Chapter XXIII: Thanks to the Pilot--Conclusion

When the adventurous six left Savannah in their wake, and struck in for the stream below the city which would take them to Wassaw Sound, they knew that they had really started on what was destined to be the last leg of the trip to Florida.

By noon they had managed to make Ossaban Sound, and still kept on, hoping to cross the wide reach that formed St. Catherine's Sound that same day. But it was not to be. The sky clouded up, the wind whipped into the northwest, and in a short time the boys realized that it was getting very chilly for this far south, in the middle of October.

When they saw the wild aspect that wide stretch of tumbling water presented, it was quickly settled that the crossing must be put off until another day. Accordingly camp was made in a hamak, where the force of the wind was broken. And here they proceeded to take things as comfortably as possible.

George took his gun and went out to see if he could scare up any sort of game; for there had been murmurings of late to the effect that they did not seem to be getting their full share of such things on this trip.

The fact of the matter was, that so much of their precious time was spent in trying to overcome the numerous difficulties by which they found themselves confronted, that there were scant opportunities for fishing and hunting.

Nick persisted in getting a line out, as he had been seized with a great desire to partake of fresh fish for supper, and no one else showed any signs of intending to make a try.

Twenty minutes later those in camp were aroused by hearing a tremendous splash, accompanied by half muffled shouts.

"Help! come quickly, or he'll get away! Hurry! hurry, boys!"

Everybody ran like the wind to the spot where Nick had been seen calmly seated on a log that projected over the water, offering him a fine seat, from which to carry on his fishing operations.

What they discovered was the stout boy floundering in the water of the sound, being drawn this way and that by some unseen agency that was fastened to the other end of his line.

Nick's obstinate disposition was made manifest by the frantic way he clung to that same fishing line. No danger seemed sufficient to cause him to let it go. Perhaps, though, he had been unwise enough to wrap the cord around his chubby wrist, and could not have let loose, even had he so desired.

Josh doubled up, and fairly howled, the sight was so very comical to him; which made the fisherman all the more angry.

"What ails that silly goose?" he spluttered, as well as he was able, considering that half the time his mouth was filled with salty water. "He only thinks of the funny part of it. Don't care a cent whether a human life is sacrificed on the altar of friendship; or a jolly big fish breaks the line and gets away. Jack, somebody come on in, and help me land him, won't you?"

Jack was already throwing his coat off, and in another minute he had leaped from the bank into the water. Just as Nick had said, there was some danger that he might be dragged out beyond his depth; and at least the great struggling fish was liable to break away, and become lost to them.

Once Jack got hold of the line, and it was all over. By degrees they drew the captive to the shore, upon which he was finally cast, proving to be an enormous red drum, or as they are called in the South, a channel bass, weighing pretty nearly forty pounds, Jack figured.

"Is it good to eat?" was the first natural question fired at him by Nick, whose eyes were fairly glistening with pride as they watched the dying flops of the bronze-backed quarry.

"First rate, if a bit dry," Jack replied. "The meat is snow white, and something like halibut, only not quite so fine. But it's a great day for you, Nick. I can see one time when you're sure to get your fill."

Indeed, it proved to be a good day all around, for just then they heard George letting fly with both barrels, and following it with a glad whoop.

"He's gone and got something," declared Josh. "Ain't it queer how things run? With us it's feast or a famine all the while. D'ye reckon it was a deer he knocked over, Jack?"

"More'n likely another shoat," said Nick, grinning; "but even if it is, razorback pork ain't half bad when a feller's real hungry."

Presently George came in. It was getting near dusk, and they could just see that he was carrying a load of some sort on his back, which he tried to hide until he could reach camp.

Josh began to grunt at a lively rate, by which he hinted that they anticipated another diet of pork.

"What did you run up against, George?" asked Jack.

"That!" exclaimed the proud Nimrod, as he swung his burden around.

"Great governor! it's a turkey, as sure as you live!" shouted Josh.

At that Nick could hold in no longer, but began to dance around in great glee, rubbing himself as though in anticipation of the feast to come, and making all sorts of suggestive motions, after the manner of a man feeding.

"How under the sun did you get close enough to knock the big bird down with a charge of quail shot?" asked Jack, pleased because George had held up his reputation as a sportsman.

