave another week to her work I should be able to do nothing for her. So you see your decision not to await the closing of school is most timely.”

The words as to the seriousness of his mother’s condition were like blows to Phil, and it was several minutes before he felt sufficiently sure of himself to ask:

“W-what is the trouble with Momsy, Dr. Blair?”

“Tuberculosis, and in such a much farther advanced stage than I suspected. With plenty of fresh air and outdoor life, however, I shall be able to check it, I believe. Only she must be spared all worry. Again I wish to tell you that I am proud to know you appreciate all your mother has done for you.”

With a friendly pat on the boy’s shoulder. Dr. Blair vanished in the dusk as suddenly as he had appeared, leaving the boy and girl standing, abashed by the words he had spoken.

Impulsively Helen slipped her hand through her companion’s arm and drew him after the rest of the canoeing party, as she whispered earnestly:

“Forgive me, Phil.”

CHAPTER III

ELECTING A CAPTAIN

It was an excited crowd of boys and girls that gathered about the steps of Parker School the next morning, for the news that Phil was going to leave before the end of the term had spread rapidly. Yet, though they waited eagerly for his appearance, that they might hear confirmation or denial from his lips, they were forced to go to their classes unsatisfied, because the boy, realizing their curiosity, purposely kept out of the way until after recitation time, and when he did enter the building, he went directly to the office of the principal instead of to his class-room.

“What’s all this I hear about your deserting the team, Porter?” asked that official, as he motioned Phil to a chair.

“I do not know what you may have heard, Mr. Maxwell, but it is true that I intend to leave school today—and Ted will also.”

“Afraid of the Mercer Academy team?” sneered the principal, who had felt it keenly that his school had not been able to win the baseball championship and now saw the unusually rosy prospect of accomplishing the feat this season vanish.

A hot flush suffused the boy’s face at this taunt, and he arose from his chair.

“You should know me better than that, Mr. Maxwell. It is for no such reason. My mother is in a very serious condition, and Ted and I intend to take the burden of the support of ourselves and our sisters from her shoulders. Will you call a meeting of the team to elect a new captain, or shall I?”

As he scanned the manly face before him, the principal was thoroughly ashamed of his slur.

“I’m sorry to hear about your mother, Phil,” he said. “Also, I admire your pluck. Just forget, if you can, my remark about Mercer, but you know I had set my heart on your bringing the interscholastic championship to Parker and it is a keen disappointment to be informed of your leaving.”

“But that doesn’t mean Parker won’t win, Mr. Maxwell. The team is working splendidly and they will probably do better without than with me.”

“I’m afraid not. Somehow, when you were in the box, it not only gave confidence to our boys, but it rattled the opposing team. For what time do you wish me to call the meeting—that is, if you are quite sure you cannot be persuaded to remain in school until the end of the term?”

“That is out of the question, sir.” And then the boy briefly informed the principal of the seriousness of his mother’s condition.

“Have you a position yet?” asked Mr. Maxwell, as Phil finished. “If you have not, I shall be glad to do all I can to assist you. I know several business men and I shall be pleased to give you letters to them.”

“We are going out West to take up a homestead, but I thank you just the same.”

“Well, well, we shall not even be able to have your services as coach for Parker, shall we? That’s too bad. I had hoped we might, at least, arrange to have you do some coaching. H’m, going to take up a homestead, eh? You’ll have pretty tough ‘sledding,’ as they say, I’m afraid.”

“No more so than in any other work, and, besides, my mother will be able to be out-of-doors.”

“Is she going with you?”

“No, Ted and I are going alone. After we have filed our claim and put up our cabin, we shall send for her and the girls.”

“I’m afraid you will have some difficulty about filing your entry, as they call filing a claim, in the Land Office. I know something about it because my father was an ‘entryman.’”

“But why do you think so, sir?”

“Because you are neither of age nor the head of a family, and minors are not allowed to make an entry unless they have done service in the army or navy.”

“But widows can file a claim, and Ted and I shall select the homestead, build a cabin, then send for Momsy and she will make the entry.”

“Clever way of getting around it, Phil, very—that is, if the government will allow minors to act as settlers. How about that?”

“We do not know yet, but Dr. Blair will write to Washington about it and he thinks he can arrange it.”

“Probably he can. If you have any difficulty, however, just ask your mother to let me know and I will do all I can to help her and you. And now, when do you wish me to call the team together—after school?”

“I rather thought, if you don’t mind, sir, that I should like to speak to the fellows, but our time is so short that I must go right home to pack.”

“Then I’ll have the team go to the gymnasium directly. It won’t interfere with classes very much, for I don’t imagine, in view of the excitement about your resigning, that recitations are going very well.”

And rising from his desk, Mr. Maxwell went to the various rooms, summoning the members of the team and substitutes, while Phil went directly to the meeting place.

As he looked about the gymnasium, whose walls were decorated with the various trophies won by members of Parker School during its fifteen years of existence, a lump rose in his throat. For he had often gazed upon them before and had hoped that he should be able to place upon its walls the most coveted emblem of all, the pennant betokening the baseball championship of the interscholastic league.

Going over to the spot where were the footballs, with the scores of the games in which they had been used marked upon them, he was fondly fingering one bearing the legend Parker 12—Mercer 6, 1910, a victory in which his work at fullback had played no mean part, when there was a patter of footsteps and in rushed a group of excited, eager boys.

For the moment, as they beheld Phil standing before the footballs, they were hushed. Then, as they began to sense his feelings, one of them shouted:

“Three cheers for good old Phil!”

Lustily they were given, and they were about to be repeated when another group of boys entered and began to groan and catcall.

“Stop that—instantly,” rang out the stern voice of the principal, who was close upon their heels, unbeknown to the boys.

But though the hoots were silenced, those who had uttered them kept up a continual growling and grumbling among themselves, even after Mr. Maxwell had mounted the instructor’s platform, at one end of the gymnasium, and rapped for order.

“I have called you together to listen to me, not to listen to you,” exclaimed the principal. “If I hear any more derisive words, I shall suspend the utterer from the team for the remainder of the term. Undoubtedly, from the reports that have come to me from the classrooms as to the hopelessness of your recitations, you have heard the rumour that Phil Porter intended to resign from Parker School. I am only too sorry to say that it is true. I—”

“Quitter! He’s afraid of Mercer!” burst from different parts of the room.

“Jenkins, you and Whitten leave the gymnasium, and after school bring your uniforms to me. We will now proceed to elect a captain to take Phil’s place. Hawley, I appoint you to gather the votes.”

Abashed at the drastic punishment meted out to the two of their number who had expressed their opinions, the other members of the team searched for paper and pencils, then divided into groups, discussing the best candidates.

While they were thus absorbed, Phil approached Mr. Maxwell.

“I know it is none of my business, sir, but won’t you lift your ban from Jenkins and Whitten? Just because they do not like me is no reason why Parker should be made to suffer from their loss.”

No answer did the principal make to the boy’s request, and he turned away, sick at heart to think that the team had been still further crippled on his account.

But when young Hawley quietly walked up to the platform and handed his hat containing the votes to Mr. Maxwell, the master exclaimed:

“Phil has importuned me to revoke my suspension of Jenkins and Whitten so that Parker shall not be weakened any more. While you all know that I am not in the habit of changing my mind, as Phil is going out West and on a particularly praiseworthy purpose, I shall yield to his wish. Hawley, fetch Jenkins and Whitten back.”

Ere the words had left the principal’s mouth, hearty cheers for their old captain rang through the room, punctuated by cries of “Speech! Speech!”

With a smile Mr. Maxwell nodded to Phil, and the boy walked to the platform, then turned and faced his former team-mates.

“I’m sorry that I must resign, fellows, but I must, so there’s no use talking about it. We have the best nine at Parker that we have had for years, and if you all give your new captain the same kind of support you have given me, there is no reason why the pennant should not hang on the wall of this gym.”

Again cheers rang through the room, and as they subsided Mr. Maxwell announced:

“The voting has resulted as follows: Sydney Thomas, 14; Bertram Peters, 7; Jenkins, 1. Thomas is, therefore, elected captain to succeed Porter.”

“Good boy, Syd!” cried his friends, gathering around him, excitedly. But Thomas broke from them and walked to where Phil stood.

“Whatever I know about baseball I have learned from Phil, and for his sake I want you all to work hard with me to bring the pennant to Parker,” he exclaimed.

When the cheers subsided, the former captain said:

“I only wish I had taught Syd. There is no need to tell you fellows that it is hard to leave my—I mean the—team. But Syd knows more inside baseball than I do, and he can lead you to the championship, as I said before, if you will only give him the support you have given me. Though I shall be far away, I want some of you to write to me and tell me how things are going, but if you don’t win the pennant, you needn’t expect to receive any replies from me. If I can get out to practise this afternoon, I shall, but as I start in the morning, I haven’t much time to get ready. And now, just to please me, let’s cheer old Parker and Syd.”

Willing was the response to this request, but instead of cheering their new captain, the boys shouted for their old one, surging about him and wringing his hands; even Jenkins and Whitten, who had returned, speaking with him, grateful for his intervention in their behalf.

CHAPTER IV

A PLEASANT SURPRISE

As Phil and Ted, laden with packages and bags, came in sight of the station on the following morning, they gasped in amazement.

Every member of Parker School seemed to be there, and when the boys and girls beheld their two popular schoolmates, they rushed for them in a body, surrounding and cheering them, while the members of the baseball team seized the luggage from their hands, escorting them in triumph to the station.

“Look out for the bears! Hope your crops are bumpers! Show ’em what a tenderfoot can do!” were among the comments and bits of advice with which Phil and Ted were deluged as their friends crowded about and grasped their hands.

“Here, come back with those bags! No tricks with them,” called Ted, anxiously, as he noticed that he and his brother were being separated from their belongings by those who were eager to bid them godspeed.

So dense was the throng about the boys, however, that the behest could not be obeyed, and they seemed in imminent danger either of being forced to start without their luggage or of being compelled to miss the train.

But as the locomotive whistled for the station, the crowd fell back, cheering and shouting their good-byes, while those with the bags and other things closed in, rushing into the train with them.

As the bell clanged its signal for departure, there was a hurried leave-taking by members of the team, then the ball players scrambled from the car, and as Phil and Ted appeared on the rear platform, waving their hats, the boys and girls about the station gave three lusty cheers and then burst into singing “For he’s a jolly good fellow.”

Until they could no longer see or hear their former schoolmates, the boys stood on the platform. When at last they turned and entered the car, they took their seats in silence, each too deeply moved to trust himself to speak.

“It’s a good thing Momsy and the girls said good-bye to us at home,” observed Phil, after a few minutes. “They couldn’t have put a word in edgewise.”

“I suppose so; still, I’d like to have seen Momsy again,” returned Ted, his voice quavering.

In reply, Phil struck his brother a resounding clap on the back.

“Buck up, son, buck up!” he exclaimed, his own voice none too steady. “Just remember that we are going to make a home for her where she can grow strong and happy, and forget about the leave-taking.”

For a moment it seemed, to those seated near by, uncertain whether or not the boy could master his emotion. But, squaring his shoulders, he asserted his will power, and in the most matter of fact tone he could muster said:

“I wonder whether it would be better to seed down to durum wheat this season or put everything we clear into alfalfa?”

The other passengers in the car had noted the demonstration at the Weston station, and from various remarks, capped by Phil’s admonition, had guessed correctly that the two boys were leaving home to begin their battle with the world. Many an eye among them grew moist as their minds harked back to the days when they too had stepped from the protection of home into the struggle of real life, and keen therefore was their interest in Ted’s ability to meet the crisis.

Accordingly, as they heard his statement in regard to the wheat, there was a murmur of hearty approval which caused the younger boy to gaze about him in surprise, but, though his brother had heard it also, he wished to keep Ted to the mark and asked:

“What in the world is ‘durum’ wheat?”

“There, I knew you didn’t read that last pamphlet we received from the Department of Agriculture,” gloated his brother. “If you had, you would not have been obliged to ask. Durum wheat is a particularly hardy and quick-growing kind which may be planted in the spring and reaped in the summer.”

“Well, it will be long past spring by the time we get our land cleared and in condition to plant,” smiled Phil, “so I guess we’ll sow to alfalfa.”

“But I want to put in a little durum, anyway,” declared Ted, “just to see what it will do, you know.”

“All right, son, you shall, but just now you’d better be picking up some of these bags and parcels or we shall be hauled out onto a side track before we can leave the car.”

Many were the offers from other passengers to assist the boys in carrying their luggage, but they declined them courteously and, in due course, left the train.

“Why, there are Momsy and the girls!” cried Ted, in delight, as they walked up the long platform of the terminal station, in Boston. “How on earth did they get here?”

Neither of the two, however, stopped to discuss the matter, each making all possible haste to join them.

“Dr. Blair drove us in his automobile,” declared Margie, as her brother came up. “I think he is just perfectly grand. He’s going to—”

“Careful, daughter! Dr. Blair wishes it to be a surprise, you know,” admonished Mrs. Porter.

Flushing, Margie seized some of her younger brother’s parcels, while he led her on ahead that he might extract from her the information which he could see she was too excited to keep secret for long.

Again Mrs. Porter frustrated Ted’s plan.

“Dr. Blair wishes us to wait for him on a bench in the old station,” she announced.

“This seems to be a ‘Blair-conducted’ excursion,” smiled Phil, as the luggage was set down and Mrs. Porter and the girls took seats. “Is he going to drive you in his car ahead of our train all the way to Chelan County?”

“I wish that he were,” returned his mother, earnestly.

“Well, I’m mighty glad he brought you this far,” asserted the boy, emphatically.

“You must have broken some speed limits, though, to get here ahead of us,” opined Ted.

“We didn’t,” declared Margie. “We were on our way long before the train left Weston.”

“Then his bringing you in was all planned out?”

“Of course, silly,” exclaimed Sallie. “You don’t suppose Momsy would have been content to keep away from the station unless she knew she would see you again, do you?”

“Well, you needn’t act so superior,” retorted the boy. “If you had the safety of seven hundred dollars and all the responsibility of selecting a suitable homestead on your mind, you might not think of everything.”

