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Another Random Document on
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Rex Kingdon on
Storm Island
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States
and most other parts of the world 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. If you are not located
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where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: Rex Kingdon on Storm Island

Author: Gordon Braddock

Illustrator: Charles L. Wrenn

Release date: July 11, 2016 [eBook #52557]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Al Haines

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK REX KINGDON ON

STORM ISLAND ***
Cover art
To the amazement of everybody, he was
trying to steal home.—Page 257.

[Transcriber's note: the page number in the Frontispiece's caption was

not linked because the caption's text does not appear anywhere in the
book's main text. The Frontispiece may have been re-used from
another book.]
REX KINGDON
ON STORM ISLAND

By GORDON BRADDOCK

AUTHOR OF
"Rex Kingdon of Ridgewood High," "Rex Kingdon in the
the North Woods," "Rex Kingdon at Walcott Hall,"
"Rex Kingdon Behind the Bat," etc.

Title page picture

A. L. BURT COMPANY
Publishers New York
Printed in U. S. A.
COPYRIGHT, 1917,
BY
HURST & COMPANY
Printed in U. S. A.

CONTENTS
CHAPTER

I. The Menace of the Law

II. In Stolen Plumage
III. The Catboat in the Squall
IV. A Landing in the Dark
V. Behind the Lighted Canvas
VI. Getting Back to the Boat
VII. On the Verge of Something
VIII. A Bargain is Struck
IX. A Challenge
X. Kingdon States a Determination
XI. Enos Quibb Again
XII. An Unexpected Difficulty
XIII. Rex Owns Up
XIV. A Lively Time
XV. What's Sauce for the Goose
XVI. White Wings
XVII. An Off-Shore Blow
VIII. "The Happy Family"
XIX. More of Mr. Quibb
XX. Kingdon's Surprising Move
XXI. Revenge
XXII. The Boulder on the Hillside
XXIII. A Threatening Sky
XXIV. A Lucky Move
XXV. The Eight-Oared Shell
XXVI. Pence Defends Kirby
XVII. Visitors
VIII. Horace Proves Himself
XXIX. Something in the Offing
XXX. Facing Defeat
XXXI. Horace Shows the Right Spirit
XXII. In Form at Last

AUTHOR'S FOREWORD.

How would you like to spend a summer vacation on an uninhabited

island off the Maine coast,—not alone, of course, but in company with
a few chosen chums, all good fellows in their way and all of them ready
for any sort of sport or adventure that might be found or borrowed?
Surely, such a vacation would provide plenty of good fun, as well as
some troubles and annoyances; but no vigorous, high-spirited American
boy would mind a certain amount of inconveniences when he sets out
to have a good time on a camping trip. In fact, he looks for some
unpleasant things to happen, and he has a way of going right ahead
and making the best of everything, so that many a time a source of
irritation is turned into a spring of enjoyment and delight.
It was so with Rex Kingdon and his friends of the present story.
When they arrived at Storm Island and found another party of campers
located there, they at first were annoyed. They had understood that no
one else would be given a permit to camp on that island. Imagine their
astonishment when they discovered that the other party had deceived
a local officer into letting them remain on the island by representing
themselves to be "Rex Kingdon and friends," rightful holders of the
camping permit. Trouble? Could anything spell trouble more plainly?
But, after all, they managed to get more real fun out of it than they
could have had if they had been the only campers on Storm Island.
And, in the end, Rex wins a new recruit for Walcott Hall—and the prep.
school baseball team.
This is the fifth story of The Rex Kingdon Series. It will be followed
by the sixth and final volume of the series, which will bear the title,
"Rex Kingdon and His Chums." In that forthcoming story Rex will finish
his course at the Hall. As he regretfully bids good-by to the old school,
the reader who has faithfully followed his career since he made his first
bow in "Rex Kingdon of Ridgewood High" will have to bid good-by to
him—as regretfully, I hope.

GORDON BRADDOCK.

New York, February 14, 1917.

Rex Kingdon on Storm Island.

