When the Cock Crows Part 5

CHAPTER VIII

THE EFFICIENCY OF CLAM BROTH

The mere act of rapid walking had a beneficial effect upon Roy. His circulation was equalized by the exercise and something of his natural buoyancy of spirit was restored to him. The detective, too, found pleasure in the tramp, and the young men walked along many miles of the Norfolk streets, aimless, but well entertained. They swung at last into the square where a huge monument commemorates the Lost Cause and heroic dead. Suddenly Van Dusen's attention was attracted to a huge gilt sign over the door of a saloon. The outer aspect of the place was attractive enough, with something of distinctiveness about it. He turned to Roy and spoke with a tone of amused interest.

"That seems a bit different from other saloons. And I fancy the sign tells the truth." With the words, he pointed to the gilt lettering over the door.

Roy turned and looked in the direction of the detective's pointing finger. "Clam Broth King," he read, and smiled appreciatively.

"Well, old man," he remarked, "it's a straightforward way of advertising a food, as well as a novel one. And from the labels on the bottles in the window, it might prove a good place for us to visit before we start on the return journey to the yacht."

"I really know the place," Van Dusen declared, "and it is excellent.

About a year ago, I was in this city on an important case. It was through the a.s.sistance of The King that I was able to locate a most valuable witness. And the probability is that but for the sign I would have missed it. I've always been a perfect fiend for clam broth. After seeing the sign, I knew, of course, there must be something particular in that line inside, and so I wandered in. Well, I was served by The King. When I first entered, I reconnoitered by stepping up to the bar and ordering a drink. Before I had a chance to question the man who was serving me, a gentlemanly appearing fellow touched me on the arm, and asked me pleasantly if I wouldn't like a cup of clam broth. He said that The King had just made a fresh batch, and that it was fine. I scrutinized the fellow closely. He had a kindly, youthful face, and his bearing was agreeable. I answered him promptly that good clam broth was just what I wished to have. 'But,' I demanded, 'who the devil is The King? It's a new one on me, to have a king for a chef.'

"The man laughed and then replied:

"'Oh, The King! Why, he's only _me_!'

"To cut it short, a few minutes later the broth was served to me, along with some dainty wafers, and while I drank it The King and I made friends."

Van Dusen's tone changed abruptly.

"But let's not loiter here on the outside any longer. Let us go into the presence of The King."

So it came about that Roy was duly presented to The King, and he was not disappointed in either that culinary monarch or the throne room. Perhaps his enthusiasm was the greater since he was sorely in need of food to nourish a mind and body exhausted by suffering.

The clam-broth King catered largely to the officers of ocean-going vessels. There's hardly a master sailing the main who has touched at Norfolk or anch.o.r.ed in Hampton Roads during recent years that has not known Harry the clam-broth King, and has called him friend. To-day the usual number of storm-bound seafaring men of the better cla.s.s were gathered around the miniature tables in the place. The King was very busy indeed, pa.s.sing from group to group to see that none of his friends were neglected. He greeted Van Dusen with obvious pleasure and had a welcoming smile for the newcomer when he was introduced to Roy. A moment later Van Dusen and Roy were seated at one of the tables, each with a bowl of piping-hot clam broth before him.

But before the contents of the bowls had been wholly swallowed both Roy and the detective paused to listen with avid interest to the words of a mariner seated at an adjoining table. And this is what they heard:

"Yes, boys, it was some blow and believe me it is still a-kicking up good and plenty outside the Capes. I missed the worst of it. My barometer had indicated that there was going to be some big doings long before the clouds begun to loom. I was half a mind to haul to in the hook o' the Cape at Lookout, but the sky seemed so clear and I was so near Hatteras that I made up my mind that we could get into the Roads by crowding the boilers a little. I'd a heap rather be laying up close to the King's clam broth than at that sorry, lonely, Lookout Bight. Don't understand me that I have got anything against that snug little harbor.

I have every reason in the world not to have for she has saved my vessel and my carca.s.s many's the time. The only thing is that it is such a desert place on land, not a house, not a human, with the exception of the light-keeper and his crew. When a skipper makes harbor he likes it to be where there are some sh.o.r.e pleasures on tap. I will venture that there was not less than half a dozen skippers put in there to get away from this blow and every last one whilst they knew the fact of that little nook o' safety being there had saved him and his s.h.i.+p, was just a-raring because he had not taken a chance rounding Hatteras and putting into Hampton Roads where he could run in here and gossip and inhale the fumes of King Harry's clam broth and feel the effects of his Scotch, while this-here West India hurricane wore herself out.