“Poor little mind! Come over to the soda fountain and I’ll buy an egg-chocolate to brace it up.”

“You’re on! Come along, Momsy, Marg, Phil. Sallie’s going to spend sixty cents of her own money,” grinned Ted.

“Egg-chocolates are fifteen cents apiece, and five times fifteen are seventy-five, instead of sixty, Teddy boy,” asserted Margie. “I don’t wonder your old machine wouldn’t fly if you can’t make your calculations any better than that.”

“Now don’t get too puffed up because you can multiply fifteen by five. I said sixty cents because Sallie won’t buy herself a drink, wouldn’t if she never had any,” chuckled Ted, his sister’s anger at this flaunting of her “closeness” repaying him for her gibe of the moment before.

“Wait till we get our tickets and then I’ll treat,” announced Phil, taking his brother’s arm and heading him toward the long row of ticket windows.

In dismay, Mrs. Porter looked from the boys to her daughters.

“There’s—there’s no hurry about the tickets, is there?” she stammered. “How long before the train goes, Phil?”

“Two hours, Momsy.”

“Then there is plenty of time, I am sure.”

“But we might as well get them now and then we shall not be obliged to bother about them later. Besides, it is so early that we ought to be able to get the best berths. Come on, Ted.”

Again Mrs. Porter and her daughters exchanged swift and significant glances.

“Oh, bother the tickets! Come, have the egg-chocolates first,” exclaimed Sallie. “I’m just going to fool you, Ted, so you’d better come and watch me buy a soda for myself.”

“First and last time,” chuckled the boy. “Come on, Phil, we can’t afford to miss seeing a modern miracle.”

Their mother, who was fervently hoping that Dr. Blair would arrive ere her family should return from the soda-water fountain, pleaded the necessity of guarding the luggage as an excuse for not accompanying them. The boys, however, would not listen to her refusal, and, after a hesitation which ended only when she beheld the doctor entering the waiting-room, she consented.

“Haven’t bought your tickets yet, I hope,” said a cheery voice behind the young people as they stood in front of the soda-water counter.

“They haven’t. Dr. Blair, but Sallie and I have been obliged to stand all sorts of abuse to keep them from doing so,” laughed Margie.

“Never mind, I’ll try to atone for it. You see, I didn’t want you to tell my plan until I knew it could be accomplished. Phil, how would you and Ted like to take the trip up the Great Lakes from Buffalo to Duluth on an ore boat?”

“Great! Fine! If we only could!” exclaimed the boys; while Ted added:

“And boat rates are cheaper than rail.”

“Who’s stingy now?” cried Sallie, amid the laughter her brother’s words had evoked.

“I was thinking the saving would mean about twenty more acres for us,” retorted Ted, flushing.

“That’s right, son. You must figure to save every possible cent,” smiled the physician. “However, thanks to my friend Bronson, who has an interest in one of the ore fleets, you are both to be his guests for the trip, so that you will save enough for a good many acres. Here’s the letter to Captain Perkins, of the Admiral, which will serve as tickets.”

“And it won’t cost us a cent?” asked Ted.

“Not a penny.”

“Hooray for you and Mr. Bronson!” cried the lad, dancing about in sheer joy, while the others expressed their gratitude less boisterously.

“I’ll go with you while you buy your tickets, if you don’t mind,” observed the physician, and as the three reached one of the windows, Dr. Blair stopped, saying: “I must tell you there is a strike on against the ore boats. Don’t mention it to your mother, it might worry her. Mr. Bronson, however, said there was really no danger; you must just be careful going aboard and leaving the boat. You might be mistaken for strike-breakers, you know. Of course, if you think the risk is too great—”

“It will only add to the fun,” interrupted Ted, and his brother agreed with him.

CHAPTER V

TIMELY ASSISTANCE

“We shall not be obliged to leave until afternoon so long as we are only going to Buffalo,” announced Phil, as they rejoined their mother and sisters.

“Yes, and Dr. Blair wishes us all to be his guests until we do start,” supplemented Ted, joyously.

“Now please don’t refuse, Mrs. Porter,” exclaimed the kindly physician. “I wish to keep your mind from the boys’ departure as much as possible. Just remember that it will be only a few weeks before they send for you. It will make it easier if you have something to distract your thoughts during the day, you know.” Quickly the boys checked their luggage, and soon they all were whirling uptown in Dr. Blair’s big touring car.

“By the way,” said he, as they entered the business district, “how are you boys carrying your money?”

“Six one-hundred-dollar bills and the other hundred in tens and fives,” promptly responded Ted.

“So you are the treasurer, eh?”

“Yes; we reasoned, as I am the smaller and younger, that people would think that I would be less likely to have it and therefore it would be safer.”

“Not a bad idea, but I have a better one. We will just go into this bank here and get a letter of credit;” and quickly the physician brought his machine to a stop at the curb.

“But what shall we do for travelling money?” protested Phil.

“You can get the letter of credit for six hundred and seventy-five dollars. The remainder, with what you have left from your ticket money, will be really more than you will need until you arrive at Duluth. When you are there, you can go to a bank and draw enough money against your letter to pay your fare to Chikau.”

“You really think we had better?” asked Ted, ruefully, for he felt a pride in carrying the money which was to start them on the road to fortune.

“I certainly do,” declared Dr. Blair; then added, with a smile, “You can carry the letter of credit, which is practically the same as the money, only in a much safer form. You see, if you should lose or be robbed of the money, it would be gone for good, and you know how serious such a loss would be. On the other hand, if you should lose or be robbed of the letter, you would simply notify the bank to that effect and the money would still be safe.”

“But how could we get it?” inquired Phil.

“The bank here in Boston would issue a new letter, at the same time sending a warning throughout the country not to honour the one you had lost.”

Quickly the two brothers exchanged glances, and, as they were of agreement, Ted said:

“All right, Dr. Blair. We’ll get a letter of credit if you will tell us how to do it.”

“It is really very simple. You give your money to the clerk who issues the letters, and he returns to you a letter stating that his bank holds a certain amount of money, in your case it will be six hundred and seventy-five dollars, to your credit against which you are authorized to draw. You then sign the letter and also the signature book, at the bank, for proper identification. When you wish any money, you go to a reputable bank or trust company, show your letter, and state the amount you desire, signing your application, which practically amounts to a draft. This will be compared with your signature on the letter, and as it will correspond, the money will be paid you, while the clerk will deduct the amount on the letter, with the date and the name of his institution, the remainder being the amount you are still entitled to draw. When your last dollar is drawn, the institution paying it will keep the letter and then notify the bank in Boston.”

The purchase of the letter was soon accomplished, Dr. Blair insisting upon paying the small fee charged, on the ground that he had suggested the idea, and the rest of the day until train time passed all too quickly for those who were to be left at home, though Mrs. Porter and the girls were happy in the few additional hours the change in plans had enabled them to enjoy with Phil and Ted.

When the train stopped at the Buffalo station early the next morning, the two boys quickly alighted. To their dismay, there were only three men on the platform who were not busy about the cars.

“Which way do you suppose we go?” asked Ted.

“We’ll find out from some of those men,” replied his brother, walking toward the group of three men, who had been watching the boys closely ever since they stepped upon the platform, and talking earnestly among themselves, in evident disagreement.

“Will you kindly tell us how we get to the Waterfront Dock?” asked Phil, as they came up to them.

Instantly the men exchanged significant glances, while one of them exclaimed gruffly:

“What do you want to go there for?”

“We are going aboard the ore boat Admiral,” replied Ted.

“Scabs, eh?” snarled one of the men, looking at his companions with an “I told you so” air.

“We are not!” declared Phil, emphatically. “We are going to make the trip to Duluth as the guests of Mr. Bronson, of Boston.”

“That’s a pretty good story, but it won’t—” began one of the men, only to be interrupted by another, as, with an expressive wink at his fellows, he said:

“Sure, we’ll show you how to get there. In fact, we’ll take you there, as we are going that way ourselves. Give us some of your bundles. We’ll help carry them.” And he made a grab for Ted’s suitcase.

Acting upon this cue, the other men snatched at the luggage Phil had.

Surprised at the suddenness of the move, the boys had been unable to keep hold of several articles, but as they recovered their wits, they clung to those they still had.

“Get a move on; we can’t stay here all day,” growled one of the men, laying a hand on Ted’s shoulder and shoving him toward a flight of steps that led to the street below.

“I—I think we’ll have breakfast first,” stammered Phil, alarmed at the words and actions of the men. “So just give us back our things, please.”

“We’ll give them to you when we get good and ready, see? Now come along or we’ll make you,” snapped the largest of the trio, menacingly.

The boys did not intend to be forced into compliance, however, and quickly placing themselves back to back, made it evident they intended to keep the luggage they still retained.

“What’s the use of monkeying with these kids? Why not give it to ’em now?” demanded one of the men.

Ere his companions could reply or even act, however, there came the sound of several people running toward them.

“The cops! Give it to ’em and then beat it!” growled the ringleader.

Instantly his companions made vicious lunges at the boys, but they, frightened yet alert, dodged cleverly, and their antagonists, growling, dashed for the stairway.

“Drop them bundles!” shouted a voice.

But the three men only increased their speed.

“Drop ’em, or we’ll shoot!” snapped the voice again, while another added:

“I know ivery mother’s son of yez an’ if yez iver show yer faces around here ag’in, I’ll run yez in!”

These threats produced the desired effect upon the fugitives, and, pausing in their descent of the steps, they hurled back the packages, then resumed their flight.

So anxious about recovering their luggage had the boys been that not until they saw the packages lying tom and untied on the platform did they look at the men whose arrival had been so opportune, and their surprise was no less when they beheld three stalwart policemen, one with a revolver in his hand.

“’T is a close shave yez had,” smiled one of them, while another growled:

“It’s a wonder the ship-owners wouldn’t have men here to meet their scabs.”

The scorn with which the word was uttered for the second time that morning stung the boys.

“We’re not scabs!” returned Phil, emphatically.

“Then what were them strikers mixing it up with yez for?” demanded the first officer.

“Were they strikers?” inquired Ted, incredulously.

“They sure were—did yez think they was a complimintery reciption committee?” grinned another.

“But what are they doing at the station here? I thought the strike was at the docks,” pursued the boy.

“Well, you seen it ain’t,” returned the policeman; then added: “The strikers send some of their men to meet every train to learn whether any strike-breakers have been imported or not. If they find any, they try to persuade them not to go on board any of the boats, and if words don’t do it, they use other means to prevent them.”

“Unless we arrive on the scene in time,” supplemented a man on whose uniform were the stripes of a sergeant; then asked: “If you are not scabs, what are you?”

“We are going to make the trip from Buffalo to Duluth on the ore boat Admiral as guests of Mr. Bronson, one of the owners in Boston,” replied Phil.

“We are on our way to take up a homestead out in Washington State,” chimed in Ted, noting that the officers did not seem very much impressed by his brother’s statement. “As those men were the only ones in sight, except some railroad men, when we stepped onto the platform, we asked them the way to the Waterfront Dock.”

“The story sounds straight, Jerry,” opined one of the other officers. “What’ll we do, escort ’em down to the dock? They’d never get there alone.”

The sergeant’s reply was interrupted by the hurried arrival of a pleasant-looking, middle-aged man.

“Are you boys Phil and Ted Porter?” he asked.

“We are,” chorused the lads.

“You—er—haven’t had any trouble, I hope?” and he looked anxiously from the boys to the policemen.

“No real trouble, though I’m afraid we should have if it had not been for these officers,” returned Phil.

“Thank goodness! My automobile broke down on my way here; strikers been tampering with it, I suppose, and I was delayed in finding a taxicab. We’ll go to my house for breakfast and then to the boat.”

The boys, however, made no move, looking quizzically from the stranger to the officers, evidently determined not to walk into a second trap.

“You needn’t be afraid of Mr. Atwood; he’s one of the Admiral’s owners,” smiled the sergeant.

“By Jove! I was so alarmed seeing you boys with these officers that I have forgotten to introduce myself. I am Arthur Atwood, one of Bronson’s partners. I received a wire from him, and also one from Tom Blair last night, telling me you were coming and to meet you—which I should have done if my machine had not broken down.”

“We are sorry to have put you to such inconvenience, Mr. Atwood,” said Phil.

“Don’t mention it. I’d do anything for Bronson and Blair. Sergeant, just bring those bundles down to my taxi, if you don’t mind.”

Willingly the officers obeyed, and soon the boys, their host, and their belongings were safely in the taxicab.

“Like to have one of us ride on the box, Mr. Atwood?” asked the sergeant, as the chauffeur cranked up.

“No, I thank you. I have one of my own men driving;” and the machine dashed away, defying all speed laws.

The policemen, however, went along the sidewalk until their appearance dispersed a crowd that had gathered watching the ship-owner and the boys depart, their presence insuring a safe passage to the taxicab.

CHAPTER VI

BOARDING THE ADMIRAL

“You will take the boys over to Niagara to see the Falls, I suppose,” observed Mrs. Atwood, looking at her husband when breakfast was finished.

“Oh, jolly! I’ve always wanted to go there, and this may be our only chance for years,” exclaimed Ted, eagerly.

Mr. Atwood, however, did not enthuse over the suggestion, being seemingly occupied in some mental calculation, but finally he said:

“I suppose I can, though I had not thought of it. Yes, we’ll go. A couple of hours more or less will not make much difference now that I have held the boat so long.”

His last words quickly checked the delight the boys were expressing at the opportunity to see the glorious spectacle, and Phil asked, in evident concern:

“Do you mean you have held the Admiral for Ted and me, Mr. Atwood?”

“It doesn’t matter,” smiled their host. “Come, we must—”

“But indeed it does matter,” interrupted Phil. “Did you hold the boat?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. She would have sailed at midnight for Toledo to load coal had I not received Bronson’s wire.”

“For Toledo?” exclaimed Mrs. Atwood. “Why can’t you load here, and then the boys would have plenty of time to enjoy the falls and inspect the power-house on the Canadian side? I thought it was your policy never to send a boat up Lake Erie empty when you could help it?”

