CHAPTER XII.—THE GHOST OF THE MARY ANN.
“Don’t loose your fish!” jeered Jule, leaning over the gunwale, his face red with laughter.
“What do you think you are?” called Case. “A blooming pilot?”
Alex could make no headway swimming in the direction of the boat, for the creatures he had hooked were pulling him, iron and all, toward the Indiana shore. Now and then the boy was drawn beneath the surface and came up spluttering, but still grimly holding to the lines.
“Why don’t the little idiot let go?” asked Jule as the boy’s head disappeared under water for the third or fourth time.
“He’ll never let go!” Case exclaimed. “Why don’t we get the Rambler under motion and pick him up?”
The motor boat was soon racing toward the boy. Alex was still hanging to his fish lines, and the catfish, or whatever was at the other end, were making fast for the center of the stream.
It took some moments to reach the boy, and more time to land him on deck, for he still persisted in hanging on to the fish lines.
Not until the thick lines were securely fastened to a deck cleat would the boy release his hold.
“Now,” Clay laughed, “if anybody can find a derrick, we’ll get these fish on board.”