"You know, boys, I wish that I was a yachtsman with a good roll to back it up. Why, do you know them fellers take lots of chances and it's very seldom that they lose their craft? Of course, I have navigated over more of the sea than you, having been coasters all your lives. And do you know there is hardly a port in the world where I haven't seen a pretty, trim American yacht lying at anchor or haven't pa.s.sed them on the seven seas? And never have I found one in great distress--except for being out o' some particular kind of liquor. With we fellers it's different. We're always in some kind o' trouble, not to mention being constantly out o'

all kinds o' liquors. And then we are scairt o' our lives, or run aground or burn up, and so lose our master's papers, which means our job."

The speaker paused to clear his throat noisily. Then he went on:

"Speaking along these lines reminds me of a little yacht we pa.s.sed on the run up, off Ocrac.o.ke Inlet. She was a long ways off sh.o.r.e, headed in. But I guess she made the inside all right in spite of the waves running high and breaking and the strength of the wind increasing with every flaw. Her name was _The Isabel_. And it's my opinion the captain of that yacht ought to be in the crazy house or dead."

Somehow at the outset, the narrative had riveted the attention of Roy and Van Dusen. It was as if their intuitions warned them that something significant was to issue from the mariner's rambling remarks. The utterance of the yacht's name thrilled them both, and they stared at each other for a moment with startled eyes. Then they listened again with new intentness as the speaker continued his account:

"It was just after daylight. I had been on the bridge all through the night, for I was anxious over our position, should the hurricane break with full force. I knew from the gla.s.s that it was close on us. I was looking dead ahead. Suddenly out of the mist appeared a craft as white and trim as a swan. She would plunge forward on a giant wave, then disappear for a moment in the trough, to appear again right side up, and coming at full speed to meet the next one. She was driving so fast that often she would force herself through, rather than over, the oncoming waves. I just naturally kept expecting from second to second that that fool skipper, sending her along at such reckless speed, would bury her so deep that it would be impossible for her to shake off the tons of brine, and so float on top again. If the fool only had sense enough to slow her down, I thought to myself, that bit of a craft would almost go through h.e.l.l itself without a scorch. I realized that we were getting dangerously close, for I was going fast before the wind. So I quickly gave a pa.s.sing-signal blast from our whistle, indicating that we would pa.s.s her on the port side. What do you suppose that fool at the wheel did then? Close as we were, and with no other reason that I could guess other than a desire to court death, he deliberately answered my signal with two blasts. They meant that he was going to starboard, almost diagonally across our bow. I saw it was too late to correct his error, so I simply had to accept his cross signal, and I did my best to avoid a collision. I was successful--no thanks to him. We missed _The Isabel_ by a hair. As it was, I thought that in spite of all we could do the suction from our propellers would draw in and crush the smaller boat against our side. I fancy we missed it more through good luck and the grace of G.o.d than through good management. And now what do you think?

"That chap at the wheel, instead of appearing grateful and giving me three blasts in salute, stuck his head and shoulders out of the pilot-house window and shook his fist at me. He yelled, too, and the wind brought the words down to me. 'You're only a dirty tramp, but you think you own the seas!' You boys know that that word 'tramp' for a good honest trading steamer always did get on my nerves. I admit I swore a little at the bunglesome cuss, but he was well to windward, so I might just as well have saved my breath.

"I honestly believe that that ornery fellow in the pilot house was crazy as a bed-bug. Stranger still, there wasn't another soul in sight aboard of her. I'm thinking I'll report the affair to the inspectors. There's no doubt in my mind that _The Isabel_ weathered the storm for the chap was headin' her straight as he could go for Ocrac.o.ke Inlet. As the yacht was of light draft she could easily get over the bar and into Pamlico Sound, where he could haul to under the lea of the sand dunes. Down there that craft would ride out 'most anything that might come along."

The detective, with a gesture to Roy that he should remain in his seat, arose and crossed over to the Captain of the tramp steamer. He called the man aside, and frankly explained how he had overheard the narrative concerning the yacht _Isabel_. He admitted that this information was of vital importance to his friend and himself.

The Captain at once became intently interested. Doubtless he foresaw something in store for the yachtsman that would settle his own score against the fellow, the fellow who had reviled him.

"If you really want to come up with that critter," the mariner declared, "it would be the easiest thing in the world according to my mind, provided you have the right sort of a boat."

Van Dusen described his yacht.

"How much does this _Hialdo_ of yours draw?" the swarthy-faced skipper demanded.

"She draws, fully stocked, just eight and a half feet aft," the detective answered. "And we could s.h.i.+ft the gasoline so that she would get through on eight feet of water."

The captain nodded appreciatively.