“This is one of the times when it cannot be helped. There is a report that some one has put dynamite in the coal at the docks, and none of the fleet managers, certainly I do not, care to run the risk of losing any boat by loading here. But come on, boys, we are only losing time by talking. Will you go with us, my dear?” and Mr. Atwood looked at his wife. Ere she could reply, however, Phil spoke. “We could not think of causing any more delay, Mr. Atwood,” he declared. “It was more than kind of you to hold the boat as long as you have. We’ll leave Niagara as a sight for the future; it won’t do to see everything at once, there’ll be nothing left, you know.”

The look of relief that showed on Mr. Atwood’s face at the words made both boys glad they had renounced the trip to the Falls. And after thanking Mrs. Atwood for her hospitality, they followed the ship-owner to the piazza, expecting to see his automobile ready to take them to the dock.

“We will go out to the Admiral in my launch,” said he, reading the boys’ thoughts. “It will save any unpleasantness along the waterfront.” And without more ado he set out at a brisk pace along a path which led through spacious grounds to a float at the shore of Lake Erie.

As they proceeded, they met several big powerful men, with whom their host spoke, and saw several others in the distance, evidently patrolling the estate.

Their presence, coupled with the incident at the station and Mr. Atwood’s remark about the coal, suddenly filled the boys with an appreciation of the gravity of the situation, and they could not but admire the manner in which the ship-owner went about his business when he knew his movements were fraught with a danger so menacing that police offered him escort protection and watchmen guarded his home.

“Don’t you think we’d better go by train?” whispered Ted to his brother.

“And let Mr. Atwood and Mr. Bronson and Dr. Blair think we are ‘quitters’ after all the trouble to which they have been put?” retorted Phil.

“I hadn’t thought of that,” returned the younger boy.

“Then keep your wits about you.”

“I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation,” exclaimed Mr. Atwood, pausing until the boys came up with him. “I do not think there is any danger, though I advise you—I’d forbid you if I had the authority—not to go ashore wherever the Admiral touches. Our crew has been selected with great care, and Captain Perkins is one of the best men on the lakes. Still, if you prefer, I’ll get your tickets and you can go right through to your destination by train.”

“We’d rather, at least I should rather, go up the lakes on the Admiral,” said Ted, flushing deeply to think his momentary lapse of courage had been noticed.

“Then go you shall,” smiled the ship-owner, and without more ado they went down to the float and entered a speedy-looking launch.

Scarcely had they seated themselves when the lines were cast loose, three men on the dock stepped aboard, the man at the engine pressed some levers, and the launch shot out into the lake.

“Look at those big boats anchored ’way out there,” exclaimed Ted, as the launch rounded an arm of the inlet, which sheltered Mr. Atwood’s boathouse and float, and gave them a glimpse of the city’s harbour within the breakwater.

“The one farthest out, from which you can see smoke rising, is the Admiral,” announced Mr. Atwood.

“What a beauty!” chorused both boys, while Phil added:

“How much ore can she carry?”

“A little more than thirteen thousand tons.”

“She must be a whopper,” enthused Ted.

“She is. She is one of the biggest carriers on the lakes, five hundred and ninety-four feet over all and sixty-foot beam. She—”

His words were interrupted, however, by the movement, in the bow, of the three men who had boarded the launch at the float.

So quickly that the boys could not see whence they had taken them, each man laid a rifle across his knees, ready for instant use, while they watched intently another launch that was bearing directly toward them.

Dazzlingly the sunlight glistened on the rifle barrels. Apparently the occupants of the other launch understood the cause of the scintillant flashes, for the boat suddenly veered, made a dangerously short turn, and dashed away up the lake. But the guards in Mr. Atwood’s launch did not lay aside their weapons.

As they approached the Admiral, several men came to the rail.

“Boat ahoy! What do you want?” challenged one of them.

“Owner,” answered a guard on the launch, and as the speedy craft ran alongside, a rope-ladder was quickly lowered from the deck, towering thirty feet above.

“I think you can climb aboard all right?” asked Mr. Atwood, as one of his men caught the end of the ladder.

“Surely,” exclaimed Phil and Ted.

“Then good-bye, a pleasant trip and good luck with your homestead,” exclaimed the ship-owner, shaking each boy cordially by the hand.

“Thank you, Mr. Atwood, and for your kindness too,” returned his young guests. A nod and a smile was their answer as their host looked up and called: “Tell Perkins to come to the rail.” Already their luggage was being hauled aboard the ore carrier, as the word for the captain was passed along the deck, and Ted gave his brother a nudge.

“Come on; everybody will think we’re afraid,” he whispered, then hurried to the dangling ladder, grasped its rope sides, and scrambled, monkey-like, up toward the deck, quickly followed by Phil.

“Steady, there, steady! Take your time,” admonished a kindly voice above them, as the rope-ladder swung and banged against the vessel’s iron plates. “That’s better. Keep a firm hold with your hands. There you are.”

And as Ted reached the rail, two strong hands seized him under the arms and lifted him aboard, repeating the action with his brother.

“Those are Phil and Ted Porter, Perkins,” called Mr. Atwood, “the boys for whom you were waiting. Remember, I shall hold you personally responsible for their safe arrival at Duluth.”

“They’ll get there O.K.,” smiled the captain, shaking each guest cordially by the hand in completion of the introduction. “Any change in orders, Mr. Atwood?”

“No. Clear as soon as you can and good luck to you,” returned the ship-owner.

And while the boys waved and shouted goodbyes to Mr. Atwood as his launch sped away, sailors scurried about the ore carrier’s deck, orders were shouted. Captain Perkins mounted his bridge, and chains began to clank, announcing the hauling up of the anchors.

Fascinated, Phil and Ted watched the big boat swing in answer to her helm, then straighten out for her run through the breakwater entrance, on the first leg of her trip.

“Look! look! There’s that launch coming toward us again,” suddenly cried Ted, pointing excitedly to the boat that had fled at the action of Mr. Atwood’s guards.

Others had heard the boys’ exclamation beside his brother, however, and four quick-moving men sprang to the rail, while members of the crew did likewise, stringing all along the length of the deck.

When the launch had come within an hundred feet of the Admiral, one of the four men near the boys shouted:

“Stand clear!”

In response, the speed of the launch was cut down and the occupants raised three megaphones, through which they shouted:

“Scabs! Scabs! You’ll never get to Duluth!”

At the hated epithet several members of the crew drew back to the other side of the deck, out of sight from the launch, and only the presence of the first mate beside them held the boys, for they felt that indescribable something about the derisive word which has cowed many a burly labourer.

From the bridge, however, Captain Perkins gave answer with several groaning toots on the whistle, but as the launch continued to follow, the megaphones barking their scorn, the skipper, fearing the effect on his crew, increased the volume of the whistle, those of the other ore carriers that had steam up adding with blasts from their whistles, until the cries were lost in the pandemonium of toots.

CHAPTER VII

ANXIOUS MOMENTS

When the Admiral had passed out of the breakwater into the lake, Captain Perkins called the first mate, gave him some instructions, and then descended from the bridge.

“I’ll show you your staterooms,” he said, as he joined the boys. “Hey, some of you deck hands, fetch that dunnage this way!”

The members of the crew who had inspected Ted and Phil interestedly, because they had been brought to the boat by one of the owners, were even more impressed at the skipper’s words, for seldom does a captain escort passengers to their cabins, usually delegating the task to one of his mates, and several sprang to get the bags and packages.

The boys, however, were before them, and as they picked them up, Phil said:

“We don’t wish to cause any bother, Captain Perkins.”

“You just bet we don’t. Why, we even want you to let us work with the crew,” added Ted, to whom so doing seemed more like a lark than real labour.

“We’ll see about that later,” smiled the skipper. “You deck hands, get busy sweeping the decks! On the jump now!” And when the sailors obeyed, he led the way to the staterooms in the bow.

“Isn’t this ‘scrumptious’!” cried Ted, as they entered a spacious cabin, finished in Flemish oak, with silk-curtained windows, heavy carpet, two brass beds in lieu of the traditional bunks, tables, electric lights and fans, and comfortable lounging chairs. “I never imagined they had such cabins on anything but private yachts or ocean steamers.”

“Every ore carrier has them nowadays for owners and their guests,” smiled the captain, adding with a tinge of bitterness which all lake skippers and sailors feel: “Some day people will realize that lake boats are as important and require even more skill to handle than salt-water vessels. Wait until we go up the Detroit and St. Mary’s rivers, then you will understand what I mean. Why, a salt-water skipper would think he must have a fleet of tugs to do what is but a matter of daily routine with us. And a six-hundred-foot boat is no toy to handle in the storms, fogs, and ice we have, either. But maybe you’ll have the chance to see for yourselves. I’m going down to the engine room,—would you like to come?”

Eagerly the boys accepted the invitation, glad to see all the working of the ship they could, but they did not know that the chief danger to the boat lay in the engine and boiler rooms from ignorance of the crew in regard to the machinery or from faulty firing, burning out the flues of the boilers, or dynamite in the coal.

As they descended the ladder into the engine room, they gasped at the heat, while the smell of oil almost sickened them and the clang of the engines made their heads throb.

In and out among the fast-moving machinery men, shirtless, their faces glistening with perspiration, crawled, long-nosed oil-cans in hand, from which they deftly poured the lubricant upon this or that joint or bearing or wiped a rod with waste.

“I don’t see what keeps them from being ground to pieces,” exclaimed Phil, when they had stood for several minutes, fascinated by the sight.

“Experience,” replied the captain, “but you can get an idea how necessary it is to have oilers who know their business.”

“How often do they crawl around that way?” inquired Ted.

“All the time, practically. Some bearings use more oil than others, and if one gets dry, it will weld and cause trouble.”

“But don’t they ever sleep?”

“Oh, yes. We have two shifts, you know. Each one works six hours and then rests six hours.

“Ah, here comes Mr. Morris, the chief engineer.” And after introducing the boys, the captain asked: “Men working all right?”

“All but one, Swanson. I’ve had to follow him round.”

From the expression that settled on the skipper’s face, Phil and Ted realized the information was serious.

“Green at the job?” inquired the captain.

“No, ugly.”

“Send him to me in half an hour if he doesn’t get onto his job. Anything else? How are the firemen doing?”

“All right, I reckon. I haven’t had time to go down on account of Swanson.”

“Why didn’t you send your assistant down?”

“He’s there, sir.” Then turning to the boys, he said: “How do you think you would like to work down here?”

“I love machinery. I was building an airship at home. I know I should like it if it weren’t for the heat,” replied Ted.

“If you think this is hot, just go down into the stoke hole,” smiled the chief. Then, as there sounded a discordant note in the hum of the machinery, he darted away to learn its cause, while the captain led the way across the iron grating, which served as floor, to another ladder leading down to the boiler room.

As Phil put his hand on one of the iron rungs, he drew it back hastily.

“Phe-ew, but that’s hot!” he exclaimed, and, taking out his handkerchief, he used it to protect his hand as he descended—a precaution which his brother also adopted.

When at last the boys stood on the floor, they could scarcely breathe, so terrific was the heat from the furnaces, as men, stripped to the buff, jerked open the iron doors beneath the huge boilers and shovelled coal into the roaring flames or levelled the fires with long pokers.

While the captain was talking with a man whom the young passengers decided was the assistant engineer, they followed a line of men with great iron wheelbarrows through a door and found themselves in the coal bunkers.

The men returning with the empty barrows seized shovels and began to load, every now and then pausing to pick up a sledge-hammer and break up a huge chunk of the soft coal. And as fast as one was loaded, he pushed his barrow, staggering and swaying to meet the pitching of the boat, into the fire room.

“I don’t see how you can keep your feet,” exclaimed Phil to one of the men.

“Oh, this is nothing. You ought to see us when there is a storm and she’s pitching and rolling. Then it is some trick to keep on your ‘pins.’ Why, I’ve seen the time when I had my barrow dump four times in succession before I could get out of the bunkers, and the firemen yelling like Indians for more coal. Yah, this is nothing—after you get used to it.”

Too fierce for the boys to linger long was the combination of heat and coal dust, and, choking and coughing, they returned to the boiler room.

“Think you’d rather be a ‘coal passer’ than an oiler?” smiled the captain, but before either of his passengers could reply, he caught sight of a passer sneaking into the bunkers with a pail from which protruded a piece of ice. “Hey, you, bring that pail here!” he shouted.

Surlily the passer obeyed.

“Don’t you know better than to take clear ice water in there?” demanded the skipper, sternly.

“We got to have something cold to drink,” growled the man.

“Surely; I know that. But if you drink clear ice water in this heat, every passer in your watch will be yelling with cramps inside of half an hour.”

“Oh, I’ll risk ’em,” retorted the fellow.

“Well, I won’t. You just set that pail down here, jump up that ladder, go to the steward, and say I told him to give you three pounds of oatmeal.”

The captain’s manner was not one to brook delay or disobedience, and, muttering to himself, the passer went above, returning in due course with the oatmeal, which he gave to the skipper.

“Now you can drink,” said the latter, emptying the oatmeal into the pail, where it quickly formed a thin, milky gruel, “without getting cramps. Mr. Peters,” and he turned to the assistant, “keep your eyes open to see that no clear ice water comes down here. Pass the word that any man drinking clear ice water will be put in irons. I won’t have my passers knocked out on the very first day.”

The assistant started to deliver the order in the bunkers, when he was stopped by a frantic whistling at the speaking tube leading down from the engine room.

With a bound he reached it, the captain and the boys joining him.

“What is it?” he called.

While he listened for an answer, the chief fairly slid down the ladder.

“Quick! Draw the fire under number three! She’s almost out of water!” he yelled.

No need was there to tell the firemen that a boiler out of water, with a roaring fire underneath, would soon explode, probably foundering the ship, and while one leaped and threw open the door to the fire box, the assistant and the others seized long-handled iron rakes and pokers and pulled the seething mass of burning coal out onto the iron floor.

Terrific before, as the boiler room was transformed into a glowing inferno, the heat became unbearable, and first one and then another of the firemen staggered back, gasping.