"I don't just know," replied the other. "I was standing in the shade of a tree, and thinking that it was no use going further, when something lighted close by me, and I saw it was a wild turkey. Well, I just up and gave him both barrels, as fast as I could pull the triggers. Then he flopped over, I ran forward and nailed my prize. And he's pretty heavy to tote any distance, too, I tell you."

"That means another of those earth ovens tonight, don't it, Jack?" asked Nick.

"Nothing else would do the business," came the reply; "and so everybody get busy, piling up the wood while I dig a hole," replied the one addressed.

The turkey was baked to a turn when they uncovered the oven in the morning, and, having their appetites along, even so early in the day, those six lads made that noble bird look like a rack of bones before they admitted that they were satisfied. Indeed, they had to fairly drag Nick away from the wreck, for he declared it to be the finest treat of his whole life.

But then, he often said that. What was present always seemed the best to Nick. Fading events held little interest for him, since the mill could never grind again with the water that was past.

In the morning the big sound looked smooth enough to tempt them upon its treacherous bosom. The crossing was made with ease; and later on came Sapelo with its particular troubles, the wind having risen meanwhile.

But the boats proved seaworthy, and the young Corinthians who manned them had learned many a valuable lesson from past experiences; so that by noon they had navigated this dangerous sheet of water and were well along their way.

"There's a lighthouse away over there, Jack," announced Josh, pointing ahead.

"Yes; that must be Doboy Light, and the sound of the same name will be the next to take our attention, boys," Jack replied, composedly, as though he had the entire map of the coast region impressed on his mind by now.

"Is there any end to 'em?" asked Nick, dolefully.

"Two more before we reach Fernandina, St. Simon's and big Cumberland. And after we've rested at Fernandina we'll go through a few more passages, and then take a little outside run of a few miles, when we can enter the St. Johns."

"Oh! happy day!" chanted Josh, pretending to strum a banjo as he sang.

"Then, if all goes well, we ought to bring up at Jacksonville inside of say two days at the most; is that so, Jack?" Herb inquired.

"Correct. And nothing is going to happen, make up your mind to that, fellows," Jack declared, resolutely. "We've allowed nothing to frighten us up to now, and yet used a due amount of caution, just as we promised those at home, when they gave us permission to take this jolly trip. And that's our slogan all the time, 'Speed, with care!' It's a winning combination, I tell you, boys."

They spent the night near Darien, in a creek that they happened to be passing through as a sort of short-cut.

Jack's confidence proved to be well placed, for on the following day they safely passed both St. Simon's and the big Cumberland Sound, bringing up close to Fernandina by nightfall.

Jack advised against trying to reach the city in the dusk. There was danger of running upon a snag, or happening to attract the attention of dissolute characters, who, taking advantage of the darkness of the night and the fact of the cruisers being strangers to the place, might attempt to rob them.

His plan was to stay where they were, a safe distance away, until morning, and then make their way across to the city.

"Just to think that we've really and truly done it," said Nick, puffing out with either pride or the amount of food he had consumed for supper; "and right at this minute the Motor Boat Club is resting on Florida soil! Why, I can hardly believe it. A year ago I'd have laughed if any fellow told me I'd engage to do one quarter of the stunts we've carried out since we left Philadelphia."

"Oh! you're improving every way," chuckled Josh. "I can even see signs of it in your eating. You've got three of us combined beat to a frazzle right now; and honest Injun, we think that by another month you can stand off the whole bunch. Long practice makes for success, and we all give you credit for trying your level best, Nick, every time."

It was a lovely night, this their first in Florida. The trees, festooned with the long, swinging, gray Spanish moss, looked like the real tropical thing to all of the boys. And they felt a pride that was surely justifiable, in the success that had attended their cruise down the coast.

"Best thing we ever did, and that's straight," asserted Herb.

"And not one serious accident to mar the record," Jack nodded, his eyes sparkling with satisfaction.

"Of course we don't count those several little adventures of our fat friend here," Josh put in, jerking his thumb in the direction of Nick, "because we all understand that, being such a good-natured fellow, and wanting to keep us in good humor, he did those stunts on purpose. Yes, I agree with the rest of you, that we deserve a whole lot of credit for coming through it all without a serious accident."

"And much of that luck is due to the wise head that piloted the expedition," declared George, generously; "and fellows, I propose that here and now, on the first night we spend on Florida soil, we give Jack Stormways three good cheers and a tiger, just to show that we appreciate his leadership. Here goes!"

And they were given with a will that must have made Jack's boyish heart swell with pleasure; for who among us but would feel flattered at the expression of admiration from his chums?

