The Boy Fortune Hunters in Egypt E-Book

Floyd Akers

• Herausgeber: Charles Fred
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

A thrilling tale written by L. Frank Baum, originally in the pen name of Floyd Akers. This is a tale of fortune hunting in Egypt, written for younger men, but thrilling for every member of the family.
Sam Steele's Adventures on Land and Sea is a juvenile adventure novel written by L. Frank Baum, famous as the creator of the Land of Oz. The book was Baum's first effort at writing specifically for an audience of adolescent boys, a market he would pursue in the coming years of his career.

Leseprobe

The Boy Fortune Hunters in Egypt

Floyd Akers

     CHAPTER I. 

                              THE RUNAWAY. 

I was standing on the deck of the _Seagull_, looking over the rail and

peering into the moonlight that flooded the bay where we lay at anchor,

when the soft dip of an oar caught my ear.

It was the softest dip in the world, stealthy as that of an Indian, and

in the silence that reigned aboard ship I stood motionless, listening

for a repetition of the sound.

It came presently—the mere rustle of the drops as they slid off the

oar’s blade—and a small boat stole from the shadows astern and crept to

our side.

I glanced along the rail and saw, a few paces away, the dim form of the

watch, alert and vigilant; but the man knew I was there, and forbore to

hail the mysterious craft below.

At a snail’s pace the boat glided along our side until it was just

beneath me, when I could see a blot in the moonlight that resembled a

human form. Then a voice, so gentle that it scarce rose above the

breeze, called out:

“Ahoy, mate!” 

Now I ought to explain that all this was surprising; we were a simple,

honest American merchant ship, lying in home waters and without an

element of mystery in our entire outfit. On the neighboring shore of the

harbor could be seen the skids from which the _Seagull_ had been

launched a month before, and every man and boy in Chelsea knew our

history nearly as well as we did ourselves.

But our midnight visitor had chosen to steal upon us in a manner as

unaccountable as it was mysterious, and his hail I left unanswered while

I walked to the landing steps and descended them until I stood upon the

platform that hung just over the boat.

And now I perceived that the tub—for it was little else—was more than

half full of water, and that the gunwale rode scarce an inch above the

smooth surface of the bay. The miserable thing was waterlogged and about

to sink, yet its occupant sat half submerged in his little pool, as

quiet and unconcerned as if no danger threatened.

“What’s up?” I demanded, speaking rather sternly. 

The form half rose, the tub tipped and filled, and with a gentle splash

both disappeared from view and left me staring at the eddies. I was

about to call for help when the form bobbed up again and a hand shot out

and grasped a rope dangling from the landing stage. I leaned over to

assist, and the fellow scrambled up the line with remarkable agility

until I was able to seize his collar and drag him, limp and dripping, to

a place beside me.

At this time I was just eighteen years of age and, I must confess, not

so large in size as I longed to be; but the slender, bent form of the

youth whom I had rescued was even of less stature than my own. As he

faced me in the moonlight and gave a gasp to clear the water from his

throat, I noted the thin, pinched features and the pair of large, dark

eyes that gazed with pleading earnestness into my own.

“For Heaven’s sake, what are you up to?” I asked, impatiently; “and how 

came you to be afloat in that miserable tub? It’s a wonder you didn’t

sink long before you reached our side.”

“So it is,” he replied in a low voice. “Are you—are you Sam Steele, 

sir?”

“Yes.” 

“Ah! I hoped it would be you. Can I go aboard, sir? I want to talk to 

you.”

I could not well have refused, unless I consigned the fellow to the

waters of the bay again. Moreover, there was a touching and eager appeal

in the lad’s tones that I could not resist. I turned and climbed to the

deck, and he followed me as silently as a shadow. Then, leaning against

the rail, I inquired somewhat testily:

“Couldn’t you wait until morning to pay me a visit? And hadn’t you 

enough sense to know that old dinghy wouldn’t float?”

“But it did float, sir, until I got here; and that answered my purpose 

very well,” he replied. “I had to come at night to keep from being

discovered and recaptured.”

“Oh! You’re a criminal, then. Eh?” 

“In a way, sir. I’m an escaped cabin-boy.” 

That made me laugh. I began to understand, and the knowledge served to

relieve the strain and dissolve the uncanny effect of the incident. An

escaped cabin-boy! Well, that was nothing very wonderful.

