Chapter THIRTEEN: Cookie to the Rescue

Sandy Steele was not a quitter, yet it seemed to him that the game was over and he had lost.

He sat on the bunk in Mr. Briggs’s cabin, with the mate leering at him from a corner chair, and miserably considered his own plight. There didn’t seem to be any way out. Jerry James could not move from his bed for another day or two, so there was no help there. And here _he_ was, a prisoner!

There wasn’t any way in the world for him to reach Mr. Kennedy.

Sandy shook his blond head mournfully. Seeing his gesture, the mate read the feeling behind it and said, “If you had the brains you were born with, you’d forget about everything and go to sleep.”

Sandy’s face went cold. He pretended not to have heard, but the mate was not to be denied his favorite pleasure of gloating.

“Ma Kennedy’s little chick’s lost its tongue, eh?” he sneered. “Too bad you ain’t going to see Ma Kennedy before tomorrow night. And by that time, the skipper’ll be the chief captain of the Chadwick-Kennedy Line, and yours truly’ll be a full master.”

Oho, Sandy thought to himself, so that’s the mate’s reward for his treachery. He decided to remain quiet. The talkative Mr. Briggs might give away some more secrets.

“Don’t think you can outwait me,” Mr. Briggs went on. “You’re the one who needs the sleep—not me. While you heroes was battling the storm this afternoon, I was having myself a little rest. So I’m fresh as a daisy.”

Sandy still said nothing.

“And furthermore,” the mate snapped, plainly nettled, “even if I did doze off, it wouldn’t help you.” He tapped his breast pocket. “The key to that there door is tucked away in here. You’d have to kill me to get it.”

Sandy smiled, and the mate lost his temper.

“Why, you—” he began, but just then there was a knock on the door.

“Who’s there?” the mate called.

“It’s me. Cookie.”

Mr. Briggs relaxed. “Got some grub, hey, Cookie?”

“Yessirree. Got a little hot coffee, too.”

“Hot coffee!” the mate exclaimed, jumping to his feet and opening the door to let Cookie enter. “How on earth did you ever rustle that up?”

“Oh, just a little of Cookie’s magic,” the little bald-headed man chuckled as he slipped through the door carrying a tray.

Sure enough! He did have hot coffee! The aroma of it filled Sandy’s nostrils and his mouth watered.

He smiled fondly at Cookie, and then, to his shocked disbelief, the little man’s face went ugly with hatred.

“Don’t smirk at me, you Jonah, you!” Cookie shrilled. “I’ve had nothing but bad luck since you and your friend came aboard this ship!” Sandy recoiled from the little man as though he had been struck, and Cookie raged on, “Yes, I mean you, Sandy Steele! First, I nearly drown because of you. Then, you and your stupid friend burn my galley down. And now look at the mess everybody’s in because of your silly meddling!” Sandy shrank away from him, as insult after insult fell from the little man’s trembling lips—to the intense delight of Mr. Briggs.

But Cookie, who had set his tray on the table, moved closer and closer toward Sandy, until he had poked his wrinkled little face within a few inches of the youth’s nose.

Then he winked and grinned.

Sandy Steele’s heart leaped for joy, and he almost jumped up and kissed the little man. As it was, he knew his face must have given him away, for Cookie had quickly flashed him a warning look, before he began backing away, still mouthing insults.

Sandy felt better when he saw Mr. Briggs slap Cookie on the back and heard him say, “Cookie, I couldn’t have said it better myself. The only thing I can add to what you’ve said is that those brats are twice as bad as you say they are.”

Still sputtering angrily, Cookie bent to his tray and began pouring the mate a cup of steaming hot coffee.

Determined to play his part, Sandy put a pleading note into his voice and said, “Aw, Cookie—how about some coffee?”

“You?” Cookie burst out, enraged. “I wouldn’t give you a glass of lake water if you were dying of thirst!”

“Heh, heh,” the mate laughed, evidently pleased that the little man shared his sentiments. “You’re in a rare mood tonight, Cookie. Why don’t you sit down and talk a bit.”

“I will,” Cookie said. He took a seat, carefully smoothing his stained white apron. He watched the mate take a sip. “How’s the coffee, mate?” he asked.

“Fine, Cookie—fine.”

“Ah, yes, hot coffee’s good after a storm. Especially with a shot of rum in it.”

“Rum? Did you say rum?”

With a sly wink, Cookie reached behind him and under his apron. He brought out a bottle and brandished it happily.

“Aye, rum, mate.” He cast a dark look at Sandy. “It’s all that could be salvaged from the fire. I’d been saving it to make mince meat.” He unscrewed the cap and tilted it to pour it into the mate’s cup. “Here, a little of this’ll warm your belly.”

“Oh, no, no, no!” the mate chattered, holding up a hand to block Cookie. “I’d like to, Cookie—I swear I would! But I’d better not.”

“Why not?” Cookie asked innocently. “A man’s got a right to a proper drink after a storm.”

“Well, er,” the mate stammered, “as a matter of fact, the skipper, er, suggested to me that I’d better not.”

“Of course,” Cookie agreed, raising the bottle again. “But that was before the storm. Now, you know Captain West would never begrudge a man a snort after coming through what we’ve been through.”

Cookie’s voice was so easy and coaxing that Sandy marveled to hear it. And the mate could not resist it.

“Well, Cookie, since you put it that way, I suppose you’re right. But, just a little, now. Whoa, whoa! That’s plenty!”

“Oh-oh,” Cookie said, with exaggerated concern, “I hadn’t really meant to put that much in.”

