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Captain West fell silent. He frowned. The ship
shuddered and he was forced to grab Sam’s shoulder for
support. Below, he could see the angry waters sweeping
down the decks while the crewmen clung in terror to
the rail. Many of them, he noticed, had wrapped lines
around their waists and secured them to the railing. But
there just weren’t enough of them—and that hatch,
yawning like a fatal hole in the ship’s armor, just had to
be closed! If it was not, if it grew larger, then the lake
water would pour through. It would saturate the tons
and tons of ore that lay in the typical ore freighter’s
single huge hold. The weight of the James Kennedy
would be at least doubled, and the merest ripple or
slightest breeze might suffice to send her plunging to
the bottom!

No, that hatch must be sealed! Every available hand

was needed to do it, and quickly, even though they
might belong to the most troublesome pair of youths
Captain West had ever known.

“Send them up, Mr. Briggs,” he ordered, and turned to

give additional orders to the wheelsman, Sam.

Below, Mr. Briggs aimed a thumb at his “prisoners” and 129

grunted, “Get up to Number Four hatch on the double.
You heard the captain, so you know what’s wanted.
Take a crowbar there, and you both better have a line.”
He leered. “If you want to get to Buffalo, you’d better
tie yourself to the rail up there and hang on tight.”

Without a word, Sandy Steele and Jerry James seized

coils of rope from hooks along the passageway. Then
Sandy grasped a crowbar and the two hastened topside.

130
 CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Big Blow

Sandy could not suppress a gasp of astonishment the

moment he emerged on deck and felt the smashing
power of that screaming wind, and sensed, rather than
felt, the awesome force of those mountainous seas
thundering down on the James Kennedy with the
crunching sound of huge boulders colliding. There was
water everywhere, pelting down from above in the rain
and rising in great shafts of spray and spume as the
waves cracked and crashed on the wallowing freighter.

Jerry James was aghast. He opened his mouth and 131

shouted something at Sandy, but the wind tore the
words from his mouth. The two boys were forced to talk
in gestures. Sandy laid down his crowbar, placing a foot
on it to keep it from rolling over the side. Then he
pointed to the rail. He wound his rope around his waist.
Next, he looped it over the railing, before fashioning a
good strong slipknot. He backed off a few feet, the
muscles of his calves straining to maintain a purchase
on the slippery, heeling decks. Carefully, he tugged. The
rope held. He nodded at Jerry and his friend followed
suit. Once, just before Jerry had finished, the black-
haired youth looked up and saw, in fright, a huge wave
bearing down on them amidships. It struck the side just
as the James Kennedy rolled away from it—luckily for
the two youths.

The impact of that wave sent a long shiver through the

600-foot length of their freighter and what seemed a
very wall of water shot high into the air before it fell on
them with a drenching crash. It drove them to their
knees.

So great was the shock, that neither Sandy nor Jerry

could remember the sensation of coldness or wetness.
All they could think of was that mighty weight that
flattened them, almost driving the breath from their
bodies.

Then the water began to wash away, and Sandy Steele 132
felt an almost irresistible tug. Quickly, he wound his
arms around the line he had only just fastened to the
railing. He tried to stand up, but the rushing water
knocked his legs out from under him. He seemed
immersed in a whitish, greenish froth, but then, as his
eyes and ears cleared he saw the low clouds swinging
overhead and the lake water boiling by beneath him,
and heard the despairing cry of his friend:

“Help, Sandy! Help, I’m going!”

Too late, Jerry James had rushed to finish tying his

slipknot. But he had it only half finished when the wave
struck. The water swept him up like a chip and now it
was rushing him toward his destruction, over the side.

Sandy Steele saw his friend’s peril.

Without hesitation, he released his own grip on the line

and dove for Jerry’s body.
He dove against the water and he struck Jerry with a
waist-high tackle.

As his wiry arms closed around his friend’s middle,

Sandy snapped his own body around in a half-twist,
whirling himself against the pressure of the rope. It was
well that he did, for the receding wave was pushing him
in the other direction. That way, the rope would have
unwound and the two boys would have rolled over the
side and drowned.

But Sandy Steele’s split-second thinking applied the 133

pressure in the right place and the rope held.

Gasping, the two lay on the deck. They could see the
angry, running seas beneath them, and then, as the
James Kennedy heeled away, the rim of the lake and
then only the clouds.

They were saved.

But they were too weak to congratulate each other, and

all that Jerry James could do to show his gratitude was
to flop his hand weakly on his friend’s back. Now, as
they blew lake water from their mouths, they were
aware of the cold, of their drenched clothing clinging to
their goose-pimpled flesh, and of the chill breath of the
wind.

“Let’s go!” Sandy finally shouted. “If we stand here, we

may get socked with another one.”

