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Motor Boat Boys Among the Florida Keys; Or, The Struggle for the Leadership

Motor Boat Boys Among the Florida Keys; Or, The Struggle for the Leadership

CHAPTER I.
AT ANCHOR, INSIDE THE BAR

“Get busy here, Nick; now’s your chance to make a big score for a starter!”

“It’s awful kind of you, George, to let me out of my part of the work this afternoon, and that’s a fact. I appreciate it, too; because I just want to beat Jimmy out in this thing the worst kind.”

“Oh! shucks! don’t mention it, Nick. We’re all interested in your game, and you know it. Besides, there goes your rival, Jimmy, right now, in his little dinky boat, and with a wide grin on his face. Jack’s given him a holiday, to celebrate the opening of the great fishing contest. Get a move on, you slow-poke!”

“Gee! then he’ll get a start on me. I must hurry. Now, where in the dickens is that other oar, George? Oh! here she is, tucked away under the thwart. And can you tell me what I did with that mullet the cracker gentleman gave me, to use for bait? Please help me get started, George. Seems like everything wants to go wrong at once!”

“Here you are, Nick. Got your tackle all right, have you; and sure that life preserver is in the boat? All ready? Then away you go; but keep clear of the inlet, if the tide changes, or you might get carried out to sea in that eight-foot dinky.”

Three minutes later, and Nick Longfellow – who belied his name dreadfully, in that he was short, and fat, and built pretty much after the style of a full meal bag – was rowing clumsily toward a likely spot, where he believed he might do some successful fishing.

A trio of motor boats were anchored just inside Mosquito Inlet, not far from the town of New Smyrna on the east coast of Florida, having come in that very afternoon, after making the outside passage from the mouth of the St. Johns River.

They might have entered at St. Augustine, and taken the inside passage down to this place, only that something was wrong with the connecting canal that led to the Halifax River, and it seemed unwise to take the chances of being held up.

The boat from which Nick had put out on his fishing excursion was a slender looking craft, and evidently capable of making high speed; but from the way she rolled whenever any one aboard moved, it could be seen that she must prove rather an uncomfortable home on which to spend very much time. The name painted in letters of gold on her bow was Wireless; and her skipper, George Rollins, took more or less pride in her accomplishments; although, truth to tell, he spent much of his time tinkering with her high-power engine, that had a way of betraying his trust when conditions made it most exasperating.

The boat from which the said Jimmy had started was called the Tramp. Her lines were not so fine as those of the hurry boat; but, nevertheless, an experienced cruiser would have picked her out as an ideal craft for combined business and pleasure. Her skipper was Jack Stormways, really the commodore of the little fleet; and his crew consisted of Jimmy Brannigan, a boy who sported many freckles, a happy-go-lucky disposition, and a little of the Irish brogue whenever he happened to remember his descent from the old kings of Erin.