by Hugh Lloyd
Skippy watched the long line of foam that the launch left in its wake.For a long time his misty eyes were fastened on the glistening bubblesdancing atop the water until he could no longer stand his father’ssilence.
“Pop, Pop,” he stammered, “can’t we go—go somewhere now?”
“Sure—sure,” said Toby brokenly. “We’re goin’ somewheres a’right. We’regoin’ ter the Basin where Jones told us to go with the _Minnie M.Baxter_.” He laughed sardonically. “We’re goin’ ter put the ol’battle-axe in dry-dock _forever_!”
“What’s that mean, Pop?” Skippy asked pathetically. “It sounds like youmean something terrible will happen to the _Minnie M. Baxter_.”
“It _is_ terrible ter me—an’ ter you, Skippy boy,” mumbled Toby. “Itmeans that the pore scow’s so rotten she ain’t fit fer nothin’ but terbe put high an’ dry in Brown’s Basin along with half a hunderd otherrotten scows. It’s way in the inlet an’ folks live in them scows like Iguess you an’ me’ll have ter till I kin think what next.”
“Then all those other barges like ours can never sail the harbor again,huh?” Skippy asked sadly. “They just sorta stay there till they rot an’fall apart, is that it? Like as if they’re condemned.”
“That’s the word, Skippy,” said Toby Dare bitterly. “The _Minnie M.Baxter’s_ been condemned an’ you an’ me are condemned along with her.”
CHAPTER III THE BASIN
Brown’s Basin was off the beaten track, even nautically speaking. Onecould never have found it except by the merest chance, unless one werefortunate enough to have a companion who was familiar with it. Therivermen knew, perhaps knew too well, as did the police who preferred toget no closer to the colony than the shadowy inlet which sulks silentlyin the daylight hours and strangely springs to life under cover of theblackest nights.
The Basin, as it is more familiarly known, thrives under the protectionof the lofty Palisades. In summer the foliage all but hides it from theshore, and in winter the grim, gray rocks give it ample security fromthe prying eyes of the world. And the Basin wishes that security, forthe character of the residents is such that secrecy and isolationprovide the means for their livelihood and their existence.
Perhaps half a hundred derelict barges dot the slimy mud banks of theBasin, some of them occupied and some not. But on the whole the combinedpopulation of this sordid looking place represents a fair number and onbright, sunlit mornings one can get an occasional glimpse from the steepriver road of poorly clad children scrambling from one to the other ofthe closely packed barges, much the same as they would scramble acrosscity streets.
Large planks connect the sprawling hulks in a sort of interminable chainand the denizens can traverse the entire settlement by this means. Moreoften than not the family laundry waving in the damp river breeze on theforward deck must be dodged by this strolling citizenry, but they arequite used to all forms of adroit evasion, particularly where the law isconcerned.
It was into this little lawless colony that the _Minnie M. Baxter_ wastowed. Sunset had long since gone, leaving but a hint of vermilioncolored sky at the horizon as the kicker chugged silently farther andfarther into the muddy waters of the inlet. Skippy steered themotor-boat and Toby Dare struggled at the tiller of the barge while mostof the colonists looked on indifferently. They sprawled about on thevarious decks, men, women and children.
Criticism, both friendly and otherwise, reached Toby Dare’s sensitiveears, but he paid little heed, using his own judgment as to a suitablespot in which to rest the ill-fated barge. It was a spot at the veryedge of the Basin that he chose and so manifest was its isolation fromthe rest of the colony that but one inference could be drawn: Toby Daredid not intend his son or himself to be drawn into that maelstrom ofdubious citizenry. His grief over the recent misfortune in no wayblunted his keen senses and, as always, Skippy’s future welfare wasuppermost in his mind.
“They’re people what ain’t partic’lar ’bout things, Sonny,” he explainedwhile the _Minnie M. Baxter_ was settling in the mud. “They—well, theycan’t help it, but they’re folks what ain’t carin’ whether their boys isfetched up right or not. They jest let their kids live day after daysorta an’ they don’t think uv next year. Me, I’m always a-thinkin’ ’boutyou a year ahead—see? So it ain’t no use botherin’ with folks whatthinks different.”
“I see, Pop,” said Skippy looking musingly into the rust-colored water.“You know all about ’em, huh?”
