My Strange Rescue — Outside the Boom

Whether they all believed it or not is a question that, if you do not mind, I will leave it to you to settle.

*OUTSIDE THE BOOM.

* Mort Henshaw was a boy who had implicit faith in himself.

He cherished the firm conviction that whatever any other boy could do came within the range of his capabilities.

He had only to find out the way it should be done in order to accomplish it.

This was a pretty large view to take of things in general, yet it must be confessed that Mort was not without a fair degree of justification for having what the Scotch would call so good a conceit of himself.

Blessed with a strong, symmetrical frame, a quick eye, a sure hand, a perfect constitution, and abundant courage, he came easily by a mastery of the different sports he entered into, and had few equals, and fewer superiors, at cricket, football, lacrosse, baseball, swimming, rowing, and the other amusements of the day.

There was one pastime, however, of which, although he had heard much, he knew nothing, and that was sailing.

The pretty little stream which ran by his home afforded no facilities for this glorious sport, and the pleasures of it he knew about only from the descriptions of his more fortunate companions.

Great, then, was his delight when the spring that found him fifteen years of age brought with it an invitation from one of his uncles to spend the whole summer with him at his cottage on Lake Deschenes, a splendid sheet of water not far from the city of Ottawa.

The invitation mentioned, as one of the attractions of the place, that he would be able to have all the sailing that his heart could wish.

"Hurrah!

hurrah!"

shouted Mort, capering about the room with a face beaming like the sun.

"All the sailing I want!

Just think of it!

Won't that be grand?

The very thing I've been looking for."

"It will be grand, Mort dear," said his mother, "provided you take good care not to run any unnecessary risks.

You must do exactly what your uncle tells you, just as if he were your father."

"Oh yes, mother, I'll do that," quickly responded Mort, ready to promise anything in the exuberance of his joy.

"I'll be his crew, you know, and obey orders just as if I were at sea with him."

Very impatiently did Mort await the coming of the day when he should set forth for Deschenes.

His uncle was principal of the Collegiate Institute at Ottawa, and had three months' vacation, which he usually spent at the lake in sailing, rowing, bathing, and fishing, until the return of autumn recalled him to his duties.

It was the last week in June when Mort arrived at Lake Deschenes, and his first question, after exchanging greetings with his uncle and aunt, was,-- "Will you show me your boat, please, uncle?"

Smiling at his eagerness, Mr. Turner took him over to the boathouse, where a number of boats and canoes lay upon the floor, or were suspended upon racks against the wall.

Mort had never seen so many or such fine boats in his life before.

They were nearly all built of cedar, and were varnished instead of being painted, the copper fastenings dotting their shining sides with regular lines.

The boy gave a great gasp of admiration, and it was some time before he recovered himself sufficiently to ask,-- "And which is your boat, uncle?"

Mr. Turner pointed to one lying just in front of them.

"Oh, what a beauty!"

cried Mort.

"She's the best of them all."

His uncle smiled a complacent assent, for that was precisely his own opinion.

As to beauty of lines, perfection of finish, completeness of outfit, and speed on any tack, he considered the _Gleam_ without a superior on Lake Deschenes, and Mort's prompt recognition of the fact pleased him as much as the cordial praise of her baby does a young mother.

"You are not far from right, my boy," said he.

"The _Gleam_ is both a beauty to look at and a good one to go, as you shall see for yourself very soon."

The _Gleam_ belonged to the class of boat known as the "St. Lawrence skiff," the swiftest and safest boats of their size--when not over-canvassed--that carry sails.

She was about twenty-two feet long, and had a half-deck all round, with a six-inch combing to keep out the water.

Two tall masts carried big bat-wing sails, which would have soon toppled her over but for the heavy iron centre-board that kept her stiff in an ordinary breeze.

Everything about her was of the best, and Mort thought her the most beautiful object his eyes ever beheld.

