CHAPTER XXI

--BRAVING THE STORM

A violent gust of wind drove Tom up against Bill as the latter led the way through the cabin doorway. It was with difficulty that the door was forced shut after them.

"Stand still--hold on to something to steady yourself," ordered Bill. "I'll have things fixed up in a minute or two."

Tom heard his companion grope about the room. Almost instantly a match was flared and a lamp with a broad reflector illumined the place brilliantly.

"Now then!" added Bill, all vim and activity.

He threw open a locker, and from its depths he fished out two rubber coats and caps.

The two boys resembled old tars in their tarpaulin trim. The excitement of the moment was intense, but every move they made was progress, and their nerves and courage were as steady as steel.

"Can you manage the steering gear?" inquired Bill.

"I've tried it on some smaller boats than this," replied Tom.

"Well, I can do the rest--provided the storm let's us. Br--r!"

Even at anchorage the launch was swinging like an eggshell in a tempest. Bill set the lights. Then he pointed to the seat at the side of the craft next to the engine.

"She sparks automatically," he explained, touching a button, and there was a whistling whir. "You control with the lever--understand?"

"Perfectly," answered Tom.

"I can pilot anywhere inside of fifty miles," boasted Bill. "Garvey Rocks, you said?"

"Yes."

Bill took his place at the wheel. Tom released the shore tackle. Then he was down in his seat firmly planted. The _Beulah_ made a leap like some marine leviathan bounding out of captivity.

Tom had never had much experience with a launch, but it was sufficient, with Bill's constantly shouted directions, to enable him to run the engine. The thought crossed his mind that he would have the indignant ire of Bert Aldrich to face on his return. It flitted quickly as the peril of the _Olivia_ and his loyal girl friend aboard of the steamer recurred to him with intensified urgency.

One plunge, obliterating all shore outlines, seemed to whirl them into a vortex of battling, unrestrained elements. The first splash of spray, dense and blinding, covered Bill like a veil. A great wave sent the craft hurtling along like an arrow. Tom realized that they were bent on a desperately dangerous venture.

"We can't line the shore; we must get out further from land," Bill shouted back.

Bill, once past danger of sandbars and breakers, had turned the course due southeast. On every calculation of knowledge of locality and distances, this it seemed would be sure to bring them in direct range of Garvey Rocks. For half an hour they drove ahead, neither speaking a word. Then Tom fixed his eye on some moving lights shorewards. They inspired a sudden thought, and setting the lever at steady speed he crept forward on hands and knees along the slippery deck.

"Bill!" he shouted hoarsely.

"Hello--what's the row?" challenged Bill, amazed that Tom had deserted his post of duty.

"Made out any lights ahead?"

"Not yet."

"Neither have I. There's some ashore, though."

"What of it?" questioned Bill.

"They are of the coaling station at Brookville. I am sure some craft is there."

"Suppose so."

"We had better advise them of our errand. It may be a big steam tug. Two are better than one, and the _Olivia_ may be in a desperate fix."

"If she's really on the rocks she's stove bad long before this," was the discouraging rejoinder of Bill, sending a chill through Tom's frame.

"We could never pull the steamer off the rocks, but a larger craft might," suggested Tom.

"What are you getting at?" asked Bill.

"I think we had better make Brookville and get the boat there, whatever it is, in service."

"You're the boss, Tom," said Bill simply.

Tom made his way back to his seat. Soon the launch described a circle, which, masterly as was the manoeuvre, sent the craft careening at a perilous angle. Then they headed straight for shore.

They came alongside a steam tug just through coaling at the dock at Brookville. The boat did not have steam up, and was moored safely for the night. Men were moving about the deck with lanterns, making things trim and safe. Tom had caught a grapnel on the rail of the tug and secured it. Then he swung aboard the tug.

He ran up to a man arrayed like himself in foul weather costume, who stood steadying himself at a hawser post, and who was giving orders to the others. The man stared strangely at Tom's sudden appearance.

"Captain," shot out Tom tersely.

"That's me. Where did you come from? Oh, I see," and he caught sight of the outlines of the launch. "What's the trouble?"

