Frank and Andy Afloat - The Cave on the Island

Vance Barnum

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• Publié par: imma
• Publié le: 08 décembre 2010
• Nombre de lectures: 22
• Langue: English

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The Project Gutenberg eBook, Frank and Andy Afloat, by Vance Barnum This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Frank and Andy Afloat The Cave on the Island Author: Vance Barnum Release Date: October 21, 2006 [eBook #19601] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) ***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FRANK AND ANDY AFLOAT*** E-text prepared by Al Haines FRANK AND ANDY AFLOAT Or The Cave on the Island by VANCE BARNUM Author of "Frank and Andy at Boarding School," "Frank and Andy in a Winter Camp," "The Joe Strong Series." Whitman Publishing Co. Racine, Wisconsin Copyright, 1921, by George Sully & CompanyCONTENTS CHAPTER I. HIT BY A WHALE II. THE WRECKED MOTOR BOAT III. THE BOY'S RESCUE IV. "WHO ARE YOU?" V. SEEKING THE WRECK VI. CHET SEDLEY'S STYLE VII. A LIVELY CARGO VIII. ANDY IS CAUGHT IX. "THAR SHE BLOWS!" X. A RIVAL CLAIM XI. A FIRE ON BOARD XII. THE STRANGER AGAIN XIII. A MIDNIGHT SCARE XIV. THE WRECK AGAIN XV. ORDERED BACK XVI. ON THE SEARCH XVII. ON CLIFF ISLAND XVIII. "THERE HE IS!" XIX. IN THE CAVE XX. THE RISING TIDE XXI. DEATH IS NEAR XXII. THE STORM XXIII. TO THE RESCUE XXIV. THE ESCAPE XXV. A LUCKY QUARREL XXVI. THE PRISONER XXVII. SEARCHING THE WRECK XXVIII. BUILDING A RAFT XXIX. "SAIL HO!" XXX. THE ACCUSATION—CONCLUSIONFRANK AND ANDY AFLOAT CHAPTER I HIT BY A WHALE "How about a race to the dock, Frank?" "With whom, Andy?" "Me, of course. I'll beat you there—loser to stand treat for the ice cream sodas. It's a hot day." "Yes, almost too warm to do any speeding," and Frank Racer, a lad of fifteen, with a quiet look of determination on his face, rested on the oars of his skiff, and glanced across the slowly-heaving salt waves toward his brother Andy, a year younger. "Oh, come on!" called Andy, with a laugh rippling over his tanned face. "You're afraid I'll beat you." "I am, eh?" and there was a grim tightening of the older lad's lips. "Well, if you put it that way, here goes! Are you ready?" "Just a minute," pleaded Andy, and he moved over slightly on his seat in order better to trim the boat. He took a tighter grip on the oars, and nodded toward his brother, still with that tantalizing smile on his face. "Let her go!" he called a moment later, adding: "I can taste that chocolate soda now, Frank! Yum-yum!" "Better save your breath for rowing," counseled Frank good-naturedly, as he bent to the ashen blades with a will. The two boats—for each of the Racer lads had his own craft—were on a line, and were headed for a long dock that ran out into the quiet inlet of the Atlantic which washed the shores of the little settlement known as Harbor View, a fishing village about thirty miles from New York. "Wow! Here's where I put it all over you by about six lengths!" boasted Andy Racer, paying no attention to his brother's well-meant advice, and then the two lads got into the swing of the oars, and the skiffs fairly leaped over the waves that rolled in long swells. Both boys having spent nearly all their summer vacations at the coast resort, which was something of a residence place for summer colonists, as well as a fishing centre, were expert oarsmen, sturdy and capable of long exertion. They were nearly matched in strength, too, in spite of the difference in their ages. They had taken a long, leisurely row that summer morning and were on their way back when Andy proposed the race. "Row! Row! Why don't you put some speed in your strokes, Frank?" called the younger brother. "That's all right—you won't want to do any speeding by the time you get to the dock," and Frank glanced over his shoulder to where the public dock stretched out into the bay like some long water-snake. "It's nearly two miles there, and the swell is getting heavier." Frank spoke quickly, and then relapsed into silence. It was characteristic of him to do whatever he did with all his might, while his more fun-loving brother sometimes started things and then left off, saying it was "too much trouble." For a time Andy's skiff was in the lead, and then, as he found the exertion too much, he eased up in his strokes, and lessened the number of them. "I thought you were going it a bit too heavy," remarked Frank, with a smile. "Oh, you get out!" laughed Andy. "I'll beat you yet. But I like your company, that's why I let you catch up to me." "Oh, yes!" answered Frank, half sarcastically. "But why don't you stop talking? You can't talk and row, I've told you that lots of times. That's the reason you lost that race with Bob Trent last week—you got all out of breath making fun of him." "I was only trying to get him rattled," protested Andy. "Well, he got the race just by sticking to it. But go on. I don't care. I'm going to win, but I don't want to take an unfair advantage of