CHAPTER I.
THE MENACE OF THE LAW.

"What's that noise? Say, Pudge, wake up and take a look."

"Hey? What noise?" stammered Pudge MacComber, startled out of
serene slumber.
"Hear it? Sounds like a lot of soda-water bottles popping. Take a
squint, Lazy."
The fat youth might have returned the compliment. Ben Comas lay
on his back in the shade and did not even remove the cap over his
eyes. Pudge, however, knew his cousin too well, and was too much in
his debt, to file any objection to this command. Heaving a sigh, he
struggled heavily to his feet. As he did so he became aware of a half-
muffled put, put, put-a-put rising from the water which the camp site
overlooked.
"Why, that's a motorboat!" he exclaimed before spying the craft in
question.
"Noisy thing," grunted Ben, without moving.
"It's aiming this way," Pudge said, "right for our landing."
"Going to have visitors? Thought nobody ever came here."
"Wouldn't think many folks would, with the signs the Manatee
Company have stuck up," chuckled Pudge. "Say!"
"Say it," grunted Ben.
"Only one man in the launch, an' I see something flash. Yes,"
Pudge gurgled, "I bet it is!"
"What's the matter with you?" grumbled Ben, finally sitting up.
"You talk like a frog. What d'ye see?"
"He's got a badge," the fat boy said, solemnly. "I wish I could see
his face."
"What d'ye mean?" Ben was now vastly and suddenly aroused. "Is
it a constable? Where's Joe? He knows everybody 'round here—or he
ought to."
"Joe's asleep."
"Wake him up. We didn't hire him to sleep, did we? Go on, you
snail," ordered Ben.
Behind one of the two tents, pitched in this open glade on the
rather steep northern shore of Storm Island, sprawled a roughly-
dressed fellow. When Pudge had done Ben's bidding and aroused this
individual, the latter uncovered his face, revealing features
unmistakably those of an Indian boy. He came sullenly down to the
other two lads.
"What y'want?" he asked, yawning.
"Who's that coming this way, Joe?" Ben Comas questioned. "That
fellow in the launch?"
The Indian's eyes snapped open and he stooped a little, shading
them with his hand, the better to view the approaching boat and its
single occupant. Then he straightened up again, turning as though to
retreat.
"Know him," he said.
"Who is he?" Pudge put in. "A cop?"
"Him Quibb."
"What'd I tell you?" cried Pudge. "That's the name of the constable
we saw at Blackport—Enos Quibb."
"The one Horrors had the growl with," Ben agreed, rather faintly.
"He's coming straight for us."
The Indian youth had already disappeared. The motorboat was
nearing the shore of the island just below the camp. The cousins could
plainly see the constable's face, as well as the big star upon his vest.
Enos Quibb was not a handsome person at best, and just now his face
was inflamed with anger and his frown was most portentous.
"He's got it in for us," said Pudge, apprehensively.
"All because of that fresh up there tossing the ball. It's up to him—
that's what it is," declared Ben warmly. "Run, tell Horrors to come
down here."
With a groan, the fat youth turned and waddled up the path into
the thicker wood which seemed to crown the island. In the very middle
of Storm Island, however, lay about two acres of open and level lawn.
While yet Pudge was some distance from this spot the resonant slap of
a ball as it landed in the catcher's mitt echoed flatly from the wall of tall
trees completely surrounding the natural amphitheater.
"Hey! That's enough, Horrors!" the puffing fat boy heard Harry
Kirby shout. "It's too hot to keep at it any longer. Quit, I say!"
Evidently he had flung the ball to the pitcher after removing his
padded glove, and, just as Pudge came in sight of the two, the one
called "Horrors" wound up again and whipped a sizzler over the marked
square on the turf serving as the home plate.
"Quit, I say!" again yelled the backstop, as he leaped into the air,
letting the low ball pass between his legs. "Think I'd be silly enough to
try to stop that with my bare hands? That arm of yours has got
dynamite in it, Horrors."
The pitcher was grinning in reply when a wild yell sounded from
