“The chart says that there’s water enough. I am willing to risk it.” Pluck was Frank’s long suit, that was sure.
“Water enough? I should say so.” Arthur gazed at the spouting breakers, which stormed the beach like ranks of white-plumed warriors. “I am game, if Ken says so.”
For answer, Kenneth shifted the helm and headed straight for the seething breakers.
Arthur went forward and clung to the rigging to watch for the channel marks, while Frank lay aft with the skipper to tend sheets and be handy for any emergency. The hatches were closed tight and all movable gear lashed down.
Like a war horse eager for the fray, the “Gazelle” dashed for the first line of tumbling watery breastworks. Rising like a gull on the uplift of the first wave, she topped it and swung down into its trough and then up the slope of the next. Straight as an arrow, steady and sure as the sweep of a true wind, the yacht slipped over the white crests of the great waves one after the other, on through the narrow, troubled waters of the inlet, to the calmer waters of Indian River.
“Say, that was just great,” was Frank’s honest compliment to the boat’s performance. “I’d like to do that again.” The faces of all three were damp from the salt spray and shining with exhilaration and enthusiasm.
As Kenneth was about to drop his anchor, his eye caught sight of a queer-looking craft that was gliding over the smooth water in the rapidly-deepening dusk.
“Let’s travel along with our friend over there,” he said, pointing to the strange vessel. “She may be able to give us some pointers about this creek.”
The “Gazelle” was the faster sailer, and had just about come abeam of the stranger, when they heard her anchor go overboard. The yawl’s mud-hook immediately followed suit. While Frank was getting the supper, the skipper and his mate rowed over to what proved to be a broad-beamed sharpie. After hailing, the boys were invited to come aboard by the one person visible. Climbing a ladder thrown over her square sides, the two found themselves in a very comfortable cabin lined with shelves, on which were ranged, in orderly rows, the stock of a well-appointed grocery store.
The skipper-proprietor was a jovial fellow, having the characteristics of both of his trades—the trader’s Yankee shrewdness and love of gossip, combined with the open, hearty, yarn-spinning qualities of the sailor. He gave Ransom and his friend many useful hints about navigating Indian River, with every shoal and indentation of which he was familiar, and ended by selling them quite a stock of provisions. “Combining business with pleasure,” he said, as he handed Arthur the packages—flour, salt, sugar, and coffee.