The Moving Picture Boys on the Coast/Chapter 22
CHAPTER XXII
A LIFE GUARD'S ALARM
Fortune played into the hands of our friends in two ways as they sought to capture the wreckers. Otherwise the desperate men might have gotten away, so quickly did they dash out of the clearing at the first alarm.
But, as he ran along, big Hemp Danforth, the leader of the criminals, stumbled and fell. Right behind him was sturdy Tom Cardiff, and the assistant lighthouse keeper was quick to take advantage of the chance thus put in his way.
"I've got you!" he yelled, as he fairly threw himself on the prostrate wrecker. "I've got you! Give up, you varmint!"
There was a struggle, none the less desperate because the wrecker was underneath. The two rolled on the ground until Tom got a grip on his opponent. Then, by putting forth his enormous strength, Tom quickly subdued the man.
"Give up, I tell you!" panted Tom, breathing hard. "I'll teach you to wreck ships. Give up!"
"I give up!" was the sullen response.
With a quick turn of the ropes he had brought, Tom had the wrecker trussed up.
Meanwhile the others had been busy. The secret service men had each tackled a man, and had him secure by now, while Joe and Blake, by mutual agreement picking out another member of the party had, after a struggle, succeeded in tying him, too.
But the wreckers outnumbered our friends two to one, and some, if not all, of the desperate characters might have escaped had not reinforcements appeared. These were in the shape of four sturdy fishermen from the little colony where the moving picture boys lived.
"Oh, if we could only capture the others!" cried Tom Cardiff, when he had finished with his man, and saw some of the wreckers struggling to make their way through the thick bush. "Come on, boys!" he yelled to his friends. "When you finish with those fellows keep after the rest of the gang, though I'm afraid they'll give us the slip."
"No, they won't!" cried a new voice, and then appeared the husky toilers of the sea, armed with stout clubs. At the sight of them the wreckers not yet captured gave up in despair. Counting those tied up, the forces were now equal, and as Mr. Hadley had taken all the moving pictures possible, owing to the struggle taking place out of range of his camera, he left the apparatus, and joined his friends.
"Well, we got 'em!" cried Tom Cardiff, as he surveyed the line of prisoners, fastened together with ropes. "Every one of 'em, I guess. You're a nice crowd!" he sneered at big Hemp Danforth. "A nice lot of men to be let loose!"
"A little later and you wouldn't have had us!" snarled the leader of the wreckers. "You were too many for us."
"That's so," spoke Tom. "How did you happen to come to help us?" he asked of Abe Haskill, who was one of the reinforcing fishermen. "Who sent you?"
"Old Stanton telephoned over from the lighthouse," was the answer. "He said you were on your way here, and that the gang might be too much for you. So I got a couple of my friends, and over we came—just in time, too, I take it."
"That's right!" exclaimed Blake, trying to staunch the flow of blood from a cut on his face, received in the fight he and Joe had with their prisoner. Joe himself was somewhat bruised. "A little later and we'd had only half of 'em," went on Blake.
"It looks as if the lantern was nearly finished, too," went on Joe.
"Um!" sneered the chief wrecker. "You may think you have us, but it's a long way from proving anything against us. What have we done that's wrong?" and he looked defiantly at Tom Cardiff.
"Wrong!" cried the lighthouse man. "Don't you call it wrong to set up a false light to lure unsuspecting captains on the rocks, so you can get your pickings? Wrong!"
"Huh! How do you know but what this light was put here as a range finder for us fishermen?" asked the other.
"Fishermen! Why, you men never did an honest day's fishing in your lives!" cried Abe Haskill. "Fishing! When you haven't been smuggling you've been wrecking, or robbing other honest men's nets. You're a bunch of scoundrels, and it's the best day's work we've done in many a year to get you!"
"That's all right," retorted Hemp, easily. "Words don't prove anything."
"They don't; eh?" cried Tom Cardiff. "You'll see what they do. We'll convict you by your own words!"
"Our own words?" asked Hemp Danforth, uneasily.
"Yes, overheard by these two lads, whom you chased but couldn't catch. I guess when Blake Stewart and Joe Duncan go into court, and testify about hearing you talk of wrecking vessels by your false lantern, the jury'll convict you, all right!"
Hemp seemed less concerned with what Tom said than with the name Joe Duncan. As this was uttered the wrecker looked at the two lads.
