AT THE OLD MISSION.

When Nat saw the light, carried by the men whom they had been following, vanish as if it had been a Will o’ the Wisp, it will be recalled that both he and Joe started forward suddenly. It was an ill-advised move, for the instant that they advanced from behind a still up-standing section of the ruined mission wall, which had obscured the lantern, old Israel and his two sons sprang upon them.

Entirely unprepared for such a move, the two boys were taken off their guard, but nevertheless the oar which Joe carried came into effective play. Seth Harley grabbed him, but as his hands clutched the Hartley boy’s clothing, “Whack!” came Joe’s oar on his arm, temporarily disabling him.

With a howl of mingled rage and pain, Seth held back, leaving the field to his father and brother. Old Israel, although of great age, demonstrated his ability in a rough and tumble, leaping at Nat and pinioning his arms before the boy had a chance to defend himself. Joe having disposed of Seth for the time being, dashed to the rescue, but he was, in turn, tackled by old Israel’s other son and borne to the ground almost as soon as he interfered.

The unequal contest came to a speedy conclusion, with the Harleys victorious. Nat and Joe found themselves bound and secured, hand and foot, within a few seconds from the time that they had engaged the smuggler’s crowd.

“Thought we wasn’t on the lookout, did yer?” scoffed old Israel, as he made some lashings of rope fast about the boys’ wrists and ankles. “Wa’al, you got another guess comin’ now, ain’t ye? What’ll we do with ’em, boys?”

It was useless to make any outcry, and both lads knew it, so in silence they awaited the verdict that was to decide their fate. It was Seth Harley who delivered it:

“That pesky kid, thar’, got away from us once and I ain’t calculatin’ to hev him do it agin,” he said. “Let’s put ’em in the old Booty Hole. It’ll be a long time afore they git out of thar’, I’m thinkin’.”

Naturally enough, neither of the boys had the least idea of what the “Booty Hole” was, but Nat opined that it was some sort of a cellar or excavation amidst the ruins, and in this he was not mistaken. The two lads were roughly seized and pushed forward among the ruins without any regard to their feelings. As they were half-dragged, half-shoved over the rough ground and piled-up debris, old Israel kept up a running fire of satirical comment on their plight.

“Wa’al, this is sure a fine fix fer two bright byes to be in, ain’t it?” he grinned. “Two nice young fellers that thought they knew it all, hum? This is the one time that you don’t git away, kid,” he added, addressing Nat with a vicious intonation. “We’re a-goin’ ter put yer where you won’t git out till Kingdom Come, and maybe not then.”

The boys did not reply. To have given utterance to their feelings in words would have been as useless as to have made active resistance. Seth, who was slightly in advance, while old Harley and his other son held the boys, paused suddenly.

“Here we are,” he said, and stooping, he raised a big flat stone which in turn disclosed a door, apparently a part of the cellarage of the former mission building.

There was a ring in the door which the younger Harley gripped, and then flung the portal back. It revealed a steep flight of steps and beyond them abysmal darkness. It was plain enough to the boys that they were to be thrust into this place as prisoners.

If any doubt of this fact had existed in their minds it was speedily dissipated.

“Git down thar’,” growled old Harley with an oath, as he gave Nat a vicious shove.

“See here, Harley,” exclaimed the boy. “What useful purpose do you think you’re serving by treating us this way? You know as well as I do that you are amenable to the law for your conduct. Don’t think for a minute that you can ever escape your just punishment.”

“Talk like a striplin’ preacher, don’t yer?” sneered the old man. “Jes’ let me tell yer one thing, young feller, thar’ ain’t a law in Santy Barbary County that kin touch ole Iz Harley; so put that in your pipe an’ smoke it.”

The boys were suddenly jerked forward, and toppling over, fell in a heap down the steep steps of the cellarage. Then they heard the door above them slammed to with a bang, and they were alone in the darkness, lying, luckily uninjured, at the foot of the steps.

“Nat, are you all right?” spoke Joe.

“Sure, but I feel a bit dizzy after that plunge.”

“What are we going to do?”

“Get out of here if possible.”

“I like that ‘if possible’! There doesn’t look to me to be a chance on earth.”

“If only we could get these ropes off! Say, mine are kind of loose around the wrists! Maybe I can wriggle out of ’em. If I can, we can at least get the use of our hands and feet again.”

Nat worked hard for half an hour or more on his wrist bonds and finally succeeded in stretching them till he could get his hands free. In their haste, the Harleys had not bothered to tie the ropes really tight or the boys’ plight would have indeed been a desperate one.

“Whoopee! I’m loose,” he cried presently. “Lucky the Harleys didn’t bother to search us or we might have more hard work ahead of us, but I reckon this knife will help some.”

He reached into his pocket, pulled out his knife and slashed at his leg bonds. In another minute he was free, and Joe’s liberty followed immediately.

“Now for some matches,” exclaimed Joe.

“I think I’ve got some,” responded Nat. “Yes, hurray, here’s a whole box!”

He struck a lucifer and a yellow flame flared up, illumining their surroundings. They saw that they were in a smallish excavation with bricked-up sides. From the walls hung moldering chains suggesting that at one time the place might have been used as a prison for rebellious Indians or fractious monks. But the boys didn’t waste much time in looking at their prison. By common consent they made for the stairway.

“I guess old Harley must have used this place to store his smuggled goods at some time or other,” hazarded Nat, as they ascended the steps; “it must have made an ideal place for the purpose, too.”

“Well, I hope it wasn’t made to store two boys in,” commented Joe.

