Chapter FIFTEEN: Safe in Port

That night, under a star-dusted sky, with the lights of Buffalo to guide her and beckon her on, the battered _James Kennedy_ limped into port.

And waiting to greet her, in addition to her owner and his personal physician, was a throng of chattering newspaper reporters and photographers. The tale of the _James Kennedy_’s ordeal at sea had preceded her. Even as the vessel was slowly warped into her berth, photographers raced alongside her in excitement-eagerly snapping pictures of her damaged superstructure with its wrecked pilothouse. The flashing of their light bulbs added to the general air of excitement.

The moment the ship was securely in port, the newspapermen came hurrying up the gangplank.

“Where’s the skipper?” they shouted. “Where’s Captain West?”

“There he is!” one of them shouted in dismay. “He’s gone ashore already.”

True enough. The moment the newshawks had come aboard the _James Kennedy_ and spilled over her decks, Captain West had seized the chance to slip down the gangplank. Now he was hastening out of sight. He all but broke into a run when he heard the yell of the newsman who had identified him. But he slowed again when he saw that his path would take him past Mr. John Kennedy, the employer he had attempted to betray. His step faltered. He tried to lift his eyes to the level of Mr. Kennedy’s, to brazen it out. But he could not. His gaze fell.

He slunk by and disappeared in the darkness.

With a heavy sigh, Mr. Kennedy turned to the man beside him and said, “Come, Doctor—we’d better have a look at that James boy.”

The two men made their way up the gangplank.

“Sandy!” Mr. Kennedy exclaimed, when he caught sight of the tall, blond youth standing at the head of the ramp. “Goodness, boy, I’m certainly glad to see you.” His face took on a worried look and his eyes searched Sandy Steele’s lanky frame. “You’re all right, aren’t you, boy? I mean, I certainly wouldn’t want John Steele holding me responsible for—”

“Oh, I’m fine, sir,” Sandy said, smiling. “Just a bit hungry, that’s all.”

“We’ll fix that soon enough,” Mr. Kennedy vowed. “But let’s have a look at your friend first. Where is he?”

“Down below, sir. Here, I’ll lead the way.”

Sandy and Mr. Kennedy and the physician, whose name was Dr. Hilliard, disappeared down the hatch. As they did, a tall, thin, furtive figure crept around the cabin. It glanced around fearfully, before sneaking down the gangplank and running up the wharf.

It was Mr. Briggs.

Below, meanwhile, Dr. Hilliard had gently unwrapped the torn sheets bound around Jerry James’s ankle. He studied the injured member with professional concern. Both Jerry and Sandy watched his face anxiously, for both of them were thinking of the football season that lay ahead.

“John,” Dr. Hilliard said, with mock gravity, “if they had more people like this young oak stump around, I’d be out of business.”

“Hooray!” Sandy cried, and Jerry James grinned with delight.

“Of course,” the doctor hurried on, “you’ll need a cane for a week or two, young man. But otherwise I’d say you’re none the worse for wear.”

At that remark, Jerry winked at his friend. He rubbed his stomach sorrowfully. “Outside of being hungry, Doctor, I’d say—”

Mr. Kennedy broke in.

“Boys,” he said, glancing at his watch, “I promise you that in fifteen minutes you will be in my dining room sitting down to the best meal that was ever served up in Buffalo.”

And they were.

Less than a week later, the two friends were back on the Great Lakes again—bound for Minnesota once more, this time to ship aboard a load of grain.

They had had a wonderful time as the guests of Mr. Kennedy. They saw all the sights of Buffalo, including Niagara Falls, that great escarpment over which Lake Erie plunges, and they had crossed the Peace Bridge into Canada to have one of those famous beefsteaks at the Chinaman’s in Fort Erie. Then, after Dr. Hilliard had pronounced Jerry James fit to walk again without the use of his cane, they had taken ship again.

Their vessel was now the _Cecil Rogers_ (almost all Great Lakes boats are named for shipping leaders), for the beloved old _James Kennedy_ was in drydock undergoing extensive repairs.

And their new skipper was?

“Sam!” the two youths cried as they came aboard.

Sure enough, it was their old friend, and there was Cookie, too, grinning at them from over the rail. And there was Gunnar towering behind him!

“Boys,” Sam said, chuckling, “meet my mate.”

There were shouts of jubilation and hand-shaking all around as Sandy and Jerry got their gear aboard ship and into their quarters. This time, they had a room twice as large as the rathole they had shared on the _James Kennedy_. And this time, aboard the _Cecil Rogers_, they shipped as deck hands.

“No more galley slavery for us,” Jerry exclaimed, and Sandy nodded in agreement.

That was how the two lads from Valley View passed the remainder of that summer. They sailed up and down the Lakes, as the _Cecil Rogers_ hauled its cargoes of ore, grain and coal. Sometimes they made Canadian ports, and once they passed through the Welland Ship Canal into Lake Ontario, the lake that lies the farthest east.

At last came the sad day when they had to reclaim Old Faithful from the hands of Sandy’s dad and say goodbye to their friends. School would reopen in another week, and they had to be heading west.

“Gootpy, poys,” Gunnar called from the rail, as Jerry’s jalopy began to chug away from the loading dock where the _Cecil Rogers_ lay. “Haf goot trip.”

“Send us a picture of your football team,” Cookie yelled, and Sam shouted, “Keep your chin up, boys. Maybe we’ll see you next summer.”

“Goodbye, goodbye,” Sandy Steele and Jerry James cried, and then they were out of sight.