“Here, come to my room and get some dry togs,” I said, turning abruptly 

to the gangway. The lad followed and we passed silently through the

after-cabin, past the door of Uncle Naboth’s quarters—whence issued a

series of stentorian snores—and so into my own spacious stateroom, where

I lighted a lamp and carefully closed the door.

“Now, then,” I exclaimed, pulling some of my old clothes from a locker, 

“slip on this toggery at once, so your teeth will stop chattering.” 

He discarded his dripping garments and replaced them with my dry flannel

shirt and blue trousers, my thick socks and low shoes. I picked up his

own ragged clothes and with a snort of contempt for their bedraggled and

threadbare condition tossed them out of the window into the sea.

“Oh!” he exclaimed, and clutched at his breast. 

“What’s the matter?” I asked. 

“Nothing. I thought at first you had thrown away mother’s picture; but 

it’s here, all right,” and he patted his breast tenderly.

“Hungry?” I inquired. 

“Yes, sir.” He gave a shiver, as if he had just remembered this 

condition; and I brought some biscuits and a tin of sardines from my

cupboard and placed them before him.

The boy ate ravenously, washing down the food with a draught of water

from the bottle in the rack. I waited for him to finish before I

questioned him. Then, motioning him to a seat on my bunk, for he seemed

weak and still trembled a bit, I said:

“Now, tell me your story.” 

“I’m a Texan,” he replied, slowly, “and used to live in Galveston. My 

folks are dead and an uncle took care of me until a year ago, when he

was shot in a riot. I didn’t mind that; he was never very good to me;

but when he was gone I had no home at all. So I shipped as a cabin-boy

aboard the _Gonzales_, a tobacco sloop plying between Galveston and Key

West, for I always loved the sea and this was the best berth I could

get. The Captain, Jose Marrow, is half Mexican and the cruelest man in

the world. He whipped me when he was drunk, and abused and cuffed me

when sober, and many a time I hoped he would kill me instead of keeping

up the tortures I suffered. Finally he came up here with a cargo, and

day before yesterday, just as he had unloaded and was about to sail

again, he sent me ashore on an errand. Of course I skipped. I ran along

the bay and hid in a lumber shed, from the top of which I could watch

the _Gonzales_. She didn’t sail, because old Marrow was bound to have me

back, I guess; so I had to lay low, and all the time I was sure he’d

find me in the end and get me back. The sloop’s in the bay yet, sir,

only about a quarter of a mile away.”

“Well?” 

“Well, last evening a couple of men came to sort some of the timbers, 

and I lay hid on top the pile and listened to their talk. They spoke of

the _Seagull_, and how it was to sail far away into the Mediterranean,

and was the best built ship that ever left this port.”

“That’s true enough, my lad.” 

“And they said Cap’n Steele was the best man to work for in the merchant 

service, and his son, Sam Steele—that’s you, sir—was bound to make as

good a sailor as his dad, and had been in some queer adventures already,

and was sure to find more of them before he was much older.”

I had to smile at that evident “taffy,” and my smile left the boy

embarrassed. He hesitated a moment, and then continued:

“To a poor devil like me, sir, such a tale made me believe this ship a 

floating paradise. I’ve heard of captains who are not as cruel as old

Marrow; so when the men had gone I decided to get to you in some way and

beg you to take me aboard. You see, the Mexican is waiting to hunt me

down, and I’d die sooner than go back to his terrible ship. If you’ll

take me with you, Mr. Steele, I’ll be faithful and true, and work like a

nigger for you. If you won’t, why, just say the word, and I’ll jump

overboard again.”

“Can you swim?” 

“No.” 

I thought a moment.

“What’s your name?” I asked, finally. 

“Joe Herring.” 

“Well, Joe, you’re asking something unusual, I must say. I’m not the 

captain of the _Seagull_, but merely purser, or to be more exact the

secretary to Mr. Perkins, the supercargo. I own a share in the ship, to

be sure, and purchased it with money I made myself; but that fact

doesn’t count when we’re at sea, and Captain Steele is the last man in

the world to harbor a runaway member of the crew of a friendly ship.

Indeed, your old master came aboard us this morning, to inquire about

you, and I heard my father say that if he set eyes on you anywhere he’d

let Captain Marrow know. As he never breaks his word this promise is to

be depended upon. Do you see, now, what a fix you’re in?”

“I do, sir.” 