you." "Oh, lobsters! I'm not asking for a handicap. You never can beat me in a thousand years." And, with a jolly laugh Andy began to sing: "The stormy winds do blow—do blow, And I a winning race will row—yo ho! You'll come in last, Your time is past, Out on the briny deep, deep, deep! Out on the briny deep!" "All right, have your way about it," assented Frank good naturedly. "I can stand it if you can," and with that he increased his strokes by several a minute, until his skiff had shot ahead of his brother's, and was dancing over the waves that, now and then, brilliantly reflected the sun as it came from behind the fast-gathering clouds. "Oh, so you are really going to race?" called Andy, somewhat surprised by the sudden advantage secured by his brother. "Well, two can play at that game," and he, also, hit up the pace until in front of both boats there was a little smother of foam, while the green, salty water swirled and sparkled around the blades of the broad ashen oars, for the boys did not use the spoon style. For perhaps two minutes both rowed on in silence, and it was so quiet, not a breath of wind stirring, that each one could hear the labored breathing of the other. The pace was beginning to tell, for, though Frank was not over-anxious to make record time to the dock, he was not going to let his brother beat him, if he could prevent it. "I shouldn't wonder but what there'd be a storm," spoke Andy again, after a pause. He couldn't keep quiet for very long at a time. "Um," was all the reply Frank made. "What's the matter; lost your tongue overboard?" questioned Andy with a chuckle. Frank did not reply. "I'm going to pass you," called the younger brother a moment later when, by extreme exertion, he had regained the place he had held, with the bow of his craft in line with Frank's. Then Andy fairly outdid himself, for, though Frank was rowing hard, his brother suddenly shot ahead. "It's about time you did some rowing," was Frank's quiet remark, and then he showed that he still had some power in reserve, for he caught up to his brother, and held his place there with seeming ease, though Andy did not let up in the furious pace he had set. "Oh, what's the use of killing yourself?" at length the younger lad fairly panted. "It's—it's farther than I thought." He began losing distance, but Frank, too, had no liking for the fast clip, so he, likewise, rowed slower until the two boats were on even terms, bobbing over the long ground swell that seemed to be getting heavier rapidly. From time to time one brother or the other glanced over his shoulder, not so much to set his course, for they could do that over the stern, having previously taken their range, but in order to note the aspect of the fast-gathering clouds which were behind them. The wind, which had died out shortly after they had started on their row that morning, now sprang up in fitful gusts, with a rather uncanny, moaning sound, as if it was testing its strength before venturing to develop into a howling storm. "Don't you think it's going to kick up a rumpus?" asked Andy, tired of keeping quiet. "Um," spoke Frank again, for his breath was needed to keep up his speed in the swells. "There you go again—old silent-face!" and Andy laughed to take the sting out of his words. "Your tongue will get so tired being still so long that it won't know how to wiggle when you want it." Frank smiled, and glanced over his shoulder again. He noted that the dock, which was their goal, was now a little more than half a mile distant. He could see several fishing boats and other craft making for the more sheltered part of the harbor. Frank was calculating the space yet to be covered, to decide when he should begin the final spurt, for, though the race was only a friendly one, such as he and his brother often indulged in, yet he wanted to win it none the less. He decided that it would not do to hit up the pace to the limit just yet. "It's a heap sight longer than I thought it was," came from Andy, after a bit. "What say we call it off?" "Not on your life!" exclaimed Frank vigorously. "I'm going to finish whether you do or not—but you have to buy the sodas if I do." "I will not. I'll finish, too, and I'll beat you." Once more came a period of silent rowing. Then, whether it was because he pulled more strongly on one oar than on the other, or because of the drift of the current, and the effect of the wind, the younger lad suddenly found himself close to the boat of his brother.At that moment Frank had once more turned to look at the dock, and Andy could not resist the chance to play a little trick on him. Skillfully judging the distance, he suddenly swept back his left oar, so that the flat blade caught the crest of a long roller and a salty spray flew in a shower over Frank. "What's that—rain?" Frank cried, turning quickly. He saw the laughing face of his brother, and guessed what had happened. "I thought this was a rowing race, not a splashing contest!" he cried good-naturedly. "It's both," was th