The next day they made for Nassau Sound; and happening to strike a favorable time for passing over the few miles in the open, they crossed the bar at the mouth of the St. Johns at just half-past two, continuing up the river to the metropolis of fair Florida.

Here in Jacksonville we will have to leave them for a time, recuperating after their eventful voyage, and making due preparations for continuing the same through Indian River and the keys that dot the whole Florida coast, with New Orleans as their destination.

THE END.

The further interesting and thrilling adventures of the Motor Boat Boys will be found in volume No. 5 of this series, entitled "The Motor Boat Boys Among the Florida Keys; or, A Struggle for the Leadership."

[Transcriber's note: This short story was part of the source book. Its author is unknown.]

MRS. STONE'S MONEY-ORDER.

One day a well dressed lady, purporting to be Mrs. Richard Stone, called at the money-order division of the New York office and asked for the money on an order for L10, which had been issued in Lowestoft, England, payable to the order of Richard Stone. The order presented on this occasion had apparently been properly endorsed by Richard Stone, who had made it payable to his wife.

The only precaution necessary on the part of the examiners and paying clerks was, therefore, simply to satisfy themselves that the lady was Mrs. Richard Stone, the rightful payee. There being no person present to identify her she exhibited several letters addressed to herself and her husband, and the identical letter from Lowestoft, which contained the money-order.

She told them where her husband was employed, and gave the name and number of the street of their residence. It seemed clear enough, and the money was paid.

Just such transactions as this occur a hundred times a day, and it cannot be expected that the clerks can remember very much about any particular transaction many hours after it occurs. Three weeks later, when another lady called, also purporting to be Mrs. Richard Stone, to make inquiries about a money order for L10 sent to her husband from Lowestoft, England, there was not very much to say except that the order had been paid.

This lady also produced a letter from her husband's sister in Lowestoft, saying that on a certain day she sent a money-order for the amount named; that she had just received his last letter, and there being nothing said about having received the order, she wrote to ascertain if the order had not been received.

Mrs. Stone, the second, stated that this was the first that her husband, or herself, had known of the existence of such an order, and she had called to see what could be done about it. If it had been paid, surely somebody must be responsible for the wrong payment.

It is the custom, where a wrong payment can be established, for the postmaster or the clerk making the mistake, to make the amount good to the right payee. Mrs. Stone's case was accordingly referred to me for adjustment.

Her story was told in such a simple manner that no one who heard it could doubt her word. But it was possible that she had received the money, and had forgotten about the transaction.

When the order was paid the lady who received the money was questioned by two examiners, both of whom were satisfied that she was the person to whom the order should be paid. The same two examiners talked with Mrs. Stone, the second, and one of them thought she was the lady to whom the money was paid, while the other could distinguish very little similarity and felt confident the first Mrs. Stone was not the second Mrs. Stone.

On the following day Richard Stone himself called to talk the matter over and give me some points. He suspected a young woman named Nellie Mason, who had been in the habit of calling on his wife, who was an old friend of hers, and who resembled her very much.

Mr. and Mrs. Stone resided in Twenty-eighth Street at this time, but at the time the missing letter must have arrived in New York they were living in a flat in Twenty-seventh Street. The mail for the occupants of this flat was left by the carrier on a table in the lower hall, and any person so inclined could have picked up the lost letter.

He had several samples of Nellie Mason's writing in the form of letters that Mrs. Stone had received from her from time to time, and they corresponded with the endorsements on the order.

The case was now becoming interesting, and, at Stone's request, I consented to call at his residence the next afternoon to talk with Mrs. Stone about Miss Mason.

Richard Stone was a young man of probably thirty-two, and an Englishman. His dress and appearance were faultless, while his conversation indicated that he was well educated. He had been in this country scarcely fifteen months, yet he was holding a confidential position in one of the largest corporations in the city, where he was held in the highest esteem, and where he was complimented alike for his rare abilities and gentlemanly deportment. Indeed, every person interested was delighted with him, and they had all often wondered at their good fortune in securing the services of such a preeminently competent man.

Mrs. Stone was somewhat younger than her husband, and was of fair size and fine form. "Her brow was like the snowdrift; her voice was low and sweet," and nature had also generously endowed her with an abundance of the most beautiful red hair that ever gladdened the heart of man with its warm and genial rays. She was an American, and had been married to Mr. Stone only a few months.