His voice was low and despondent and he seemed to shrink back in his

seat into an attitude hopeless and helpless.

I looked at the boy more closely, and the appeal in his pinched

features, that had struck me at the first glance on the landing stage,

became more impressive than ever.

“How old are you, Joe?” 

“Fifteen, sir.” 

He was tall, but miserably thin. His brown hair, now wet and clinging

about his face, curled naturally and was thick and of fine texture,

while his dark eyes were handsome enough to be set in the face of a

girl. This, with a certain manly dignity that shone through his pitiful

expression, decided me to befriend the lad, and I had an inspiration

even in that first hour of meeting that Joe Herring would prove a loyal

follower and a faithful friend.

“We sail at ten o’clock, and it’s now past midnight,” I remarked, 

thoughtfully.

“Yes, sir; I’ll go any time you say.” 

“But you can’t swim, Joe.” 

“Never mind. Don’t let me be a bother to you. You’ll want to turn in,” 

casting a wistful look around my pleasant room, “and so I’ll find my way

on deck and you needn’t give me another thought.”

“Very good,” said I, nodding. “I think I’ll turn in this minute.” 

He rose up, slowly.

“Just climb into that upper berth, Joe, and go to sleep. There’ll be 

work for you tomorrow, and you’ll need to get rested.”

He stared into my smiling face a moment with a startled look that soon

became radiant. Then he broke down and cried like a baby.

“Here, no snivelling!” I growled, savagely. “Pile into that berth; but 

see you get your shoes off, first.”

He obeyed, still blubbering but evidently struggling to restrain his

sobs. Indeed, his privations of the past two days, half starved and

hunted like a dog, had completely unnerved the poor fellow. When he had

tumbled into the berth I locked the door, put out the light, and rolled

myself in my own blanket.

A few moments later I heard Joe stirring. He leaned over the edge of the

bunk and murmured:

“God bless you, Sam Steele! I’ll never forget, sir, the way you——” 

“Oh, shut up and go to sleep, Joe,” I cried. “You’ve kept me awake long 

enough already.”

“Yes, sir.” And after that he was silent. 

                              CHAPTER II. 

                              OUR VENTURE. 

Those who were present at the launching of our beautiful new _Seagull_

were unanimous in declaring her the trimmest, daintiest, most graceful

craft that had ever yet floated in the waters of old Chelsea bay. Her

color was pure white, her brass work brilliant as gold. She was yacht

built, on the lines of the fast express boats, and no expense had been

spared in her construction or fittings.

My father, Captain Steele, one of the ablest and best known sailors on

the Atlantic coast, had personally supervised the building of the

_Seagull_ and watched every step of progress and inspected every bit of

timber, steel, or brass, so that nothing might be slighted in any way.

She was one hundred and eighty-seven feet in length, with a thirty-six

foot beam and a depth of twenty-one feet, and her net tonnage was close

to fourteen hundred. We had her schooner rigged, because Captain Steele

believed in sailing and had designed his ship for a merchantman of the

highest class, but of the old school.

Uncle Naboth and I, who were also part owners of the ship—the firm being

Steele, Perkins & Steele—had begged earnestly to convert her into a

modern steamer; but my father angrily resented the suggestion.

“Her name’s the _Seagull_,” he declared, “an’ a seagull without wings 

’ud be a doggone jack-rabbit; so wings she mus’ have, my lads, ef Dick 

Steele’s goin’ to sail her.”

We had really put a fortune into the craft, and Uncle Naboth—a shrewd

old trader who marked the world as it moved and tried to keep pace with

it—was as anxious to have the ship modern in every respect as I was. So

we stood stubbornly side by side and argued with the Captain until he

finally granted a partial concession to our wishes and consented to our

installing an auxiliary equipment of a screw propeller driven by

powerful engines, with the express understanding that they must only be

used in case of emergency.

“It’s a rank waste o’ money, an’ takes up vallyble room,” he growled; 

“but ef so be you ain’t satisfied with decent spars an’ riggin,’ why, 

git your blarsted ol’ machinery aboard—an’ be hanged to ye both!”

This consent was obtained soon after my return from Panama, but Uncle

Naboth and I had ordered the engines months previously, having been

determined to install them from the day the _Seagull_ was first planned;

so no time was lost in getting them placed.

You will know the _Seagull_ more intimately as my story progresses, so I

will avoid a detailed description of it just now, merely adding that the

ship was at once the envy and admiration of all beholders and the pride

and joy of her three owners.