"That fellow, the chances are, is right this minute at anchor somewhere in Pamlico Sound, or else he's cruising around on some of those connecting inland waters. The one and only place where he could get to sea again would be where he went in at Ocrac.o.ke, or else at Beaufort Inlet--though he might head for Norfolk by way of one of the two ca.n.a.l routes. You can bet your bottom dollar that, even as crazy as he is, he won't tackle the open sea just yet while this heavy swell is still on.

It's my idea you got your man sure enough, for he's in a trap. The thing for you to do is to get aboard your craft, and then hot-foot it through the Dismal Swamp Ca.n.a.l for Ocrac.o.ke by way of Albemarle, Coratan and Pamlico Sounds.

"If you like," the Captain added with a touch of embarra.s.sment lest he might seem officious, "I'll keep a sharp lookout on the other ca.n.a.l, so that he can't pa.s.s you while you're going through old Dismal. You might post the authorities at Elizabeth City to keep an eye open for the yacht, and to detain her if she shows up while you're rus.h.i.+ng on at full speed for Ocrac.o.ke and Portsmouth. They're the little towns, one on each side of the Inlet. If you don't happen to find the outfit at either of these places, there ain't a particle of doubt according to my judgment that those folks can inform you of the direction taken by _The Isabel_ when she sailed, for they keep mighty close tabs on every vessel that comes or goes through the Inlet. If you find she headed south on the inside, you'll know that loony is making for Beaufort Harbor with the idea of waiting there for the sea to calm down before venturing on the outside. Or maybe he hasn't any intention of going out at all. It seems to me he's more likely to be heading for some one of those tributaries to the Sound that are narrow and deep, with the sh.o.r.es covered by a regular jungle growth. Boats of any size seldom go into them--except once in a while one run by a drag-net fisherman. This crazy man could expect to hide there for weeks on a stretch without danger of being disturbed. If it's actually a case of kidnapping he's certainly shown himself as cunning as mad folks sometimes are."

The detective motioned to Roy to join him and the Captain. Then in a few crisp words he explained the situation as it was indicated by the mariner. Both he and Roy joined in expression of grat.i.tude to the skipper, who gave his name as Jake White. Then the two, realizing the need of haste, said farewell, and made their way back to the wharf with what speed they might.

CHAPTER IX

ONCE IN A LIFETIME

To the average humane person the loss of a pet, whether through thievery or death itself, brings a very real sorrow for a time. How much worse it must be for one who lives alone, a recluse on an island of sand in the sea, to suffer the loss of his only living companion, something to come at his beck and call, something that seems indeed to reciprocate its master's affection!

It is true that Shrimp was only a fowl--a Dominick rooster at that.

Probably, from the standpoint of intelligence, a creature very low in the scale. But its a.s.sociation in this case had developed the qualities of the bird. The years of companions.h.i.+p had brought man and rooster to an intimate understanding of each other.

When Captain Ichabod stepped from his shack, his pocket bulging with corn for his favorite, and saw the rooster showing afar off against the snow-white sand where he was industriously scratching, and whistled a summoning call, Shrimp would come racing toward him at top speed, with wings beating a rhythm to his hurrying legs. Then would the rooster greedily pick the grain of corn from his master's h.o.r.n.y palm, clucking the while guttural notes of grat.i.tude. And at such moments Ichabod's heart would grow warm with pleasure in the realization that it was within his power thus to make one of G.o.d's creatures happy.

When Doctor Hudson came to the door of the shack, where the bereft old fisherman sat, shaken with sorrow over his loss, he tenderly smoothed the Captain's wrinkled brow. He asked to know the cause of this sudden misery.

Ichabod, with a boylike gesture, brushed away the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand. Then he straightened himself, and met the physician's kindly gaze squarely.

"Thar ain't no call for explanations when a feller's feelin's are teched. Doc, do ye know o' some lonely codger that needs a good housekeeper?"

The earnest question came in such startling contrast to the old man's manner of a moment before, when he was shaken with sobs, that the Doctor was hard put to it to restrain a burst of laughter. But by a great effort he limited his expression of amus.e.m.e.nt to a broad smile as he replied:

"Yes, I know one--an old retired fisherman by the name of Jones, Captain Ichabod Jones. He's a man who has weathered many of the storms of life.

Now, as his bark is getting nearer to the last port, he needs to be less alone." A note of very sincere sympathy had crept into the physician's voice. "He should no longer be troubled with the cares of looking after his own home. But, I suppose, there's no use mentioning this to the man himself."

"Yo'r in the right church, Doc," replied the fisherman, "but ye are approachin' the wrong pew. Ichabod Jones has proved himself this day. I did 'low that I was gettin' sort o' decrepit like, but this mornin'