Mr. and Mrs. Stone were both at home when I called. I was as warmly greeted as though I had been a welcome messenger of peace from a mortal enemy. Mrs. Stone had hardly recovered from a terrible scare she had received the previous evening, and the household affairs had scarcely resumed their wonted cheerfulness and repose.

"Was it a burglar?" "No, worse than burglars!" And having never learned that anything brought more terror to womankind than the soft step of the artful burglar, I listened with bated breath to the interesting story of the husband.

It was his custom to arrive home each afternoon about six o'clock, where the bright smiles of Mrs. Stone had never, till yesterday, failed to bathe him in the warm and tender adorations of perennial affection. Last evening when he entered at the usual hour the house was still and dark, and the bright face of his loved one greeted him not.

A strange man approached him, in as great surprise us if the dead had come to life, and bade him be calm and composed, and said he thought Mrs. Stone would soon recover consciousness; that somebody had sent her word that her husband had been killed, and the shock was too great and too sudden for her to bear. A telegram from a down-town office, which brought the dreadful intelligence, lay upon the table, and it was signed, simply "N. M."

From this circumstance alone it was painfully evident that Nellie Mason was a bad and designing individual. Mrs. Stone was sweetly reclining on a richly-covered couch, and her faithful husband was lovingly administering to her every little want. The lady, like tender blades of grass that have been watered by a passing storm, seemed more beautiful than before her severe trial. Under the warm sunshine of sympathy and love, her many pleasing charms shone like diamonds in the diadem of royalty.

Seating myself within easy hearing distance of the fair Mrs. Stone, she began the enchanting tale about Nellie Mason, the sorceress. It was as follows:

"My maiden name was Francis West. My parents died when I was young, and I went to live with an aunt in Peekskill on the Hudson. There I received every attention that a dear relative could bestow upon the young offspring of a deceased sister. There I attended school, and in that school I first met Nellie Mason. She was about my age, and, like myself, was living with an aunt, though she was not an orphan.

"Pardon me when I tell you that I was an attractive young miss in those days. Young girls know as well as older ones that good looks, grace, and fine dress are envious attractions. No one understood this more perfectly than Nellie Mason.

"At school, at church, at parties, and everywhere, she seemed to grieve at my good fortune. I always treated her kindly, for I had been taught the charm of charity, yet, with all, it seemed that sometimes I could no longer bear the unpleasant feeling that steals over a person when it is known that another is constantly trying to imitate, and perhaps injure you.

"It is true, she looked like me in several particulars. That is, Nature had made her something like me, and the points of difference she was ceaselessly attempting to assimilate. There was only one marked difference, but that was easily changed. Her hair was brown; now it is exactly like mine. We were in the same classes and the same social circles.

"She tried to imitate my voice, my actions, and, so perfectly did she imitate my writing, that no person can tell which is the genuine and which the false. Whenever I procured a new gown, Nellie was as certain to have one like it as she was to live. She would even squeeze her foot into a two-and-a-half shoe, and was dying to imitate my smile. Poor thing, how I did worry her! But what bothered her more than anything else, was her inability in every instance to associate with the same particular persons that I did.

"In Peekskill, as I suppose it is in most places of its size, the young men are quite attentive to the young ladies. While my aunt was very solicitous about my company, I managed to receive about as much attention as the other girls, and, do you know, I never had a beau in my life that Nellie did not try to get away from me.

"Finally, just to bother her, I would tell the young men that if they paid Miss Mason any attention I would have nothing whatever to do with them; that I would cut them squarely. Well, one young fellow, whom I had thus admonished, thought it would be smart to tell the young lady what I had said, and since that day Nellie Mason has not been trying so much to imitate as she evidently has to injure me.

"Soon after I married Richard and came to New York to live, Nellie went home to Lewiston, Maine; and after she had been there a while she wrote me a letter in which she said she had married. I have her letter now. She did not remain long in Lewiston, for the next thing I heard of her she was here in New York.

"She called on me and said she was living with a Mrs. Gilbert, in East Thirteenth Street; that she and her husband had quarreled, and that she had resolved to make her own living, and was then at work in an Insurance office. It is needless for me to say that I did not return the call, but I presume it would have been better for me if I had.