“Get back on the job! The fire isn’t half out!” bellowed Mr. Morris, snatching a rake and springing to the task.

Inspired by their chiefs example, the men obeyed, only to fall back again.

“Above, there!” yelled the captain, going to the foot of the ladder, and as a face appeared at the hatch, he continued: “Call the off watch. Tell the second mate to form a bucket line and pass water down here. On the jump—if you don’t want to be blown to glory!”

Gathering about the door of the bunkers, the coal passers stood, talking in whispers, then suddenly they rushed for the ladder.

Captain Perkins heard the patter of their feet and, divining their purpose, grabbed a bar, beat them to the ladder, faced them and swung the bar, shouting:

“Back into your bunkers and load your barrows!”

The men, with sullen snarls, refused to obey, however, and several of them were sneaking to the back of the ladder, when from above a pail of water was dashed onto their heads.

Surprised, they stopped, and before they recovered from the shock, the second mate was among them, kicking and cuffing them back to the bunkers.

“Some one take these pails,” called a voice from the hatch above.

Glad of the opportunity to be of some use, the boys sprang up the ladder and took positions from which Phil could hand the pails to Ted, who, in turn, passed them to the captain, and he threw their contents onto the heads, backs, and breasts of the chief and firemen who were working so desperately to rake out the fire.

The water, falling on the live coals, formed clouds of steam, but it revived the men and soon came the voice of the chief:

“Belay the water! She’s raked out.”

CHAPTER VIII

THE BOYS PROVE THEIR METAL

“How long will those fires under the other boilers hold, Mr. Morris?” asked the captain, as the chief engineer came up to him.

“About ten minutes at the present speed, sir.”

“How long if we anchor?”

“Two hours, certainly, perhaps three.”

“Good! Will you carry a message for me, Phil?” the skipper asked suddenly, turning to the boy.

“I’m here, sir,” hurriedly announced the second mate, his tone and manner showing his resentment that the duty of bearing important communications should be entrusted to a landlubber.

“I know it, Hansen, and I want you to stay here,” returned the captain, testily. “How about it, Phil?”

“Surely, Captain Perkins,” replied the boy.

“Then go to the bridge and tell Mr. Adams, the first mate, to slow down until he barely has steerage way, then to turn the wheel over to the wheelsman and join me here. Understand?” The boy was part-way up the ladder by the time the instructions were finished, and he never stopped in his ascent as he called back his “Yes, sir.”

Smiling at the excited eagerness of the young passenger, the skipper turned to the chief engineer.

“Mr. Morris, have your assistant go above to the engine room and keep his eye on Swanson,” he instructed.

“I’ll go myself, sir.”

“No, I want you here.”

Quickly the chief went to his assistant, who was puttering around the recently raked fire box, and delivered the order.

In evident reluctance to leave before the cause of the lack of water had been discovered, the man obeyed.

“Mate, tell the coal passers and firemen to go on deck and cool off,” continued the captain, “and you, chief, go above and bring down some extension lights, wrenches, and whatever else you think we may need.”

Now that the danger of the boiler exploding was over, the firemen and coal passers were loath to go above, all being eager to learn the cause of the difficulty. Captain Perkins, however, was determined that only his highest officers should share the knowledge when it was ascertained, and he hastened the ascent of the lagging passers with a few curt orders.

“How about this boy, sir?” inquired the second mate, nodding at Ted.

Ere the skipper could reply, the first mate slid down the ladder, and after a hasty glance at the raked fire asked:

“What’s wrong, skipper?”

“I don’t know. Water got low in No. 3 boiler. Ah, here’s Morris. Help him adjust his extension lights and then we’ll find out.” Springing forward, the two mates took the coils of insulated cable, with wire-encased bulbs on one end, and quickly adjusted the other end to the sockets of the stationary electric lights and turned on the current.

“You take one lamp, Morris, and I’ll take the other,” said the skipper. “Adams, you and Hansen make ready to examine the flues in case we don’t find any—”

“Wait a minute, Captain Perkins, wait a minute,” called a voice from the hatchway, and looking up, those below beheld Phil, a paper fluttering in his hand.

“I’ve a wireless for you, Captain,” exclaimed the boy excitedly, as he scrambled down the ladder.

“Plague take the thing! instructions from Atwood, I suppose,” growled the skipper as he reached out for the sheet of paper. “The wireless is a fine thing in time of trouble or accident, but it’s a nuisance having the owners able to reach you any moment. A captain can’t run his own boat any longer. Dewey knew what he was about when he cut the cable after he had taken Manila. I—”

“Swanson’s reported sick and wants to go to his bunk,” interrupted the assistant engineer.

Instantly the chief and the mates exchanged hurried glances, then looked at their superior, but he seemed too absorbed in reading the despatch to have heard.

That he had heard, however, was quickly evident. After reading the message a second time, he thrust it into his pocket, then faced his officers, who were amazed at the sternness of his expression.

“So the dog’s reported sick, has he?” he snapped. “Well, keep him in the engine room until I can get up there. Mr. Adams, fetch the irons.”

Their faces looking the questions discipline forbade them asking, the officers followed the captain up the ladder, all having disappeared through the hatch while the two boys stood staring after them.

“Wonder what the trouble is?” murmured Ted.

“It’s about Swanson. I read the message, only don’t let on,” returned his brother.

“What did it say?”

“Never mind. Didn’t you see the skipper wouldn’t show it to the others?”

“I can keep a secret as well as you—and I’ll tell Captain Perkins unless you tell me,” asserted Ted.

“Come close then.” And as his brother obeyed, Phil whispered in his ear, “It said: ‘Watch your boilers closely. Relieve oiler Swanson from duty upon receipt of this message and place in irons. Put him ashore at Toledo. Will have man there to take his place. Atwood.’”

“Crickey! Then it’s Swanson who tampered with—”

“Keep still!” snapped his brother.

The caution, however, was unnecessary, for there came sounds of scuffling from above that would have drowned anything but the loudest shout from below.

An instant the boys gazed at one another. Then, actuated by the same impulse, they sprang for the ladder and were mounting it, when a form appeared in the hatchway, and a foot began to feel for a ladder rung, while a voice snarled:

“You’ll never put me in irons.”

“Quick, some of you, Adams, Morris! Don’t let the fellow get below!” roared the voice of the captain.

A mocking laugh was the oiler’s answer as he threw his legs about the ladder and started to slide down.

So sudden had been the appearance of the man that the boys had only time to mount a couple of rungs, and as they heard the skipper’s words, they stepped back.

His training as captain of his school nine had taught Phil to think quickly, and as he beheld the oiler sliding down he exclaimed to his brother:

“Stand on that side of the ladder. Grab his arms when he comes down. I’ll take his legs.”

Startled at the sound of voices below him when he thought every one was above, Swanson turned his head and saw the boys.

Ere he could check himself, however, Phil had seized his legs in a most effectual football tackle, and, though the oiler kicked desperately, the boy managed to hold on.

Unable to reach the fellow’s arms, Ted sprang to his brother’s assistance.

“Pretty work! Good boys! Hang to him!” came from the hatchway, as the captain and his officers beheld the scene below, and almost before the shouts of encouragement had ceased the skipper and his first mate were in the fire room and Swanson was overpowered.

“Take him on deck, Captain?” asked the second mate.

“No. Make him fast to a stanchion and then we’ll get to work again.”

The task was quickly accomplished, and picking up the lights and tools, the men once more started to examine the boiler.

Determined not to miss any of the excitement, the boys had preceded the others, and as the light illumined the back of the boiler, Ted glanced at a pipe, then rushed to that of the next boiler and felt of it.

“The stop-cock in the feed pipe is shut off!” he cried excitedly. “See, Captain Perkins!” and he pointed to the brass handle which stood at right angles to the pipe instead of in line with it.

Investigation by the chief engineer proved that Ted’s statement was correct.

“Pretty good for a boy, eh, Sam?” asked the captain, turning to his engineer.

“I told you I liked machinery,” returned Ted, happily.

“Want a job?” smiled the chief.

“I’d like it if I weren’t going farming.”

“You’ll earn more here and with less work.”

“Perhaps, but if I hadn’t made up my mind to be a farmer, I should have stuck to my airship, sir.”

“Well, any time you change your mind, just send word to Sam Morris, in care of Mr. Atwood, and he’ll find you a place.”

During this conversation the chief had turned the stop-cock to its rightful position.

“Water’s rising in No. 8’s glass,” shouted the assistant engineer from the hatch. “Found the trouble?”

“Yes.”

“What was it?”

“Tell you by and by.”

The trick which had put the splendid vessel and her crew in such jeopardy was so simple that the chief did not dare announce it, lest some of the crew should hear it and perhaps repeat the operation in the event of their becoming disgruntled.

The trouble remedied, the oiler was taken on deck, the coal passers and firemen returned to their stations, the fire was rekindled under No. 8, the first mate returned to the bridge, and soon the Admiral was bowling along at her usual speed.

As the boys walked forward with the skipper, Ted noticed a steel cable, fully half an inch in diameter, that extended from the cabins forward to the deck houses aft.

“What’s that for, Captain?” he inquired. “I noticed it before, but I forgot to ask about it.”

“We call it our ‘trolley.’ It’s really a life line. When we are loaded, we have only a couple of feet free board. If a bad storm comes up, the waves pour over the deck and it is dangerous work to walk from one end of the boat to the other. In such weather, and especially in the fall, when the deck is ice-coated, the men sling a bo’s’n’s chair to a wheel, place the wheel on the cable, and slide back and forth.”

“No, tell me really, please,” returned the boy, eying the skipper incredulously.

“And so I am. If you could see some of the storms we have, with waves twenty or thirty feet high pouring over the deck, you’d realize a man takes his life in his hands when he tries to walk the length of the boat.”

“Well, I hope we don’t have any such weather,” declared Phil, as they mounted the bridge and entered the pilot house, where they watched the wheelsman hold the big carrier on its course and later saw the first mate enter the incident of the boiler room in the log-book.

“By the way, Mr. Adams, has the log been set?” asked Captain Perkins, as he entered the pilot house.

“Jove, I forgot it, sir, in the excitement.”

“Then tell the watchman to set it.”

As the officer started off in obedience, the boys followed him.

Entering the lamp room, which was located in one of the after-deck houses, the watchman took down a coil of cod line to one end of which was attached a small brass swivel, while to the other end was fastened a hook. Then he took down a brass-encased instrument which looked like a small edition of an iceman’s scales. Going to one of the stanchions near the stem of the boat, on the starboard side, the watchman made the indicator fast with a piece of rope, then placed the hook of the log line in its hole, and lowered the log into the water.

“The only trick about this is to be careful not to lower so fast that the hook jumps out of its hole. If it does, the log is lost,” explained the watchman. “You have to look out, too, to drop the log far enough out so that it doesn’t get foul of the ship’s propeller.”

“But how does it work?” asked Phil.

As the line was all paid out and the log was churning through the water, the watchman pointed to the scale-like indicator.

“Just look at that pointer and you’ll see,” he replied. “The log pulls on the line, which, in turn, pulls on the scale, and the number to which the indicator points is the speed we are making. It’s easier to read than the old-fashioned wooden log.”

“It points to ten, now,” declared Ted.

“She’ll go higher as soon as No. 3 gets back into commission. We average between fourteen and fifteen knots an hour, empty.”

“How fast loaded?” asked Phil.

“Between ten and twelve; depends on the wind and currents.”

“How long do you keep the log overboard?” inquired the younger boy.

“All the time except when we enter a harbour, or the canal, and going through the Detroit and St. Mary’s rivers.”

“Why not then?”

“Because the navigation rules compel us to slacken speed and there are too many boats to be passed. Hooray, it’s grub time,” he added, as a boy in white coat and apron passed along the deck ringing a big bell.

CHAPTER IX

A SERIES OF REVELATIONS

“I don’t suppose the food will be very good,” confided Phil to his brother, as they removed the traces of the exciting morning, in their cabin.

“No, according to the sea stories I’ve read it won’t,” returned Ted. “Just salt pork, hard tack, and weak coffee, I expect.”

“Then you are due for a surprise,” exclaimed a hearty voice, and, turning, the boys beheld the captain. At the thought that their uncomplimentary remarks had been overheard, the boys grew crimson. But the skipper prevented any attempt at apology by saying: “I hope some time some one will write a story and tell the honest truth about the food we sailors have on the Great Lakes. Maybe it’s pork and hard tack on salt water—and from some of their sailors I’ve seen that’s plenty good enough for them—but if we don’t set better meals than nine out of ten of our men have at home, then I don’t know a buoy from a light-house.”

Deeming it best to say nothing, the boys quickly finished their ablutions and accompanied the skipper aft to the dining-cabin.

On the port side the boys beheld the crew seated at tables covered with white oil cloth. Each table was provided with a big portion of corned beef and cabbage, fish, potatoes, squash, peas, pies, bread, and cake, while from the coffee-pots there came the savoury aroma of good coffee.

“See any hard tack?” smiled the captain.

“It looks bully,” exclaimed Phil. “Where do we sit, anywhere?”

“You’ll eat at the officers’ table;” and the captain quickly led the way into a dining-room seemingly perfect in its appointments and handsomely furnished.

The officers were seated according to their rank, the navigating force on one side and the engine room, including the oilers, on the other, but as the men who were eating were the ones going on watch, there was plenty of room for the young homesteaders.

The boy in the white coat and apron, who had rung the bell, waited upon the table, serving soup and a dinner much the same as that of the crew, save that there was roast lamb as well as corned beef and cabbage, a greater variety of cake, and a pudding in addition to the pies.

Well cooked and appetizing, the meal would have been good in any event, but with appetites sharpened by the bracing air, it tasted delicious to the boys, and the skipper smiled as they took second helpings.

As rapidly as the men finished, they withdrew, going to their stations to relieve the men on duty, for until the second watch came on, the first watch were obliged to remain at their posts.

“Now what do you think?” asked Captain Perkins, as they passed out on deck.

“That the men who wrote those stories didn’t know what they were writing about or had never sailed on an ore carrier,” responded Ted.

