Accordingly, at dusk, when supper was over and a little stroll on shore had gotten the “kinks” out of their “sea legs,” the Bluebird was headed into the lake again and moored, with riding lights to warn other craft away.
In the middle of the night Neale felt the need of a drink, as he had eaten some buttered popcorn the evening before and he was now thirsty. As he arose to get a glass of water from a shelf in his apartment he became aware of a strange movement. At the same time he could hear the sighing of the wind.
“Sounds as if a storm were coming up,” mused the boy. And then, as he reached out his hand for the glass, he felt the Bluebird rise, fall and sway beneath him.
“Why, we’re moving! We’re drifting!” exclaimed Neale. “The anchor must be dragging or the cables have been cut. We’re drifting fast, and may be in danger!”
[CHAPTER XXI—THE STORM]
Neale O’Neil was a lad to whom, young as he was, emergencies came as a sort of second nature. His life in the circus had prepared him for quick and unusual action. Many times, while traveling with the tented shows, accidents had happened. Sometimes one of the animals would get loose, perhaps one of the “hay feeders,” by which is meant the elephants, horses or camels. Or, worse than this, one of the big “cats,” or the meat eaters—including lions, tigers and leopards—would break from a cage. Then consternation would reign.
But Neale had seen how the circus men had met these emergencies, always working for the safety of others.
And now, as he seemed to be alone in the semi-darkness and silence of the houseboat at midnight, Neale felt that the time had come for him to act.
“We must have pulled our anchor, or else some one has cut us adrift,” decided the lad. “And if any one has cut us loose it must be those men from the motor boat—the tramps—the thieves!”
He visualized their evil countenances and thought of how they had behaved toward Ruth and Agnes—that is, if these were the two men in question.