Jerry nodded and quickly secured himself to the rail,

glancing up every now and then as though he expected
to see another great black wave racing toward him.
Then they made their way forward to the Number Four
hatch where the little band of lake sailors struggled
bravely to keep the lake out of the James Kennedy’s
hold.

There were nine deck hands and one deck officer, a tall, 134
serious-looking man named Davis. Through his water-
filled eyes, Sandy could see that Mr. Davis had taped his
spectacles securely to his temples, for fear they would
be washed away. He remembered Sam saying that Mr.
Davis was “as blind as a bat” without his glasses. Sam
was with the group, too—ordered down from the
pilothouse by Captain West. That was probably because
the skipper wanted to make good use of the great
strength that lay in Sam’s deep chest and thick
shoulders. Sam swung a heavy sledge hammer, as he
and two other men—one of them a blond, Swedish
giant named Gunnar—attempted to batter the sprung
steel hatch cover back into place. Sandy could hear the
metallic clanging of their blows above the wind and sea
as he and Jerry approached, both of them side-stepping
along the rail while they clung to their ropes.

Then Mr. Davis yelled, “All hands to the rails!”

To his horror, Sandy saw that the James Kennedy’s prow

had plunged into a wall of water that reared before it.
The bow sliced into it as the V of a plow might pierce a
snowbank—and though the boat itself remained steady,
that parted wave was now flowing around either side of
the forward cabins and sweeping down the decks!

Swiftly, the men whirled and scurried for the rails. They 135
dove for them, in fact! They curled around them and
bent and turned their heads away from the onrushing
water, and Sandy noticed that the hammer-swingers
had fastened their tools to their wrists by thick lengths
of rope.
Then the water hit.

It was far worse than the wave that had nearly carried
Jerry James to his death.

But it did not last as long. It struck with swift savagery,

lifting Sandy and Jerry and the rest of them from their
feet. It sought to tear them free of the rail and drive
them aft and into the water. But that great crushing
blow and terrible tug was only of a few seconds’
duration, and then it was gone.

Sandy looked around. Water was spilling back over the

sides of the James Kennedy, but at the rail, where there
had been ten men, there were now only eight.

Two men had been washed overboard, one of them a

hammer man.

But there was little time to dwell upon the horror of

those missing figures at the rail.

Mr. Davis had lost his glasses. The wave had torn them 136
from his head. The tall deck officer peered wildly about
him. He had backed from the rail, digging furiously at
his eyes to clear them of water. Now, as he looked
around him on the deck of the heaving ship, it was plain
that he had lost his bearings. He took a step forward.
Another. Then, rapidly, two more. He was walking
toward the rail!

Involuntarily, Sandy and Jerry took two steps toward

him. But they were too far away.

Their friend Sam wasn’t.

The stocky seaman with the muscles like steel hawsers
swiftly shot out a clutching hand and stopped his
superior officer before he drowned himself.

“You’ll have to go back, sir!” Sam shouted above the

wind. “You can’t stay out here blinded like that. Here,”
he shouted at one of the men, “help Mr. Davis below.”

The man wound a guiding arm around the deck officer,

and together, they made their way aft along the rail.

Sam glanced at Sandy Steele and Jerry and shouted,

“You two—we need your help. Come over here. That’s
right, pay out the line.”

The two lads let go their tight hold on their safety lines
and came over to the torn hatch, turning around and
around to unwind their ropes.

“Now,” Sam shouted again, cupping his hands so that 137

he could be heard above the storm and the rattling of
the ship. “Now, we can’t waste any more time rushing
over to the rail every time we ship a little water. That
last wave must have poured a couple of tons of water
into the hold. A few more like that, and we’ll be down in
Davy Jones’s locker. Here’s what we’re going to do.

“We’ve got eight men left and two sledge hammers. So,
Gunnar here takes one hammer and I take the other.
While we’re hammering down the hatch cover, you three
hold Gunnar,” he said, pointing to a trio of seamen, “and
you three hold me.” He pointed to Sandy and Jerry and
a fourth seaman. “If the water comes over the side
again, well, we’ll just have to ride it out. You men
secure yourselves to those bits. And for gosh sakes,” he
yelled, his husky voice rising to full volume, “don’t
anybody let go of Gunnar or me when the water hits!”
Quickly, Sandy and Jerry did as they were ordered. They
fastened themselves to those stubby, mushroom-shaped
iron pegs that are called bits. Then, Jerry and the other
seaman wound their arms around Sam’s powerful legs
and Sandy, because he was the tallest, grabbed him by
the waist.

Sam and Gunnar got to work.

Their hammers clanged rapidly against the stubborn 138

steel, forcing it down at a steady but agonizingly slow
pace. Sandy marveled to feel the strength surging
through Sam’s hard torso, as he hugged the sturdy
seaman with all his might. Sam’s chest heaved and the
muscles of his back bunched as he brought the heavy
hammer up and down, up and down.