“More’n they know themselves, Sonny. Ain’t they slaves fer Ol’ Flintsame as I was? Only I did more uv his high class dirty work. I overseed’em load an’ unload the stuff fer Ol’ Flint an’ it paid enough ter keepmy sonny in a shack ashore where he didn’t see his Pop helpin’ ter beatthe law. Now when I thought I was through with that an’ ready ter giveyer a clean, honest start—_where am I?_” He buried his face in hishands.
Skippy touched his father on the shoulder with a trembling hand.
“Aw, Pop—forget it, huh? I can help soon too, can’t I? When I get myworkin’ papers I can. I’ll even go to night school an’ I’ll be honestan’ like a gentleman just the same as if the _Minnie M. Baxter_ wasn’tcondemned an’ we could haul garbage an’ ashes an’ make plenty.” He wasquite exhausted by this lengthy declaration but his eyes were full ofshining hope.
Toby Dare raised his head.
“Yer a-meanin’ well, Sonny, but yer ain’t got no idea how hard it is terdo anythin’ without a little money. Besides, it sort uv taints a man’sown fam’ly even, when he’s worked fer Ol’ Flint. Decent, honestshipowners give a man the go-by when they find out yer been a Flint man.Yer blackballed, in other words, Sonny—see? Yer ain’t given no chanceter work at an honest job no matter how bad yer want to. An’ I can’t donothin’ but river work an’ the like—I ain’t never done nothin’ else! Theonly thing fer a man like me ter do was ter try an’ go on his own hooklike I meant ter do with the _Minnie M. Baxter_. Now I can’t do thatunless—unless....” His large, yellow teeth seemed to close over the wordhopefully.
“Unless what, Pop?” Skippy asked eagerly.
“Unless I kin make him give me back my money an’ I kin buy another_Minnie M. Baxter_.” He choked a little and shook his disheveled head.“But that’s too much ter hope fer, Skippy. Ol’ Flint’s never been knownter give anythin’ back—it’s me that oughta know that. I was a fool terthink he could be honest with me—_me_, a poor workman uv his. Why, Ol’Flint’s bragged he’d skin anybody what was fool enough ter _be_skinned.”
Skippy shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other.
“So then will you go to a lawyer like Inspector Jones told you? Toplease me, Pop, will you?”
“I’m a-goin’ nowheres but ter see Ol’ Flint,” answered Toby hoarsely.“That swell yacht uv his is anchored in the bay an’ he’s livin’ aboardit durin’ this hot spell so I know where ter find him after workin’hours. He ain’t only ten years older ’n me an’ he’s in good conditionan’ jest my size so....”
“Pop—Pop, you got fight on your mind an’ it’s just the way InspectorJones warned you not to go to see Mr. Flint! Besides, it ain’t gonna behalf bad here till we can think up sumpin’ else to do. Forget about Mr.Flint if you’re jus’ thinkin’ of him on accounta me. I’ll be allright——”
“I’ll forget anythin’ ’ceptin’ that Ol’ Flint’s cheated me with a grinon his slick face,” said Toby Dare with an ominous softness in hisvoice. “So I’m a-goin’ ter teach him a lesson, Skippy—I’m a-goin’ terteach him that Toby Dare can’t be cheated outa everythin’ he’s hopedfer, fer years, without hittin’ back. Yessir, Ol’ Flint’s gotta learnwhat it means ter cheat me!”
“Pop—Pop! You ain’t goin’—honest?”
“I am. I’m a-goin’ sure as guns.”
“When—when you goin’, Pop?”
“_Tonight!_”
CHAPTER IV COMP
ROMISE
Skippy got the first meal aboard the _Minnie M. Baxter_. His heart andsoul were certainly not in the task for he burned four of the flapjacksthat he was cooking. The coffee had twice boiled over and the narrowlittle cabin was filled with a blue, acrid smoke and though the sight ofhis father’s lugubrious face, as he paced up and down outside the littlewindows, disturbed him, he was not particularly unhappy.
His mind, during the preparation of that meal, was not on his father’smisfortunes nor on the threatened and ominous visit to the Flint yachtthat very evening. Instead he was visualizing what benefits were to bederived from residing in the Basin, chief among these being anuninterrupted summer season of fishing and swimming. That to the heartof a boy of his age compensated fully for the loss of the garbage andashes contract, yes, even for the loss of the barge’s promise of aremunerative future.
