The Girl Detective Megapack: 25 Classic Mystery Novels for Girls

by Mildred A. Wirt

  “It is pitching!” she exclaimed in an awed whisper.

  Her mind whirled. What had happened? Was the storm so violent that the O Moo was being rocked from side to side on her trestle. Would she soon topple over, to go crashing on the frozen sand? Or had they in some way been blown out to sea?

  This last seemed impossible. She thought of the block beneath the wheels of the car on which the O Moo stood, then of the strong cable fastened to her prow.

  “It is impossible!” she muttered.

  There was one way to prove this. She proceeded to apply the test.

  Turning a screw which held her porthole closed, she swung the metal framed glass wide open.

  Instantly she slammed it shut. She had been soaked with a perfect deluge of water.

  Her heart stopped beating. She tried to shout to the other girls, but her tongue clung to the roof of her mouth. There could no longer be any doubt concerning the nature of the catastrophe which had come over them. How it had happened, she could not even guess. This much she knew: They were afloat.

  “Girls! Girls!” Her own voice shouted to her like that of a ghost, “Marian! Lucile! Wake up! We’re afloat! The O Moo’s adrift!”

  Marian groaned; sat up quickly, then as quickly fell back again. Her head had collided with a beam.

  “What—what’s the matter?” she stammered.

  There came a low moan from Lucile: “I’m so sick.”

  “Seasick. Poor child,” said Florence.

  “No—no, not that.” Lucile’s voice was faint. “It’s my head—it’s splitting. I can’t raise it. I—I’m afraid it’s going to be—be—bad.”

  Florence leaped to the floor. Her feet splashed into a thin sheet of water which washed about on the carpet. The cold chill of it brought her to her senses. They were afloat.

  Someone had cast them adrift. Was that someone on deck at this moment or had he merely cut the cable, removed the blocks and allowed the wind to do the rest? This must be determined at once.

  Hastily dragging some rubbers on her benumbed feet, she splashed her way to the door. Having made sure that this was securely locked, she went to each window and porthole, fastening each as securely as possible. This done, she fought her way to Lucile’s berth and, steadying herself with one hand, placed the other on Lucile’s brow.

  An exclamation escaped her lips. The forehead was burning hot. Lucile had a raging fever.

  “If I had the coward who cut us loose,” she cried through clenched teeth, “I—I’d kill him!”

  CHAPTER XI

  A MYSTERIOUS ADVENTURE

  There are people who cannot sleep during a storm. It sets their nerves a-tingle, sets wild racing thoughts crowding through their minds and leaves them sleeplessly alert. It is as if a thousand wild witches rode on every mad rush of the wind, their shrill voices screaming in each blast, their fingers rattling at every windowpane and their breath puffing at the flickering light.

  Mark Pence could not sleep during that storm. Rocking every schooner, yacht and yawl on its cradle of trestlework, it went racing out over the lake, carrying every movable object with it. After many vain attempts to close his eyes, he at last rose and drawing on his clothes, said to himself:

  “I’ll go out and fight with it for a time. After that I may be able to sleep.”

  “Whew! What a whooper!” he exclaimed as the wind, slamming the door after him, blew him half-way to the beach. Grappling with the wind, as one grapples a wrestling mate, he stooped low, then shot forward.

  “Like springing against a volley-ball net.” He shrieked the words in wild defiance of the wind.

  Then, steadily, step by step, he fought his way toward the nearest schooner. Having gained the lee of it he paused a moment for breath.

  The storm came in gusts. Now in a blinding fury of snow, it blotted out everything about him. Now there was a lull. The wind appeared to pause to regain its breath. At such times as this his eyes penetrated the space before him.

  “Don’t look quite right over there,” he grumbled. “Something the matter with the sky line. Not enough boats, one would say!”

  He had regained his breath. For a moment he debated the advisability of venturing further into the storm. Finally he buttoned his coat collar tighter as he muttered:

  “Go over and see.”

  As he moved from his position of safety there came another gust. More furious than any that had gone before, it threatened to lift him from the earth and hurl him into the lake. But, stooping low, all but crawling, he made headway and, just as the lull came, gripped the top rail of the trestle on which the O Moo had rested.