Soon, Sandy’s own body ached from the strain of

holding Sam erect against the swaying and staggering
of the James Kennedy. And the hole was being closed
so slowly!

Once, a fair-sized wave swept suddenly over them.

Sandy felt Sam go down under its onslaught, but he
held him fast even though his body screamed in pain
from the effort. The seaman and Jerry held on, too, and
when the waters had spilled back into Lake Erie, a
grinning Sam spat contemptuously and scrambled to his
feet and swung his hammer again.

The resumed clanging of the hammer swung by Gunnar,

the Swede, told Sandy that his crew had held fast as
well.

Now, the hatch was closed. Sam and Gunnar were

swiftly and skillfully pounding the steel snugly into place
when a sudden gust of wind spun Sam around just as
he was bringing his hammer down for the final blow.

Unable to stop himself, Sam now had his whistling 139

sledge hammer aimed directly at the unsuspecting head
of Gunnar! In a fraction of a second, the iron
hammerhead would drive deep into Gunnar’s skull. It
would smash it open as easily as an eggshell, with
Sam’s great strength propelling it.

In that tiny interval of time, Sandy Steele swiftly sat

down. He buckled his legs and dragged Sam back with
him, and as he did, he heard a familiar voice beneath
him yelp with pain. There was a loud metallic clang—
like the sound of a firebell—as Sam’s sledge hammer
swished harmlessly past the back of Gunnar’s head and
struck the steel deck with terrific force. But the big
Swede had been saved, even if Sandy’s friend Jerry
seemed to have wound up a casualty.

He lay writhing on the deck and Sandy had to bend

quickly to make sure the rolling of the ship didn’t roll
him over the side.

“What’s wrong?” he shouted in Jerry’s ear.

“My ankle,” Jerry yelled back, grimacing. “I think it’s

sprained. When you fell on me, I guess.”

Sandy groaned. He was sorry that his friend had been 140
hurt, of course, but now, he realized, he would have to
go it alone. He glanced up and saw the Swede staring
down with a puzzled look on his face. His gaze wavered
from Jerry to the spot where Sam’s hammer had struck,
making him jump in surprise. Now Sam was waving his
arms wildly and shouting an explanation of what had
happened. As he spoke, Gunnar’s mouth came open
and his blue eyes grew round.

When Sam had finished, Gunnar came over to Sandy.

He leaned down and yelled in his ear, “Tanks. You ban
safe my life. You goot poy.”

Sandy nodded, embarrassed. Then he said, “Can you

help me move my friend? I think he’s sprained his
ankle.”

Gunnar bent and lifted Valley View High School’s husky

right end as easily as a child. “Ay take him below,” he
said simply, shifting Jerry’s weight to one side and
supporting him with one huge arm, while with the other
he held fast to the rail. He staggered off.

Sam grinned at Sandy. “Nice work, Sandy,” he said,

shouting through cupped hands again. “You sure made
a friend today.”

Sandy nodded. He had glanced up to see Captain West

staring down at him from the pilothouse. It recalled to
him that the most important mission of his voyage still
lay ahead of him, and that his dependable friend, Jerry,
probably would no longer be of help.

“I sure hope so, Sam,” Sandy said. “Because I think I 141

may be needing one.”

Then Sandy Steele and Sam swayed aft with the rest of
the James Kennedy’s weary deck hands.

142
 CHAPTER TWELVE
A Web of Lies

Jerry James’s ankle seemed swollen to twice its normal

size by the time the big seaman, Gunnar, had carried
him below and gently deposited him on the bottom
bunk of Sandy’s and Jerry’s cabin.

“It’s yust a sprain, Ay tank,” Gunnar mumbled as he

peered at the ankle after having removed Jerry’s
dripping clothing and wrapped him in blankets.

“Does it hurt much, Jerry?” Sandy asked anxiously.

Jerry tried to smile and shrug it off. But it was obvious 143
to Sandy that his friend was in great pain. He turned
around, bumping into Sam, who had also jammed
himself into the tiny room. Outside the open door, Mr.
Briggs stared in at the scene with eyes of unpitying
curiosity.

“Have you got any medicine, Sam?” Sandy asked. “I

mean, something to kill his pain a little.”

Sam shrugged. “Best thing that we can do is give him

some rest and try to get that swelling down. He’ll need
a doctor’s care when we get to port.” He paused as the
James Kennedy began to heel over in a long roll.
Everybody reached for support, and Sam grinned and
added, “If we get to port.”

“We will,” the mate butted in. “Captain just called down
to say the wind’s going down.”

“Py yiminy,” said the big Swede, beaming, “Ay tank Ay

live long enough for farm, after all.”