Pudge at the edge of the wood behind the catcher's station.
"Hey, you fellers! What're you tryin' to do—kill me? Nobody but a
wild squawpaw could send in such a bullet. Ouch!"
Pudge limped forward, rubbing his shin where the pitched ball had
nicked him.
"Come on—retrieve it," ordered the pitcher, strolling toward the
platter.
"Chase your own ball," returned Pudge. "I didn't come 'way up
here to play Fido. Why'd Kirby let it go by him?"
The backstop was wiping his brow with a torn shirtsleeve. "Catch
me trying to stop one of Horrors' fast ones without my mitt. Not
much!"
"Say, you fellers!" exclaimed Pudge, remembering his errand. "Ben
says come on down to the camp—and in a hurry. There's a motor
launch in sight."
"Didn't you fellers ever see a motor launch before?" demanded
Kirby.
"But it's aiming right for our landing."
"What if?" drawled the tall fellow whom his mates called "Horrors."
"Who's in the launch?" asked Kirby.
"It's that constable Horrors had the fuss with at Blackport.
Remember?"
"Shall I ever forget him?" murmured the tall lad. "The chap with
the big tin star and the lovely yellow freckles."
"Enos Quibb," Kirby said, chuckling. "He's one sure enough farmer
—that's right."
"Just the same," said the fat boy, wagging his head, "I wish he'd
keep away from here—and so does Ben."
"Poof!" scoffed Kirby. "If Ben expressed a dislike for the sunshine
or the sweet air, you'd keep in the shade and put on an overcoat,
Pudge. What Ben says is law and gospel for you."
"We-ell," drawled Pudge MacComber frankly. "You know I wouldn't
be up here if it wasn't for Cousin Ben. He paid my way."
"Yes," muttered Kirby to the taller fellow, "and I know Ben didn't
give Pudge any return ticket, either. Keeps Pudge in leash better if he
has no money in his jeans."
The fat youth did not hear this aside. He was saying: "We
shouldn't have camped down there so near the shore. It's too exposed.
Ben said that in the first place."
"Aw—Ben!" scoffed Kirby, while the tall chap smiled quizzically at
the fat boy.
"He was right just the same. Here comes Enos Quibb, and we're
going to get the boot, sure. We haven't permission from the Manatee
Lumber Company to camp here, and you fellows know it. We'll have to
sing 'It's Moving Day,' all right-o—and just as we got comfortably
settled, too," finished Pudge with a groan.
"Come on," said Kirby. "Don't stand there weeping over it."
Already their leader was striding into the wood, and Kirby
hastened to catch up with him. Pudge MacComber plodded on behind.
It was a hot day, and he suffered from his exertions.
"What'll we do?" asked Kirby, at the tall fellow's elbow.
"About what?" countered the other, with a lift of his eyebrows and
a tantalizing smile that seemed an index of his character. "What's
fussing you up, Harry?"
"This Quibb can put us off the island. Of course, the Lumber
Company did issue a permit for a party to camp here—and we're here
first—huh?"
His friend had grabbed his arm suddenly, stopping dead in the
path. "You do have an idea once in a while in that cranium of yours,
Harry," he drawled.
"I don't feel any different from usual," said Kirby, rubbing his head
and grinning. "If there's an idea milling around in there I don't sense
it."
"But I do. Leave it to me." His friend started onward again, leading
the procession to the encampment.
It was a beautiful spot they had selected in which to set up their
tents—an open grove sloping easily to the edge of Manatee Sound
which lay, on this particular June day, as smooth as a millpond between
the island and Manatee Head, five miles away.
Ben Comas, much excited, hurried toward them. "Whatchu goin' to
do about this, Horrors? See that fellow? He's mad's a hatter."
"He'll have a stroke—I shouldn't wonder," drawled the tall lad. "Too
hot a day to let one's dander rise."
"You can joke," snapped Ben. "But he means business."
The launch was now close to the shore, and the exhaust ceased
popping. Enos Quibb, the Blackport constable, stood in the bow
boathook in hand, scowling threateningly at the group above him.

