CHAPTER XI
THE STRUGGLE IN THE DARK
Jack was by now becoming accustomed to sleeping aboard the Sea-Lark. The slight motion of the sloop as she lay at her moorings, and the gentle lapping of water against the side of the craft, instead of keeping him awake, lulled him to sleep. There was a delightful novelty, also, in sleeping on his boat, and the sense of impending danger which, during the first night or two, had kept his ears straining, was beginning to vanish. Both he and George now dropped off to sleep within a few minutes of the light being extinguished.
There was one night, however, when George was not able to keep his chum company, as his father required his assistance very early in the morning to get a launch into the water on the top of the tide. Jack, therefore, had to spend the night alone. For an hour or so after darkness came, he chatted with Cap’n Crumbie in the latter’s cubby on the wharf, and then climbed down to the sloop with no thought of impending danger. In the cabin he lighted his lantern, read the last two chapters of a book, stuck his head out of the companionway to see what the weather was like, and then slipped off his shoes, preparatory to turning in. As he placed the shoes under the bunk he began to chuckle.
“It isn’t necessary,” he muttered, going over to a locker and taking from it certain articles, including a hammer. “But what a joke if—”
He seemed to find considerable amusement in his thoughts and once or twice his chuckle developed into a hearty laugh, as for several minutes he busied himself at an occupation rarely indulged in by skippers.
“There!” he said, apparently to the hammer, when the task was finished, “it can’t do any harm, and it may do some good.”
Five minutes later he was in the strange world of dreamland, where pirates and redskins became entangled inextricably in adventures more absorbing than any ever found between the covers of a book.
Up on the wharf Cap’n Crumbie smoked his pipe in his cubby, and dozed over an old magazine until his head nodded. For a few minutes he, too, dropped off to sleep and then, when his pipe fell on the floor, he sat up with a start. He stretched his arms, yawned, and arose to pace nor’east and so’west on his favorite beat. There was but a faint light, for the moon was not due for several hours yet, and the sky was somewhat cloudy. Due south, three miles away, the red beacon at the sea end of the long breakwater shone steadily, while, farther east, the white glare of Greenport Light came at intervals. Cap’n Crumbie screwed up his eyes as he peered into the darkness away to the south for signs of an incoming vessel, but saw nothing, and presently returned to his comfortable chair and the magazine. He stuffed more tobacco into the bowl of his pipe, sent up prodigious wreaths of smoke, and fixed his spectacles. For half an hour he browsed over the printed pages, and then, it being a warm, close night, his eyelids drooped once more. Somewhere a bell clanged. It was one o’clock in the morning, and all was well. Cap’n Crumbie dozed and his pipe fell to the floor with a rattle again. But he did not move. The watchman was in the midst of forty winks, and they were very sound winks, too.
The dark form of a dory came skulking along the wharves. There was something suspicious in the behavior of its occupant. He dipped his oars into the water so silently that the splash could not have been heard more than a few yards away. He took a couple of furtive strokes, and then rested, looking over his shoulder, while the dory drifted slowly along. Another two strokes. A voice came from the distance. It was some sailor calling “good night” to a belated visitor, but the man in the dory gave a start. Again he peered over his shoulder in the direction of Garnett and Sayer’s wharf, now close by, and after assuring himself that no eye was on him, dipped the oars cautiously and sidled toward the Sea-Lark. There was no sound when he stepped with his bare feet over a thwart to fend the dory from the sloop. This was done with infinite care, and the small craft lay still. The man ran his fingers along the rail until they encountered a projecting nail, and then he nodded silently. With cat-like movements, he pushed the dory along to the stern of the sloop, and stood up, ready to hoist himself aboard. No sound greeted his ears save the lap of water against the side of the vessel. At last he tightened his grip on the rail, pulled his body cautiously over it, and crouched for an instant at the companionway. His fingers closed on the door-knob and with stealthy tread he disappeared into the cabin.