Sam smiled fondly at Gunnar. “You big galoot,” he said,

good-humoredly. “You can’t stand to be ashore two
days without getting landsick.” He turned his gaze back
to Jerry James. “You know,” he said, “I think I’ve got
just the thing to take down that swelling some and ease
the pain, too.”

“What’s that?” Sandy asked.

“Well, seeing as how you must have swallowed a couple 144

of bucketfuls of it yourself not long ago, I’ll tell you. It’s
lake water!” He leaned out into the passageway and
called, “Hey, one of you lads, get up above and fetch us
a bucket of lake water, hear?” Then he grinned, plainly
enjoying himself. “All you have to do is stand on deck
until the first wave comes along!”

In another five minutes, Jerry James had been carefully

lifted into a sitting position by Gunnar and his sprained
right foot had been thrust into a bucket of cold Lake
Erie water. Jerry had winced at his first contact with it,
but he soon grew accustomed to it. In half an hour
more, the swelling had gone down considerably and
Jerry was able to turn in with his ankle swathed in strips
of sheeting soaked with water.

“Keep dousing it with water every hour or so,” Sam had

suggested to Sandy.
Then Sam and Gunnar had trudged back to the barren
mess hall to join the rest of the crewmen who squatted
glumly against the bulkheads, munching the hard
biscuits and cold water passed out to them by a Cookie
who seemed to have lost his usual cheerful spirits.

Up above, meanwhile, Captain West saw, to his alarm,

that he had been mistaken about the storm. The winds
had indeed died down, but only for a time.

Now, with the coming of darkness, they were again 145

rising. What had resumed as the gentlest of whispers
was now a wild screaming and hammering around the
pilothouse that threatened to smash in even those
stoutly reinforced windows. The seas were again
pounding. The James Kennedy seemed to be
weakening. No longer did she plow ahead, straight and
true, with the passage of each successive wave. Now
she was wallowing in the troughs—and the thundering
seas battered her mercilessly. Each time, she staggered
and drove on. But each time, she seemed to drive on a
little less powerfully.

The waves roared at her in combinations now—

sometimes two waves following quickly upon another,
frequently three.

Alone in his pilothouse, Captain West realized that a few

hours more of such punishment would mean the end of
his ship and all aboard her. Below, in the mess hall, the
veteran sailors realized it, too. But they said nothing,
merely exchanging fearful glances. Only God could save
them now, they knew. In such a storm, even the most
superb seamanship was useless.
Captain West knew it, too. He wondered if he should 146
radio for help. But what good would that do? Who could
get to him? Besides, Captain West had no wish to make
contact with the mainland. The storm had given him his
perfect excuse for arriving in Buffalo too late to
communicate with his employer, Mr. Kennedy. He wished
to stay out of contact with the Kennedy offices for as
long as possible.

But something had to be done. Quickly, Captain West

bent over his chart. His eyes swept over it, eagerly
searching for some island or outcropping of land to
which he might run for shelter. All around him now were
the voices of insane power, the clashing and crashing of
that surging sea, the wailing of the wind. As Captain
West bent his head, a great wall of water gathered
before the James Kennedy’s bow.

It rose, black and awful, to the height of Captain West’s

pilothouse—and then it struck.

It fell with a roar. Captain West dove for a stanchion. He

threw his arms around it and held on. The water burst
the bulkheads of the pilothouse. It flattened those steel
walls as though they were made of paper. It swept away
the pilothouse as easily as a wave washing away a fruit
crate.

Captain West heard that wrenching roar, and then the

lake water poured over him. He clung desperately to the
stanchion. He felt that monstrous weight—hundreds and
hundreds of tons—driving the James Kennedy down and
down, and he wondered if the vessel would ever re-
emerge from it.

147
Down below, in his tiny cabin, Sandy Steele held his
breath as he felt that wave strike the ship and drive it
down.

But the James Kennedy came up.

Buried though she had been, the gallant vessel shook

herself like a soaked and weary mastiff, and her bow
popped out of the frothing white seas, streaming water
from every side—and she gave a long shudder and
drove forward again.

A concerted sigh of relief broke from the throats of the

lake sailors huddled in the mess hall.

Sandy Steele felt the light film of perspiration that had

gathered on his forehead, and he involuntarily squeezed
the arm of his friend.

Captain West slowly released his grip on the stanchion.

They had been through the worst of it, he knew now.

The wind was dropping as swiftly as it had risen. Above

him, the clouds were thinning out. A ghostly glow
seemed to illuminate the scene as the moon shone
palely through them. In its light, Captain West could see
the dark seas running around him, glittering like
polished black glass.