“Not these two, anyhow, let’s hope,” added Nat.

They were not surprised to find that the door at the head of the steps did not yield to their shovings.

“I’ll bet they’ve weighted it down with old rocks and debris,” cried Nat, recalling sundry noises he had heard on the door after it was slammed shut.

“What shall we do now?” wondered Joe, with a note of despair in his voice.

“Let’s look around down below and see if we can’t find something that we can use to force the door in some way,” said Nat.

They descended the steps once more, this time in the darkness, for it was necessary to husband their stock of matches. When they reached the floor of the old cellar Nat struck a light, and after one or two matches had been expended they were fortunate enough to discover in a corner of the place a stout oaken plank, which had apparently once formed part of a flooring.

“Good!” exclaimed Nat.

“I don’t quite see how that solves our problem,” commented Joe.

“Wait and you’ll see,” was the reply, and Nat once more led the way up the steps.

At one point the door did not fit closely, and it was here that Nat inserted one end of the plank.

“Catch hold,” he told Joe, and then using the plank as a pry the two boys bent all their strength toward raising the door.

As the portal sloped outward the stones with which the Harleys had weighted it slipped back, and it was not long before the two lads were free once more.

“Thank goodness, we’ve seen the last of that place,” said Joe, as they stood in the open with the wind howling furiously about them and the rain beating across the sands, for the storm had once more revived with more fury than ever.

“Not the last of it, Joe, for we’re coming back there.”

“What for, I’d like to know? Just for old acquaintance sake?”

“No; for a more material reason. Didn’t you notice those boxes and bales in one corner? Old Harley must have used it as a storehouse for his smuggled stuff just as he did the cave, and I think they were intending to visit it to-night when we surprised them.”

“Ginger! Nat, I guess you’re right. Maybe those things are valuable.”

“Not a question of that. But now let’s get on our way back to the wireless station. Nate may need our help by this time.”

Putting their best pace forward, the two boys headed for the huts. They were not more than half way there, when out of the storm a figure appeared. It was Nate. He gave a shout of relief at seeing them unharmed.

“From the talk of those fellows I thought you were in a living tomb,” he explained; “they said they’d buried you alive where you’d never get out.”

Nat laughed.

“I guess a good many folks have thought that they had the Motor Rangers down and out,” he said, “but they are here yet. Now, tell us what happened over at the station, Nate.”

“If it hadn’t a’ bin fer this storm, I reckon there’s a whole lot of things would a’ happened,” was the reply; “but it come on to blow so hard that they was scared their ground tackle would drag and put the schooner on shore,—you know the wind’s shifted and is blowing right inter the cove. The two fellers I was shadowin’ made straight fer the wireless hut and I reckon calkerlated to smash things up generally, but I got on the job with my oar,—by the way, I busted it,—and persuaded ’em it would be healthier for them some other place.”

“What, you routed two of them?” cried Nat.

“Don’t know about routed ’em, but I sure got ’em on the run. Then the others come along and hollered to ’em, and, as by that time it was blowing great guns, I reckon they thought it ’ud be a sight better to vamoose than to bother after me; so they all piled inter the boat and rowed off to the schooner. She’s been gone about an hour. Then I set out to look fer you, fer I heard ’em boasting about how they’d got you bottled up.”

By the time Nate had finished his narrative they were almost at the huts.

“Now for a good, hot supper and bed!” cried Joe luxuriously, as they came in sight of the structures. “We’ve had just about enough excitement for one night, I guess.”

But they were not destined to slumber uninterruptedly. It was past midnight when the loud and insistent clangor of the wireless gong routed them out of bed.

“News of Ding-dong, I’ll bet a cookie,” cried Joe, slipping on a bathrobe and slippers and running for the wireless shack. But it was not any information concerning Ding-dong that came winging through the storm-stressed air. Instead, it was a message for assistance of the most urgent kind. Nat, who was listening in at the extra receivers, gave a gasp as he heard it.

The message was from the Pancake Shoals Lightship and called for immediate assistance.

“We are adrift after collision with a schooner,” was the despatch. “Send help at once. Braithwaite.”

“That’s the old skipper who was so kind to me the night I escaped from the cave,” cried Nat. “Tell him we’ll get on the job at once, Joe. Ask him to give us his position.”

“Why, we can’t tow him with the Nomad,” objected Joe.

“We’ll try to. There isn’t a steam tug in the harbor now. I happen to know, for I saw the last one, the Sea King, steaming north with a tow when I was over there. It’s up to us to help out.”

Joe turned to his instruments, while the wind howled and screamed about the little shanty. Briskly he tapped out the message and then waited for the answer. Both boys felt the wonder of it as they listened to the manifold noises of the storm. The marvel of an electric wave that could penetrate the disturbed elements and carry a message of hope and succor to a distressed craft! The answer was not long in coming.

“We are drifting south rapidly. About ten miles off shore. Come with all speed you can.”

The situation was hastily explained to Nate, who had joined them, and in less time than would have seemed possible the trio were in oil skins and rowing out to the Nomad. Joe acted as engine tender while Nate and Nat held the bridge. Out into the storm pushed the stout little craft with her engines going full speed.

As she rounded the point that terminated the cove, however, Nat had to signal, “Slow down.” The seas were running furiously, lashed by the gale into watery mountains. Into the vortex of the battling, unrestrained elements the Nomad plunged like a gladiator. A huge wave hurtled over the bow dousing the occupants of the bridge with blindfolding, choking spray. Nat realized that they were bent on a desperately dangerous adventure.