The Moving Picture Boys on the Coast/Chapter 14
CHAPTER XIV
ATTACKED BY A SWORDFISH
"Don't do it!" cried Mr. Ringold. "Let that fire burn!"
But there were now so many fishermen rushing about here and there that they paid no attention to the excited theatrical man, who issued orders right and left.
"What shall we do?" demanded C. C., who had gotten off to one side with the girl he was supposed to have "rescued" from the burning cabin.
"I don't know!" cried Mr. Ringold. "The whole play is spoiled by those fellows butting in. Hi, there!" he called to Blake and Joe, as he saw them operating the cameras. "Stop the reel! We don't want any of this!"
The clicking machines grew silent, and then the boys knew that something was wrong.
Meanwhile, the hand engine was placed in position. It was learned, later, that the fish concern kept it for use in cases of emergency. There had been some small blazes, in which the old engine had proved its worth.
The fishermen knew how to operate it to advantage, too, and soon a double line of them, extending from the surf to the tank, began passing the filled buckets up one side and the empty ones down the other. As the tank filled, other men worked the handles and a stream of water was soon spurting on the fire.
"Quit it! Oh, quit it!" begged Mr. Ringold. "I want that shack to burn!"
"He's crazy—don't mind him!" shouted the self-appointed chief. "We'll soon have it out now."
"I'll see if I can stop them," said C. C., for the water had about quenched the blaze, and it was useless to try to go on with the play. "They'll listen to me," the comedian declared.
He rushed forward, but at that moment the hose got from the control of the two men holding it. The nozzle swung around, and the stream came full force over Christopher Cutler Piper, drenching him in an instant.
"I say there—hold on—shut that water off! I—I'm being drowned!" he spluttered. And then, as the men again got the nozzle under control, the comedian, dripping water at every point, walked away, saying:
"There, I told you something would happen!"
"I should say it has!" declared Mr. Ringold, for once agreeing with the gloomy actor.
A few more strokes of the pump handles, a few more gallons of water, and the fire, which had quickly attacked all parts of the cottage at once, died out.
"There!" cried Abe Haskill, the old fisherman-chief. "We saved your building for ye, Mr. Ringold. Ain't no use in buyin' a shack an' then havin' it burn down—no matter if it ain't wuth much. We saved her for you, though at one time it looked pretty dubious. This is the first fire we've had in some time, an' I reckon we got a bit rusty.
"I might add," he went on, "that it's customary, in cases where a volunteer department saves a buildin' from destruction—it's customary, I say, for the owner to donate a leetle suthin' to the department. In this case, seein' as how Jim Belton sold his shack to you—why, you're the owner. And, as I say, we saved her for you!" he concluded, proudly.
"Yes, I see you did," remarked Mr. Ringold, dubiously. "Now I've got to buy another, and burn that down, for this play is spoiled."
"What! Did you want her to burn?" asked Mr. Haskill, in accents of horror. "Did you want the devourin' element to consume that buildin'?"
"I did," replied the theatrical man.
"Well—I vum!" declared the volunteer chief. "Boys, we made a mistake."
"The next time I'll tell the inhabitants here what my plans are," went on Mr. Ringold, grimly. "I told you I wanted it to burn."
"I know you did," admitted the chief; "but I thought you was so excited you didn't know what you was sayin'."
"So did I," admitted several of the volunteer fire-fighters. "It's too bad!"
"Well, you meant all right, anyhow," went on Mr. Ringold, with cheerful philosophy; "and I'll make the department a donation. But next time, please don't interfere. I'll set another shack on fire as soon as I can arrange to buy one," he said to his company. "Meanwhile we'll go on with another drama. Save whatever you can of the films," he added to Blake and Joe. "Up to the time the firemen broke in they'll be all right. Next time I'll be more explicit."
"I knew something would happen," declared C. C., gloomily, as he tried to wring some of the water from his clothes. "I didn't burn, but I nearly drowned."