"One evening, about half-past five, about three weeks before we left our old apartments, one of Mr. Stone's most intimate friends called. There was nothing particularly singular or remarkable about the call, for the gentleman often came with Richard and made real homelike visits. He had not been in the house long on this occasion before he said he was delighted to receive my kind letter. Of course, not knowing what he referred to, I promptly demanded an explanation, when he took from his pocket a neat little letter apparently written by me and signed 'Frances,' requesting him to call at 5:30 that day, as I wanted to see him particularly. Did you ever hear the like of that?

"Well, to make matters still more embarrassing, presently in walks Richard with another letter written in a scrawling anonymous hand, in which he was advised to be home by 5:45 as he would find company. The next thing we heard was the money-order affair, and the next was the telegram announcing Mr. Stone's death last night, which nearly killed me; and who knows what will be next?"

The only appropriate words I could command, after Mrs. Stone had finished, were: "Wonderful woman!" I assure you I was unable to state just then whether I referred to Mrs. Stone or Nellie Mason. If the strange story was true, Nellie Mason was wonderfully remarkable. If it was untrue, then Mrs. Richard Stone was the most remarkable character I had ever met. I promised to call again in a day or so, and hastily withdrew to strengthen or unravel the nicely-woven fabric Mrs. Stone had offered.

Richard Stone had acted so much in sympathy with his beautiful wife, that I began to think if she was wrong, Richard could not be right himself; so I determined to know more about him. I called upon the chief officer of the company where he was employed, and confidentially asked him what he knew about Stone.

He told me that Stone came from England with the best kind of written recommendations from several of the oldest established business houses in London and Norwich; and further, that he had been warmly recommended by the Young Men's Association, in New York to which he had been splendidly introduced, and in whom the officers of the association still retained a deep interest. He was a first-rate business man, and he thought there could be no more question about his character than there was about his own.

I told him there were some decidedly singular features about my case; but, of course, they could possibly all be cleared up without leaving a blemish on Stone's character. I thought, under all the circumstances, it would be best to have a frank talk about the matter, and if he still thought Stone was honest and honorable we would say no more about it.

He was so impressed with the story that he said they could not afford to retain him, valuable as he was, if there was a probability that he was not what he should be. But to be sure that they were making no mistake, they would commence the investigation in England, and at once. That day a cablegram was forwarded to an agent in London, who was given full instructions what to do and how to send his report.

Having disposed of Mr. Stone for a brief period I devoted a day or two to investigating Mrs. Stone and Nellie Mason, and I know the result will be read with interest. There was no record at Peekskill that showed that either of the ladies ever resided there. There was no record in Lewiston of Nellie Mason's father or Nellie Mason. She had never lived at Mrs. Gilbert's in East Thirteenth Street, but Miss Frances West had, and, by the loquacious landlady, who knew about all there was in this world worth knowing, and who had not kept a boarding house all these years for nothing, I was advised to investigate Miss West very sharply indeed. When I asked Mrs. Gilbert if she had not heard of Miss West's marriage, she said: "Tut, tut, I do not believe one word of it."

I was not long in determining beyond a doubt that Mrs. Stone sent the telegram to herself, announcing her husband's death. She had ingeniously sent it to her own number in West Twenty-seventh Street, knowing that the messenger, when he found no such person on the west side, would surely cross to East Twenty-seventh, and would not reach the last number till after she had arrived home. While I was looking up the telegram I heard that a detective was looking up a Miss Nellie Mason from Peekskill, who, it was supposed, had purloined a beautiful stem-winding, full jeweled Elgin, No. 10,427 from a gentleman from Boston, who had been spending a short vacation in New York. It is needless to add that there was no such person as Nellie Mason, and that the money-order was not repaid.

When the first returns were in from London it was quite evident that Mr. Stone had been elected by an unusually large majority. The highly perfumed letters of recommendation that he brought over with him were all false, the supposed writers never having heard of such a person. He had been compelled to leave England because of a few slight slips of the pen, which, at this time, it is not worth while to mention and that at Lowestoft, where his parents resided, he was looked upon as a "very slippery gentleman," whose true name was not Stone, but Hartley.

Not long afterward, and quite recently, Stone attempted by misrepresentations to procure a large amount of money from certain Wall Street brokers, which would enable him, he said, "to return to England and live in splendor." But the scheme failed after he had procured a few hundred dollars, and, instead of being permitted to enjoy the magnificence of the old world, he suddenly found himself enjoying the splendors of one of the oldest prisons in New York.

[Transcriber's note: the publisher's five-page catalog follows.]

End of Project Gutenberg's Motor Boat Boys Down the Coast, by Louis Arundel