Wilmer M. Ely

Chris had started a brisk fire in the box of sand and was preparing to fry a big mess of fish which had fallen victims to his craft.

"Golly!" he exclaimed when the boys offered their assistance, "I doan want none ob you white chillens foolin' around an' spoilin' dese fish. If you-alls wants to help, jes' light up de lanterns an' sot de table."

Charley groped around, found the matches, and struck a light. "Why didn't you get more than one lantern, Walt?" he complained. "We will need four when we get to fishing."

"I bought four. They are hanging right there on the wall," his chum replied.

"There's only one here," Charley announced. "Are you sure you got four?"

"Of course," Walter replied. "Maybe some of us moved them, when we were fixing up the shack."

But a close search of the shack failed to reveal the missing lights.

"They have been stolen," Charley said, quietly. "We had better look and see if anything else has been taken."

But Walter was already looking over his purchases. "Nearly all our groceries are gone," he cried.

The band of chums gazed at each other in dismay.

"It must have been done while we were working with the launch," Charley said. "Chris, did you see any one go into the shack?"

"No, Massa Chas," the little negro confessed. "De fish was jes' naturally biting so fast dat I doan look around much."

"What shall we do about it?" Walter inquired.

"I don't see as we can do anything," said Charley, thoughtfully. "We will just have to grin and bear it and be more careful in the future. Of course, it was one of those fishermen who did it, there was no one else on the dock,—but we have no clue as to which was the guilty one and we can not accuse all of them."

"Wisely said, my lad," approved Captain Westfield, "all we can do is to keep quiet and watch out in the future. We evidently have some tough characters for neighbors. Let's not mourn and get downhearted, that won't bring the things back. Here Chris has got a good supper ready. Let's get at it and be cheerful."

The boys recognizing the wisdom of the old sailor's advice, and hiding their disappointment, they made merry over the crisp, tasty, fried fish, pancakes, and coffee that the little negro had prepared.

As soon as the supper things were cleared away, Captain Westfield produced his old worn, well-loved Bible and read the story of Christ with the discouraged fishermen, after which he prayed earnestly and with simple faith for the Lord's blessing upon them in the new life upon which they were about to enter.

Just as he concluded, there came the sound of shuffling footsteps outside, and a bit of rustling white paper was shoved in under the door of the shack.

Charley picked it up and glanced at the ill-written scrawl it contained. With an angry gleam in his eyes, he flung open the door and peeped outside. The retreating footsteps had died away, and he could distinguish nothing in the inky darkness but the glimmering lights in the other shacks.

He closed and fastened the door carefully.

"What was it?" Walter asked, noting the grim, set look on his chum's face.

"Nothing much," Charley replied with a meaning glance. "I'll tell you about it later."

As soon as Chris, who was always early to bed, was snoring peacefully on his blanket, Charley produced the scrap of paper.

"What do you think of that?" he asked, briefly.

Walter and the captain bent their heads over the almost illegible scrawl.

Walter looked up from the paper, his face flushed with anger. "It's an outrage!" he cried. "Why I'd die first."

"Read it to me, Walt," requested the Captain. "I can't make out that writing."

Walter obeyed.

"We-alls don't allow no niggers around hyar. Get rid of that little nigger you've got with you or it will be worse for him and worse for you.

"The White Caps."

The old sailor fairly exploded with wrath as he listened. "By the keel of the Flying Dutchman," he shouted, "that little darkey is better than a shipload of thieving fishermen. I just wish I had my hands on the fellow that dared write that thing."

"Poor little Chris," Walter exclaimed. "He is as noble a little fellow as ever lived. His skin may be black but he's white, clean white, inside. Think of the times he's risked his life for us and how good, honest and uncomplaining he has always been. Get rid of Chris, never!"

"Of course not," Charley agreed. "The question is what are we going to do. I wouldn't say anything about it while Chris was awake because I knew how terribly bad it would make him feel,—he is a sensitive little fellow, but what are we going to do? The fellow or fellows, who wrote this are liable to do something to him at the first good opportunity they have, especially if he is not warned and on his guard."