There was nothing to do but return to their boarding place and arrange for another drama, rehearsals for which would take place in a day or so.
"Meanwhile," said Mr. Ringold to Joe and Blake, "you may have a little time off. I tell you what you might do. We could use a fishing scene, I believe. Suppose you go out in one of the small boats here and get a series of views when they lift their nets."
"The very thing!" cried Blake. "We'll do it; eh, Joe?"
"Sure thing!"
"You might, in fact," went on Mr. Ringold, "show the whole process of fishing, from the launching of the boats until they come back filled with the day's catch."
This the boys arranged to do, and that noon, when the power boats were launched, they were on hand to make moving pictures.
The craft, as I have explained, were "eased down" the sloping beach, by means of rollers and planks, until the stern was just at the edge of the surf. The motor was then started, the boat being still held fast by a rope. This rope was fastened in a peculiar knot, so that one man, standing near it, could loosen it with one pull when the word was given to "cut loose."
The men watched the rollers with practiced eyes, for if the surf was heavy the boat might get into the trough, on being launched, and capsize. Often fishermen are drowned in this way, being struck by the heavy boat, or getting under it.
With the engine racing, the men got into the boat. One remained on the beach, holding the restraining rope. Another took his place at the stern, with a long steering oar that was to be used to get her bow on to the waves.
A particularly large wave was seen coming in.
"Get ready!" ordered the captain.
The man at the big oar took his place. The boat was almost afloat now.
"Cut loose!" came the order.
The man at the rope yanked the knot loose. The boat slid into the water and the next instant was being tossed about in the breakers, the man with the oar forcing her head around, aided by the powerful gasoline engine that turned the propeller. The craft came near to capsizing, but kept upright, and a little later was beyond the surf, into deep water, speeding out to the nets two miles away.
Blake and Joe, working by turns, got some fine views of the launching. Then, getting into another of the fishing boats with their cameras, and with Macaroni to aid them, they prepared to go out to the fishing grounds, where the nets were.
"Say, this is rough, all right!" exclaimed Blake, as they found themselves in the boiling, frothing surf.
"That's what!" agreed Joe.
"Let me out! I want to walk!" pleaded Macaroni, who was not very fond of the water.
"You'll be all right in a minute!" called Abe Haskill, who was captain of the boat. "Soon as you git out beyond the breakers you won't mind it."
And they found that they did not, though there was some motion, as there was quite a swell on. They reached the nets safely, and while the meshes were hauled up, bringing a good catch of fish, the moving picture boys took many views. It was interesting as well as instructive.
"This would make a good educational reel," suggested Blake, as he spread his legs to maintain his balance against the rocking motion of the boat.
"Indeed it would," observed Joe. "Look, there's some one overboard!" and he pointed to one of the other boats.
A man had indeed slipped into the sea. The moving picture boys were ready, however, and trained one of the cameras on the fisherman, who, laughing at his mishap, soon swam to the boat again, and was pulled in.
It took some little time to haul the nets, but at last, with their own boat well filled with flapping fish, as were the others, Joe and Blake started for shore.
"Well, we made out all right, I think," said Blake, as he looked to see if there was any more film left in his machine.
"Sure we did," declared his chum. "If we had to take some other views we could."
"We'll want some of the landing of the boats, and the carting of the fish up to the sheds," Blake reminded him.
"That's right, we will. I guess I can"
Joe did not finish his sentence. At that moment there came a jar and Blake cried:
"We've hit something!"
"No, something has hit us!" corrected one of the fishermen, leaping up, and grabbing a long, iron-shod pole.
"What is it?" demanded Joe.
"A pesky swordfish. He's ramming us, and he may poke a hole in us! If I can get a chance I'll jab him!" and the man leaned over the side. As he did so there came another attack on the craft, so fierce that it heeled over, and the man with the pole, giving a cry, was flung overboard.