Dan Carter and the River Camp Part 13

"Yes, there is!" Brad corrected, bringing the sailboat closer into the wind. "Listen!"

The two boys distinctly could hear the putt-putt-putt of a gasoline engine. For a minute they could not localize the sound. Then, from the far shoulder of the island, they saw a flat gasoline-propelled raft scooting across the river.

"That looks like Jabowski," Dan observed. "And he's heading straight toward the motorboat! Can we get closer, Brad?"

"Unless the breeze shifts it will take us two or three tacks to come even with the island."

"And by that time, there may be nothing to see," Dan grumbled. "I sure wish we had a pair of binoculars!"

Dividing their attention between pressing more speed out of their own craft, and watching the raft, the boys begrudged the time it took to make the long tack.

The raft, they noted, moved directly to the waiting motorboat. What transpired at the meeting place, they were unable to see.

So intent were the Cubs on watching the boat and raft, that they paid scant heed to the low c.u.mulus clouds which had gathered close to the horizon.

Black underneath and hard-edged, they were moving up fast from the leeward!

The Cubs, however, were elated because a stiffening breeze rapidly bore them toward Skeleton Island. Now they could discern two men aboard the motorboat. Though they could not see the face of the man on the raft, they were convinced he was Jabowski.

"What do you figure they're doing?" Dan speculated. "And who are those men that have Mr. Manheim's speedboat?"

"Maybe it isn't his," Brad replied. "I'd say it's the same length and make though."

Apparently observing the approach of the sailboat, the raft began to pull away from the motor craft.

At that same moment, a dead calm fell upon the river. Startled, Brad raised his eye to the sail which had been drawing well. Now it had slumped into listless, discouraged folds.

"Just our luck!" Dan muttered in disgust. "The breeze plays out!"

"It's worse than that," Brad said, thoroughly alarmed. "We're in the calm that precedes a bad thunderstorm!"

Both the sky and the water had taken on a dark cast. Although not a breath of air stirred, heavy waves pounded against the drifting boat.

"Gosh, we're a long ways from sh.o.r.e too!" Dan said in dismay. "Skeleton Island is the closest point of land. Think we can make it before the storm breaks?"

"Not a chance," Brad muttered. "She's coming now!"

Across the water they could see a misty sheet of water descending.

"There will be wind in a minute! Plenty of it! Dan! Help me get the sail down before it strikes us."

Working with all speed, the boys lowered the sail from the mast. Before they could furl it, the wind struck, throwing the boat far over on its side.

Dan's Cub cap was lifted from his head, and carried far down river. For a moment it floated on the surface, and then slowly sank out of sight.

Dan scrambled to fasten down all other loose objects. Rain now was coming down in a torrent. Unable to see many feet ahead of them, the boys lost sight of the raft and the motorboat. For a time they could hear the chug-chug of the raft's engine, and then all sound except the howl of the wind died away.

"This is awful!" Dan exclaimed as a vivid streak of lightning cut across the dark sky. "Let's strike for Skeleton Island. We can find shelter there, at least."

He reached for the paddle. Already the strong wind was propelling the boat in the general direction of the island.

At the tiller, Brad guided the craft more by instinct than sight. Wind and rain had blotted out all view of the sh.o.r.e.

Finally, the shadowy island loomed up. Worn out from hard paddling, Dan put on a last burst of energy which drove the boat onto the sandy beach.

Leaping out, he and Brad pulled the craft high up on the sand beyond reach of the waves. Then they raced for the shelter of a heavily wooded section some distance back from the beach.

"Jabowski lives in the caretaker's quarters at the other end of the island," Brad remarked, huddling against the trunk of a sheltering oak.

"We might go there."

"I'd rather wait here, Brad. This storm shouldn't last long. Then we can hoist canvas and sail back to the clubhouse."

Already the rain had slackened. The Cubs waited twenty minutes under the trees. By that time the downpour had dwindled to a drizzle. Then they made their way back through the dripping bushes to the beach.

"Hey! Where's our boat?" Dan demanded, stopping short.

The stretch of beach where the craft had been left less than thirty minutes before, now was deserted.

"But the boat can't be gone!" Brad exclaimed, refusing to believe his eyes. "We pulled it well up on the sand before we took shelter! The waves weren't high enough to have washed it away!"

"Well, it's gone all right. And there it is, Brad."

Dan pointed two hundred yards from sh.o.r.e where the empty sailboat drifted aimlessly. Slowly the craft was being carried downstream by the current.

The Cubs stared at it in stunned dismay. Without the sailboat, they were stranded on Skeleton Island!

CHAPTER 7 Camp Site

The Cubs stood a long while, silently viewing the drifting boat. No other craft now was visible on the river, and no one appeared aware of their plight.

"Maybe I could swim out there before the boat moves farther downstream,"

Dan proposed, estimating the distance.

"Not on your life!" Brad promptly vetoed the suggestion. "You're an expert swimmer and might make it, but we're taking no chances. We've already messed things up enough."

"Mr. Holloway warned us a storm might blow up," Dan added, kicking disgustedly at the wet sand. "We'd have been more alert if we hadn't been so interested in that raft and motorboat."

"Mr. Holloway just had his boat repaired too. Now if it sinks or rams into something, we have no one to blame except ourselves."

Dan's gaze had focused upon a man's large footprint visible in the sand.

"Say! Maybe we do have someone else to blame besides ourselves!" he cried. "Look at that!"

Brad stared at the footprint which plainly had been made since the Cubs had pulled their boat up on sh.o.r.e. Half-protected from the rain by a piece of driftwood, it remained the only mark on an otherwise smooth beachway.