“No harm done,” Mr. Briggs said grandly. “No harm done, really.”

“Well, I’m certainly glad to hear that.”

“Perfectly okay, Cookie, perfectly okay. By the way, aren’t you going to have a spot yourself?”

“Well, I don’t mind if I do. Here, I’ll just try a little in this cup here.”

They gabbed on like that for a few minutes, their talk reaching Sandy’s ears against the background of the mate’s noisy sipping of his coffee. For a while, Sandy ignored their conversation. He was too busy trying to figure out what Cookie was up to.

Obviously, the little man was trying to get the mate drunk. But why? Cookie knew nothing of the forthcoming deal between Paul Chadwick and Mr. Kennedy. At least, so Sandy thought. So he could not understand Cookie’s actions. But he did see that the little man’s plan was working. As time wore on, and the heaving of the _James Kennedy_ became less and less pronounced, Sandy noticed that the words of Mr. Briggs were also becoming less pronounced. His voice was thickening. He was not even aware that Cookie’s drinks had dwindled away to almost nothing, while his own had swelled in size.

“By the way, mate,” Cookie said, as Mr. Briggs’s head began to loll on his shoulders. “I’ve got a funny one to tell you.”

“Whash that, Cookie, ol’ pal?”

“It’s about that big Swede, Gunnar. He told me he was going to use the ship-to-shore telephone to call his girl-friend back in Duluth. I told him he was crazy because it’s against the ship’s rules to use the ship-to-shore.”

“Right, thash right. Phone’s locked up, anyway.”

“But you know what that big stupe said? He said he’d be able to make the call in spite of that, because he knew that if he gave you five dollars you’d give him the key.”

The mate’s brow darkened.

“He’sh a liar,” he mumbled. “Never take bribe.”

“He said you did,” Cookie rushed on eagerly. “In fact, he showed me the key.”

“Liar!” the mate repeated. “He’sh liar!” He leaned forward drunkenly and with a knowing leer on his face, he tapped Cookie on the knee. “I’ll prove it,” he mumbled. “Prove he’sh liar.” He fumbled in his side pocket. Then he drew out a bunch of keys on a ring. “Here’sh key!” he gloated, swaying as he attempted to thump his chest. “Gunnar’s big liar. Mr. Briggs don’t take bribes.”

“Well, well,” Cookie said, shaking his head as though grieved. “To think he’d tell me a big one like that. Here, mate, have another drink.”

But the mate did not answer.

His head had sagged forward on his chest. Raising his voice, Cookie repeated his request. But the mate still did not reply.

With a glance of utmost contempt, Cookie reached forward and grasped his shoulder and shook him gently.

“Have a drink, mate,” he said.

The mate’s mouth fell open and his head snapped back and a long, whistling snore broke from his throat.

With a grin of triumph, Cookie got to his feet. He walked over to Sandy and stuck out his hand.

“Shake, pal,” he whispered.

With eyes shining with gratitude, Sandy Steele clasped his little friend’s hand. He realized, now, that Cookie must know everything—else why all that nonsense to find out where the key to the radio shack was located. For that ship-to-shore telephone was Sandy Steele’s only hope!

“Wait ten more minutes,” Cookie whispered. “Wait until he’s so sound asleep we can get that key away from him without waking him.”

Sandy nodded. He sat on his bunk for a time, watching the first pale light of dawn growing steadily brighter outside, and as the day brightened, his spirits soared with it. At last, his chance had come!

Cookie arose and moved softly to the snoring mate. He put his mouth to his ear, and said in a loud voice, “Have another drink, mate.”

Mr. Briggs’s answer was a sputtering snore.

Cookie slapped him sharply on the cheek and cried, “Wake up, mate.” Mr. Briggs slept on as though made of stone.

With another cocky grin, the little man reached down into Mr. Briggs’s side pocket and pulled out his set of keys. He found the one he wanted, separated it from the rest, removed it—and then stuck the others back where they had come from.

“Let’s go,” he said to Sandy.

“Sure you have the right key, Cookie?” Sandy asked.

“Sure. I’d know it anywhere. Come on, follow me.”

As they went out, Cookie removed the key that the mate had left in the lock when he opened the door to admit him. When they had stepped out into the corridor, he closed the door softly behind him and locked it.

“Just in case,” he chirped, putting the key in his pocket.

Then the two made their way to the radio shack.

“Shhh!” Cookie said, as he quietly unlocked the door to the radio shack. “Don’t show a light either.” He glanced rapidly around him. “There,” he said, pointing to an object standing alongside a radio transmitter. “That’s it.”

A tingling thrill shot through Sandy Steele’s body as his eyes pierced the dim light that filtered through a porthole and fell on the ship-to-shore telephone.

“You use it just like any other telephone,” Cookie whispered, as he bent to lock the door. “Just give the operator the letters there at the bottom, and then give her the number you want.”

Sandy Steele groaned.

“I don’t know Mr. Kennedy’s number,” he said.

Cookie’s brow puckered. “Well, ask the operator to locate him for you. She might help.”

She did.

“You see,” Sandy explained, once the operator had let him know she was on the line, “all I know about Mr. Kennedy is that he lives in Buffalo and that he owns the Kennedy Shipping Lines. Is that enough to go on?”

His heart sang when a pert voice replied, “I think so. Would you hold on, please?”

“Yes,” Sandy said, and then his heart stopped singing as another voice, neither pert nor far away, roared from outside the door.

“Who’s in that radio shack?”

It was the voice of Captain West.