  John Kennedy was an early riser. He had been so all his life. He had made no exception to his custom on this warm summer morning, rising with the first light of dawn. But he was not happy to greet this day. It would mark the sale of the shipping line that had been in his family for close to a century. Though he hurried through his bath with his usual brisk, sure motions, Mr. Kennedy was a sorrowing man by the time he had walked out on the sundeck of his big stone house on Delaware Avenue. Mechanically unwrapping his napkin and spreading it on his lap, he gazed without appetite at the breakfast laid out for him. His ears were deaf to the morning song of the birds, and his eyes were blind to the pleasant prospect of the gardens and green lawns that stretched away beneath him. With a sigh, Mr. Kennedy picked up his knife and fork and began to eat. There was the sound of footsteps and Mr. Kennedy glanced up to see his valet advancing timidly toward him. “Well, Jenkins?” “I, I’m sorry to disturb you, sir—but there’s a young gentleman on the telephone.” “Jenkins,” Mr. Kennedy said gently, struggling to conceal his irritation, “must I repeat my very plain orders that I am not to be disturbed at breakfast?” The valet’s face turned a deep red. He began to back away apologetically. “I beg your pardon, sir. I will inform young Mr. Steele that he may call later.” Mr. Kennedy’s eyebrows rose. “Steele? Did he say his name was Steele?” “Yes, sir. He was quite excited, sir. Something to do with a discovery of ore, I gathered.” The butler shrugged with an apologetic air. “However, I will do as you say, sir.” He turned to go, and was all but knocked off his feet by the elderly, white-haired tornado that had shot past him. Upon hearing those two words—“Steele” and “ore”—Mr. Kennedy had not hesitated. He had thrown down his fork, torn his napkin from his knees and leaped from his chair to bound into his bedroom and the telephone on his bedside table. Jenkins was shocked. He had never seen Mr. Kennedy run before—and never, never heard him shout over the telephone. “Wha-a-at? What’s that, boy? Speak up, Sandy, I can’t hear you. What is that dreadful hammering noise?” Wham! Wham! Wham! That dreadful, hammering noise which Mr. Kennedy heard was the sound of a sledge hammer striking the door of the radio shack. Captain West was trying to batter it down. He had run for a sledge hammer the moment he realized that his shouted commands to open the door were being ignored. Cookie stood a little aside, staring out of frightened eyes as the door jumped under the captain’s powerful, bludgeoning blows. “Hurry, Sandy,” he whispered feverishly. “Oh, hurry! The lock’s going to give in another minute.” Sandy had nodded. His own eyes were fastened on the door; his heart seemed to thump in time to Captain West’s hammering; he cradled the telephone as he waited for Mr. Kennedy in an agony of desperation. It was at this point that Sandy Steele at last heard the familiar voice of Mr. Kennedy come over the line. Now, Sandy Steele did not care whether Captain West heard him or not. He began to shout to make himself heard. “Mr. Kennedy, don’t sell your boats!” “What? What’s that, boy?” “I said, don’t sell your boats. The ore! My father has discovered big deposits of high-grade ore!” There was a long silence at the other end. Then Sandy heard Mr. Kennedy say: “Boy, I hope you know what you’re talking about. That’s mighty important news.” “Oh, I do, sir! My father told me all about it just before we left Two Harbors.” There was another pause, during which the hammering outside the door became more insistent. Sandy could hear the lock beginning to give. “That’s very strange, Sandy,” Mr. Kennedy said doubtfully. “I should think I would have heard of it before now.” “You were supposed to, you were supposed to, sir!” Sandy shouted. “That’s what all that hammering’s about, sir. It’s Captain West trying to break into the radio shack. He doesn’t want you to know!” Sandy caught his breath and went on, “I hate to tell you this, sir, but I’m afraid Captain West has been working for Mr. Chadwick and against you.” This time, the silence at the other end was so prolonged that Sandy feared he had been disconnected. At last, Mr. Kennedy spoke again, sadly. “Sandy, a moment ago, you lifted my spirits as they have seldom been lifted. But, just now, you drove them down again with about the worst piece of news I’ve ever heard. Let me speak to Captain West.” Wham! Crrrash! Snap! At that moment, with a blow of demonic strength, the enraged Captain West burst the last shred of the barrier separating him from Sandy Steele. He charged into the room shouting threats and with his eyes shooting sparks of hatred. As he did, Sandy held out the telephone to him, and said, “Mr. Kennedy would like to speak to you.” All of Captain West’s bluster and bravado seemed to vanish at the sight of that tall, blond boy who had stood so unflinchingly in his path and now extended the telephone toward him with that calm announcement. The fight went out of his eyes. The color drained from his face. His powerful shoulders sagged and his whole body seemed to slump. Without a word, Captain West turned and dragged himself from the room. “He doesn’t want to speak to you, sir.” “So it’s true, then! Well, get me someone else in authority, Sandy. Put Mr. Briggs on.” Sandy paused, awkwardly. “I’m sorry, Mr. Kennedy, but I think the mate was working against you, too.” “Oh, Lord, Lord! Am I surrounded by unfaithful employees? Goodness, is there no one on the James Kennedy that I can trust except you, boy? Who else is there in authority?” “There’s Mr. Davis, sir—the next officer. But he’s lost his glasses and can’t see. We’ve just