It is not to be thought that Skippy did not deeply feel his father’sgrief, for indeed he had brooded over it for hours. But after they hadsettled and arranged their few belongings in the meagerly furnishedcabin of the barge, he had achieved that blessed miracle of youth andaccepted the inevitable without a question. Life stretched out ahead ofhim as the inlet lay spread under this starlit night, broken now andthen by a quiet ripple until it reached the river. What would happenbeyond that point he knew he could find out when he came to it.
And so, more contented than his brooding and troubled parent, Skippypiled up the flapjacks until they resembled the leaning tower of Pisa,and he whistled to the accompaniment of the sputtering coffee pot. Allthe world seemed delightful and generous with these savory dishes readyto be eaten, and he asked himself if his father wasn’t making much oflittle. After all, they had the _Minnie M. Baxter_ for a home, didn’tthey? And wasn’t living on a barge just the kind of life that he and hispals had often wished for when they had lain about their dusty dooryardson hot summer nights?
The boy ran to the door, his tanned face flushed and expectant. He wouldtell his father how much better he was going to feel out on the riverall summer than back in dusty, hot Riverboro where he had spent all hislife. He would fish and swim and take lots of deep, lung-developingbreaths. He’d probably never have another bad throat....
He inhaled deeply on the strength of this thought and though his lungsfilled with a queerly mixed odor of mud, decayed fish and salt, henoticed it not at all. Moreover, the inlet might have been a clear,wind-swept ocean waste, so far above the Basin had his imaginationcarried him.
A figure stirred in the shadows forward and then he heard the familiartread of his father. Suddenly on the damp salt breeze they heard thedistant sound of chimes and waited silently while the faint notes struckoff the hour of ten.
“Pretty late to eat, huh Pop? Everythin’s ready, so you better comewhile it’s hot.”
“Yer know where them chimes come from?” Toby asked in a tone of voicethat was strange to his son. “They come from River Heights on that swellTown Hall what Ol’ Flint give to the borough. Now I s’pose he’ll givethe three hunderd dollars he cheated me outa, fer somethin’ else what’llgive him a big name, hey? That’s what some uv them scoundrels like Ol’Flint do—give their dirty money ter things what’ll give ’em a fine bigname. Well, he won’t git the chanct ter give my three hunderd—not whileI live!”
Josiah Flint again! Skippy’s heart lost all its merry hopes in afleeting second. He turned back into the cabin and his father followedhim in gloomy silence. Mechanically, he carried the steaming plate fromthe oil stove to the rickety little oil-cloth covered table and withouta word they pulled up their chairs and sat down.
“I never tole yer before,” said Toby after a few moments, “but if itwasn’t fer Ol’ Flint there wouldn’ never ’a’ been no squatter colonylike this in Brown’s Basin. It’s him what’s made it, that’s what.They’re all blackballed men, Sonny; men what’s got in Ol’ Flint’sclutches an’ ain’t never got the chance nor the brains ter git out. Notlike me that had a little more brains ter earn bigger money so’s I couldsave fer the _Minnie M. Baxter_. _Save!_” He brought his fist down uponthe table with such force that a flapjack bounced from his plate to thefloor. “Ha, ha—what for did I save, hey?”
He laughed so sardonically that Skippy hurried for the coffee to hidehis concern.
“Aw, please don’t take on so, Pop!” His eyes were directed at Toby’sback. “Gee, that old miser, he ain’t worth you actin’ so queer an’ all.It ain’t so bad here. It’s a nice little house we got in this cabin;chairs an’ the stove an’ a table an’ our trunk.” His glance wandered tothe tiny windows opened to the damp salt breeze. “Even I bet I could putup some cretonne stuff as good as a girl an’ then won’t this be onenice-lookin’ little place!”
Toby’s chair scraped over the rough, clean boards and he stood up,straight and powerful and ominous.
“Never mind the coffee now,” he said hoarsely. “We kin heat it up an’drink it when we come back.” He laughed. “We’ll drink it as a toast terOl’ Flint’s health!”