“And the grub is just as good on the other boats,” asserted the skipper. “Of course, some lines feed better than others, but it’s all wholesome and well cooked.”

During the afternoon the boys amused themselves with the binoculars, studying the ships they passed and watching people on shore when they could find any.

Toward dusk they noticed a pall of smoke off the port bow.

“Must be a big fire,” commented Phil.

“It can’t be a prairie fire, can it?” eagerly asked his brother, who, like most New Englanders, considered everything west of the Hudson River prairie.

“That’s Cleveland,” smiled the captain. “Take the glasses and perhaps you can make out the tall buildings.” But the smoky haze was too dense.

At sundown the ship’s pennant and the Stars and Stripes were hauled down, after which the big electric masthead lights were switched on, and then the red and green running lights, for starboard and port respectively.

With the setting of the sun a brisk breeze sprang up, whipping the water into cat’s paws, as white caps are called on the lakes, and the huge carrier began to pound, owing to its emptiness.

“I should think she’d break in two,” exclaimed Ted, the rising and resounding fall of the bow seeming, to his inexperience, a serious matter.

“Go aft and you’ll scarcely notice any motion,” explained the first mate.

The boys, however, preferred to stay in the pilot house, where the wheelsman allowed them to take turns in holding the vessel on her course, whenever the mate was absent.

“Where are we now?” asked Ted, as the boys came on deck early the next morning and discovered they were passing through a seeming water lane, flanked on both sides by planking which topped the water by some two feet.

“Going up the channel into the Maumee River,” answered a watchman, for the captain and his mate were on the bridge, occasionally calling sharp orders to the wheelsman in the pilot house below. “We’re in Toledo harbour, now.”

Too afraid they would miss something of interest, Phil and Ted barely touched their breakfast, despite its tempting fruit, flapjacks, and steak, and soon they were on deck again, watching the monster draws in the bridges swing open in answer to the carrier’s signals, and the ever-changing shore line of the city.

“Look at those funny old scows, with little dinky engines and long spouts, skimming along! What on earth are they?” exclaimed Phil, pointing to a score or more of such craft that were scurrying, crablike, down the river.

“Those are sand-suckers,” explained the mate. “When they get to their positions they drop those spouts into the sand and then suck it into the boats; the water runs out and the sand is left in the scow.”

A terrific screech on the Admiral’s whistle called their attention to one of the suckers that had crossed her bow so near that only a sharp throwing over of the wheel prevented a collision.

Roundly Captain Perkins berated the man in the pilot house, but a grin was his only answer.

Approach to the dock quickly diverted the skipper, however, as he called orders to his wheelsman that brought the six-hundred-foot carrier alongside as easily as though she had been no more than a launch.

Lake carriers are met by no linesmen to help them on the docks, or throw their hawsers over the spilings, and as the boat swung alongside the heavy timbers, members of the crew sprang to the wharf. To them the lines were thrown, and in an incredibly short time the Admiral was fast, bow and stern.

Towering above the dock was a structure resembling a huge skeleton elevator shaft, along the top of which extended an iron shield that drew together from both sides in an enormous shute.

Back of the dock was a labyrinth of tracks and switches, upon some of which stood strings of loaded coal cars, and even as the Admiral made fast, a switch engine began to puff and snort, jerking a line of cars onto the track that ran between the uprights of the elevator-like structure.

Directly behind the tracks rose a sand bank, along the top of which an occasional trolley car passed.

The boat docked, Captain Perkins ordered the discredited oiler brought to him.

“I’m going to take you up town, Swanson, and I warn you not to make any trouble,” said he, tapping his side pocket, which bulged suggestively. “Mr. Adams, pass the word to the men off watch that there is to be no shore leave. Come, Swanson!” And the skipper stepped onto the dock, apparently unmindful that he had turned his back on his prisoner.

The members of the crew, however, watched the oiler closely, and as he did not start instantly, the first mate snapped significantly:

“Didn’t you hear?”

Apparently Swanson had heard, for he stepped onto the dock and disappeared from sight, walking beside the burly ship-master.

“Nerviest man I ever saw, the skipper,” exclaimed Mr. Adams, his admiration of his superior evident in his voice. “There isn’t another man on the lakes who would take Swanson, unshackled and without a police guard, up town.”

“Then you think Captain Perkins is in danger?” inquired Phil.

“Danger?” repeated the first mate; “just look at that hill!” And he nodded toward the sand bank which, though nothing but a bare hillside when Phil and Ted had first noticed it, was now swarming with men and boys.

“Who are they? Where did they come from?” asked both young passengers at once.

“Strikers!” exclaimed the second mate.

“More likely sympathizers; the strikers are pretty orderly,” returned Mr. Adams. “If Swanson should call on them for help, they’d attack.”

“Quick, get behind the cabin!” he shouted excitedly, interrupting himself.

Without waiting to ask the reason, the boys obeyed, and with them went all of the crew near at hand. Scarcely had they gained the protection of the deck houses than there was a patter like hail on the iron deck.

“Stones,” said Mr. Adams, simply.

“They do hate to see a boat take on cargo,” asserted Hansen. “Wonder where our guards are?”

The guards themselves answered the question, for barely had the shower of stones ceased than the four men whom Phil and Ted had noticed when they boarded the Admiral sprang from the cabin, revolvers in hand, rushed across the deck, leaped to the dock, and, joined by similarly armed guards who appeared from among the freight cars, charged up the bank.

Not long did the crowd linger on the hill when they saw the guards, and as the men and boys scattered in all directions, an automobile dashed up from which six policemen jumped out and began to patrol the top of the sand bank.

Ever since the Admiral had docked, men had been working about the elevator and in the adjoining engine room.

“All ready?” called one of them to the mate.

Recalled to his business, Mr. Adams looked along the deck. Every hatch cover was in place.

“Lively, open those hatches, Hansen,” he snapped; then, raising his voice, he answered, “All ready.”

There was the whir of drums winding up steel cables, then a snort from the engine as they tightened.

“Look! look!” cried Ted, grabbing his brother’s arm, “a coal car is going up on the elevator.”

Interestedly the boys watched as the big steel car, heaped with coal, slowly ascended; then a rattle on deck called their attention, and they turned just in time to see the hatch covers roll back from the hatches, operated by a series of rods to which electricity supplied the power.

As the covers were removed, the men on top of the coal elevator moved the mouth of the shute by levers until it was over the central hatch.

By this time the car had reached the top of the elevator.

“All ready?” shouted one of the men on top.

“Let her go,” returned the first mate, having gone to the middle hatch and squinted at the mouth of the shute, thirty feet above him.

There sounded the click of more levers, again the whir of the drums, followed by the snort of the engine, and the boys beheld one side of the car tip forward as the rear of the elevator platform rose, then the coal thundered against the shield, rattled into the shute, and, amid a cloud of black dust, shot through the hatch into the hold with a roar.

“Why, the coal car is on its side,” cried Ted, looking at the elevator. “It’s been turned up until it’s empty.”

Even as the boy spoke, there came the click of levers again, the platform dropped back, righting the car, which in due course was lowered to the ground, where it was backed off by another car that was, in turn, raised and dumped.

“Some class to loading coal by the carful, what?” asked Mr. Adams, noting the boys’ amazement.

“It’s wonderful,” replied Phil. “How long will it take to fill the hold?”

“About three hours, if everything works well.” As one compartment was filled, the boat was shifted back or forth for the shute to be over one of the various hatches.

When about half the cargo had been taken aboard, however, the loading was stopped by a lack of coal and the boys had retired before work was resumed.

CHAPTER X

THE UNUSUAL POSTMAN

“Wake up if you want any breakfast,” exclaimed the steward’s assistant, called the “cookee” in sailors’ parlance, as he shook Ted none too gently by the shoulder, adding, as the boy opened his eyes: “I can’t fool round waiting all day for you. I’ve got my dishes to do and the vegetables to prepare for dinner.”

Aroused by the voice, Phil sat up in his bed, then sprang out, and, with his brother, began hurriedly to dress, while the cookee lingered, much interested in watching the proceedings.

“Have we finished loading?” asked Ted, noting that the many noises, to be heard on every side when he retired, were silent.

“Can’t you tell from the quiver of the boat that we’re steaming?” returned the lad, scornfully. “I supposed even a ‘lubber’ could tell the difference between the motion of a boat when she’s going and when she’s tied to the dock.”

“You must remember we are not sailors like you,” interposed Phil hastily, winking at his brother and preventing the angry retort he saw Ted was about to make. “I suppose you have been a sailor for a number of years?”

“Uhuh! I’ve been running on ore boats for four seasons,” returned the cookee, mollified by the flattering allusion to his service in the galley as being a sailor.

“When did we leave the dock?” asked Ted, proffering a box of candy.

“Two o’clock. And say, you’se missed a circus,” he added, all aversion to the “young dudes,” as he had dubbed the boys, banished by the candy to which he helped himself liberally.

“What was it?” chorused Phil and Ted.

“You heard the skipper tell Adams there was to be no shore leave? Well, the wheelsman of the first watch sneaked ashore last evening and went up town. When he came back, some strikers caught him on the sand hill and, say, they certainly gave it to him good and plenty. If some of our men aboard hadn’t heard his yells, they would have pounded him to a jelly. But just wait until you see him.”

“Did Captain Perkins bring back the new oiler?” asked Ted.

“Sure.”

“Have any trouble?”

“Not him. Say, he could walk through a crowd of all the strikers put together and there wouldn’t one lay a hand to him.”

“Why not?”

“Because they know him. Once, when there was a mutiny on one of his boats, he laid out ten coal passers with his ‘dukes.’” Then, waxing confidential, he added: “Take it from me and don’t bother him with no question today, he’s got a fierce grouch.”

“Why?”

“’Cause he got word from Atwood to keep the four guards on board to Duluth. He ain’t got no use for them ginks, and he’s mad.”

During this imparting of the incidents of the night and ship’s gossip Phil and Ted had finished dressing and were on the point of going on deck, when the cookee exclaimed:

“Just wait until I can get back to the galley before you’se come out; if you don’t, I’ll get twigged for staying in here so long;” and quickly the lad departed.

As the boys emerged from their cabin, they gazed about them in surprise. Not a speck of land could they see, and the feeling was a novel one as they realized for the first time the sensation of being out of sight of land.

A stiff breeze kicked up the water, and as they proceeded to the dining-room, showers of spray now and then fell on the deck.

“Why, we’re only two or three feet above the water,” exclaimed Phil, going to the rail.

“Say we only have ‘two or three feet free board,’ you land-lubber,” chuckled his brother. “You didn’t suppose we’d ride high with all that coal aboard, did you?”

“Of course not, but we’re loaded with coal, not ore, and coal isn’t as heavy as copper or iron.”

“It’s a good thing I’m the only one to hear you talk,” grinned Ted, “or I’d blush to think you were my brother. What’s the difference between the weight of thirteen thousand tons of coal and thirteen thousand tons of ore?”

The twinkle in Ted’s eyes caused Phil to hesitate, then continue: “Why, er, none, of course, but you needn’t be so cockey. A ton of coal takes more room than a ton of ore, so they couldn’t put thirteen thousand tons of coal aboard.”

“They could, too. If a boat’s capacity is thirteen thousand tons, she can carry thirteen thousand tons, whether it’s sawdust or mercury.”

“Not if the bulk is too great,” returned Phil. For several moments the brothers argued the problem, and then, as the first mate came in sight, Ted said:

“We’ll leave it to Mr. Adams.”

Readily Phil consented, and as the mate came up, they stated their opinions on the question at issue.

“Ted is right,” smiled Mr. Adams. “The point is this, while the coal fills the hold, because of its greater volume per unit, there is plenty of room in the hold after we have thirteen thousand tons of ore aboard because of its greater weight per unit. Why, if we should fill the Admiral with copper or iron ore, she’d sink like a plummet.”

“How do you know when she is loaded to her capacity—keep track of the tons?”

“That would be too difficult a task. The cars from which we load coal vary in the number of tons they carry, just as some of the ore pockets from which we load contain more ore than others. We save all trouble by loading until the keel is so many feet below the surface of the water, the tonnage carried varying in accordance with the depth of water over certain bars on our course and at the canal. On this trip we are only loaded to seventeen feet four inches. But as the water in the lakes is rising, when we come down we may be able to load to eighteen or nineteen feet.”

“But how can you know to what depth to load?” asked the elder of the boys.

“An association, to which the owners or managers of the principal fleets belong, maintains men at the various shoals and bars who report the depth of the water night and morning. At the canal the information is furnished by the United States Government. Knowing the length of time, under ordinary conditions, it will take a carrier to cover the distance between the loading ports and the points involved, the captains load in accordance with the latest reports, which are always telegraphed them.”

“A captain is compelled to know a lot of things, isn’t he?” exclaimed Ted.

“Right you are—and his mates as well. He must know the locations of the light-houses, with their various kind of lights—revolving, steady, two-colored, long or short flash, and the rest—of the harbour and channel lights, and buoys. We don’t have any pilots come aboard to take us into harbour, as the salt-water boats do. Every captain and first mate must qualify as a pilot as well as a navigating officer before he can obtain his ‘papers’ as they call the license issued by the United States Government to sail a ship.”

“Crickey, it’s no easy job, I should think,” declared Phil.

“You’ll be sure of it when we have passed through the Detroit and St. Mary’s rivers,” smiled Mr. Adams, as he turned to set the deck hands at work washing away the coal dust from deck and cabins, while the boys went to breakfast.

“Look, look, there’s land again!” cried Ted, when they returned to deck, and hurrying to the bridge, they asked what it was.

“Canada,” replied Mr. Adams.

“The first foreign country I ever saw,” exclaimed the boy, as both he and Phil studied it closely.

“You’ll see enough of it until we pass the Soo,” returned the mate. “We’ll be so close to it going up the St. Mary’s you can toss a pebble ashore.

“We’re making the Detroit River, Mr. Perkins,” called the mate, turning from the boys.

Quickly Captain Perkins emerged from his cabin, and with a curt nod to his young guests, took his place beside his first officer.

