The chums saw but little of their good friends, the Roberts, during these busy days. They were up and off to the reefs every morning at break of dawn and only returned in the evening in time to get their catch of fish over to Clearwater before dark. Once, Charley met Bill on the dock and learned that his nets had come and that he and his brothers were fishing every night with but poor success. The big, young fellows looked weary, worn and worried.

"I don't know what's become of all the fish," he said, "we have been hunting over hundreds of miles of water and haven't found a decent school in a week. We need to make a few good catches, badly, too. All our money was in the bank which failed in Tampa the other day. We are almost broke, now, and the closed season, when we are not allowed to fish, is only a few weeks off. It looks like we are in for a long streak of hard luck."

Charley expressed his sincere sympathy.

"Oh, we'll not starve," Bill replied. "But it does hurt to have all the money you've worked hard for go like that without getting any good out of it. Well, I don't know why I am complaining to you, you have had worse troubles than ours."

It was a different looking Bill who routed them out of bed before dawn a few mornings later. His eyes were shining with excitement and his simple, frank face was beaming.

"Get on your clothes quick as you can and come with me," he cried. "We've got a chance to make a good pot of money."

As they hurried into their clothing he explained.

"There's a big schooner laden with lumber out about two miles in the gulf. She sprung a bad leak three days ago and her crew have worn themselves out at the pumps but the water is gaining on them all the time. If they can't get her into a dry dock within twenty-four hours, boat and cargo will be a total loss. We were passing her when her captain hailed us and asked for a tow. There is a dry dock at Tarpon Springs and he offers one thousand dollars to be towed up to it."

"Whew," Charley whistled, "that's a nice bunch of money. Do you think we can manage it?"

"Not alone, but I've been over to Clearwater and got three of the best fishermen there to help us with their launches. That makes five of us to divide the thousand dollars; two hundred dollars apiece. With luck, we ought to make the tow up in eight hours."

His story had hastened the little party's movements and by the time he had finished they were all ready and eager for the start.

They found the other three launches waiting impatiently for them at the dock and in a few minutes all five were under way standing out for the schooner which was in plain view from the inlet.

"One thousand dollars seems an awful price to pay for a tow of eighteen miles," Charley observed, as the "Dixie" tore through the water leading the little fleet. "Do you suppose we will have any difficulty in getting the money, Captain? The owners might not back up their captain's agreement."

"They will have to do it if we do our part," declared the old sailor, wise in the laws of the sea. "A captain is king of his ship. He can bind the owners for anything he considers necessary for the best interest of his ship or cargo. The only question is whether the owners are responsible persons. Likely, I can tell who the owners are when we get close enough to see her name. I know most of the ship-owners of these waters."

He uttered an exclamation of satisfaction as they drew near enough to decipher the name "North Wind" on the bow of the unlucky ship. "She is owned by Curry Bros. of Key West," he announced. "They are a rich firm, made most of their money out of wrecking. They own dozens of ships. Our money is all right if we keep our side of the agreement."

The unfortunate schooner lay low in the water, the waves almost breaking over her lumber-laden decks. She was barely moving in the light breeze. From every scupper hole gushed forth a stream of bright, clear, sea water as her crew labored at the clanking pumps.

"Why, they are all negroes, even the captain," Charley exclaimed, as the "Dixie" swept closer.

"Most of these Key West boats are manned by negroes," Captain Westfield said. "They are expert sailors and wreckers, and could give a regular lawyer points on ocean law, but they are mighty lazy. They get a share of what the ship earns instead of wages and one would think they would carry as small a crew as possible so as to get big shares, but instead of that, they carry double the men they need so as to make the work as light as possible. Don't seem to care whether they make anything or not so long as they have plenty to eat and little to do."

The numerous, grinning, ebony faces and kinky, woolly heads on the leaking ship testified to the truth of the old sailor's assertion.

The schooner's captain, a tall, lanky, solemn-visaged, old negro, wearing bone-rimmed spectacles, met them as they came alongside.

He glanced at the five launches with evident satisfaction.

"I reckon you-all white gentlemens can get me into Tarpon afore the ole gal sinks," he observed. "I figure we can keep her afloat ten hours longer if I can keep dem lazy niggers working de pumps."