CHAPTER II.
IN STOLEN PLUMAGE.

"My, my!" murmured the only member of the camping party who
seemed to take the visit of the constable with any degree of
composure. "He seems savage enough to eat nails."
"Now, don't, Horrors!" begged Ben Comas. "Don't make it worse!"
"Better be smooth with him, old man," urged Kirby.
"See if you can pacify him," groaned Pudge. "I worked like a dog
helping Joe get this camp fixed."
Their leader chuckled as he walked down to the natural dock
where the two canoes, in which the party had reached Storm Island,
were moored. The view of the sound, the rugged, well-wooded and
scantily-inhabited mainland in the distance, expanded before his gaze.
For several miles in either direction this mainland, as well as Storm
Island itself, was either owned or leased by the Manatee Lumber
Company. On the mainland the timber was properly policed by the
company's guards; but Storm Island, far off shore, was considered
secure from invasion by irresponsible fishing parties and the like, by the
trespass signs posted upon its beaches. Blackport, the nearest town,
ten miles from the western point of the island, was hidden from it by
the wooded and rocky "crabclaw" sheltering Blackport Cove.
There was scarcely a habitation to be seen from the spot where
the boys' camp had been established. There were fish-weirs visible at
several points along the shore; but the catches gathered from these
traps were, as a usual thing, taken to Blackport to be cleaned and iced,
and then shipped to Portland or Boston by train. The locality was,
therefore, as deserted as any spot along the entire stretch of the Maine
coast.
Enos Quibb caught his boathook in the exposed root of one of the
two great trees at the landing, drew the launch closer, and moored it.
Then he sprang ashore. He was not a very big man save in his sense of
importance. Being of a sandy complexion, his innumerable freckles
were painfully yellow and prominent. His large, high-bridged nose was
of a cold blue color even on this hot summer's day.
"Say, you boys!" he began. "Can't ye read them signs?"
"What signs, kind sir?" asked Horrors, languidly. Ben Comas, at his
elbow, nudged the taller lad and whispered:
"Don't make it worse! Don't nag him!"
"Them 'No Trespass' signs," said the constable. "You know well
enough they was put up to warn such chaps as you be off the island."
"But suppose we don't believe in signs? You know, I never was
superstitious myself; I'd just as soon walk under a ladder—or take a
bath on a Friday—as not."
Pudge began to chuckle, and the wrath of the constable was
flagged in his thin cheeks by a rising flush.
"Stop it! Stop it!" ejaculated Ben Comas, under his breath. "We're
in a bad enough scrape as it is."
The other gave no heed. He showed his even teeth in a sudden
smile, that was all. Enos Quibb said, harshly:
"You're one smart boy, I don't dispute; but if you and your friends
don't pack up and git off of this island shortly, you'll be smarter. Don't
you know I can arrest you for trespass?"
"No," was the quiet reply. "I don't know that."
"Well, you'll find out!" declared the constable. "Nobody's allowed to
camp on this island—not even to land here——"
"No-body?" put in the youth he addressed, in the same gentle
tone.
"Why—we—well, say! The company did give a permit to one party
for this summer."
"Well?" was the suave query.
"Say! Be you them?" demanded Quibb, flushing again. "I
remember seeing you in Blackport, and you didn't say nothing to me
then about comin' over here. Le's see," and he began fumbling in the
inside pocket of his coat. "I got notice of this crowd that got permission
from the Manatee Company to camp here——"
He drew out a letter. Ben Comas groaned. Kirby whispered
emphatically: "Good-night! It's all off!" The constable unfolded the
letter, and then quickly glanced up again at the quartette.
"This permit's issued to 'Rexford Kingdon and friends.'" Again he
addressed the tall lad. "Does your name happen to be Kingdon?"
"Now you've said a mouthful," returned the leader of the camping
party airily.
"Well! Well!" ejaculated the constable. "Why didn't you say so
before?"
"You didn't ask me," the other returned, shrugging his shoulders,
while his mates behind him stood in speechless amazement.
"Well! Well!" Enos Quibb exclaimed again, his watery eyes blinking.
"If you air the right party I ain't got nothin' more to say. Only ye might
have told me over to the port yesterday who ye was. I'd ha' been saved
this trip, an' gas is mighty expensive." He seemed aggrieved.
The tall lad, who had dominated the situation so easily, may have
considered the part of the pacifist just then a wise move.
"You didn't ask me who we were, my friend. You bawled us out
over there at Blackport—told us we were blocking the sidewalk with our
canoes, and drove us into the gutter. I suppose you had to do