My father had sailed for forty years and had at one time lost his right

leg in a shipwreck, so that he stumped around with a cork substitute.

But he was as energetic and active as in his youth, and his vast

experience fully justified his reputation as one of the ablest and

shrewdest seamen in the merchant service. Indeed, Captain Steele was

universally known and respected, and I had good reason to be proud of

the bluff old salt who owned me as his son. He had prejudices, it is

true, acquired through many strange adventures at sea and in foreign

parts; but his heart was simple and frank as that of a child, and we who

knew him best and loved him well had little fear of his stubborn

temperament.

Naboth Perkins, my dead mother’s brother, was also a remarkable man in

his way. He knew the sea as well as did my father, but prided himself on

the fact that he “couldn’t navigate a ferry-boat,” having always sailed

as supercargo and devoted his talents to trading. He had been one of my

earliest and most faithful friends, and although I was still a mere boy

at the time the _Seagull_ was launched, I had encountered some unusual

adventures in company with quaint, honest Uncle Naboth, and won certain

bits of prize money that had proved the foundation of our fortunes.

These prize-winnings, converted into hard cash, had furnished the funds

for building our new ship, in which we purposed beginning a

conservative, staid career as American merchantmen, leaving adventures

behind us and confining ourselves to carrying from port to port such

merchandise as might be consigned to our care. You will hear how well

our modest intention was fulfilled.

The huge proportions and staunch construction of the _Seagull_ would

enable her to sail in any known sea with perfect safety, and long before

she was completed we were besieged with proposals from shippers anxious

to secure our services.

Uncle Naboth, who handled all such matters for our firm, finally

contracted with a big Germantown manufacturer of “Oriental” rugs to

carry a load of bales to Syria, consigned to merchants there who would

distribute them throughout Persia, Turkey and Egypt, to be sold to

American and European tourists and carried to their homes as treasures

of Oriental looms.

It was not so much the liberal payment we received as the fact that the

long voyage to the Syrian port would give us an opportunity of testing

the performances of the _Seagull_ that induced Mr. Perkins to accept the

contract and undertake the lengthy voyage.

“If she skims the Atlantic an’ the Mediterranean all right,” said he, 

“the boat’ll weather any sea on earth; so we may as well find out at the 

start what she’s good for. ’Sides that, we’re gittin’ a thunderin’ price

fer cartin’ them rags to Syria, an’ so the deal seems a good one all

’round.” 

My father gravely approved the transaction. He also was eager to test

the powers of our beautiful new ship, and this would not be his first

voyage to the Orient, by any means. So the papers were made out and

signed and as soon as our last fittings and furnishings were installed

and our crew aboard we were to voyage down the coast in sunny September

weather and anchor in the Chesapeake, there to load our cargo.

Our ship’s company had been carefully selected, for the fame of my

father’s new vessel and the popularity of the Captain himself attracted

to us the best seamen available; so we had the satisfaction of signing a

splendid company of experienced men. In addition to these sailors we

shipped a first and second engineer, clever young fellows that became

instantly unpopular with my father, who glared at the poor “mechanics”

as if he considered them interlopers, if not rank traitors. Some of the

seamen, it was arranged, would act as stokers if the engines were called

into requisition, so with the addition of a couple of oilers who were

also carpenter’s assistants we were satisfied we might at any time steam

or sail, as the occasion demanded.

I am sure Captain Steele had already acknowledged in his heart that we

were justified in equipping the _Seagull_ with engines, since any old

salt fully realizes the horror of being becalmed and knows the loss such

a misfortune is sure to entail in time, wages, and grub. But he would

not admit it. Instead, he persisted in playing the part of a much

injured and greatly scandalized seaman. It would be time enough to “take

water” when the value of the propeller was fully proved.

Ned Britton was Captain’s Mate, of course. Ned had sailed with my father

for years; he had also sailed two exciting voyages with Uncle Naboth and

me, and we all admired and respected this strong, gallant fellow as much

as we had come to trust in his ability.