  Hardly had he seized it than his hand slipped and he went sprawling.

  “That’s strange!” he muttered, “Awful slippery!”

  Removing one glove, he felt of the other.

  “Grease!” he muttered in blank astonishment. “Somebody’s greased that track.”

  Then, with the suspicion of treachery dawning upon him, he glanced up at the spot where the O Moo should have been.

  “Gone!” he exclaimed. “The O Moo’s gone! And six hours ago, she was here. I’d swear it. Saw it with my own eyes. Light in the window. Girls there. Now she’s gone and the girls with her. Gone in such a storm! What madness!” Again he thought of the greased track. “No! No! What treachery!”

  From his pocket he drew a flashlight. He meant to examine that track. It had been heavily greased all the way down to the water. That the iron wheels of the car on which the O Moo had rested had passed down the track, there could be no doubt. Mingled with the grease there was much iron rust.

  Drawing from his pocket a used envelope, he scraped a quantity of the grease into it, then replaced the envelope.

  “Evidence,” he said grimly. “Might not be worth much; might mean a lot.”

  The wind was roaring again. Clinging to the trestle, he waited its passing.

  “Gone!” he exclaimed. “Gone out to sea! It’s those Chinks. What beasts! I’ll get them! Go after them in just another minute. Then I’ll make them help me launch my schooner to go in search of that O Moo. Three girls! Not one of them knows how to start the engine. Girl called Marian told me so. And in such a storm! Got to make sure though! Got to get all the evidence I can!”

  Again he fought his way against the wind until he came to the point where the heavy blocks had held in place the wheels of the truck beneath the O Moo. These had been fastened by strong cleats. Hard, silent work had been required to loosen them. Throwing the light upon the blocks, he examined them carefully.

  On the side of one he discovered a peculiar mark. The wood, flattened out under pressure for a space of some four square inches, was raised in the very center in two narrow lines, each an inch long. These lines crossed one another.

  “Take it home. More evidence, perhaps.”

  Having fought his way up to the place where the cable had been fastened he examined the loosened end without discovering anything peculiar about it.

  “That’s all I can do here,” he decided. “Now for the rescue. Got to have help. Old Timmie’s not much good—too old. Fishermen all gone up the coast to fish through the ice. Chinks all there are left. Make ’em help undo what they’ve done. If they won’t come, I’ll fetch ’em!”

  During a lull in the storm he returned to his schooner. There he deposited the “evidence,” then throwing a small, cloth-strapped case over his shoulder and thrusting a bottle into his pocket he again ventured out into the storm. This time he turned his face toward the scow inhabited by the Orientals.

  * * * *

  Hardly had Florence, standing by the side of Lucile’s berth, hurled out her fiery denunciation of the wretch who had cast their yacht afloat than the O Moo gave a sudden lurch which threw her to the floor.

  Pandemonium broke loose. There came a crash of glass from the laboratory. Out of the darkness a bulk loomed at her. As she attempted to rise the thing appearing to spring at her, knocked her down. Then some other thing buried her
deep.

  The thing that had struck her was a heavy chair. She was buried beneath the blanket and mattress from her own berth.

  As she attempted to extricate herself it seemed that the entire contents of the cabin played leapfrog over her head. Careening like a deserted airship the O Moo appeared to plunge prow first down an endless abyss, only to climb laboriously up on the other side.

  This did not last for long. There was no engine going, no driving power. Suddenly she slipped into the trough of a huge wave and wallowed there helplessly, while tons of rushing water swept across her deck.

  “The engine!” gasped Florence. “It should be started.”

  Struggling to free herself, she thought of Lucile.

  “May have been thrown from her berth,” she groaned.

  Groping about she found Lucile’s berth, clung there while the yacht gave a wild, circling lurch, then felt for her sick companion.

  Clinging to the rail of her berth, Lucile lay there silently sobbing.

  Securing two blankets, Florence twisted them into ropes, then bound them across Lucile, one at her knees, the other at her chest.