been through a terrible storm, sir.” “Yes, yes, I read about it in the newspapers. But I thought you would be in port at Detroit. Is there no one else?” Sandy pondered. Then his face brightened. “There’s Sam and Gunnar.” “Sam! Who on earth is Sam? Oh, no, no—never mind, Sandy. Forget that question. Goodness knows I have good reason to trust your judgment. Put Sam on, whoever he is!” Sandy grinned. “Get Sam up here, Cookie,” he shouted. Then, returning to Mr. Kennedy, he asked, “Anything else, sir?” “Anything else! My goodness, boy—what else is there? For the second time within a week, I find myself in your debt.” Sandy was too embarrassed to make any comment, and Mr. Kennedy rushed on, “I don’t know how to thank you, boy—but I’ll think of something. Remember, you’re to call me the moment you arrive in Buffalo. Both you and your friend. By the way, how is he?” “Jerry? Oh, he’s all right, sir—just a sprained ankle from the storm.” “My goodness! You have had a stormy voyage, haven’t you?” Sandy grinned again, remembering the plunge into Lake Superior to save Cookie, the fire in the galley as the James Kennedy steamed into Lake Huron, that spanking storm on Lake Erie—to say nothing of the combined badgering of Mr. Briggs and Captain West. But Sandy saw no reason to tell Mr. Kennedy exactly how right he was. He just felt good, that was all—so he grinned again and said: “Yes, sir, I guess you could call it a stormy voyage. Here’s Sam.” Sam stepped up and took the telephone from Sandy’s outstretched hand. His manner was hesitant, for he had never spoken to the owner of the line before. His face was grave, but as he listened, his eyes grew wider and wider. Finally, with an expression of amazement and a snappy, “Yes, sir!” he hung up and turned to Sandy and Cookie. “Well, what do you know?” he murmured. “Well, what?” “I’m in charge!” Cookie’s mouth popped open. He began to dance in excitement, flipping his apron in the air. “Hooray for Sam!” he shouted. “Yippee! Yip, yip—yippeee!” “All right, Cookie,” Sam cautioned, laughing. “Take it easy, now. It’s only until we get to Buffalo.” “Who cares?” Cookie yelled. “Let’s celebrate, anyway. I’ll bake a cake!” Both Sandy and Sam had to laugh again at the capering little man. His eyes shone when he promised to bake a cake, but when Sandy reminded him that he would have to do it with burned flour, a sly look came over his face and he pointed an accusing finger at the blond youth and shouted, “It’s all his fault, Skipper! There’s the culprit! That’s the landlubber who burned down my nice, new galley!” Sandy grinned happily. “Honestly, Cookie, you should have been an actor. Why, I almost believed those things you said about me, myself.” His face turned serious. “How did you know about Mr. Briggs and Captain West, anyway?” “I heard ’em talking,” Cookie said simply. “The night of the fire, you put me in the mate’s cabin, remember? Well, it was after they called you in that I overheard them talking about Mr. Kennedy selling out to Chadwick.” Cookie struck his fist into his palm savagely. “Chadwick!” he said. “Me sail on another Chadwicker? I’d sooner die on land! No, sir, Sandy, when I heard that, I knew I had to help you. I told myself I’d swim all the way to Buffalo with you on my back, if it meant blocking that deal.” “But you can’t swim, Cookie.” “No matter,” the little man said grimly. “I’d’ve done it. I’d do anything, before I’d sail a Chadwicker again.” Of course, that unhappy notion was no longer a possibility—not after the scene which took place in Mr. Kennedy’s office several hours after Sandy and Cookie and Sam had gone below to break the news to Jerry James. Mr. Paul Chadwick had arrived and been ushered into Mr. Kennedy’s conference room, where the lawyers of both firms had assembled to handle the details of the sale. Mr. Chadwick came striding in. He was a fat, pompous man with pouches beneath his pale eyes. He had a sharp way of speaking and he ordered his employees around as if he thought they belonged to him, body and soul. “Well, Kennedy,” he shot out as he took a seat at the table, “I presume everything is in readiness?” “Yes, Paul,” Mr. Kennedy said softly. “Everything is set.” “Good. All right, Cogswell,” he snapped, turning to one of his lawyers. “Let’s have the papers. Quick, man! The papers. Don’t dawdle like a kindergarten child; give me the papers!” Red-faced, the lawyer pulled a legal-looking document from his brief case and passed it to Mr. Chadwick. In the embarrassed silence that followed, the only sound that could be heard was the scratching of Mr. Chadwick’s pen as he hurriedly signed his name. “Here, John,” he said grandly, passing the document across the table. “Now, you sign right there. And, then, the Kennedy boats will belong to me.” “I think not, Paul,” Mr. Kennedy said easily as he accepted the papers and tore them swiftly in two. “I think they’ll still belong to me.” He handed the torn contract back to his astounded shipping rival. Mr. Chadwick stared at the pieces in disbelief. “But this is preposterous!” he shouted. “You can’t do this to me! You agreed to sell, Kennedy. Why, why,” he spluttered, his cheeks puffing out like a frog’s, “why, I’ll sue!” “Go ahead, Paul,” Mr. Kennedy said, getting to his feet. “And, by the way, you may be getting busy soon, shipping all that new, high-grade ore down from the Mesabi—as I expect to—and you may find yourself in need of a skipper or a mate.” He smiled. “I know just the men for you, Paul. Fine, dependable men—men like Captain West or Mr. Briggs.” A shadow of dismay passed over Mr. Chadwick’s pale eyes. Without a word, he jumped to his feet and hurried from the room. |
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