"Give up all idea of fishing and leave this place, before we part with Chris," declared Captain Westfield.

"Not much," cried Walter. "Just tell those fishermen, one and all, that Chris stays with us. And if they do him the slightest injury, we will make them suffer for it."

"I don't like either course you propose," observed thoughtful, clear-headed Charley. "As for the Captain's plan, I don't want to leave here. We have a good prospect of making money here if we can stick it out and we are in poor shape to pick up and leave. Besides I don't like the idea of being forced out of a place by any one. I don't think much better of what Walt proposes either. We are no match for a hundred fishermen, and it is foolish to make threats when one can not carry them out. In the second place, if we quarrel with the fishermen over Chris, it will make them more bitter against him and more certain to do him an injury. Lastly, nothing we could do to them for an injury done Chris would help him any after the injury was done. What we need to do is to protect him from any possible harm."

"Well, let's have your plan," Walter said.

"I have none as yet," Charley confessed. "I propose we wait until morning before we decide on any course. Some plan will occur to us, I am sure. There is always a way out of any difficulty if one only thinks hard enough. I am dead tired and I'm going to bed and try to forget about this trouble until morning. I'd advise you two to do the same."

It had been a very full and eventful day and Walter and the Captain were not loath to follow Charley's example. The three crept into their blankets and turned out the lantern; but, tired as they were, they were not to get the sleep they longed for. From the other shacks came the voices of their occupants gradually increasing in number and volume. At first, it seemed as though a kind of celebration was in progress; for the sound of laughter, songs, and dancing filled the air, but gradually, the uproar took on a rougher note. Voices were raised in anger, curses were bandied back and forth, and now and then came the sound of fighting.

"I believe they are all drunk or fast getting drunk," Charley declared.

"Why, I understood Mr. Daniels to say that this was a dry town and that no liquor was allowed in the place," said his chum.

"Yes, and he also said that there was more liquor drunk here than in any other town in the state," Charley amended. "He says it's a mystery where it comes from. The town authorities it seems, keep a close watch for blind tigers and also keep an eye on the packages that come by freight and express but none of it seems to come in that way."

"Well, it evidently comes in some way," remarked Captain Westfield as a fresh uproar of fighting arose from the dock.

It was useless to try to sleep as long as the din continued, so the three lay talking in low tones.

"Hark!" cried Charley, suddenly. "I wonder what they have done now."

Loud and clear above the din of fighting rang the sharp crack of a pistol. The report was followed by excited shouting and then silence.

"I'll bet one of them has been shot and it has frightened and sobered up the rest," Walter exclaimed. "Let's go out and see."

"No, you don't, lad," Captain Westfield declared, firmly. "You'll stay here if I have to hold you. It's none of our trouble and we don't any of us want to get mixed up in it."

Whatever had happened, it had effectually quieted the wild revelry. Our little party lay for awhile listening but the silence remained unbroken and one by one, they at last dropped off to sleep.

It was perhaps midnight when Walter raised up on his elbow and whispered softly.

"Are you asleep, Charley?"

"As wide awake as I ever was in my life," his chum grunted. "Why, anything the matter with you?"

"Something is stinging me to death," declared Walter, anxiously, "I smart, burn, and itch all over."

"Me too," chimed in the captain's voice, "I've laid quiet here and took it rather than wake you boys up. Jehosaphat, what is it?"

Charley chuckled. "It's nothing dangerous," he explained, "evidently we are entertaining a few thousand of those fishermen's closest friends—bedbugs. Light up the lantern, Walt, and let's have a look."

An examination by the light showed their faces and bodies covered with red, angry-looking blotches.

"There's no use trying to sleep here," Charley declared. "Let's go out on board the 'Dixie.' It will be pretty close quarters sleeping in her cabin but anything is better than this."

"But our things will be all stolen," Walter objected.

"They will not bother anything to-night for they will think we are inside, and we will be back before they are up in the morning," said his chum.

Chris was awakened and the four crept softly out of the shack closing the door carefully behind them.

To reach their skiff, they had to pass the other shacks. As they came opposite the first one Charley, who was in the lead, stopped short with a muffled cry of horror.