The Boy Chums Cruising in Florida Waters / or, The Perils and Dangers of the Fishing Fleet

by Wilmer M. Ely

"We have always been lucky in getting out of it," Charley reminded him.

"Yes, but you know the old saying that 'the pitcher that goes often to the well is sure to get broken.'"

"But the pitcher that does not go, gets no water," grinned Charley. "The facts are that we all want to be making big money in a short time and the big money lies in dangerous and unusual pursuits. If we stuck to the slow, well-beaten pursuits, we would have no more troubles than anyone else, I dare say."

"Well, I am beginning to get wearied with too many adventures," Walter confessed. "If we pull out of this fishing business with a good sum to our credit, I'm going to hunt for some quiet pursuit like raising chickens or tending sheep."

"We've got two months of the fishing season yet," remarked his chum, thoughtfully, "then comes the closed season when the law does not permit anyone to fish. Well, if we have good luck, we may make a fair bit in two months. Of course, we cannot expect many catches like last night's but we ought to make something right along if we work hard."

Further conversation was ended by their arrival at the dock. Several fishermen were lounging on the pier and they crawled to the edge looking down with envious eyes at the launch's load. Among them, Charley noted Hunter's sallow, sneering face. He paused only to make the launch fast then hurried up for the fish house.

Walter lay back on a seat and rested while he waited the arrival of the wagons. The fishermen, after a few idle questions as to where the catch had been made, and which way the fish had been working, gradually drifted away to their various duties, most of them heading for shore to work upon their nets and boats, but Hunter and a couple of companions disappeared in one of the shanties on the other side of the dock. "So that's where the rat lives," Walter reflected. "He would have a good chance to take a pot shot at me from there if he dared but he wouldn't try anything so raw as that. I don't believe he would take such a risk in broad daylight with so many around." The lad's meditations were interrupted by the arrival of the first wagon from the fish house. He helped to load it and as soon as it was gone settled back to his resting. As he lay back with every muscle gratefully relaxed, his quick ear caught a peculiar sound. On his guard from Charley's experience of the day before, he raised up and looked carefully around. The sound was easy to locate. It came from the shanty Hunter had entered. He could see something dripping down in large drops from the slat-like floor. "They have got a leaky water pail or something of the kind," he guessed, then, as a peculiar smell was wafted to his nostrils, he lay back again with a grin. "Their gasoline can has sprung a leak," he decided. "The gas is all running out. If it was anyone else but Hunter, I'd call and tell him about it, but as it is his, it can all leak away for all I care," and he lay back and listened with a certain satisfaction to the steady drip of the escaping fluid.

Half dozing he heard footsteps in the shack and a moment later the scratch of a match. The next instant he was on his feet, his heart beating wildly. It had happened like a flash of lightning. All around the launch the water was aflame. Fool that he had been. He had been caught by a trick simple but cunning. That film of oil on the water had only needed a dropped match to set it aflame.

For a moment he stood helpless, bewildered by the sudden catastrophe. The oil had drifted all around the launch and she was in the center of a sheet of flame. Already he could smell the blistering paint on her hull, and the heat smote him in the face like a fiery blast.