something like that," he added, gently, "or we might have overlooked
the fact that there was a constable around."
Quibb flushed again at this last suggestion, but made no reply. He
stepped into the launch, seized the boathook, and shoved off.
Kirby grabbed at his friend's arm. "He's never going to go without
asking to see the permit?" he whispered.
But that is exactly what Quibb did. He spun the flywheel, and the
exhaust began to spit.
"Dear me!" sighed Horrors. "And he's going without even bidding
us good-by."
"Great Peter's uncle!" exploded Kirby. "The nerve of you, Horrors!"
"Now you've done it!" fretted Ben Comas. "What do you suppose
he'll do to us when he finds out——"
"Dear, dear Bennie," sighed the bold youth. "You're at it again, are
you? Always looking for trouble."
"Just as well be prepared for trouble when you're bossing things,
that's sure," grumbled Ben.
"Oh, jumping mackerel!" giggled Pudge, who had dropped to the
sod and was now having difficulty in smothering his desire to give
broader vent to his delight. "The way you did it, Horrors! You're a
dandy! You're a bird! And he swallowed it whole."
"He didn't have much to swallow," the leader of the party said
quietly.
"Huh? 'Tain't much, I suppose, for you to string him along that you
are this Rex Kingdon? Oh, no!"
"I didn't tell him I was," said the tall lad, smiling easily.
"What's that?" exclaimed Kirby. "Well, you just as good as did."
"I let him think so if he wanted to," the other returned, plainly
enjoying the admiration of his companions. "Quibb did it all. He can't
blame me."
"But you don't get me," continued Pudge, sitting up and with tears
of laughter running over his fat cheeks. "You don't get me, Horrors.
You to pose as this Kingdon chap."
"Well, why not?" asked the tall lad.
"You as black as Joe, yonder—almost; and him a strawberry blond.
I remember him plain enough now. Saw him play against Winchester
last year. In size you are not far out, old boy; but blond and brunette
were never farther apart—believe me!"
"What do I care?"
"Maybe you will," Ben Comas put in. He begrudged Horrors the
admiration of the other lads. He was not generous enough in any
particular to be a leader himself, and he envied the good-looking
youth's lordly ways and the subservience that he commanded so easily
of his mates. "This business isn't finished."
"Well, we'll stay till the finish, Bennie," drawled the other. "What's
the use of crossing bridges till you come to them? That doesn't get you
anywhere."
"Aw—well," muttered Comas, shaking his head.
"But suppose this Kingdon and his gang walk in on us?" asked
Harry Kirby, suddenly. "What about that?"
"The island's big enough, isn't it, for two camps?" demanded
Horrors.
"Mebbe it isn't," grunted Pudge. "This Rex Kingdon is a fighter."
"Pshaw! You don't mean it, Pudge? Who told you so much, and
your hair not curly?" drawled Horrors with lifted brows and his usual
lazy smile that displayed the line of his white and even teeth.
That smile marred his rather attractive countenance, for the lift of
the lip was almost canine. He was dark-haired, and his brows seemed
painted over his steady eyes, so clear was his olive complexion. The
contrast of his black hair and brows with his almost colorless skin was
somewhat startling. The budding mustache on his lip was jet black,
too. This "down" on a blond fellow would scarcely have been observed;
it made Horace Pence seem several years older than he actually was.
"I suppose," he pursued, his drawling accents making Pudge
MacComber flush, "you think this constable is going to put us all in the
calaboose over at Blackport? That is what is troubling all you fellows."
"Well, of course he can do that. We're trespassing. Goodness
knows there are enough signs all around the island forbidding landing
upon it," Harry Kirby said.
"Bosh!" sneered Horace Pence. "I know the law against
trespassing. They've got to prove we've done some damage by landing
here and setting up our tents."
"And building fires," put in Kirby.
"That's all right," agreed the leader, quite unruffled. "We've only
built one fire, and it is properly guarded. I saw to that. And Joe knows
the fire law, you bet. Don't you fellows fret; I know what I am about."
"You seem to," admitted Harry Kirby admiringly. "I never knew a
fellow like you, Horrors. You are always just skirting the edge of
trouble, but never get into it."
"He'll get into it now, all right-o," grumbled Ben Comas. "We know
well enough that there's a party did get a permit to camp here this
summer; that's why my father couldn't work it for us—and he owns
some stock in the Manatee Company, too."
"We heard about that before," said Kirby. "Is it true or just one of
your false alarms?"
"That's no false alarm," defended Ben, vigorously. "It's straight. A
bunch from that prep. school out Scarsdale way, with this Rex Kingdon