Two other curious characters were established fixtures of any craft that

the firm of Steele, Perkins & Steele might own. These were two stalwart

black men named Nux and Bryonia, South Sea Islanders whom Uncle Naboth

had rescued from death years before and attached to his service. Since

then they had become my own trusted friends, and more than once had I

owed my life to their intelligence and faithfulness. Bryonia, or Bry, as

we called him, was a famous cook, and always had charge of our ship’s

galley. With Bry aboard we were never in want of a substantial, well

cooked meal; for, as Uncle Naboth was wont to declare: “Thet Bry could

take a rope’s end an’ a bit o’ tarpaulin an’ make a Paris tubble-de-hoot

out’n ’em.”

Nux was cabin steward and looked after our comforts aft with a deftness

and skill that were wholly admirable. These blacks were both of them

shrewd, loyal, and brave, and we knew we might always depend upon their

fidelity.

On the morning following my adoption of Joe Herring I left the runaway

locked up in my stateroom and went on deck to watch the final

preparations for our departure. A fair breeze swept down the bay, so at

ten o’clock we hoisted anchor, spread our main and foresails and, slowly

gathering way, the _Seagull_ slipped through the water on her maiden

trip amid the shouts of hundreds who stood on the shore to watch and bid

us God speed.

We fired a shot from our small howitzer as a parting salute to our

friends, dipped our pennants in gallant fashion, showed our heels, and

sped away so swiftly that the harbor was soon left far behind.

We passed the old _Gonzales_ soon after leaving our anchorage. It was

still waiting to recapture its absconding cabin-boy, though why Captain

Marrow should attach so much importance to the youth I could not then

understand.

As soon as we were well at sea I liberated Joe and told him he was to be

my special servant and assistant, but must also help Nux to look after

the cabin during his spare time—which was likely to be plentiful enough.

Knowing that the sooner I established the lad’s footing aboard the

easier it would be for us both, I sent him on an errand that would take

him past my father’s station on the deck. His sharp eye encountered the

boy at once, as I had expected, and he promptly roared out an order for

him to halt.

Joe stopped and saluted respectfully. He was looking cheery and bright

this morning; indeed, a different boy from the one I had pulled from the

sinking dinghy the night before. Life bore a new aspect for Joe and his

heart was light as a feather. He looked honest and wholesome enough in

the fresh blue suit I had given him, and he had been duly warned that

his only remaining danger lay in not winning the countenance of the

skipper.

“Who are you? ’N’ where ’n’ thunder’d you come from?” demanded Captain 

Steele.

“Joe Herring, sir. Master Sam’s assistant, sir,” answered the boy, in 

his quiet tones.

“Assistant! Bungs an’ barnacles! Assistant to Sam! What doin’? Loafin’ 

an’ a-killin’ time?”

“I beg to refer you to Master Sam, sir,” was the composed answer, 

although from where I watched the scene I could see that Joe was badly

frightened.

“What Sam needs is suthin’ to do, more ’n a grub-devourin’ assistant,” 

pursued my father, sternly. “Look here; did my son lug you aboard?”

“He did, sir,” replied Joe, truthfully. 

“Send him to me, then,” ordered my father. 

I stepped forward at once, saluting the Captain with my usual deference.

When we were at sea I had been taught to put by the fact that this was

my father, bearing in mind only the immediate fact that he was my

commander. Still, in my capacity as secretary to Uncle Naboth I was in a

measure independent of ship’s discipline.

“What tricks are you up to now, Sam?” demanded the Captain, scowling at 

me.

“Father, this boy was the runaway from the _Gonzales_, whom Captain 

Marrow has been seeking so earnestly. He was so abused by the dirty

Mexican that he would rather die than return to his slavery. So he threw

himself on my mercy, and knowing he would surely be retaken if I left

him ashore, I brought the lad with us. Don’t blame him, sir. I’ll take

all the responsibility.”

The Captain stared at me a moment.

“See that you do, then,” he grumbled. “Sam, it’s a illegal an’ 

unperfessional act to harbor a runaway.”

“Yes, sir.” 

“Usually no good ever comes of it.” 

“He’s an honest lad, sir.” 

The Captain eyed him closely.

“It’s no affair o’ mine,” he muttered, half turning away. “The boy 

belongs now to the Perkins outfit, mind you. I’ll have no runaways ner

stowaways in my crew.”

I knew then the battle was won, and that my father would refuse to

surrender Joe to his old captain under any circumstances. The “Perkins

outfit,” so sneeringly referred to, meant Uncle Naboth and myself, and

although it was evident the mission of the _Seagull_ was dependent on

the “Perkins outfit” to manage and arrange its commerce in a profitable