The Wolf Patrol: A Tale of Baden-Powell's Boy Scouts

by John Finnemore

CHAPTER XXII

CHIPPY GOES IN CHASE

Chippy's heart beat high with excitement. It thumped against his ribs till he felt sure that the talkers a few yards away would hear it; and he turned and crept away, and circled round to the back of the fish-shed, where he pulled up to think over what he had heard. He felt sure that he had hit upon the thieves. What should he do? Run to Martin and tell him what he had found out? Chippy considered that, then shook his head. He knew Martin, and Martin knew Chippy. 'He'd ne'er believe me,' thought Chippy. 'He'd think I was a-tryin' to kid 'im.'

Martin was a good, zealous officer, but rather a dull one, and Chippy knew that he would be very slow to give any credit to a story brought him by a wharf-rat. And then, they were not the best of friends. Chippy now entertained the most respectful regard for police-constables, for it was part of his duty; but it had not always been so. In his days of sin, before he became a boy scout, he had guyed and chaffed Martin many a time and oft, and had exercised a diabolical ingenuity in tricks for his discomfiture. Therefore a sudden appearance, springing out of the darkness as a supporter of law and order, might not be taken as it was meant, and Chippy was quite shrewd enough to see that.

And Chippy was puzzled—he was tremendously puzzled. For the life of him, he could not see how two men in a boat were going to successfully attack the river-front of Elliotts' warehouse, and he burned to discover their plan of assault. He shut his eyes, and saw clearly a mental picture of the building. Chippy knew the riverside look of every building as well as he knew the back of his hand; he had spent scores and scores of summer days floating about in anything he could seize upon in the shape of a boat.

Well, he saw a broad, high wall, perfectly flat, turning a gable end to the wide stream, and in that wall he saw a number of windows and one large doorway, above which an arm carrying pulleys was thrust out. Under this doorway barges came when the tide was up, and sank to the mud when it went down. Boxes, bags, bales, were swung up to the doorway by pulley and chain, and so taken into the warehouse. But there was no landing-place of any kind; the wall ran sheer down to the mud.

Now, how were these men going to break in? And at low water, too! Fifteen feet at least of oozy, slimy wall would stand up between the boat and the foot of the doorway; twenty feet to the nearest row of windows. Chippy could not form any idea of their tactics, but he meant to discover them before long.

'Well, I got to move a bit,' said the scout to himself. 'I'll 'ook it down to Ferryman's, and get ready for 'em.'

Still on his bare feet, he slid like a shadow through the darkness, counted the mooring-posts as he went, in order to get his bearings, found the head of the steps running down to the spot he sought, and at the next instant his feet were treading the rough stones of Ferryman's Slip.

Here close beside the water it was not quite so dark; the heavy clouds had broken in the west, and the stars were coming out. In their faint gleam Chippy caught the shine of the oily swells as the water lapped gently against the wharf.

There was always water beside Ferryman's Slip at every state of the tide, and Chippy knew that a bunch of boats would certainly be moored off the boat-builder's yard at the top end of the slip. He went up there, and saw their dark forms on the water. He could step into the nearest, and in a moment he was climbing from one to the other with all the sureness of a born waterman, searching for what he wanted. Luck favoured him: he found it on the outside of a bunch, where he had only to slip the knot of a cord to set it free. It was a little broad boat, blunt in the bows, wide in the stern, the sort of boat you can sit on the side of without oversetting, and very suitable for Chippy's purpose this night.

Now Chippy scratched his jaw thoughtfully. There was the boat, but oars and rowlocks were safely locked up in the builder's shed. This would have stumped some people, but not Chippy. Often and often he had been able to get hold of a boat, but nothing else. He was quite familiar with the task of rigging up something to take the place of an oar. He hopped across the boats, gained the shore, and sought the boat-builder's shed. Around such a place lie piles of planks, broken thwarts, broken oars, odds and ends of every kind relating to boats, new or old. Chippy knew the shed, and sought the back.

'Old Clayson used to chuck a lot o' stuff at the back 'ere,' thought Chippy. 'I wish I durst strike a match, but that 'ud never do. They might see it.' So he groped and groped with his hands, and could hardly restrain a yell of delight when his fingers dropped on a smooth surface, broken by one sharp rib running down the centre.

'A sweep!' Chippy cried to himself joyously—'an old sweep! Now, if theer's on'y a bit o' handle to it, I'm right.'

With the utmost caution he drew the broken sweep from the pile of odds and ends where it lay. Yes, there was a piece of handle, and Chippy made at once for his boat, carrying his prize with him. An oar would have suited him much better, but beggars must not be choosers. The fragment of the sweep was heavy and clumsy, but in Chippy's skilled hands it could be made to do its work.

These preparations had taken some time, and Chippy was about to try his piece of sweep in the scull-notch in the stern when he paused and crouched perfectly still on the thwart. They were coming. He heard movements on the stone stairs which ran down to the river. The scout put his head over the side of the boat and listened. Water carries sound as nothing else does, and he heard them get into their boat very cautiously, slip oars into rowlocks, and paddle gently away. There was no dip or splash from the oars. 'Muffled 'em,' said Chippy to himself.

He gave them a couple of minutes to get clear out into the river from the side channel which washed the slip; then he prepared to follow. He untied the painter, pushed his boat clear of its companions, slipped his sweep over the stern, and began to scull down the channel without a sound, his practised hands working the boat on by the sweep as silently and smoothly as a fish glides forward by the strokes of its tail.

The little skiff slipped out on to the broad bosom of the river, and Chippy looked eagerly ahead. He saw his men at once. They were paddling gently down-stream close inshore. At this point the river ran due west, ran towards the quarter of the sky now bright with stars. Against this brightness Chippy saw the dark mass of boat and men. He glanced over his shoulder. The east remained black, its covering of cloud unbroken, and Chippy felt the joy of the scout who follows steadily, and knows that he himself is unseen.

The boat ahead went much faster than Chippy's little tub, but he let them go, and sculled easily forward; he knew where to find them. As they approached Elliotts' warehouse, a great cloud drew swiftly over the west, and the scout completely lost sight of the other boat. But the darkness was short. Within a few minutes the cloud passed as swiftly as it had come, and the surface of the river was once more pallid in the starshine.

Chippy saw the great bulk of the warehouse emerge from the gloom; he saw the level plain of water, now smooth at this time of dead-slack, and he expected to see the boat, but he did not. He brought up his skiff with a sharp turn of the sweep, and rubbed his eyes, and looked, and looked again. He saw nothing. The boat had vanished. It was not lying off the warehouse; of that he was quite sure. He was so placed, fairly close inshore, that his eye swept every inch of water along the front of the building. No boat was there.