Captain West surveyed the damage to his pilothouse. 148

The compass was destroyed. The steering gear was so
badly damaged that it would be impossible to make any
headway against a strong wind. But the wind was falling
to a murmur. He would be able to steer, and he would
navigate by hand compass from one of the lifeboats.
He decided to wait another few minutes to be certain
that the storm was over. Then he would go below to
fetch Sam and the big Swede, Gunnar. He couldn’t call
them. The speaking system was ruined, too.

Captain West removed his hat and began to wring it dry.

If he lived to be a hundred, he told himself, he would
never see another wave like that one.

The men in the mess hall were in an ugly mood.

They knew that the worst was over, and so they had
begun to grumble. With nothing to fear, they had time
to complain. Mr. Briggs was quick to seize upon their
discontent and turn it to his own ends.

He had been listening to two of them grumble bitterly 149

about the fact that they had had nothing solid to eat
since lunch the day before. The smaller of the pair, a
man with sharp features and untidy, mouse-colored hair,
had begun to talk louder and louder.

“Thirty-six hours, Dick,” he complained. “Thirty-six hours

since we’ve had a real bite or a hot sup. Nothing but
hard biscuits and stale water.”

“Aye,” said his friend heavily. “And whose fault is it?

What are we doing out on Erie at a time like this, when
we could be ashore in Detroit? We could be drinking our
coffee nice and easy in some restaurant right now.
Whose fault is it? That’s what I want to know.”

Mr. Briggs’s little eyes roved rapidly over the mess hall.
He saw with satisfaction that Sam and Gunnar had
dozed off. He sidled over to the two discontented men,
who had begun to cast dark, threatening glances about
them as though they sought the author of their
misfortunes.

“Who’s to blame, you say?” Mr. Briggs whispered,

glancing quickly around him. “I’ll tell you.” He pointed
down the passageway. “It’s those snippy brats of Old
Man Kennedy’s, that’s who’s to blame!” he burst out.

“Oh, come, now,” the little man named Bogert said. 150
“Don’t tell me that a couple of vacationing high school
boys have anything to do with running this ship.”

“Just listen to me!” Mr. Briggs said fiercely. “Who do you

think caused that fire in the galley last night? It was
those two blasted brats tomfoolin’ around, that’s who it
was! If you’re wondering who you’ve got to thank for
your empty bellies, it’s those kids down the way.
Especially the blond one. Every last scrap of decent food
was burned up in that fire. That’s why you’re getting
biscuits and water.”

The two men exchanged angry glances. Seeing that he

had convinced them, Mr. Briggs rushed on.

“And why are we out on Lake Erie instead of being

berthed in Detroit? That’s their fault, too! The skipper
didn’t want to make for Buffalo so soon. But he had to.
With a couple of firebugs like them aboard, he said he
couldn’t take any chances!”

The big man named Dick let out a low growl.

“How about Perkins, Dick?” the mate added, deliberately 151

attempting to goad the big man into a rage. “Perkins
was your friend, wasn’t he, Dick? And now he’s on the
bottom of Lake Erie, washed over the side in a storm we
never should have been in! All because of a couple of
dirty brats who haven’t shaved yet!”

The big man shook his head. He got to his feet and
gazed down at the mate. He clenched and unclenched
his hamlike hands and another deep growl rumbled
from his chest.

“What are you going to do, Dick?” his friend Bogert

asked. The little man was slightly nervous.

“I’m gonna pay ’em back,” the big man said slowly. He
blinked his eyes stupidly. “I’ve been starvin’ and I lost
my best friend and I almost got washed overboard
myself and it’s all on account of them kids. I’m gonna
pay ’em back, Bogert.” He turned to the mate and
growled, “Where are they?”

But he needn’t have asked.

At that moment, Sandy Steele walked down the hall

with a bucket. He needed more water to freshen his
friend’s bandages.

“There he is!” the mate shouted. “There’s the wise one

—the one that called me a liar!”

The big man whirled and pounced. Before Sandy knew 152
what was happening, he had been grasped by the collar
and spun around. There was not even time to struggle.
The big man held him firmly in that left hand and drew
back his big right fist for a smashing blow.

“Wise kid,” Dick muttered. “I’m gonna give you a good

one from old Perkins.”

Sandy started to duck.

But the blow never landed.

Instead, it was Dick himself who was whirled around

now, while an angry voice said, “Ay tank Ay give you
goot wan.”

Then there was a sharp spat of bone meeting bone. An

expression of amazement came over Dick’s face. Then
his face went blank and his knees buckled and he sank
gently to the deck.

Gunnar smiled and lifted his enormous right fist for the
rest of the shocked sailors to see.

“Ay yust tell you maybe Ay hit real hard next time.”

Murmurs of admiration came from the lips of the

onlookers, and at that moment, Mr. Briggs sought to
steal from the room. But Sam, who had also been
awakened, moved to head him off.