  “That’ll hold you,” she whispered hoarsely.

  Starting across the cabin to the electric switch, she was caught again and thrown off her feet. She collided with something. That something put out two arms which encircled her. The two of them fell to the floor, then rolled half the length of it.

  Having regained her breath, Florence put out a hand. She touched a garment. She knew by the feel of it that it was Marian. “Thank goodness!” she said, “you’re still here—and alive.”

  In the midst of all this catastrophe, Marian began to giggle. “It’s too absurd!” she exploded. “I’ve traveled on the Arctic and Pacific, real oceans, and come here and have a mere lake kick up such a rumpus!”

  “But, Marian,” Florence expostulated, “it’s serious. These winter lake storms are terrible. The ship may go to the bottom any moment. It wasn’t built for this. And there may be ice, too. One crack from ice and she’d burst like an eggshell. C’mon, we’ve got to get lights. Gotta start the engine.”

  Dragging Marian to her feet, she made her way along the wall to the light switch.

  There came a sudden flood of light which brought out in bold relief the havoc wrought by the storm. Tables, chairs, lounge, writing paper, notebooks, shoes, garments of all sorts, were piled in a heap forward. The heavy carpet was soggy with water.

  One glance revealed that. The next instant the lights flickered and went out.

  “Have to find a candle,” said Florence soberly. “Water on the battery wires. Caused a short circuit. We can’t hope to use electricity. Ought to get engine started some way. Got to get a candle. You just—”

  “Watch out!” screamed Marian, as she leaped toward a berth.

  The O Moo had suddenly shot her prow high in air. The entire contents of the cabin came avalanching down upon them.

  * * * *

  Having made his way, in the midst of the storm, to the door of the scow on the dry dock occupied by the Orientals, Mark Pence paused to arrange the cloth strap carefully over his shoulder and to feel in his pocket. Then he beat loudly upon the door.

  As he had expected, he received no answer.

  Without further formalities he put his knees to the door and gave it a shove. The flimsy lock broke so suddenly that he was thrown forward. Losing his balance, he plunged headforemost down a short flight of stairs.

  With a low, whispered exclamation he sprang to his feet. Putting his ear to the wall, he listened. There were sounds, low grunts, slight shuffling of feet. It was uncanny. A cold perspiration stood out on his brow. “Danger here,” he whispered as he once more adjusted the cloth strap.

  The corridor in which he was standing was dark, but a stream of blue light poured out from beneath a door to his right.

  “Hey! You! Come out of there!” he shouted.

  Instantly bedlam followed. Doors were flung open. A glaring blue light flooded all.

  “O we-ee-ee! O wee-ee-ee,” came from every side.

  A knife flashed before him. Springing back, he tripped over something, then suddenly plunged downward. He had fallen down the circular stairway. After a wild dizzy whirl, he reached bottom with a bump.

  Immediately he was on his feet. His hand gripped the bottle. It was dark down here; dark as a dungeon.

  “Got to get out of here,” he whispered. “Whew! What a lot of them! Twenty or thirty! No use hoping for help from them. Fool for thinking I could. Got to get out and find help somewhere else—and get out quick. Be coming down.”

  Drawing something from the case slung across his shoulder, he pulled it down over his face. It was a gas mask, his old war mask, recharged.

  Gripping the bottle in his pocket, a bottle of Lucile’s quick action gas, he began to climb the stairs.

  He had made two-thirds of the distance when, sensing someone close to him, he threw his flashlight open.

  Right before him, grinning fiendishly, a knife between his teeth, was a giant Oriental. Mark did not wait for the attack he knew was coming. He drew back his arm. When it swung forward his hand held the bottle of gas—he sent it crashing against the iron post.

  The Oriental sprang back up the stairs. Following him closely, Mark made a dash for the door. All about him sounded wild exclamations.

  “Gas getting in its work,” he muttered, darting among the writhing bodies. He reached the foot of the short stairs which led to the outer door. Now his hand was on the knob. And now the door flew open. He was free.