at their head, got permission to come here, and the company wouldn't
allow two camps on Storm Island."
"What prep. school's that?" demanded Kirby.
It was Horace Pence that made answer, to the surprise of his
companions. "Walcott Hall," he said briefly.
"Huh!" exploded Pudge. "How'd you know?"
"I heard about this crowd coming here, in town before we
started," confessed the leader of the camping party.
"Say! An' you never told us!" Kirby complained.
"Because that Rex Kingdon and his crew were coming is why I
suggested Storm Island. Say, Kirby! don't you remember that slim,
slick, blond chap who played with the Ridgewood High only a couple of
years ago when they beat our nine so badly? I haven't forgotten him, if
you fellows have. That's Rex Kingdon, and I've had it in for him ever
since they gave us such a walloping. Kingdon and I had words after the
game, too—some!"
"Why didn't you lick him then, and get it over with?" scoffed Ben
Comas.
"He got out o' town with his crowd, that's why," Pence responded
rather more earnestly than was his wont.
"And did Kingdon go to this Walcott Hall School?" asked Kirby.
Horace nodded. He was not much of a talker and, if he could
convey his meaning without speech, he seldom troubled to open his
lips. He felt as though he had been actually garrulous in speaking of
Rex Kingdon.
"I know who you mean," Pudge said; "he's catching for the Walcott
nine. And he's a bear at football, too. Played on the Hall 'leven against
Winchester last fall I tell you. And, say, Horrors!"
The tall youth looked at him questioningly, and the fat boy
continued:
"You don't want to be too sure of that blond fellow. He's a fighter.
He can use his fists."
"So can I," said Pence succinctly. "If he and his crowd land here
and make camp, maybe we'll find out who's who, eh?" His lip lifted
again with a sneering smile.
"Hoh!" ejaculated young MacComber. "You don't suppose those
prep. school fellers would stand for us being here, too, do you?"
"Why not?"
"Why, if they've got a permit, and know that they're responsible for
what's done over here——"
"Forget it!" exclaimed Pence, now rather tired of the controversy.
"Let's wait till they come. You're as bad as your cousin, Pudge. Maybe
this Kingdon fellow and his gang won't show up at all. If they do——"
"Well, what if they do, Horrors?" asked Kirby eagerly, as the tall
fellow became silent.
"We're here first. I don't know why we shouldn't stay. Quibb says
we can. Let the other fellows worry—not us."
"Whew!" murmured Kirby, his eyes flashing. "I see. As one of our
professors says, 'the onus of proving the case is on the other party.'"
"I s'pose you're right," grudgingly admitted Ben Comas. "My father
says that 'Possession is nine points of the law.'"
When Joe Bootleg, the Indian, appeared and asked for particulars,
Pence left it to his mates to answer.
Without being in the least "grumpy" Horace Pence was a strangely
silent lad. He had a good mind and a quick wit. Had he not been lazy
he might have already matriculated at college, for his people were in
circumstances to send him there. But for nearly two years he had
loafed around his home town, having had trouble with his instructors in
the last school at which he was entered, and thenceforth refusing to go
to another.
In a fair way of becoming rather a useless member of society, if he
maintained his present irresponsible attitude toward the world, Pence
had thus far been saved from any very pronounced vices by a natural
distaste for them. Honor meant little to him, however, as his present
action showed. He had usurped the name and status of another fellow
to his own advantage, and he really thought that he had turned a very
smart trick by doing so.
If he and his friends, being first on the island, could "put over" this
substitution of identity, Pence considered only the fun of the situation
and the fact that they would not have to move camp. There was no
place for miles along the mainland where they could make camp
without being warned off by the lumber company's fire warden. Storm
Island was a "beauty spot," and Horace determined to remain here
with his companions.
The sound offered sheltered and quiet water for small craft while
the Atlantic billows soughed upon the southern beaches and, in time of
storm, the foam-crested surf drove high against the rocky interland of
the island. These outer beaches of Storm Island were not considered
perilous to shipping, however, as the course of deep-bottomed craft lay
well off shore. The nearest light was at Garford Point, just visible in the
East, while the only life-saving station within twenty miles was on
Blackport Beach beyond the mouth of the cove.
It seemed as though there might be plenty of fun and chance for
adventure on and about Storm Island, but these five fellows, who had
established their camp here, had made a false step at the very outset
of their vacation.

