Chapter XXIII: In the Blue Bear’s Cave

It was with a feeling of great uneasiness that Johnny came on deck next morning. What was to happen? Had that little brown man told the story of their struggle in the night? And if he had? He shuddered.

Yet, strange to say, the day wore on in perfect peace. They were not even asked to go below and clean fish. The reason for this was apparent, the fish on deck had been taken care of. Since the storm was still roaring across the sea, no others could be brought in. During the forenoon two small, motor-driven crafts came close to stand by.

“They belong to this outfit,” MacGregor declared. “They may have salmon below-deck. They’re afraid of the storm. That’s why they don’t come in.

“Ah, well,” he sighed. “We’re here for the day at least. Even if your _Krazy Kat_ was in the water, Rusty, we couldn’t risk her in a storm like this.”

“These Orientals are a queer lot,” Johnny mused.

“Queer’s no name for it, me boy,” said MacGregor. “As for me, I don’t trust ’em. They’re like children, just when they’re makin’ the least noise is when you’re sure they’re up to some mischief.”

Was this true? Johnny shuddered anew, but said never a word.

They discovered during their lunch in their stateroom at noon that there was something vaguely familiar about the brown boy who brought the lunch. Johnny stared at him. But Rusty exclaimed in a whisper, “Kopkina! You here?”

The boy made a motion for silence. “I am spy,” he whispered. “Red McGee good man. Me, I, Red McGee man.

“You listen,” his voice dropped to a whisper. “I tell ’em, that one captain this ship, tell ’em you Red McGee boy.” He nodded to Rusty. “Tell ’em Red McGee mebby plenty mad. Plenty ’fraid Red McGee. They not punish you for fight on deck last night. Must go now.” He disappeared through the door.

“Boy!” Johnny breathed. “I’m feeling better already.”

Two hours later they had added cause for feeling better. Just when the sea was beginning to calm a little they caught the drum of a motor. As Johnny heard it his heart stood still, then leaped.

“A motor,” he breathed. “That’s a powerful motor. If only it’s Dan MacMillan and his seaplane.”

“It is! It is!” Rusty’s voice rose to a high pitch. “There! There it is. See!”

Johnny did see. He pointed it out to MacGregor. They all leaned on the rail watching the seaplane approach.

“If it’s only Dan,” MacGregor breathed.

There came the sound of rushing feet. Apparently every little brown man on the boat had heard those motors. They came swarming onto the deck.

“If it’s Dan MacMillan,” said MacGregor, “there’s sure to be someone with him.”

“They’ll be looking for us,” said Rusty.

“Yes, and we’ll have to find a way to let them know we’re here,” Johnny added.

“That,” said MacGregor, “is going to be hard, with all these.” His glance swept the brown throng.

“Tell you what!” Johnny exclaimed. “Rusty and I might do a little boxing bout. There’s sure to be someone on the plane who knows us.”

“And they’ll recognize you by your actions,” MacGregor agreed. “It’s a capital idea. I’ll go for the gloves.”

And so it happened that, as the seaplane flew over the ship, circled, then dipping low, passed within a hundred feet, those in it witnessed a strange sight—two white youngsters staging a boxing match for the benefit of a host of little brown men, who, truth to tell, gave them scant attention.

“I only hope they recognized us,” said Johnny, throwing his gloves on the deck.

“You and me too,” said Rusty. “Anyway,” she laughed, “that’s one time I didn’t knock you out.”

Whatever impression this little drama may have made upon the occupants of the seaplane, the effect of the appearance of the seaplane on the little brown men was apparent at once. On every face as the seaplane went winging away MacGregor read consternation.

“They’re afraid,” he grumbled low to his young companions. “Down deep in their hearts they are afraid.”

“What will they do now?” Rusty asked anxiously.

“They’re already doin’ it,” said MacGregor, calling attention to the rush and bustle on board. “Puttin’ the ship in shape. It wouldn’t surprise me if they weighed anchor within the hour. And if they do, me lassie,” he added, “you may be lookin’ on them Oriental cities within a week, for they’ll be headin’ straight for home.”

“Oh-o,” Rusty breathed. But she said never a word.

On that same morning in Smokey Joe’s cabin Lawrence was up before the wee small hours had passed. After one good look at the sea, which was still rolling high, he dashed back into the cabin to find Blackie staring at him wide awake.

“Black-Blackie,” he stammered. “I—I hate to disturb you. But—but that blue bear—”

“I know.” Blackie sat up. “Three peaks, a look and a right smart ho, hum.”

“Blackie! It’s terribly important. Just think! A little blue bear. The only one in captivity, if we get him.”

“I know.” Blackie slid out of his bunk. “Get the fire going. Put the coffee pot on. We’ll be off in a half hour.”

“Oh, think—”

“Put the coffee on!” Blackie roared.

After tacking an old shirt to a pole as a signal of distress to any boat that might pass and instructing Smokey Joe to be on the lookout, Blackie drew a rough map, showing where, according to Smokey’s direction, the bear’s cave might be found. After that he led the way over the first “peak.”

These peaks were, they discovered, mere ridges. The distance was, in reality, much shorter than they had thought.

“This is the place,” Lawrence said, an hour and a half later. “It must be.”

“It is,” Blackie agreed. “There are the two scrub spruce trees with Smokey’s blaze on them.”

“And there’s the cave!” Lawrence was greatly excited.

“Not much of a cave,” said Blackie. “Might be quite some bear at that. Wait.”

With a small hatchet he hacked away at a dry spruce knot until he had a pitch-filled torch. This, with the aid of some dry shavings, he lighted.

“Now,” he breathed. “Give me one of the ropes. We’ll have to manage to tangle him up somehow. I’ll lead the way.”

“Al-all right,” Lawrence’s tongue was dry.

The floor of the dark grotto was strewn with pebbles. To walk without making a noise was impossible.

“Wait! Listen!” Lawrence whispered when they had covered some twenty paces.

As they paused, they caught a low hissing sound.

“Snakes,” the boy suggested.

“Not here. Too cold. It’s the bear. Get your rope ready.”

Slowly, cautiously they moved forward.

“There! There are his eyes.” Two balls of fire appeared directly before them.

And then things began to happen. A low snarl was followed by the sound of scattered pebbles. Blackie was hit by the rushing bear and bowled over like a ten pin. But Lawrence, quick as a cat, saw a hairy head, aimed a short swing and let go his rope.

Next instant he was shouting: “Blackie! Quick! Help! I got him! I got him!”

The husky little blue bear dragged them both to the very entrance of the cave. There, panting and tearing at the rope, he paused to glare at them. The rope was drawn tight about his shoulders with one foreleg through the loop.

Blackie, who was both fast and strong, made quick work of what remained to be done. Fifteen minutes later, carrying the live bear slung between them on a pole, they headed for the cabin.

To their great joy, as they neared the cabin, they saw one of Red McGee’s gill-net boats awaiting them in the little bay. Smokey Joe had flagged it down.

After a hasty, “Thank you and goodbye” to Smokey, they tossed their priceless captive into the after cabin of the stout, little motor-boat to head straight away over a rolling sea toward still more adventure, of quite a different nature.