As the nose of the Admiral passed between the buoys marking the channel, the skipper rang for half speed, and the big boat crept up the tortuous river, now passing carriers bound down, now splitting the air with her whistle as she announced her course.

To the left the sky-scrapers of Detroit came into sight, and across the river from them the comparatively quiet hamlet of Winsor, Canada, the difference in the two towns forming an eloquent commentary upon the aggressiveness and methods of American business men.

“There’s a launch headed for us,” cried Phil, as they came abreast of the city.

“That’s our postman,” explained the captain. “If you boys have any letters to send, be lively and take them to the watchman on deck, the man making a line fast to a mail bag.”

“I didn’t know you could send or receive letters except at ports,” declared Ted. “Do you suppose he’d wait while I scribble a line to my mother?”

“I’m afraid not. You see, he and his relief have to meet every ship going up and down the river during the day and night, so they can’t tarry at one boat long. It’s a splendid institution for sailors, this Marine Post Office. It tends to keep a man contented when he can hear from home at the canal and at Detroit on his trips up and down. It is also convenient for skippers and owners to send orders and reports.”

While listening, the boys had watched the launch as it darted, with the speed of a racer, toward the Admiral; then its occupant swerved it, and shut off his power. As the boat ran alongside the big carrier under its momentum, he picked up his heaving line and cast it deftly to the watchman on deck, who made a quick turn around a cleat so that the mail launch was fast alongside ere its own headway had died.

Picking up the mail bag, the watchman lowered it to the postman, who removed the letters it contained, put in a package addressed to the Admiral, tucked in several newspapers which members of the crew ordered, then put on his power as his line was cast loose, and scudded away to another carrier, bound down.

Untying the package of mail, the watchman looked through it, distributing such as there was for the crew, then mounted the bridge with the remainder, which he gave to the captain.

“Seems to be mostly for you, boys,” said the skipper, and he handed over to them a score or more of post cards and letters.

“But how in the world did any one at home know about this Marine Post Office?” exclaimed Ted, as he eagerly took the missives addressed to him.

“I suppose Dr. Blair told Momsy and the girls, and they passed the word along,” said his brother.

“Well, it certainly is a ‘splendid institution’,” confirmed the younger boy. And many were the exclamations of amusement and delight as they perused their letters and read the bits of advice and good wishes written on the post cards.

CHAPTER XI

UP THE SAINT MARY’S RIVER

As the Admiral passed from Lake St. Clair through the St. Clair flats, the boys beheld with interest and wonder the colony of cottages and hotels built on the very water’s edge of the American side, with the scores of launches scudding hither and thither, carrying merry vacationists on visits to friends or to fishing grounds. On the Canadian side, however, they could see nothing but a vast expanse of reeds and water-grass, splendid for duck shooting but otherwise useless.

“How do the people get here? Aren’t there any roads?” asked Ted, as he looked in vain for some means of connection with the mainland.

“To be sure,” replied the skipper, whose customary geniality had been restored by the receipt of a wireless message ordering him to set the unwelcome guards ashore at the Soo, as the Sault St. Claire is nicknamed.

“Where are they? I can’t see any,” returned the boy.

“You notice those lanes of water, don’t you?” and Captain Perkins pointed to a series of courses, some twelve feet wide, which traversed the flats at intervals of two or three hundred feet.

“Yes.”

“Well, those are the streets.”

“Oh, I mean regular dirt streets,” protested Ted.

“There aren’t any. Unless you come by launch or some of the big passenger boats that ply between the summer settlements and Detroit, you can’t get within ten miles of the colony here.”

At this statement the young homesteaders looked with increased interest at the novel settlement, and Ted began:

“Why, it’s a regular—”

“Don’t say it,” interrupted the skipper; “there’s a fine of five dollars, if you do.”

“Say what?” demanded the boy. “How do you know what I was going to say?”

“Because they all do. We sailors have become so tired of hearing guests call this colony ‘an American Venice’ that we have established a fine against the expression.”

“Much obliged for saving me the money,” smiled Ted. “But it is a wonderful sight for a person who has never seen it”

“I suppose so. It’s the bane of all ore carriers, however. The people in the launches persist in crossing our bows and darting in and out, until it gives our wheelsmen a nervous fit trying to avoid running them down.”

The Admiral, however, passed the colony without accident and was soon in the St. Clair River, whence she passed into Lake Huron, where it was again plain sailing till the St. Mary’s River was reached.

“M’m, what a delicious odour! Smell it, Ted?” exclaimed Phil, as he sniffed the twilight air, while the big carrier checked speed and passed between the lights marking the channel.

“That is from the pine forests,” explained Captain Perkins. “You are fortunate to get the pure fragrance. Later in the season there are usually fires raging, either in Michigan or Canadian forests, making the air stifling with smoke. I’ve seen it so dense that we were obliged to barely creep along, and blow our whistles just as in a fog.”

The handling of the six-hundred-foot vessel as she steamed up the Detroit River had filled the boys with wonder, but as she made the sharp turns in the St. Mary’s, now being obliged to clear a government dredge at work in the channel, now running so close to the shore that it seemed they could jump from the bridge to land, they were amazed at the ease and skill with which the big carrier was navigated.

“Mr. Adams, Mr. Adams!” shouted the skipper. And as the mate hurried from the pilot house, he added: “See if you can pick up a spar-buoy, off the port bow.”

Intently the officer peered through the fast-increasing darkness for a sight of the red light. “Can’t see it, sir,” he replied.

“Then heave the lead, quick! If the light is out of commission, we may ground before we can make this turn.”

Ere the last words were uttered, the mate had stepped onto a plank projecting from the bridge, picked up a long line to which bits of red and white bunting were alternately attached at regular intervals, with a slug of lead at the end, and, with a preliminary swing, shot it into the water well toward the bow of the boat, then hauled it aboard rapidly as the vessel came abreast of him.

“Three fathoms and a foot!” he cried. “Starboard your helm, hard over!” roared the captain, springing toward the opening which communicated with the wheelsman in the pilot house below.

“Starboard your helm, hard over!” repeated the wheelsman, in accordance with ship’s custom.

Again the first mate heaved the lead.

“Three fathoms, lacking two inches!” he called.

“Hold your helm hard over!” snapped the skipper, and, as the repetition came to him, he pressed a button for full speed astern.

As the electricity carried the command to the indicator in the engine room, the terrific churning of the water as the propellers whirled in reversed motion broke the stillness of the evening air, the boat quivered, then began to back.

“Three fathoms and seven inches,” announced the mate.

“Close work,” muttered Captain Perkins to himself, as he pressed another button for quarter speed ahead.

Farther and farther the Admiral’s bow swung to starboard as the wheelsman held the wheel over hard, and the mate’s next announcement of three fathoms and a half told them that the boat was once again in the channel.

“Stern will go over a buoy,” warned Mr. Adams, as he glanced back before returning to the bridge.

“Hard aport!” commanded the skipper, stepping to a spot whence he could watch the light on the spar-buoy aft.

“Hard aport!” came the confirmation.

“Three fathoms, lacking an inch!” called the mate, who, in view of the danger of grounding astern, was again heaving the lead.

“Starboard, three points!” yelled the captain, adding to himself, “Plague take that current, it’s liable to drive me on yet.”

With a quickness that was remarkable, considering her size, the Admiral responded to her tiller, and again her nose swung away from the shore of the channel.

As he noted the fact, the skipper once more called for full speed, but this time ahead.

“They can fine me for exceeding the speed limit for this river if they want to, but I’m not going to run the danger of swinging across the channel, bow and stern on, just for lack of a little speed,” he declared.

No further manœuvring was necessary, however, to negotiate the surprisingly sharp turn, and when he was clear, the skipper checked his speed.

“What are those things along the Michigan side, Captain? They look like cabins. I’ve noticed several of them,” said Phil, pointing to dark masses that stood out from the rest of the shore line.

“Indian shacks.”

“Indians here? What do they do?” exclaimed Ted.

“Pick blueberries, fish and sell them and the things they weave to the tourists at the Soo.”

“I wish it was daylight so that we could see them. Just think, real Indians, Phil!”

“Oh, you’ll have a chance to see enough of them at the canal,” smiled the skipper.

“But they don’t go into the town, do they? I should think they would scare the women and children to death.”

“They not only go into the Soo, but they bother the life out of people trying to sell their wares. The quickest way to get rid of them is to buy something. Children don’t even notice them, unless to make fun of them. But you mustn’t expect to see story-book Indians, in war paint, feathers, and blankets. They have taken to trousers and shirts.”

The disappointment which settled on Ted’s face at this shattering of his mental picture of the redmen caused the skipper to add with a smile:

“You can still get a thrill from them, though, if we are held up at the canal, by getting one to shoot the St. Mary’s rapids with you.”

“Provided you can find one sober enough,” supplemented the first mate.

“Oh, I hope so,” declared the younger boy. “Do they shoot the rapids in canoes or boats?”

“In canoes. You can’t get an Indian into a boat without a derrick, too much work to row one.”

The guidance of the big carrier again claiming the captain’s attention, the boys, their minds filled with redskins, descended to the deck, where they sought out some of the crew, who regaled them with experiences, some very fanciful, they had had with the redmen.

“Get to your posts, you huskies! Watchman, call the other watch!” snapped Hansen, coming up to the group. “You boys better go to the bridge if you want to see how we lock a ship through the canal—and you’ll be out of the way there,” he added to himself, as the sailors obeyed. For when an ore carrier docks or goes through the canal, all the crew are called on duty, regardless of whether it is their watch on or off.

“Are we at the Soo now?” asked Phil.

“Will be in about ten minutes. See those lights ahead? The ones on the right are in the Canadian town. Some difference between that glim and the one on our side, to the left, what?”

“I should say so, but what are all those red, green, and white lights just ahead of us?” asked Ted, as they mounted to the bridge.

“Boats waiting to lock through,” replied the first mate.

“Which means you will get your chance to shoot the rapids all right,” observed the captain. “We shall be lucky if we get through before noon, there are so many ahead of us. Mr. Adams, when you find a good berth, let the anchors go.”

CHAPTER XII

SHOOTING THE RAPIDS

For a long time the boys remained on the bridge, fascinated by the scene presented by the illumination of the American and Canadian cities and the vari-coloured lights on the boats, heightened by the occasional shout of a skipper or mate as one of his crew failed to handle a line properly.

Of the chief officers on the Admiral, the second mate alone was on the bridge.

“Do you think we shall get through tonight?” inquired Ted, eager for anybody’s opinion.

“We may and we may not,” returned Hansel, non-committally.

“Captain Perkins said we wouldn’t.”

“Skippers don’t know all there is to know.”

“Then let’s stay up all night, Phil. I wouldn’t miss seeing the Admiral locked through the canal for anything.”

As his brother shared Ted’s interest, the boys brought rocking-chairs and blankets from their cabin and made themselves comfortable on the bridge.

The novelty and excitement of the night scene, however, failed to withstand the gentle, sleep-bearing air, and when Captain Perkins emerged from his cabin about three o’clock, to see whether or not it was worth while to move the Admiral closer to the canal, he found them slumbering.

“Better go to your beds,” he said, as the young homesteaders awoke in response to his shaking.

“But we want to see you lock through,” explained Phil, drowsily.

“I told you we’d be lucky if we got into Superior before noon, didn’t I?”

“Yes,” assented the boys.

“Then why are you sitting up?”

“Mr. Hansen,” began Ted.

“Bother Hansen! He’s second mate and I’m captain, what?”

Again the young homesteaders assented.

“Well, if he’d had as much experience as I have, he’d be sailing a boat of his own instead of being my second mate. But if you want to sit up, all right.”

“You’ll have us called if you do move?” appealed Ted.

“Sure thing.”

“Bed’s certainly more comfortable than this chair, Phil;” and picking up their things, the boys made their way below to their cabin.

Scarcely had they gone to sleep again, it seemed to them, than they heard the voice of the first mate calling:

“We’re moving up to the canal. If you don’t look sharp, you’ll miss your chance to shoot the rapids.”

Expressing their thanks, Phil and Ted almost jumped into their clothes and were soon on the bridge, staring in open-mouthed wonder all about them.

To the right they beheld the quaint buildings of the Canadian Soo and the monster pulp works, but the foam of the rapids, as the water raced down the twenty-foot fall from Lake Superior, almost a mile to the level of Lake Huron, quickly claimed and long kept their attention.

In front of them were the two American canals, one now useless because of the increased size of the lake carriers, with their locks and the massive granite power-house, while work trains and dredges puffed and snorted and a thousand men worked to remove the dirt from the course of still another canal which was to have even longer locks. And back of the canals, on the left, extended the steadily growing city of the American Sault Ste. Marie. Far in the distance, to the right, they could see the Canadian canal, yet not a boat was waiting to use it.

But it was the rapids at which they were looking when the watchman, in passing, whispered: “Just keep your eye on the skipper if you want to see some boat jockeying.”

Even as the words were uttered, there sounded a series of ear-splitting toots, seemingly abreast of them.

In response, the Admiral emitted a single, strident blast, Captain Perkins snapped some orders to his wheelsman, and the huge ore carrier swung on a diagonal course, making, under full speed, for a vacant place at the dock adjoining the canal abutments.

The manœuvre successfully blocked other carriers, on both sides of the Admiral, which had sought to reach the coveted berth before her, and they slackened speed when their skippers realized they had not been able to steal a march on Captain Perkins.

“Pretty work,” grinned the mate, as he turned to his superior, “but hadn’t you better check? Some inspector may see us and fine you.”

In reply, the skipper pressed a button and the speed of the boat fell away, her momentum carrying her to the dock, where she was made fast, pending her turn to lock through.

“Come ashore with me and we’ll see what your chances are for a trip down the rapids,” called the captain, stepping from the bridge to the canal wall.

Quickly the boys followed, and soon they were in the canal-master’s room at the power-house.

“Some day I’ll have to fine you, Perkins, for jockeying for dock position,” chuckled the master, as he shook the hand of the Admiral’s skipper. “I was watching and I thought those other fellows had caught you napping for once.” Captain Perkins’ only reply was a grin, as he asked:

“How long before we can go up?”