CHAPTER III.
THE CATBOAT IN THE SQUALL.

"If we had some more fellows here," Kirby said as he stopped another
of Pence's hot ones, Pudge having swung at it with a ferocious grunt,
"we might at least get up a decent game of two-old-cat. But Joe's
struck; says he won't chase any more balls. And Pudge and Ben want
to bat all the time."
Idleness was beginning to wear on the party of campers. Horace
Pence was satisfied to exercise his pitching arm a little every day. They
had plenty to eat, and nobody seemed to care much for fishing. If
idleness can be condoned, it is not in camp—that is one sure thing.
Something doing all the time is the only way to spend a pleasant
vacation. One kind of work offsets another. If the mind goes stale, rest
it by vigorously using the body; if the latter is overworked, nothing so
quickly and easily aids in resting it as mental exercise.
These boys in camp on Storm Island were using neither their
minds nor their muscles sufficiently. They were not happy. The days
already began to seem too long, although they had not been in camp a
week. They were becoming more and more quarrelsome. Instead of
enjoying their vacation, they were likely to be bored to distinction very
shortly.
Pudge threw away his bat. Horace came in from the mound and
seated himself with the others upon the turf under a spreading tree.
"We ought to do something," complained Kirby.
"You'll have a chance shortly," drawled Horace Pence, squinting
skyward. "A home run for the tents. It's going to rain."
"Those are thunder-heads all right," Ben admitted.
"Let's go over to t'other side of the island. Can see the storm roll
up. She's coming from seaward," proposed Kirby.
"Let 'er come," grunted Pudge.
"I've seen a thunder storm before," stated Ben, without moving.
"Never on Storm Island," snapped Kirby. He was fretful from lack
of occupation. But it was not until Horace stood up that Harry moved.
"What, ho?" he cried.
"Good idea," said the languid Horace. "I never saw a tempest at
sea."
"Then you're going to improve your mind?" asked Pudge.
"Aren't you coming?"
"My mind doesn't need improving," announced the fat youth,
lolling back again and pulling the cap over his eyes.
As Pudge stretched out his short legs more comfortably, Horace
and Kirby passed, one on either side of him. At a given signal from the
former, they stopped, each seizing one of the fat youth's ankles. They
started off at a trot, dragging Pudge with them over the smoothly
slipping pine needles that covered the ground.
"Leggo! Stop it!" bawled Pudge as his coat crawled up his back
and he lost his cap and a suspender button in his struggles. He flopped
about like a sea turtle turned on its upper shell—and just as gracefully
—to the delight of Ben Comas who followed, kicking his cousin's cap.
"You'd oughtn't to complain, Pudge," Ben said. "You're going
without any exertion on your part."
"Hey! Quit, you fellers!" cried the fat lad. "What d'ye think I am?
There goes another of my suspender buttons. Ouch! stop it——"
He managed to kick free of Kirby's hold, and the laughing Pence
had to release the fat boy's other ankle to save himself from being
kicked. Pudge scrambled up, breathing dire threatenings.
"How'd you think I'm going to hold up my pants—two buttons
busted off?" he grumbled. "And they're lost, too."
"Use a belt, like a normal human being, son," advised the much
amused Pence.
"Huh!" Pudge responded, patting his protuberant waistline ruefully.