“What’s your hurry, mate?” he asked easily.

“Well, er, I was, er, just going to....” Mr. Briggs 153
stammered, clearing his throat. He cast a nervous
glance at the big Swede, who stood glaring at him
while, behind him, the big man, Dick, slowly pushed
himself up from the deck. “Well, you see—” the mate
stuttered, but then his eyes lost their fear and his face
grew spiteful and defiant again as Captain West came
sloshing into the room.

“What’s going on here?” he bellowed.

Every head spun toward him and there was a babble of

excited voices in reply. But, of course, it was Mr. Briggs
who answered the skipper’s question.
“Oh, nothing at all, sir,” he said, giving Captain West a
broad wink. “Just a bit of friendly horseplay, that’s all,
sir.”

Captain West grunted and nodded. Then he said, “You,

there, Sam and Gunnar. Get up above to the pilothouse.
A wave swept everything but the deck away, but you
can still steer by hand compass. Get one from one of
the lifeboats. The rest of you,” he roared, whirling
quickly, “the rest of you get back where you belong. The
storm’s over! We’ll make Buffalo by tomorrow night.”

A weak cheer followed that news. The men shuffled

down the passageway. Captain West waited until the
sailors had gotten out of earshot, before he jerked a
rude thumb at Sandy and growled, “He making trouble
again?”

The mate nodded. “Just before you came below, he 154

stirred up a fight between Dick and the Swede.”

Sandy Steele sucked his breath in sharply.

“That’s a lie!” he burst out sharply.

Captain West ignored his protest. He merely glared

savagely at Sandy and said, “Shut up!” He seemed to be
pondering something. Then, his forehead smoothed out
and he spoke to his mate.

“Briggs, we’re only a few hours away from that

Chadwick-Kennedy deal. I’m taking no chances on
Buster, here. So, he’s yours until we dock tomorrow
night. Take him into your cabin with you and batten
down the door. Don’t come out until I send for you. You
hear me?”
The mate nodded glumly. “Don’t I get nothin’ to eat?”
he whined.

“Stop bleating about your blasted belly,” the captain

snapped. “I’ll send Cookie in to you. Now, now, hold on!
Whoa! What about the other brat? Where’s he?”

“In bed,” the mate said. “He sprained his ankle during
the storm.”

“Bad?”

Mr. Briggs grinned evilly.

“Bad enough to keep him in bed.”

“Good,” Captain West said. “Now, get out of here—and 155

don’t let me see your ugly face until we dock in Buffalo.
And as for him,” he went on, jerking his head toward
Sandy, “I don’t ever want to see his face again!”

Sadly assuring himself that the feeling was mutual,

Sandy Steele preceded the mate down the passageway
to his cabin.

156
 CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Cookie to the Rescue

Sandy Steele was not a quitter, yet it seemed to him

that the game was over and he had lost.

He sat on the bunk in Mr. Briggs’s cabin, with the mate

leering at him from a corner chair, and miserably
considered his own plight. There didn’t seem to be any
way out. Jerry James could not move from his bed for
another day or two, so there was no help there. And
here he was, a prisoner!

There wasn’t any way in the world for him to reach Mr.
Kennedy.

Sandy shook his blond head mournfully. Seeing his

gesture, the mate read the feeling behind it and said,
“If you had the brains you were born with, you’d forget
about everything and go to sleep.”

Sandy’s face went cold. He pretended not to have 157

heard, but the mate was not to be denied his favorite
pleasure of gloating.

“Ma Kennedy’s little chick’s lost its tongue, eh?” he

sneered. “Too bad you ain’t going to see Ma Kennedy
before tomorrow night. And by that time, the skipper’ll
be the chief captain of the Chadwick-Kennedy Line, and
yours truly’ll be a full master.”

Oho, Sandy thought to himself, so that’s the mate’s

reward for his treachery. He decided to remain quiet.
The talkative Mr. Briggs might give away some more
secrets.

“Don’t think you can outwait me,” Mr. Briggs went on.
“You’re the one who needs the sleep—not me. While
you heroes was battling the storm this afternoon, I was
having myself a little rest. So I’m fresh as a daisy.”

Sandy still said nothing.

“And furthermore,” the mate snapped, plainly nettled,

“even if I did doze off, it wouldn’t help you.” He tapped
his breast pocket. “The key to that there door is tucked
away in here. You’d have to kill me to get it.”

Sandy smiled, and the mate lost his temper.

“Why, you—” he began, but just then there was a knock

on the door.

“Who’s there?” the mate called. 158

“It’s me. Cookie.”

Mr. Briggs relaxed. “Got some grub, hey, Cookie?”

“Yessirree. Got a little hot coffee, too.”