Tom briefly, rapidly explained the situation. In an instant he realized that he was fortunate in finding just the kind of a man he needed. The tug captain listened to him in breathless interest. When Tom had concluded he rested his hand on his shoulder in a friendly way.

"You're a good one, lad, whoever you are," he said. "Sorry we're shut down, but we'll set about steaming up in a jiffy. Garvey Rocks, you, said?"

"Yes, sir--know them?"

"Like a book. We'll be on your trail inside of half an hour."

"It's all right!" shouted Tom, as he regained the launch. "Make straight for the steamer, now, Bill."

"No time to lose either," was the snappy response.

The fresh start gave Bill his bearings more clearly than ever.

"I can't miss it," he declared. "Speed her up, Tom."

The young wireless operator gazed anxiously and eagerly ahead as they dashed forward. No lights yet showed, but he knew that the shore line described a circular sweep just beyond Brookville. They might not be far enough out at sea yet to give them a clear view of the waters. His anxiety, however, grew to dismal forebodings as ten, fifteen, twenty minutes passed by, and the same blank unbroken blackness loomed ahead.

Suddenly Tom, who had been watching the motor, called out to his companion:

"Say, Bill, you'd better come back here a minute."

"What for? I can't leave the wheel, unless it's something important."

"Well, it's important all right. I don't like the way this machinery is

## acting. It doesn't seem to be sparking right, if I'm any judge."

"Great Scott! I hope nothing goes wrong in this blow. Wait a second. I'll be with you. I'll lash the wheel. I guess it will be safe for a little while to keep on a straight course."

Tom heard Bill tossing ropes about as he picked up some to lash the wheel. Then he staggered into the motor room, being tossed from side to side by the pitching of the launch.

Hardly had he reached the side of the young wireless operator, than, with a sigh and a moan--a sort of apologetic cough--the motor ceased working.

"Oh, my!" exclaimed Bill. "There she goes! I should say something _was_ the matter."

"What is it?" asked Tom.

"Don't know yet. I'll have to take a look. It may be the ignition, or the carburetor, or any of half a hundred things that can happen to a gasoline motor. I'll have to take a look."

"Should I have called you sooner?" asked Tom. "It was acting queer for several minutes. First it would go fast and then slow."

"Well, I guess coming in any sooner wouldn't have done much good. I'll take a look now. You'd better help me. Get the lantern and bring it closer. We won't need any one at the wheel when we aren't moving."

The launch was now drifting about at the mercy of the wind and waves. She fairly wallowed in the water, and it was no easy task to keep one's footing, to say nothing of trying to get a balky motor back into commission. But the two set about their task bravely, while the storm raged about them.

First Bill tested the ignition system. Something was evidently wrong with that, for there came no responsive buzz in the coil when he threw the fly wheel over to make the connections.

"Maybe it's the make-and-break," he suggested. "I'll tinker with that." Which he did, tightening and loosening the spring, separating and bringing nearer the contact points. But it was useless. There was no buzz.

"Are the batteries all right?" asked Tom.

"I'll test 'em," was the laconic answer, and in a few minutes the announcement came: "They're good and strong. If I can get her to start on the batteries I can swing her over onto the magneto, and we'll be all right. But I can't get a spark."

"How about the plugs?" asked Tom.

"I'll try them next. Oh, there are plenty of things to try."

"And not much time to do 'em in," added Tom grimly, as he held the lantern where the gleam would fall best for his companion. "This is fierce, to be delayed this way when there are men and women--yes, maybe children, too--who need saving!"

"Can't help it!" cried Bill. "We're doing the best we can."

With a quick motion he unscrewed the spark plugs from the cylinder heads.

"Here's trouble already, Tom," he cried. "They're all sooted up. Now I've got to soak 'em in gasoline and----"

"Maybe there are some spare ones aboard!" suggested the young wireless operator. "Let's take a look. It's going to be hard work to clean these old ones in this blow. Besides, I don't like the idea of fooling with gasoline in an open can, and with a lantern so close."

"Neither do I. We'll see if we can't find some extra plugs."

