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Read Ebook: Rex Kingdon on Storm Island by Braddock Gordon Wrenn Charles L Charles Lewis Illustrator
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Ebook has 1900 lines and 55590 words, and 38 pages
CHAPTER
How would you like to spend a summer vacation on an uninhabited island off the Maine coast,--not alone, of course, but in company with a few chosen chums, all good fellows in their way and all of them ready for any sort of sport or adventure that might be found or borrowed? Surely, such a vacation would provide plenty of good fun, as well as some troubles and annoyances; but no vigorous, high-spirited American boy would mind a certain amount of inconveniences when he sets out to have a good time on a camping trip. In fact, he looks for some unpleasant things to happen, and he has a way of going right ahead and making the best of everything, so that many a time a source of irritation is turned into a spring of enjoyment and delight.
It was so with Rex Kingdon and his friends of the present story. When they arrived at Storm Island and found another party of campers located there, they at first were annoyed. They had understood that no one else would be given a permit to camp on that island. Imagine their astonishment when they discovered that the other party had deceived a local officer into letting them remain on the island by representing themselves to be "Rex Kingdon and friends," rightful holders of the camping permit. Trouble? Could anything spell trouble more plainly? But, after all, they managed to get more real fun out of it than they could have had if they had been the only campers on Storm Island. And, in the end, Rex wins a new recruit for Walcott Hall--and the prep. school baseball team.
This is the fifth story of The Rex Kingdon Series. It will be followed by the sixth and final volume of the series, which will bear the title, "Rex Kingdon and His Chums." In that forthcoming story Rex will finish his course at the Hall. As he regretfully bids good-by to the old school, the reader who has faithfully followed his career since he made his first bow in "Rex Kingdon of Ridgewood High" will have to bid good-by to him--as regretfully, I hope.
GORDON BRADDOCK.
New York, February 14, 1917.
"What's that noise? Say, Pudge, wake up and take a look."
"Hey? What noise?" stammered Pudge MacComber, startled out of serene slumber.
"Hear it? Sounds like a lot of soda-water bottles popping. Take a squint, Lazy."
"Why, that's a motorboat!" he exclaimed before spying the craft in question.
"Noisy thing," grunted Ben, without moving.
"It's aiming this way," Pudge said, "right for our landing."
"Going to have visitors? Thought nobody ever came here."
"Wouldn't think many folks would, with the signs the Manatee Company have stuck up," chuckled Pudge. "Say!"
"Say it," grunted Ben.
"Only one man in the launch, an' I see something flash. Yes," Pudge gurgled, "I bet it is!"
"What's the matter with you?" grumbled Ben, finally sitting up. "You talk like a frog. What d'ye see?"
"He's got a badge," the fat boy said, solemnly. "I wish I could see his face."
"What d'ye mean?" Ben was now vastly and suddenly aroused. "Is it a constable? Where's Joe? He knows everybody 'round here--or he ought to."
"Joe's asleep."
"Wake him up. We didn't hire him to sleep, did we? Go on, you snail," ordered Ben.
Behind one of the two tents, pitched in this open glade on the rather steep northern shore of Storm Island, sprawled a roughly-dressed fellow. When Pudge had done Ben's bidding and aroused this individual, the latter uncovered his face, revealing features unmistakably those of an Indian boy. He came sullenly down to the other two lads.
"What y'want?" he asked, yawning.
"Who's that coming this way, Joe?" Ben Comas questioned. "That fellow in the launch?"
The Indian's eyes snapped open and he stooped a little, shading them with his hand, the better to view the approaching boat and its single occupant. Then he straightened up again, turning as though to retreat.
"Know him," he said.
"Who is he?" Pudge put in. "A cop?"
"Him Quibb."
"What'd I tell you?" cried Pudge. "That's the name of the constable we saw at Blackport--Enos Quibb."
"The one Horrors had the growl with," Ben agreed, rather faintly. "He's coming straight for us."
The Indian youth had already disappeared. The motorboat was nearing the shore of the island just below the camp. The cousins could plainly see the constable's face, as well as the big star upon his vest. Enos Quibb was not a handsome person at best, and just now his face was inflamed with anger and his frown was most portentous.
"He's got it in for us," said Pudge, apprehensively.
"All because of that fresh up there tossing the ball. It's up to him--that's what it is," declared Ben warmly. "Run, tell Horrors to come down here."
With a groan, the fat youth turned and waddled up the path into the thicker wood which seemed to crown the island. In the very middle of Storm Island, however, lay about two acres of open and level lawn. While yet Pudge was some distance from this spot the resonant slap of a ball as it landed in the catcher's mitt echoed flatly from the wall of tall trees completely surrounding the natural amphitheater.
"Hey! That's enough, Horrors!" the puffing fat boy heard Harry Kirby shout. "It's too hot to keep at it any longer. Quit, I say!"
Evidently he had flung the ball to the pitcher after removing his padded glove, and, just as Pudge came in sight of the two, the one called "Horrors" wound up again and whipped a sizzler over the marked square on the turf serving as the home plate.
"Quit, I say!" again yelled the backstop, as he leaped into the air, letting the low ball pass between his legs. "Think I'd be silly enough to try to stop that with my bare hands? That arm of yours has got dynamite in it, Horrors."
The pitcher was grinning in reply when a wild yell sounded from Pudge at the edge of the wood behind the catcher's station.
"Hey, you fellers! What're you tryin' to do--kill me? Nobody but a wild squawpaw could send in such a bullet. Ouch!"
Pudge limped forward, rubbing his shin where the pitched ball had nicked him.
"Come on--retrieve it," ordered the pitcher, strolling toward the platter.
"Chase your own ball," returned Pudge. "I didn't come 'way up here to play Fido. Why'd Kirby let it go by him?"
The backstop was wiping his brow with a torn shirtsleeve. "Catch me trying to stop one of Horrors' fast ones without my mitt. Not much!"
"Say, you fellers!" exclaimed Pudge, remembering his errand. "Ben says come on down to the camp--and in a hurry. There's a motor launch in sight."
"Didn't you fellers ever see a motor launch before?" demanded Kirby.
"But it's aiming right for our landing."
"What if?" drawled the tall fellow whom his mates called "Horrors."
"Who's in the launch?" asked Kirby.
"It's that constable Horrors had the fuss with at Blackport. Remember?"
"Shall I ever forget him?" murmured the tall lad. "The chap with the big tin star and the lovely yellow freckles."
"Enos Quibb," Kirby said, chuckling. "He's one sure enough farmer--that's right."
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