"She hadn't ought to sink even when she fills," Captain Westfield observed. "The lumber ought to keep her up."

"Dar's a lot ob hardware in her, too," the negro captain declared. "Hit's stowed deep in de hold wid such a raffle ob lumber on top ob hit dat we can't get to hit widout throwing all de lumber overboard. She'll go down like a rock when she fills."

"Then we don't want to waste any time talking," Captain Westfield declared. "Pass us your lines and we will fasten on. First, though, you had better repeat the proposal you made to this gentleman here," indicating Bill Roberts. "If we tow you in, we don't want any misunderstanding about our pay after the job is done."

The old negro spoke slowly, evidently considering his words carefully.

"If you white gentlemens tow me in to de dry dock at Tarpon you is to get one thousand dollars for de job. You-alls can draw on Curry Bros. through de Tarpon bank jes' as soon as we gets to de dry dock."

"All right," Captain Westfield agreed. "Pass us your lines and we'll get busy."

In a few moments, the five launches were fast to the schooner and with engines throbbing were slowly dragging the helpless hulk towards her destination.

The fishing launches were all good boats of their kind, but they had not been intended for such heavy work and the strain on their light engines was terrific.

The two boys watched the "Dixie's" straining engine with the anxious care of a mother for her child as they dragged their big tow slowly ahead.

"I guess it will last out the trip," Charley said, "but I wouldn't like to do much of this kind of work with it. It's like overloading a willing horse."

At the end of the fifth mile, the launch ahead of them dropped out of the struggle with a broken piston ring.

"Go on, don't stop for me!" its owner yelled with more unselfishness than they had expected. "I'll manage to limp her back to Clearwater. So long, and good luck to you. You will have to hit it up for all you are worth now or you won't make it. There's a squall making up in the north-west. If it strikes you before you get in behind Anchote Key, you will have to cut loose from the schooner."

Captain Westfield had, for some time, been watching the small black cloud making up in the north-west.

"It's going to be a close shave to make Tarpon before that thing hits us," he remarked to Charley. "We pulled slow enough when there were five of us and now with only four we are not making over two miles an hour. It's a wonder the engines stand the additional strain. I keep expecting them to break down."

"It's not only that we are one less in number, which counts, but also the fact that the schooner keeps getting harder and harder to pull," Charley observed. "I'll bet she is six inches deeper in the water than when we fastened on. Her captain is doing his best to keep her up—just listen to him," he grinned.

The lanky, solemn, old negro was dancing around the schooner's deck heaping abuse, threats, prayers, and supplications on the kinky-headed toilers at the pumps. He also had noted the gathering squall and was driving his exhausted crew to the limit of their endurance.

The minutes dragged slowly away while the launches with their heavy burden labored gallantly on. They were slowly nearing the island, Anchote Key, which lay in front of the port of Tarpon Springs. But, although they were close to their destination, the squall was close to them. The tiny black cloud had spread rapidly until it blanketed the entire northern horizon with an inky mass.

"Do you think we will make it, Captain?" Charley inquired, anxiously, as they watched the gathering storm.

"I doubt if we will reach Tarpon before it hits us," answered the old sailor, "but I guess we will be able to get in behind Anchote Key and escape the worst of the seas."

As the squall neared them the wind dropped away and the sea took on an oily smoothness. The air hung heavy, still and oppressive. The sun had long since disappeared behind the wall of black but so motionless was the air that they breathed with difficulty and the perspiration stood out on their hands and faces.

"There she comes," cried Captain Westfield, suddenly.

Away to the north under the low-hanging cloud appeared a wall of foaming white.

Charley steered with one eye on the moving comb of water and the other on the rock-shored island close aboard.

He gave a sigh of relief as the launches and schooner slipped slowly in behind the protecting island just as the squall broke in a roar of wind and driving sheets of rain.

His relief was short-lived, however. They had escaped the fury of the billows outside but it was rough enough behind the key and high seas tumbled and rolled around the boats.

He glanced back to see how it fared with the schooner. What he saw made him leap for the straining tow line, whipping out his sheath-knife as he sprang. One stroke severed the taut rope, and, relieved of the drag, the "Dixie" leaped ahead like a frightened deer.