That afternoon he had his first sail in the _Gleam_, and as, responding perfectly to every puff of the wind and turn of the tiller, she went flying across the lake, his heart thrilled with delight, and became filled with a passionate desire to master the art of handling such a craft.

"O uncle, won't you teach me how to steer and to manage the sails before I go back home?"

he pleaded, looking earnestly into Mr. Turner's face.

"Certainly, Mort, certainly," was the kindly reply; "and I think you ought to make a very apt pupil, too."

Mr. Turner was altogether as good as his word.

He took much pains in initiating Mort into the mysteries of sailing, teaching him the way to tack, when it was permissible to jibe, how to run before the wind, and so forth, until, by the end of the first month, Mort had become tolerably proficient, and could be trusted to manage the _Gleam_ alone in an ordinary breeze.

This special privilege he was then allowed to exercise, provided he did not go outside the "boom"--that is, the long line of shackled logs which enclosed the bay where the boathouse stood, and which was intended to keep the saw-logs from stranding on the beach.

Inside the boom was a stretch of shallow water nearly a mile long by a quarter of a mile wide, on which plenty of sailing might be had without going out through the gap into the body of the lake.

For a time Mort was content with this enclosed space, and, whenever his uncle permitted him, would get the boat out, and go tacking up and down from end to end, feeling almost as proud of his newly-acquired skill as if he had been discoverer of the science of sailing.

But of course it was not many days before he began to cast longing eyes beyond the line of swaying logs, and to feel that the thing he most desired in the world was to be allowed to sail the _Gleam_ across the lake and back.

But when he hinted as much to his uncle he met with no encouragement.

"No, no, Mort.

You must be content with staying inside the boom; for, besides the chance of a squall, there is the danger of being caught in the current and carried into the rapids, which would soon make an end of both you and the boat."

Now it happened that one morning both Mr. and Mrs. Turner had to go into the city, not to return until by the night train, and Mort was left entirely to his own resources.

Of course he turned to the _Gleam_ for company, and as soon as the morning breeze came up, taking with him two other lads about his own age, he launched the boat, and went skimming from end to end of the bay.

"This is good fun," said Ted Day, "but it would be better still outside the boom."

"Oh yes!"

cried Charlie Lister.

"Do go outside; just a little bit, Mort."

Mort shook his head, and tried to look very decided.

His own heart was beating a lively response to the suggestions of his companions, but his answer was,-- "No, Charlie; uncle does not allow me to go outside, you know."

Once the idea had been mooted, however, it refused to go to rest again.

The morning seemed a perfect one.

There was a steady breeze from the north-west, just the direction best suited for a slant across the lake and back without having to tack at all.

[Illustration: "MORT CRAWLED UPON THE STAGE AND FASTENED TO IT THE BOAT'S PAINTER."

] Ted and Charlie begged and coaxed Mort to make one trip out, any way.

Mr. Turner would never know anything about it, and they could easily be back before mid-day.

Mort's resolution, which had been rapidly weakening, finally gave way altogether.

"All right," said he, allowing a sudden spirit of reckless ambition to submerge his compunctions at doing what he knew well enough was a mean betrayal of his uncle's confidence in him.

"We'll just make one trip across.

It does seem a pity to lose the chance this glorious morning."

So out through the gap the _Gleam_ darted, as if glad of her freedom, and went flying over the blue water toward Blueberry Point.

"My, but this is grand!"

exclaimed Charlie rapturously, as the boat careened before the freshening breeze, so that the water lapped the lee-combing.

"You are right; it is--eh, Mort?"

echoed Ted, turning to Mort, who, holding the tiller in one hand and the end of the main sheet in the other, watched every move of the boat with feelings strangely divided between anxiety and proud delight.

The passage across was quickly made, and then, being thirsty, Charlie proposed that they land for a few minutes to get a drink at a spring near the shore.

After the drink Ted suggested a bathe; and thus an hour slipped by, during which an ominous change took place in the weather.