"I don't like a belt. 'Tain't comferble. Ow!"
A startling clap of thunder broke directly over their heads. A chill
breath of air swept through the aisles of the wood.
"We're going to get wet," sang out Ben.
"Well, we're neither sugar nor salt. We won't melt," Kirby returned.
"There's the sea. My! Get onto the whitecaps, boys!"
A vivid flash of lightning stained the slate-colored horizon. Again
the thunder broke and rolled away in reverberating echoes. The sky
was completely overcast on the seaward side of the island, and the
clouds were now rolling up to the zenith. The sun was wiped out, while
the wind soughed in the treetops.
"My!" murmured Pudge, having recovered his cap and his good
temper. "Going to be some storm."
It was Pence who spied the catboat. Not a sail nor a smudge of
smoke betrayed the presence of any larger vessel upon the skyline; but
close in under the island—so close that it seemed Horace might have
thrown the ball in his hand into her cockpit—sailed a catrigged boat,
perhaps twenty-four feet long, and broad of beam.
She was just tacking and, as her boom swung heavily to port, the
boys on the brink of the wooded cliff noted that there were five figures
visible in the boat. They were evidently preparing for the coming
squall, although no reef had been as yet taken in the sail.
"Getting into their slickers," said Harry Kirby. "They're all young
chaps, aren't they?"
"Don't see any that look as though they'd voted many times,"
drawled Horace.
"See!" cried Pudge. "One's just a kid—that little feller."
"There's one with hair as red as a rheumatic bandage," chuckled
Kirby. "Some hair, that! Now he's put on his hat and quenched the
sunset."
"How about the fellow steering?" asked Ben. "Hi! There goes his
hat."
The sou'wester the steersman had carelessly clapped upon his
head, without fastening the chinstrap, suddenly sailed like a hydroplane
over the leaping whitecaps. The wind tossed his blond hair like a girl's.
"Observe that football mop!" yelled Pudge. "That's some hirsute
adornment, Harry—eh?"
"Look at that sail belly, will you?" Kirby was saying, for he knew
something about boat-sailing and was keenly watching the handling of
the catboat. "He must be mighty sure of his stick."
"Got to claw off shore," Horace said briefly, likewise watching the
maneuvering of the craft with interest. "This squall came suddenly
when the wind shifted. She's too close in for comfort."
"Suppose they'll be capsized?" asked Ben.
"Wouldn't want to be in their shoes right now," grunted Kirby.
"There! The wind's puffing again. This squall is dangerous."
"Here comes the rain, fellows," cried Pudge in his high-pitched
voice.
The curtain of falling rain swept over the sea, beating down for the
moment the jumping waves. It struck the staggering catboat. Through
the half-opaque wall of it the watchers on the cliff could still see the tall
fellow standing at the tiller, hanging on with both hands.
"Looka that feller!" gasped the excited and admiring Pudge. "Some
lad that—what d' you say, Horrors?"
"He's no quitter," admitted the tall lad, his gaze never leaving the
chap managing the staggering catboat.
"Shucks!" grunted Ben. "He's just got to hang on. Who wouldn't?"
"You!" snapped Kirby like the bark of a spaniel. "You never scarcely
smelt salt water before. You don't know what it means to cling to that
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