“Hot coffee!” the mate exclaimed, jumping to his feet

and opening the door to let Cookie enter. “How on earth
did you ever rustle that up?”
“Oh, just a little of Cookie’s magic,” the little bald-
headed man chuckled as he slipped through the door
carrying a tray.

Sure enough! He did have hot coffee! The aroma of it

filled Sandy’s nostrils and his mouth watered.

He smiled fondly at Cookie, and then, to his shocked

disbelief, the little man’s face went ugly with hatred.

“Don’t smirk at me, you Jonah, you!” Cookie shrilled.

“I’ve had nothing but bad luck since you and your friend
came aboard this ship!” Sandy recoiled from the little
man as though he had been struck, and Cookie raged
on, “Yes, I mean you, Sandy Steele! First, I nearly
drown because of you. Then, you and your stupid friend
burn my galley down. And now look at the mess
everybody’s in because of your silly meddling!” Sandy
shrank away from him, as insult after insult fell from the
little man’s trembling lips—to the intense delight of Mr.
Briggs.

But Cookie, who had set his tray on the table, moved 159
closer and closer toward Sandy, until he had poked his
wrinkled little face within a few inches of the youth’s
nose.

Then he winked and grinned.

Sandy Steele’s heart leaped for joy, and he almost

jumped up and kissed the little man. As it was, he knew
his face must have given him away, for Cookie had
quickly flashed him a warning look, before he began
backing away, still mouthing insults.

Sandy felt better when he saw Mr. Briggs slap Cookie on

the back and heard him say, “Cookie, I couldn’t have
said it better myself. The only thing I can add to what
you’ve said is that those brats are twice as bad as you
say they are.”

Still sputtering angrily, Cookie bent to his tray and

began pouring the mate a cup of steaming hot coffee.

Determined to play his part, Sandy put a pleading note

into his voice and said, “Aw, Cookie—how about some
coffee?”

“You?” Cookie burst out, enraged. “I wouldn’t give you a

glass of lake water if you were dying of thirst!”

“Heh, heh,” the mate laughed, evidently pleased that 160

the little man shared his sentiments. “You’re in a rare
mood tonight, Cookie. Why don’t you sit down and talk
a bit.”

“I will,” Cookie said. He took a seat, carefully smoothing

his stained white apron. He watched the mate take a
sip. “How’s the coffee, mate?” he asked.

“Fine, Cookie—fine.”

“Ah, yes, hot coffee’s good after a storm. Especially with

a shot of rum in it.”

“Rum? Did you say rum?”

With a sly wink, Cookie reached behind him and under

his apron. He brought out a bottle and brandished it
happily.

“Aye, rum, mate.” He cast a dark look at Sandy. “It’s all

that could be salvaged from the fire. I’d been saving it
to make mince meat.” He unscrewed the cap and tilted
it to pour it into the mate’s cup. “Here, a little of this’ll
warm your belly.”

“Oh, no, no, no!” the mate chattered, holding up a hand

to block Cookie. “I’d like to, Cookie—I swear I would!
But I’d better not.”

“Why not?” Cookie asked innocently. “A man’s got a

right to a proper drink after a storm.”

“Well, er,” the mate stammered, “as a matter of fact, the 161
skipper, er, suggested to me that I’d better not.”

“Of course,” Cookie agreed, raising the bottle again.

“But that was before the storm. Now, you know Captain
West would never begrudge a man a snort after coming
through what we’ve been through.”

Cookie’s voice was so easy and coaxing that Sandy

marveled to hear it. And the mate could not resist it.

“Well, Cookie, since you put it that way, I suppose

you’re right. But, just a little, now. Whoa, whoa! That’s
plenty!”

“Oh-oh,” Cookie said, with exaggerated concern, “I

hadn’t really meant to put that much in.”

“No harm done,” Mr. Briggs said grandly. “No harm

done, really.”

“Well, I’m certainly glad to hear that.”

“Perfectly okay, Cookie, perfectly okay. By the way,

aren’t you going to have a spot yourself?”
“Well, I don’t mind if I do. Here, I’ll just try a little in
this cup here.”

They gabbed on like that for a few minutes, their talk

reaching Sandy’s ears against the background of the
mate’s noisy sipping of his coffee. For a while, Sandy
ignored their conversation. He was too busy trying to
figure out what Cookie was up to.

Obviously, the little man was trying to get the mate 162
drunk. But why? Cookie knew nothing of the
forthcoming deal between Paul Chadwick and Mr.
Kennedy. At least, so Sandy thought. So he could not
understand Cookie’s actions. But he did see that the
little man’s plan was working. As time wore on, and the
heaving of the James Kennedy became less and less
pronounced, Sandy noticed that the words of Mr. Briggs
were also becoming less pronounced. His voice was
thickening. He was not even aware that Cookie’s drinks
had dwindled away to almost nothing, while his own
had swelled in size.