The sky clouded over, the wind, which had been steady, began to come in fitful gusts.

"I don't like the look of things," said Mort, in a tone of concern.

"I wish we were inside the boom."

"Well, let's hurry and get there as quickly as we can," responded Ted.

It was all well enough to say this, but with the change of weather had come a change of wind, which was now against them, so that they would have to tack all the way home.

By dint of careful sailing they had got about a third of the distance, when suddenly the sky darkened, some large drops of rain, pattered upon them, and the next moment a sharp squall struck the _Gleam_ full upon her quarter.

In order to give his whole attention to the steering, Mort had asked Charlie to hold the main-sheet, impressing upon him to take only one turn around the cleat.

But Charlie, who was of the lazy sort, finding the sheet hard to hold, had taken two turns, and done it in such a way that the rope had jammed.

Consequently, when Mort shouted to him, as he put the tiller hard a-port, "Let go the main-sheet instantly, Charlie!"

and he attempted to obey the order, he could not do so in time to meet the emergency, and the next instant, amid simultaneous shrieks from all three boys, the _Gleam_ went over on her beam ends.

Fortunately they were all good swimmers, and did not get entangled in any of the ropes, so that, without much difficulty, they succeeded in climbing up on the side of the boat, where it was easy enough to hold on for a while.

There was no fear of the _Gleam_ sinking, as she bore no ballast to carry her down, and had air-tight compartments in both bow and stern.

Nevertheless, the position of the boys was one of great peril, for the boat was right in the channel leading to the rapids at the lower end of the lake, in the direction of which the wind was now blowing.

To get into these rapids meant utter destruction for both boys and boat, yet to keep out of them was impossible without help, while to swim ashore was far beyond their powers.

They shouted and shrieked for aid, but there was no one in sight to hear them, and soon the storm burst upon them in full fury, blotting out the shore on both sides, and threatening to beat them off the boat as it tossed up and down in the white-caps.

How bitterly Mort regretted having ventured beyond the boom, and how fervently he vowed never to do so again if he could only be saved this time!

When the squall passed and the air cleared, he saw that they were fast drawing near the rapids.

"O Charlie," he groaned, "why did you make me go outside the boom?"

Charlie made no reply.

He could think of nothing else but his imminent danger.

Steadily and surely the _Gleam_ drifted downward.

In another fifteen minutes she would be in the remorseless grasp of the rapids.

The wind went down almost to a calm, but the current grew stronger, so that there was no slacking of her speeding toward destruction.

The boys held desperately on to the keel, saying nothing to each other, but praying as best each could.

On, on the boat moved.

Oh, was there no chance of help?

Must they go down, to death in sight of so many homes?

A couple of hundred yards above the rapids was a floating stage, strongly moored, which was used by the men looking after the saw-logs that came down the river in great droves from time to time.

As they neared this a bright thought flashed into Mort's mind.

"Say, boys," he cried, "I've got it!

Do you see that float?

Let's push the _Gleam_ over to it."

The others caught the idea at once.

All getting on the same side of the boat, they proceeded to push her toward the stage by swimming with their legs.

It was exhausting work, but they were encouraged by seeing that they were making headway, and they persevered until at last success crowned their efforts, and with a glad cry of relief Mort crawled upon the stage and fastened to it the boat's painter.

All actual danger was now over, and at once Mort regained his self-possession.

Under his directions the masts were taken out, the boat righted and bailed dry, and everything stowed snugly aboard.

Then with the oars she was rowed back to Deschenes, not a whit the worse for her wetting.

As soon as his uncle returned, Mort told him the whole story.

Mr. Turner was very sorry to learn of his nephew's breach of trust, and, as a penalty therefor, withdrew from him for the rest of the summer the privilege of taking the boat out alone, which was a sore deprivation;

but Mort felt that it was richly deserved, and it only strengthened his resolution to be more obedient to orders in the future.