Logs, huge chunks of driftwood and every known article of household furniture, both broken and whole, floated in Skippy’s path, blocking his progress. Suddenly he saw a little boat bearing down upon him, floating through the inlet unoccupied.
He reached out, grabbed the bow and climbed in, breathless and exhausted. Other kickers were shoving off filled with crying women and shouting men. Skippy looked about over the water, but saw nothing but a procession of slowly moving debris.
He turned over the motor and she responded with a fearful jerk. He was moving, in any event, moving away from the fearful heat that the burning barges threw out over the water. The moon’s shimmering light now looked sickly and pale in contrast to the fearful red glare that spread over the entire sky.
The screaming sirens of motor boats soon became part of the pandemonium and Skippy heard commanding shouts for the boats to clear out of the inlet immediately. In the wake of this he heard a heart-rending shriek from the midst of the barge inferno which made him feel sick and weak.
“Mrs. Duffy an’ her two kids ain’t nowheres,” a man’s voice shouted above the roar. “I’ll bet Skinner had that dynamite planted.” And as Skippy attempted to turn the kicker about he was peremptorily ordered from the approaching police launch to keep on his way out to the river.
He didn’t look back again. The Minnie M. Baxter was a seething mass behind him—there was nothing left. Big Joe was nowhere about—Skippy suddenly remembered the big fellow’s shouts about Skinner. It gave him an idea and he nosed the boat down the river.
Out of this confusion of mind, he thought of the dog. He remembered then that he hadn’t seen the puppy since he had let him down on the deck after seeing the battered Beasell.
And what had become of him? Was he dead or alive? Skippy wiped a grimy hand across his forehead. He was utterly weary and exhausted by the ordeal. He could not think of an answer to anything. His world had toppled over since the discovery of Beasell and the explosion. And now Mugs was gone too—his skipping, faithful-eyed pal! Was there nothing left for him at all?
He put his hands over the wheel and gripped it bitterly, but soon he relaxed and with a soft sob he covered his face. And nobody knew but the river.