“Just the same I’m going to make a try for it,” thought Tom to himself, “if any opportunity offers.”
Simon Lake himself, and his scrubby-haired first mate, had now emerged from the cabin companionway, and were pacing the inclined stern deck. Every now and again, Lake crossed to the side of the man at the wheel and peered into the compass. From time to time he cast an eye aloft at the canvas. The schooner was carrying every bit of plainsail, despite the smart wind that was humming through her rigging. Evidently, Lake did not believe in allowing his ship to loaf along. He carried an amount of canvas which would have given an old-fashioned skipper heart disease. The schooner showed the strain, too. Every now and again, she would give a heel that sent her lee rail under and the yeasty foam boiling and swirling along the scuppers.
At last, shortly before noon, the opportunity for which Tom had been waiting presented itself. Dead ahead, across the tumbling blue water, could be seen the heeling, rolling form of a steamer. She was coming toward them and if she held her present course, would be bound to pass them a short distance to lee. When she did so, Tom made up his mind that he was going to try to attract her attention.
On came the vessel, black smoke pouring from her funnel and her masts cutting crazy arcs against the sky. Now and then the sun flashed on her wet plates as she rolled. She was a black craft with towering white upper decks, which showed her to be a passenger craft. On board her was safety, law, and order. Tom’s heart fairly ached to attract her attention. The case was no different with the rancher, but what with anxiety over the worry his wife would be feeling, and general trouble over their position, Mr. Chillingworth had had little to say for the last hour or two. He had sat silently at the foot of the foremast, his head in his hands and lost in the dismal trend of his thoughts.
The steamer was now almost abeam of them. So close was she that Tom could catch the glint of brass buttons on her bridge and the gay colors of the ladies’ dresses as they walked along the promenade decks, and no doubt remarked to their escorts on the beauty of the little schooner heading out to the open sea.
As the two ships drew abeam, Tom leaped into the lee rigging, hanging on by one of the fore shrouds. His cap—an old sea affair, given him by Bully Banjo—was in his hand, and he was raising his arm to wave it.
“Ahoy! Steamer, ahoy!” he yelled.
The wind bore his cries down toward the other vessel and a commotion could be seen on her bridge. Presently there came a gush of white steam from her whistle and her way decreased noticeably. But Tom had hardly had time to take in these details before a heavy hand fell on his shoulder and the next instant Zeb Hunt’s rough fist had felled him to the deck.
“You young shark!” snarled the mate, “this is the worst day’s work you’ve ever done. You keep off there, Chillingworth,” he went on truculently, as the rancher came forward protesting. “This is our affair.”
The rancher glanced helplessly about him. The entire crew had gathered about the prostrate boy. It would have been worse than madness to have resisted any of Hunt’s mandates just then. Suddenly a voice hailed from the stern.