Together they began to rummage through the lockers of the boat. Tossed about as they were, slammed from side to side as the waves pitched the launch, they spent a hard fifteen minutes in the hunt.

"I don't believe there are any," said Bill despondently.

"Here's a box we didn't open!" cried Tom, as he saw a small one down in the bottom of a port locker. "Let's try that!"

In another instant he had the cover off. There, in the beams of the lantern, he saw the gleam of white porcelain.

"Spark plugs!" cried Tom.

"New ones!" added Bill. "This is great. Now we'll move!"

Quickly he adjusted the wires, but, before screwing the plugs in the top of the cylinders he tested them to see if there was no other break in the ignition system.

As the wheel was swung over there came a welcome buzz from the coil, and a tiny blue flame leaped from point to point of the spark plug, as it lay on top of the cylinder head.

"Hurray!" yelled Tom, above the roar of the wind.

"That's it!" shouted Bill. "Now to see what happens!"

The plugs were inserted, screwed tight, and then came the test. Steadying themselves as best they could in the rocking boat they turned the flywheel over, Tom having thrown in the battery switch.

There was the tell-tale buzz, which told of the working of the spark plug--a buzz and a hum, but there was no welcoming explosion. No hearty puff from the cylinders that indicated the gasoline mixture being set off by the spark.

"Hum!" mused Bill, as he paused to contemplate the silent motor.

"Something wrong, still?" asked Tom anxiously, gazing off across the dark expanse of water for a possible sight of a flickering light that would tell of the ill-fated _Olivia_. But he saw nothing.

"Well, we'll try once more," exclaimed Bill. "Hold the lantern closer, Tom, so I can see how the timer works."

The young wireless operator obeyed. Once more the buzz and hum told of the perfect working of the ignition system--and yet not perfect either, for the motor was still silent, and the launch was drifting about more helpless than ever.

"Suppose you try, Tom," suggested Bill. "Maybe you'll have better luck than I had."

Tom handed his companion the lantern, and grasped the wheel, for there was little use in trying the automatic starter in such a condition as was the machinery now.

But Tom had no better success, though he strained and tugged, giving the wheel many revolutions.

"Say!" suddenly exclaimed Bill. "The gasoline! Didn't we shut it off when we started to see what the trouble was?"

"We sure did," agreed Tom.

"And we didn't turn it on again, I'll wager. Look at the tank valve."

"That's right!" cried Tom. "Here she comes now."

Waiting a moment for the carburetor to fill, Bill once more swung the wheel over. They waited anxiously to see if it would continue, but with a wheeze it gave up as soon as the muscular impetus stopped.

"Carburetor troubles!" muttered Bill. "And that's the worst kind to have in a storm. Well, there's no help for it. Here goes to adjust it."

As is well known, many carburetors require a different adjustment in rainy weather than in dry. It was so in this case. Bill screwed and unscrewed the air valve and readjusted the butterfly automatic. He admitted more gasoline, then less, giving a richer and then a thinner mixture. After each adjustment he tried the motor, but it was not until after about ten trials that, when both were on the point of giving up, suddenly the motor started.

"Hurray!" cried Tom.

"It's about time," murmured Bill. "She's working better than ever now, though," he said, as he listened to the machinery. "I'll go take the wheel now. Watch her carefully, Tom," and he went to the helm again. Once more they were under way, and their anxious eyes peered through the blackness.

The storm had been bad, but now it was worse. The swift dash of the rain formed a kind of mist. Tom's heart sank as he heard Bill at the wheel utter a kind of impatient groan.

"What's amiss?" he shouted to the pilot.

"Something's wrong--no lights, and I may have missed my course. We'll have to strike shore again, Tom," said Bill.

"Can't we avoid wasting the time?" inquired Tom.

"There may be no chance for the ship to show lights," suggested Bill, in his broad blunt way. "Maybe the _Olivia_ has gone down."

"Oh, surely not that!" cried Tom. "There--there!"

"Good!" chorused Bill, in a gladsome shout; "it must be the _Olivia_!"

Directly ahead, but high up in the air, a brilliant rocket had pierced the gloom of the tempestuous night.

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