CHAPTER XII
STOWAWAYS
Tom Dalton stood grimly silent for a moment or two regarding the ship before him as if to satisfy himself that it was indeed Captain Morris’ ship.
“Yes,” he said, finally, “it’s the Golden Moose.”
“And ready to sail soon, too,” remarked Will. “Where are you going, Tom?”
Tom had started to leave the spot.
“To look for another ship.”
“What for?”
“To get back to Watertown, of course.”
“See here, Tom.”
“Well.”
“I doubt if there’s a craft here going to Watertown.”
“Then we’ll wait for one,” responded Tom, gruffly. “You surely ain’t thinking of the Moose?”
“I am. Why not? We have friends aboard. There’s the boatswain.”
Tom shook his head persistently.
“It’s no use of talking, Will,” he said. “I daren’t trust myself in Captain Morris’ clutches again. He’d kill me, sure.”
“Nonsense. See here, Tom, the hatches are fastened down and the Moose probably sails tonight. It’s only a short voyage.”
“Well?”
“There’s a dozen places we could hide about the ship.”
“That may be, but—”
“And Captain Morris may not be aboard at all. You know he sometimes gives the mate charge of the ship.”
“If I thought that, I’d venture, Will, but I’m really afraid of him.”
“Once aboard we’ll hide snug and safe until we reach Watertown and then skip ashore.”
Tom’s hesitation gave way under Will’s arguments, and he said:
“All right. I’ll sort of sneak around the ship and see who is aboard.”
Will waited while Tom approached the ship.
The latter was gone for about ten minutes.
“Well?” asked Will, as he returned to the place where he was.
“The coast’s clear.”
“No one aboard?”
“Oh, yes; the mate and boatswain and half a dozen others are in the cabin.”
“And the crew?”
“I guess they’re ashore.”
“Did you see Captain Morris?”
“No.”
“Does it look as if they were going to sail tonight?”
“Yes; the lanterns are ready for an outward trip. Come, now’s our time to steal aboard. They’ve been making a lot of changes, just as if they were going on a long voyage.”
Tom led the way to the ship, and Will followed him over the rail to the deck.
“Where shall we hide?” he asked Tom.
“In the forecastle.”
“Won’t we be discovered?”
Tom laughed.
“You must remember I’m at home on the Moose,” he said.
A lamp burned dimly in the forecastle, and thither Tom led the way. They passed a row of bunks and finally came to a trap door, which he opened.
“Are we going in there?” inquired Will, peering into the dark aperture.
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
“A sort of storage cubby hole, and it’s warm and cozy.”
Both boys found themselves ensconced in a low, boarded apartment. Several old mattresses afforded a soft couch, and they could command a full view of the room through which they passed through the cracks in the door, which Tom had pulled shut after him.
They had tramped quite a long distance that day, and their whispered conversation soon subsided, and drowsiness overcame them.
Will was the first to awake in the morning. From the motion of the ship, he knew that they were on the ocean. Peering through the interstices of the trap door he saw several sailors asleep and others coming from and going to the deck.
When Tom awoke they discussed the situation and decided that by that night or the next morning, they would reach Watertown.
“I’m getting desperately hungry,” Tom said more than once, as the long morning glided away.
“We can’t get anything to eat here without revealing ourselves,” replied Will.
Tom’s fortitude, however, gave out completely before the day was ended.
“I can’t stand it, Will,” he ejaculated at last. “I’m fairly dying of hunger and thirst. Look, Will, there’s the boatswain.”
Peering through a crack in the door, Will saw Jack Marcy enter the place.
He was alone, and the forecastle was deserted except for himself.
“Shall I hail him?” he whispered, inquiringly, to Tom.
“Yes, do, Will. He’ll bring us something to eat and drink and won’t betray us.”
Will pushed the door of their place of concealment slightly ajar.
“Jack!” he uttered in a distinct but subdued tone.
The boatswain, who was arranging a bunk, started, and looked bewilderedly around him.
“Here, Jack, it’s Tom Dalton and myself,” spoke Will, pushing the door clear open.
Jack Marcy came to the spot and stood staring in profound amazement at the two boyish faces peering out at him.
“Well, well,” was all he could say, in dumbfounded amazement.
“Don’t you know us, Jack? It’s Tom Dalton and Will Bertram.”
“Yes, yes, I know you, but how on earth do you come here?” spoke the mystified boatswain.
“Oh, that’s a long story, Jack. All we’re thinking of now is getting back to Watertown, and we want something to eat.”
“Where?” cried Jack, wildly.
“To Watertown.”
The old boatswain shook his head gravely.
“You’re on the wrong ship, lads. It will be many a long day before you see Watertown.”
“What do you mean?” asked Will, in sudden alarm.
“The Moose ain’t going to Watertown at all.”
“What! Not going to Watertown?”
“No; she’s provisioned for a two-month ocean trip.”
“And Captain Morris—” quavered Tom, appealingly.
“Is in command.”
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