Skippy put down the coffee pot and wiped his grimy hands on his khakiknickers. Then with a swift movement he shook back his straight,rebellious hair and glanced up at his father.
“You—you mean you want me with you, Pop?” he asked tremulously.
“_Jest_ what I mean, Skippy. I want yer along so’s I kin remember Ol’Flint ain’t worth ... well, what I mean is, if I have yer to talk ter onthe way I ain’t so like ter lose my head when I git there an’ talk terhim. If he gits sneerin’ at me like his habit is mostly, it’ll be goodfer me ter know my Sonny’s right outside a-waitin’ in the kicker.Waitin’ fer his Pop, hey?”
“Sure, sure,” Skippy gulped. “Sure, I’ll go with you if it’s gonna makeyou feel that way, Pop. Gee, I’ll go anywheres with you if you onlypromise not to lose your head.”
“Jest the sight uv that man’ll make me lose my head, Skippy—I know it.But so long as yer make me promise—I won’t give him the worst uv it, ifI kin help it.”
Skippy knew his father well enough to accept just that much and hope forthe best. He went to the old battered trunk, took out a worn sweater andwhile still drawing it on followed Toby outside.
They descended the rope ladder in silence and got into the shabby boat.Toby turned over the motor and Skippy took his place at the bow to watchfor drifting logs for the little kicker had not a light. Toby’s formernocturnal occupations had made it necessary for him to dispense withthis appurtenance and now, as he explained to his inquiring son, it hadbecome a habit to roam the river without illumination, knowing as he didevery square foot of it. Besides, he had come to love the solitude ofdarkness.
Skippy looked all about him, not exactly at his ease. The inlet wasblack and at times the starlit sky seemed so far away as to be but amirage. Perhaps there wasn’t a star in all the heavens, he would try totell himself. All was black night and the muffled motor purred with ahushed monotony that affected him strangely. He fervently hoped thatthey would not be long in reaching the river where he could breathewithout feeling that he was going to choke.
He knew he was afraid and he knew it really had nothing to do with theinlet or the black, silent night. It was a nameless dread that hadseized him and, try as he would, he could not shake it off.
Instinctively, he felt that they shouldn’t go on to Josiah Flint’s yachtthat night.
CHAPTER V THE APOLLYON
Skippy felt better when the boat nosed out into the river. He raised hisworried face to the clear salt breeze and let it blow over his hotcheeks. Lights blinked here and there on the dark water and a tugchortled by noisily. Then on the far shore he saw a cable light, and aship ran clear of it before she dropped her mooring anchor.
Toby said nothing but sat in a lugubrious silence as he steered thelittle craft downstream. Skippy stared hard at the spray foaming againstthe bow; his mind was not on drifting logs. He turned to his father,scanned his face anxiously, then peered downstream again.
“Is Mr. Flint’s yacht much further, Pop?” he asked after a few minutes.
“No, we oughta soon be on top uv her,” came the hoarse reply. “Yer can’tmiss her—she’s got her name sprawled fore an’ aft in great big goldletters. It’s some fancy name called A—Apollyon. That’s it. Kindohighfalutin name, hey? Like all them there Flints.”
“How many Flints are there, Pop?”
“Jest two now, like me an’ you. Ol’ Flint an’ his son, Buck. His realname’s Harry. Anyway folks call him Buck. But he’s got it better’n you,Sonny. Much better. Besides he’s old enough ter take his father’s placein the dirty business, though I heerd not so long ago that Buck ain’t uva mind with the old man an’ lets Marty Skinner help run the works. Theysay Buck’s terrible honest an’ all fer the law but Skinner’s nothin’ buta rat.”
“Well, maybe Buck’ll take over his father’s business some day and makeit pay without havin’ smugglin’ an’ things like that, huh Pop?”
“Mebbe, but not if that crook Skinner keeps his ball in the game. Still,I heerd it said that Ol’ Flint’s business has always paid good enoughwithout him doin’ dirty work fer easy money. But that’s what a miser heis—he’s gotta have a crooked side line so’s ter pile up his millions ina coupla years. He ain’t willin’ like the rest uv these shipowners’round here ter wait an’ let a honest fortune pile up, say, in twentyyears or so. He can’t be honest, Ol’ Flint can’t, not even with a poorman like me, an’ Skinner’s the same breed uv cats.”