“By the way, mate,” Cookie said, as Mr. Briggs’s head

began to loll on his shoulders. “I’ve got a funny one to
tell you.”

“Whash that, Cookie, ol’ pal?”

“It’s about that big Swede, Gunnar. He told me he was

going to use the ship-to-shore telephone to call his girl-
friend back in Duluth. I told him he was crazy because
it’s against the ship’s rules to use the ship-to-shore.”

“Right, thash right. Phone’s locked up, anyway.”

“But you know what that big stupe said? He said he’d 163
be able to make the call in spite of that, because he
knew that if he gave you five dollars you’d give him the
key.”

The mate’s brow darkened.

“He’sh a liar,” he mumbled. “Never take bribe.”

“He said you did,” Cookie rushed on eagerly. “In fact, he

showed me the key.”

“Liar!” the mate repeated. “He’sh liar!” He leaned

forward drunkenly and with a knowing leer on his face,
he tapped Cookie on the knee. “I’ll prove it,” he
mumbled. “Prove he’sh liar.” He fumbled in his side
pocket. Then he drew out a bunch of keys on a ring.
“Here’sh key!” he gloated, swaying as he attempted to
thump his chest. “Gunnar’s big liar. Mr. Briggs don’t take
bribes.”

“Well, well,” Cookie said, shaking his head as though

grieved. “To think he’d tell me a big one like that. Here,
mate, have another drink.”

But the mate did not answer.

His head had sagged forward on his chest. Raising his

voice, Cookie repeated his request. But the mate still did
not reply.

With a glance of utmost contempt, Cookie reached

forward and grasped his shoulder and shook him gently.

“Have a drink, mate,” he said.

The mate’s mouth fell open and his head snapped back 164
and a long, whistling snore broke from his throat.
With a grin of triumph, Cookie got to his feet. He
walked over to Sandy and stuck out his hand.

“Shake, pal,” he whispered.

With eyes shining with gratitude, Sandy Steele clasped

his little friend’s hand. He realized, now, that Cookie
must know everything—else why all that nonsense to
find out where the key to the radio shack was located.
For that ship-to-shore telephone was Sandy Steele’s
only hope!

“Wait ten more minutes,” Cookie whispered. “Wait until

he’s so sound asleep we can get that key away from
him without waking him.”

Sandy nodded. He sat on his bunk for a time, watching

the first pale light of dawn growing steadily brighter
outside, and as the day brightened, his spirits soared
with it. At last, his chance had come!

Cookie arose and moved softly to the snoring mate. He

put his mouth to his ear, and said in a loud voice, “Have
another drink, mate.”

Mr. Briggs’s answer was a sputtering snore.

Cookie slapped him sharply on the cheek and cried,

“Wake up, mate.” Mr. Briggs slept on as though made of
stone.

With another cocky grin, the little man reached down 165
into Mr. Briggs’s side pocket and pulled out his set of
keys. He found the one he wanted, separated it from
the rest, removed it—and then stuck the others back
where they had come from.
“Let’s go,” he said to Sandy.

“Sure you have the right key, Cookie?” Sandy asked.

“Sure. I’d know it anywhere. Come on, follow me.”

As they went out, Cookie removed the key that the

mate had left in the lock when he opened the door to
admit him. When they had stepped out into the corridor,
he closed the door softly behind him and locked it.

“Just in case,” he chirped, putting the key in his pocket.

Then the two made their way to the radio shack.

“Shhh!” Cookie said, as he quietly unlocked the door to

the radio shack. “Don’t show a light either.” He glanced
rapidly around him. “There,” he said, pointing to an
object standing alongside a radio transmitter. “That’s it.”

A tingling thrill shot through Sandy Steele’s body as his 166

eyes pierced the dim light that filtered through a
porthole and fell on the ship-to-shore telephone.

“You use it just like any other telephone,” Cookie

whispered, as he bent to lock the door. “Just give the
operator the letters there at the bottom, and then give
her the number you want.”

Sandy Steele groaned.

“I don’t know Mr. Kennedy’s number,” he said.

Cookie’s brow puckered. “Well, ask the operator to

locate him for you. She might help.”

She did.
“You see,” Sandy explained, once the operator had let
him know she was on the line, “all I know about Mr.
Kennedy is that he lives in Buffalo and that he owns the
Kennedy Shipping Lines. Is that enough to go on?”

His heart sang when a pert voice replied, “I think so.

Would you hold on, please?”

“Yes,” Sandy said, and then his heart stopped singing as

another voice, neither pert nor far away, roared from
outside the door.

“Who’s in that radio shack?”

It was the voice of Captain West.

167
 CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Checkmated

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 168

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. 169

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 170
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
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