“Just look over on Superior,” returned the canal-master.

And as they all turned, the boys beheld more than a score of boats waiting to lock through.

“You’re not going to hold me until all those fellows are down?” asked the Admiral’s skipper.

“I ought to, but seeing it’s you, I’ll let you up after I’ve passed half of them.”

“That means two hours, anyhow.”

“More likely three; they are all big ones, so we can only take one at a time.”

“H’m! I suppose I must be thankful you don’t hold me for the twenty. Seen Afraid-of-his-wife this morning? I want him to take these friends of mine down the rapids.”

“No—hold on, here he comes,” added the canal-master, peering from his window toward the American side.

“We’re in luck all around,” smiled the skipper, as, having thanked the master, he led the boys along the park-like reservation surrounding the canals.

His companions gave him no heed, however, their attention being engrossed by the tall, bronze-faced man, clad in trousers and coat fully a dozen sizes too big for him, who was approaching.

“Howde, chief,” greeted the skipper. “I want you to take these boys down the rapids.”

“Five dollar,” grunted the redskin, after eying his prospective passengers for several moments.

“If I were chief of police, I’d arrest you for a robber,” returned Captain Perkins. “You’ll get two dollars.”

“All right.”

“If you capsize, you won’t get a cent and I’ll take it out of your hide.”

A grin of understanding was the Indian’s reply, and, nodding to the boys, he started toward the Superior end of the canal.

“Meet you here at the power-house,” said the skipper, as Phil and Ted hurried after the redman.

Arrived at an inlet on the lake, the Indian shoved a twenty-foot birch-bark canoe off the beach and held it while the boys got in.

“You here,” he grunted, motioning Ted to a seat in the bow. “You here;” and he put Phil amidships. “No move. Sit still. Heap easy tip over. No move, un’erstan’?”

“We do,” chorused his passengers.

Taking his paddle, Afraid-of-his-wife kneeled down in the stern, and with a few powerful strokes sent the canoe out onto the lake and then turned it toward the foaming, roaring rapids.

As the frail craft was caught in the current and raced toward the raging torrent, the boys instinctively grabbed the gunwales.

“No move!” cried the Indian.

Ere his passengers could answer, the canoe leaped over the fall, into the seething waters of the rapids.

With tense lips and wide eyes the boys gazed at the merciless, sharp-pointed rocks whose presence lashed the river into foam. So many were there that it seemed impossible the canoe could be guided in and out among them, and when a shower of spray drenched them, after a long leap, they screamed.

“No move!” shrieked the Indian, his shrill command audible even above the roar of the rapids.

As they leaped, seemingly from white crest to white crest without mishap, the courage of the young passengers returned, and looking back, they beheld the redman, kneeling on a crossbar, his face stolid, his eyes keenly alert, only the play of his splendid arm muscles, as he deftly turned his paddle, indicating that he was alive.

Confidence established in his ability, Phil and Ted yelled in pure delight as they raced along at express-train speed, and when, with a final leap, they shot into calm water, their one regret was that the rapids were not longer.

CHAPTER XIII

THROUGH ONTO SUPERIOR

“I wonder if we have time to shoot the rapids again,” exclaimed Ted, his blood a-tingle from the thrill of the dash through the swirling foam, as the three of them walked up to the canal, the Indian towing his canoe. “How much would you do it for, Chief?” The boy had first thought to call the redman by his name, then, remembering that Captain Perkins had avoided its use, he had employed the latter’s mode of address.

“Same price, two dollar,” grunted Afraid-of-his-wife.

“You certainly are a robber,” laughed Phil. “The second time is always cheaper, you know.”

“Huh, you Yankee. Injun know. Yankee heap stingy. Help carry canoe back, one dollar,” declared the redskin, while the boys roared, both at his characterization of a Yankee and at his shrewdness in obtaining assistance for the “carry” of more than a mile.

“What do you say, Phil, is it a go, or don’t you think we can afford it?”

“I guess we can stand the expense, Ted, but we’d better wait before making any bargain until we see how much time we have.”

The hurried approach of one of the Admiral’s deck hands settled the matter, however.

“We’ve got a chance to lock through right now, and the skipper said you was to get a move on,” panted the sailor.

“All right. Sorry, Chief, that we can’t help you tote your canoe back,” said Phil, handing the redman his fee.

The Indian made no comment, however, simply pocketed his money, and then sprang into his canoe, which he paddled vigorously toward the lock.

“Where’s he going?” inquired Ted, as they broke into a trot.

“To get into the lock and go through with us,” replied the sailor. “No ‘carrying’ for him. Why, I’ve seen a redskin wait half a day for a chance to lock through rather than tote his canoe the mile.”

“I’ve always heard Indians were lazy,” commented Ted.

“Only one thing lazier and that’s a New Orleans roustabout. I’ve seen the time down there when the shippers wanted to load cotton quick and offered those niggers double wages, yet they wouldn’t lift a finger ’count of its being Sunday.”

As the three came within hailing distance of the Admiral, Captain Perkins ordered them to hurry.

Already men were dragging her hawsers toward the spiles and cleats for the first lock, and, jumping aboard, Phil and Ted hastened to the bridge.

“If there’s a twenty-foot fall between Lake Superior and Lake Huron, how in the world do we get up it?” asked the younger boy.

“Wait and see, don’t bother anybody with questions now,” quickly admonished his brother, in a low voice.

And the warning was timely, for if there is one occasion more than another on an ore carrier when officers and crew are busy, it is when they are locking through the canal.

The second mate takes charge of the stern, giving orders to the men at the lines both on shore and on the boat; the first mate renders similar service at the bow, and the captain gives instructions to both, regulates the speed of the vessel as she enters the locks, that she may not ram the lock gates and thus put the entire canal out of commission, at the same time taking care not to scrape or jam the plates against the side of the canal—no trifling task with a boat whose beam is only a couple of feet less than the width of the lock.

At last the Admiral was in position, held fast bow and stern by hawsers running to each side of the canal.

“I don’t see anything happening yet,” observed Ted, in disappointment, peering ahead intently.

“Just look astern and you will,” replied the captain.

Quickly both boys faced about and beheld several canal officials on the bridges above the gates, which were slowly swinging shut. When at last they were closed, the men turned the freight-car-brake like wheels which regulate the sluices and dropped the bolts into place.

“Now turn around and look ahead again,” instructed the skipper.

On the bow lock another set of men were busy at the wheels, and as they raised the sluices, water began to bubble and foam at the bottom of the gates.

Soon the big carrier commenced to strain at her moorings, her hawsers creaking and groaning.

“Why, the boat is rising,” exclaimed Ted, excitedly.

The skipper was giving his attention to his boat again, and the boy’s comment was lost in the shouts of “Ease off a bit, bow! Ease off, stern!” that were yelled at the line-tenders on the carrier.

Greater and greater became the volume of water rushing into the lock as the gates were opened wider, and when they were full open, the Admiral rode ten feet higher.

“Cast loose,” commanded Captain Perkins. When the line-tenders ashore had received the word from the mates and obeyed, he pressed the button for going ahead and the huge boat crept into the second lock.

The action was repeated in this, and when the lock was filled, the Admiral was on the level of Lake Superior and steamed on her course, her line-tenders scrambling aboard as best they could, for it is the law of the lakes that they must look out for themselves and not depend on a skipper’s waiting for them.

Heaving lines and hawsers properly coiled and the log set, the crew settled down to their routine, thankful for the days ahead of them of straight sailing.

In the best of humour because he had been locked through the canal without waiting for the passage of the entire down-bound fleet that had been anchored at the Superior mouth of the canal, Captain Perkins told the boys to bring their chairs to the bridge and pointed out the points of interest on the fast-receding shores.

“Where going?” he asked, as Phil arose and started to leave the bridge.

“To the galley, to get a drink of ice water.”

“Just step into the pilot house, take the pail and line, and heave her over.”

“But I want ice water, sir.”

“And you’ll get it. On the hottest day of summer the water in Superior is always cold, practically ice-cold.”

Skeptical, Phil obeyed, but when he raised the water to his lips, he found that the captain was right.

“What makes it so cold?”

“That is the question no one has yet answered satisfactorily. Superior is a queer lake. There is less known about it and it is more feared than any of the Great Lakes, even than Erie, where terrific storms come up in a twinkling. You’ve found how cold the water is, and if you’ll look over the side, you will notice that it is green, while the water in the other lakes is blue. They say that no body which was drowned in Superior has ever come to the surface, and, you know, in ordinary water a dead body will rise in time.”

“Is that the reason the lake is so feared?” inquired Ted.

“Partly. The storms, when we do get them, are terrible. But the worst thing is the fog—it comes as suddenly as the big winds on Erie. See that light-house off the port bow?” And the skipper pointed to a column, painted white with a red pinnacle, which was just visible on the end of a barren promontory. “Well, that’s White Fish Point Light-house, and there is nothing but white sand and scrub pine for miles in any shore direction. About thirty miles southwest of the light-house is an uncharted reef, at least it was uncharted five years ago, and that’s the time I’m going to tell you about.

“I was bound down on the Queen, a little two-hundred-and-fifty-foot tub, loaded with every ounce of copper we dared put in her. It was early in December—owners took chances then running later into the winter that they don’t take now—and it was bitter cold.

“Masts, cabins, deck, and rails were coated with ice, but the day broke clear, after a misty snow. I was crowding the old tub because I knew if the cold held, I’d be ice-bound at the Soo and unable to get through.

“Suddenly, along near the middle of the forenoon, a fog settled down on us, almost before you could say the words. I slackened speed a trifle, but not much, because I was afraid of ice. For three hours we plugged along, blowing our fog-horn and holding our course, as we thought.

“All at once there sounded a series of reports, short and sharp, as though somebody was exploding several sticks of dynamite, one at a time. I knew quick enough we’d grounded, but before my first mate or I could speak, there came a long, grating sound and the old tub began to settle.

“I tell you, it didn’t take us long to get into my cutter, the crew only numbered twenty all told, and pull away from the Queen. We hadn’t gone more than nine or ten fathoms when the old tub went down.

“Well, the fog still held and we knew we were off our course, but we rowed and we rowed and we rowed. It seemed as though it grew colder every minute, and after we’d rowed about six hours, the men’s hands and feet began to freeze. But we kept at it.

“Some of the men began to whine that we were rowing straight out into the lake, and when darkness came, with no shore in sight, I admit I lost heart. However, I didn’t let my men know it, and just nine hours after we took to the cutter, we caught the flash from old White Fish—and perhaps it didn’t look good! The next day, we got word to the Soo and a tug was sent for us.”

“What became of the Queen?” asked Phil, when a long pause announced that the captain had finished his story.

“You saw that boat to which I tooted three times as we passed out of the canal? Well, that is the Queen. The next summer, divers found she was only in some thirty feet of water. Her cargo, what there was left, was lightered; she was raised, dry-docked, fitted with new plates, and the first mate who was with me then is now her master.”

CHAPTER XIV

A NIGHT IN THE FOG

“What’s that?” cried Ted, sitting up in bed, his mind too dulled by sleep to identify the sound that had awakened him so suddenly.

“What’s what?” growled his brother, who had been aroused by Ted’s cry.

“That noise I heard?”

“Noise nothing! Go to sleep! You were dreaming.”

“But I tell you I heard something. Why, it—”

His words were interrupted, however, by the ear-splitting screech of the Admiral’s siren.

“There! What did I tell you?” gloated the younger boy. “I knew—”

But again his words were silenced by another shrill whistle.

A veritable roar replied from the Admiral’s siren.

Reaching quickly above his head, Phil switched on the electric lights in the cabin, and the boys stared at one another as a still different-toned whistle joined in the pandemonium.

“Fog!” they gasped, almost in the same breath. And even as they uttered the word, they sprang to the floor, their minds recalling the statement of Captain Perkins in regard to the danger from the palls of mist.

Never another word did either of them speak as they got into their clothes with a rapidity that would have established a record for quick-dressing, had any one been present to time them.

Still silent, they rushed to the door and threw it open, then paused. Not a yard could they see ahead of them.

The screech of the Admiral’s siren seemed continuous, interrupted incessantly by other whistles, while apparently from all about them, so does a Superior fog distort all sense of direction, came hails, some loud, others faint, in accordance with the distance of their utterers, “Don’t see a thing!” from the lookouts on the carriers.

“Let’s go to the bridge,” whispered Phil, in an awed tone.

“But we may lose our way—and fall overboard. You know what Captain Perkins said about bodies—”

“Forget that,” cut in the elder boy. “Just take hold of my arm. I’ll keep one hand on the cabin. Come on.”

As they gained the bridge, the young passengers were just able to distinguish half a dozen forms.

“See anything?” queried the skipper’s voice, its tone indicating the tension under which he was, as there came an instant’s lull in the riot of siren screeches and whistles.

“Thought I saw something off the port bow a minute ago,” responded a voice which neither of the boys could identify, then it added: “But I can’t see it now.”

“How about lying to?” suggested the first mate.

“Don’t dare to,” replied the captain. “Those other boats are so close, I’ve simply got to have steerage way. She’s checked to quarter speed now.”

“Wireless! Wireless!” shouted another voice. “The Prescott wants to know our course and position. She’s East by North, half East, off Moose Point.”

“At the wheel, there! What’s our course?” demanded the skipper.

“North by East, half North,” answered the wheelsman.

“Same course,” snapped Captain Perkins. “Mr. Adams, where do you think we are?”

When word of the request had been announced, the first mate had darted below to the pilot house and was scanning the log-book.

“According to our speed and the last bearing entered, we ought to be off Moose Point,” he called to the skipper.

“Tell the Prescott we are on the same course and in practically the same position she is. Tell her to swing a point East and I’ll swing a point North. Get that?”

“Aye, aye, sir!” replied the wireless operator.

Scarcely had the instruments begun to crash out their message than there rose a terrified shout:

“Boat ahoy, sir! Right off the port bow!”

“Hard astarboard! Hard astarboard!” bellowed Captain Perkins to his wheelsman, while he sprang to his buttons and frantically signalled for full speed astern.