  But what was this? Just as he made a dash for it, the gruff voice of someone very near him shouted:

  “Here they come. Nail ’em. There’s the first one. Got a mask on. Get him!”

  That was all he heard, for a stunning blow crashed on his head; he staggered, fell, then all was dark.

  CHAPTER XII

  THE O MOO RIDES THE STORM

  Florence and Marian lay clinging to the bare springs of a berth. They had made that point of safety before the avalanche of furniture, books and bric-a-brac had reached their end of the cabin. They were enduring discomforts beyond description. The yacht was now pitching from side to side in an alarming fashion. The wires of the spring on which they rested cut their tender flesh. Their scant clothing was saturated with cold water. The cabin had grown cold. Since the burning of the electric fuses, there was no heat. They were chilled to the bone, yet they dared not move. The heavy furniture, pitching about as it did, was a deadly menace. Here, above it all, they were safe.

  As Florence lay there, benumbed with cold, suffering agonies of suspense, listening to the thud and smash of furniture, the rush and crush of waves that washed the deck, awaiting the crash which was to be the final one, only one question occupied her mind: How and when would the final moment come? She dared not hope that the O Moo would ride such a storm safely.

  “Would the O Moo,” she asked herself, “turn turtle in the trough of a wave and, floating, mast down, would she hold them there to drown like rats in a cage? Or would some giant wave stave her in to sink to the bottom like a water-soaked log?”

  An answer was postponed. The O Moo rode bravely on. They were in the worst of it; she was sure of that. “Ought to get the engine started,” she told herself. “Then we could cut the waves; ride them, not wallow along in a trough.”

  She half rose to attempt to reach the engine room.

  “No use,” she groaned; “no light. If we fool around with gasoline and a candle we’ll blow the whole thing up.”

  But even as she thought this, she became conscious of a dim light. What could it be? She sat up quickly, then she uttered a hoarse laugh.

  “First gray streak of dawn,” she muttered. Then she thought of Lucile.

  “Stay where you are,” she said to Marian. “I’m going to try to get to Lucile.”

  By the aid of the feeble light she saw her opportunity to vault over a careening chair and to make a dash for it. A
second later she was at Lucile’s side.

  “Lucile!” she said softly. “Lucile!”

  The girl’s eyes were closed. A sudden fear seized Florence and her heart stood still a beat. Was Lucile asleep, unconscious, or—or was she dead?

  * * * *

  Over in the darkness and storm by the old scow, Mark Pence was slowly regaining consciousness. At first he imagined that a tiny train of cars was running about on the top of his head. This illusion vanished. He felt something hard in his mouth—tried to think what it was. He had been gagged! That was his first thought. No, that wasn’t it. He was breathing through the thing. The mouthpiece to his mask! That was it. He had kept it in his mouth.

  He was fully conscious now but did not attempt to sit up. Footsteps were approaching. He heard a voice.

  “They got away,” a man’s voice grumbled.

  “All but one. Drunk, that’s what they was. You can’t hardly shoot drunk men.”

  The first voice retorted:

  “No, you can’t.”

  “Well, anyway, we got one; the one with the mask. Didn’t hit him hard. He ought to be coming round.”

  Mark tried to discover the meaning of all this. The place had been raided. The Orientals had escaped. They had swarmed out yelling like mad men probably. The quick action gas would make them act as if under the influence of liquor. Probably they had tumbled the raiders over. But who were these raiders?

  He did not have long to wait for the answer. A rough hand dragged the mask from his face. He looked up into the frank blue eyes of a burly policeman.

  “You’re comin’ round. Sit up. Why, you’re no Oriental! You’re a white kid. What you doin’ here?”

  Mark sat up and told them what he had been doing.

  “That quick action gas now,” laughed one of the men, “wouldn’t be bad stuff for the police force now and again.”

  Suddenly Mark made an effort to rise. He had thought of the plight of his friends on the O Moo.

  “You—you’ll help me launch my schooner!” he exclaimed.

  “What’s the idea?”

  “Why you see those girls in the O Moo don’t know how to start their engine. Somebody’s got to bring them in.”