And even as he spoke, there loomed a towering, fog-magnified mass, seemingly right upon them.

The lookouts on the Prescott had spied the Admiral only a few seconds after the latter’s, and while Captain Perkins was giving his orders, a frenzied ringing of bells proved that her skipper was also doing his utmost to avert the collision which meant the foundering of both boats, because they were loaded, his vessel being older and not equipped with the modern system for signalling the engine room.

Though both carriers had been creeping through the fog with barely steerage way, it seemed to the anxious groups on each that they were racing together at express-train speed. But the reversed propellers of the Admiral were doing their work, the boat checked with a suddenness that sent the boys and some of the crew sprawling on the bridge, quivered and then began to back, the bow swinging away from the Prescott.

“Port your wheel, hard over!” ordered Captain Perkins, as his boat moved astern.

Still the Prescott came on, then her propellers bit, and she, too, checked, but not before her nose was where the huge carrier’s had been scarce a moment before.

Farther and farther to the right swung the bow of the Admiral, while the Prescott began to swerve to the left, and the danger was over.

“Great work, Perkins! You’ve saved our lives!” megaphoned the other carrier’s skipper as she passed on.

“Too close! I don’t want any more like—” began Captain Perkins, when there came frenzied shouts from the Admiral’s stern, which were quickly passed by the crew on deck, acting as lookouts, to the bridge: “Boat ahoy! Off the starboard stern!”

“Take the bridge, Mr. Adams,” exclaimed the skipper, ordering full speed ahead. “Keep your eyes open in front!” and he hurried to the deck.

“Wireless, sir! Prescott wants to know if she shall stand by?” called the operator.

“Tell her ‘yes’!” shouted back Captain Perkins, as he ran aft, where he quickly mounted the superstructure, the better to see, having instructed Hansen to station men to pass his orders to the chief in the engine room.

The other boat, however, had heard the cries and located the Admiral, thus averting the danger of collision by a wider margin than in the case of the Prescott.

But the shouts and exchange of hails had carried far through the fog, and again whistles and sirens screeched in all directions.

When a lull came, the Admiral’s skipper raised to his lips the megaphone he had carried from the bridge.

“Ahoy, astern! Who are you?” he demanded. “Palmer,” came the answer. “We picked up your wireless, Admiral. There are boats all around us. How are we going to get out of this tangle?”

“I’m going to wireless everybody within fifteen miles to check and just keep steerage way.”

“Reckon that’s the safest thing, but all the boats haven’t wireless.”

“We’ll have to watch out for those that haven’t. Bring the Palmer close to my stern and swing to right angles. I’ll hold the Prescott off my bow. The three of us can protect each other.”

“Right-o!” exclaimed the captain of the Palmer, and Mr. Perkins hastened to the bridge, where he quickly gave instructions to his operator, adding: “Tell each boat to answer, and that I’ll report her to the Association if she refuses.” For five minutes the man at the wireless instruments sent out the code call for the attention of the other boats, then flashed the captain’s orders through the fog. Twice he repeated them, then waited for replies.

One by one they came in and were reported to the skipper.

“The Wolcott wants to know how she can protect herself from other boats bound down behind her, if she checks,” announced the operator.

“Tell her to send out her position when we have finished.”

For some time there was silence, then Captain Perkins called:

“How many answers have you received?”

“Eighteen, sir.”

“That ought to give you boys an idea of the danger in a Superior fog,” commented the skipper, turning to his young passengers. “With twenty-one boats within fifteen miles, counting the Palmer, Prescott and ourselves, and nobody knows how many others that haven’t any wireless, there are plenty of chances for collisions.”

“Why, it’s three o’clock,” exclaimed Phil, looking at his watch. “What time did the fog set in?”

“Fifteen minutes past twelve,” returned the first mate.

“How long will it last?”

“Goodness knows,” sighed the skipper. “I’ve seen them set in and lift inside an hour and I’ve seen ’em hold three days. Your opinion is as good as mine.”

“Will all these boats be drifting for three days, if the fog holds that long?” asked Ted.

“Unless we can arrange some plan to keep out of the way of one another. Only there are more likely to be sixty than twenty-one boats floating about if the fog holds that long.”

Too careful a navigator to turn over his vessel to the mate when his judgment and nerve might be needed at any moment to meet an emergency, Captain Perkins went into the pilot house, where he regaled the boys with stories of other fogs.

“It’s lifting! It’s lifting!” suddenly shouted a voice, joyfully.

Quickly the skipper was on his bridge, followed by Phil and Ted.

In the East a pink glow suffused the mist pall, before which the fog receded. As dawn burst, the colour effect was gorgeous, and when the sun seemingly leaped from the lake, the fog vanished as if by magic.

In amazement, the young homesteaders looked about them. The water was apparently alive with boats as far as they could see in all directions.

CHAPTER XV

ENTRAINED

“How much danger was there, Captain Perkins, of our sinking if we had collided with the Prescott?” inquired Phil, when they met at dinner, all hands, save the watch on duty, having refreshed themselves with sleep after the terrible strain of the night.

“That’s hard to tell. Last summer two carriers, bound down with copper ore, collided, and both sank so quickly not a single man jack of them was able to save himself. Still, we should have stood a better chance than the Prescott, because she’s full of ore.”

“But we carry thirteen thousand tons of coal, and thirteen thousand tons is thirteen thousand tons,” interposed Ted.

“Raked that up again, eh?” smiled the captain. “You’re quite right, but you must remember that soft coal is porous and has a certain amount of buoyancy, enough, perhaps, to have kept our boat afloat until we could patch her up or clear our cutters, but there’s nothing I know sinks faster than crude copper ore.”

“Don’t you think the others could have—”

“Oh, let up, Ted!” exclaimed his brother. “We didn’t have any collision, thanks to Captain Perkins, so let’s not suppose cases.”

“I was only going to ask how long it took to launch the cutters. I’d like to know, and I’d also like to know what to do and how to do it at such a time. If anything had happened last night, I should have had no idea where to go.” Phil’s retort was prevented by the skipper.

“It’s always well to be prepared for emergencies, Ted. Mr. Adams, go to the bridge and give the signal to ‘abandon ship.’ I should like to see how quickly my crew can do the trick.” As the whistle shrieked the dread signal, coal-passers, firemen, oilers, and deck hands alike looked at one another in amazement, then dashed to the posts assigned them—some at the boat falls, others whisking off the canvas covers, while still others sprang into the boats to prevent the ropes from fouling as they were lowered into the water.

Watch in hand, Captain Perkins stood on the bridge looking aft.

“Starboard cutter, two minutes, ten seconds,” he announced through his megaphone. “Good work, boys!”

The other boats were in the water in less than four minutes, and the skipper was delighted with the result of the test.

“We must have our drills more often after this, Mr. Adams,” he said; then turning to Ted, he asked:

“Should you know what to do now?”

“Y-e-s, that is, I think so, if I knew which boat to go to.”

“If anything happens, which I hope there won’t, you boys make for the starboard cutter as fast as your legs can carry you.”

The remaining days before they sighted the harbour of Duluth were uneventful, the young homesteaders enjoying to the full the sensation of being for so many hours out of sight of land.

It was morning when the carrier entered the Duluth breakwater, and the boys gazed in wonder at the panorama. On the left was the port of Superior, where a score of boats were receiving and discharging cargoes, but it was the grain elevators of Duluth pouring their tons of wheat into several vessels that claimed the greatest share of attention, and Phil and Ted listened with interest to the statistics concerning the stupendous amount of grain and iron ore, totalling millions of tons, shipped annually from the “city at the head of the lakes.”

When the Admiral was finally docked, it was with real regret that Phil and Ted bade goodbye to the mates, after thanking them for their kindness and patience, and turned toward Captain Perkins.

“I’m going ashore with you,” he smiled. “My instructions from Mr. Atwood were not to leave you until you were safely on board your train for the West.”

Phil, because of his nineteen years, felt that such guardianship was not only unnecessary but humiliating and he was on the point of rejecting the skipper’s escort, when Ted quickly exclaimed:

“That will be bully. Not that we need a guardian—we’re old enough to take care of ourselves—but it will be pleasant to have some one we know with us. Can’t Mr. Adams go too?”

The boy’s words were so cordial that the skipper smiled at the token of appreciation, while Phil was very glad that he had been prevented from saying what he had intended.

“That was just what I wanted to suggest,” declared Captain Perkins. “Come on, Harry; it’s Harry any time except on board ship, you know—we must treat these boys right in Duluth. Some day we may want to beg enough wheat from them to make a couple of barrels of flour, if things keep on as they are going.”

“You shall have it and welcome, and all you want of it,” declared Phil, glad of the opportunity to atone for his former rudeness.

“By Jove! Just think! Perhaps some day you’ll carry some of our wheat in the Admiral!” exclaimed Ted. Then, turning to the vessel, he said, whimsically: “Good-bye, old boat. If you ever carry any of my grain, don’t you dare to sink with it.”

After a call at the bank, where the money needed for their railroad tickets, berths, meals, and incidentals was drawn against their letter of credit, the young homesteaders purchased their transportation. These matters attended to, they had nothing else to occupy them until evening, and glad, indeed, were they of the companionship of the captain and mate.

Having, for reasons of economy, elected to travel in a “tourist car,” which in reality differs from the more expensive sleeping-cars only in finishings and furnishings, Phil and Ted, after bidding their friends good-bye, set about arranging their luggage and making themselves comfortable for the fifteen-hundred-mile journey.

Every section in the car was taken by people who, like themselves, were going West to new homes or to visit friends, and from time to time the boys stole glances at them.

“They look decent enough,” whispered Phil, in surprise.

“Why shouldn’t they?” demanded his brother. “Just because people choose to travel in a tourist car to save a few dollars—and not so few at that—is no reason why they are not decent. Right here is where I am going to tell you something, and I don’t want you to get angry.”

“‘Out of the mouths of babes!’” began Phil.

“You can’t stop me.”

“Then why don’t you begin?”

“I’m afraid you won’t like it.”

“I expect to find a lot of things in the next few months that I won’t like, so fire away.”

“It’s this. You’re a bit of a snob. Now don’t interrupt. You know as well as I do that if I hadn’t prevented you, you would have given Captain Perkins a snub when he said he was going ashore with us, and after all his patience with and kindness to us.”

“What’s the use of throwing that at me?” snapped his brother, his face crimsoning. “He isn’t with us now, is he?”

“No. But you were just as snobbish when you said these people in the car were ‘decent.’ You know as well as I do that if we are going to succeed at Chikau, or wherever we settle, you must get over it. The people out in Washington are every bit as good as we are. You can’t judge a Westerner by his clothes or his talk. A man may look like a tramp and work in the fields with his men and yet be worth no end of money. Hustle all the time, early and late, is the custom out there. And there’s no taint to mixing with the help and working with your hands out West, as there is in the East. Westerners take a man for what he is, not what his family are, or ancestors were. Most of the successful men out there went out penniless, like ourselves, and they have no use for snobs.”

“I didn’t know you’d been out West. Where did you get your information?” sneered Phil, angry at the reproof, and all the more because, in his heart, he realized it was merited.

“I knew you’d get mad, but I don’t care. Dr. Blair told me to talk to you.”

At this statement the elder boy sat up straight.

“When?” he demanded.

“You know that letter I received at Detroit and wouldn’t show you? Well, it was in that.”

Surprised and mortified by this information, Phil sat in silence, subjecting himself to a searching self-examination. And neither boy noticed a kindly old gentleman, seated across the aisle from them, who nodded approvingly at Ted.

As the best all-round athlete in his school, Phil had been looked up to and, in some cases, worshipped by his mates. Because he was young, this had given him an undue appreciation of himself. But it was a shock to him to learn that Dr. Blair had noticed the fact and that his manner of superiority was so evident that the physician felt called upon to warn him against it.

“Did Blair say anything else?” he asked, finally, of the brother who had been covertly watching the effect of his verbal chastisement.

“Yes.”

“Then let’s hear it.”

“He said we must remember that we know absolutely nothing about farming, or the life out West and that we would need all the friends we could make. Then he quoted that line about having a thousand friends but never a friend to spare, and said he wished me to tell you what he had written, so that you would not spoil our chances of success, on Momsy’s account.”

“Phew! Did he put it as strongly as that? Let me see the letter.”

“You wouldn’t like to read it. I—I’ve toned it down a bit, but I’ve given the substance of it.” Phil, however, was insistent, and at last, though with evident reluctance, his brother handed over the letter.

Twice and yet a third time the former baseball captain read the caustic criticisms of himself.

“Was I really such a cad as Blair makes out, Ted?”

“Well, you were Parker’s star athlete, you know, and for that reason people overlooked a lot of things,” temporized his brother.

“Wow! Then I guess I was. But I won’t be any more. Much obliged, son, for opening my eyes. Let’s shake on it.”

“Not unless you stop ‘sonning’ me. That’s too condescending. It’s as easy to say Ted as ‘son.’”

“All right, Ted. Shake. And now to prove that I’ve waked up to myself, I am going to help that woman ahead, the one with the baby, open her window.”

CHAPTER XVI

A NIGHT ALARM

“It’s only six o’clock. Go back to sleep, you’ll wake everybody in the car,” exclaimed Phil, aroused from his slumbers by his brother’s contortions as he dressed in their cramped section.

“I won’t if you stop talking. Besides, I want to see as much of the country through which we are passing as I can.”

The prospect of new scenes interested the elder boy, and he, too, began to dress.

“Instead of being the first ones up, we’re the last ones,” announced Ted, withdrawing his head through the section curtains, after a look up and down the car.

Such was, indeed, the fact, and as they emerged from their compartment, they were greeted by the grey-haired man opposite.

“I’ve heard some of your conversation,” he smiled. “If you’re going to be successful farmers, you’ll have to get up earlier than this. I’ve been a farmer all my life, and there isn’t a time I can remember, since I was big enough to carry a pail, that I wasn’t up at four-thirty, summer or winter.”

“But what did you do? You couldn’t begin to farm so early,” returned Ted.