"Did I understand him to say that one of you is a Duncan?" asked Hemp, curiously.
"I am," replied Joe.
"Are you Nate Duncan's son?"
"I hope so—yes, I'm sure I am."
"Ha! Ha!" laughed the wrecker.
"What's the joke?" inquired Tom Cardiff.
"This, and it's a good one, too. You think to convict us on the testimony of Nate Duncan's son. Why, Nate is one of us! His son's evidence wouldn't be any good. Besides, a son wouldn't help to convict his father. That's a good one. Nate Duncan is one of us!"
"That's not so!" burst out Joe, jumping toward the big wrecker, as though to strike him. "It isn't true. My father never was a wrecker."
"He wasn't; eh?" sneered Hemp. "Well, I'm not saying we are, either; but if your father isn't a wrecker why did he run away before the officers came for him? Answer me that—if you can!"
"I—I—" began Joe, when Blake stepped to his chum's side.
"Don't answer him," counseled Blake. "It will only make matters worse. It will all come out right."
"I'm sure of it," said Joe. "Poor Dad, I wish he were here to defend himself; but, as he isn't, I'll stick up for him."
"Well, if you're through talking I guess we'll move along," suggested Tom at this point. "There are a few empty cells in the jail at San Diego, I understand, and they'll just about accommodate you chaps."
"Are—are you going to put us in jail?" faltered one of the prisoners, a young man.
"That's what we are," answered Tom.
"Oh, don't. I'll tell—I'll"
"You'll keep still—that's what you'll do!" snapped Hemp. "I'll fix you if you don't!" and he glared at the youth in such a way that the latter said no more. "I'll manage this thing," went on Hemp. "You keep still and they can't do a thing to us. Now go ahead; take us to jail if you want to."
"That's what we will," declared Tom, and a little later the prisoners were on their way to San Diego, where they were locked up. Some suspected wreckers had been taken into custody when Mr. Duncan was accused, but nothing had been proved against them.
"Well, that was a good day's work!" declared Mr. Hadley late that afternoon, when he and the moving picture boys were back at their quarters. "We not only got the wreckers, but a fine film of the capture besides."
"And we're in it," said Blake. "Joe, how will it seem to see yourself on a screen."
"Oh, rather odd, I guess," and Joe spoke listlessly.
"Now look here!" exclaimed his chum. "I know what's worrying you. It's what Hemp said about your father; isn't it?"
"Yes, Blake, it is."
"Well then, you just stop thinking about it. Before you know it your father may arrive in Hong Kong, get your letter, and send back an answer. Then everything will be cleared up. Meanwhile, we've got to get busy; there are a lot of films to make, I understand."
"Indeed there are," declared Mr. Ringold. "I have my sea drama all ready for the films now. I don't know what to do about a wreck, though. I'm afraid I can't make it realistic enough. I must make other plans about that scene. But get your cameras in good shape, boys, for there is plenty of work ahead."
"We can keep right on the job," said Joe, "for I guess we've about cleaned up the wreckers."
No members of the gang had escaped, as far as could be learned, and the renewed work of getting evidence to be used at the trial was in the hands of the government men. The false lantern, which had first given the boys the clue, was taken down, and proved to be a most ingenious piece of apparatus. Had it been used it would undoubtedly have lured some ships on the rocks.
The work of making the preliminary scenes of the sea drama were under way. It took the best part of three weeks to get what was needed, for Mr. Ringold was very particular, and insisted on many rehearsals, these taking longer than the actual making of the films.
Joe and Blake were kept busy, as was also their young assistant, Macaroni, and Mr. Hadley.
"Everything is going beautifully," said Mr. Ringold one day. "If we could only have a storm and wreck to order, now, I would ask nothing better."
"Yes, everything is nice, except that we're being worked to death," spoke C. C. Piper, gloomily. "I've lost ten pounds in the last week."
"It will do you good," said Miss Lee, with a laugh. "You were getting too stout, anyhow."
"Oh, what a world!" sighed the comedian, as he began whistling the latest comic song.
"It looks like a storm," remarked Blake, as he and Joe came in one evening from a stroll on the beach.
"And when it does come," added Joe, "it's going to be a bad one, so old Abe, the fisherman, says. They're putting storm signals up all along the coast, and all leaves of absence for the life guards have been cancelled for the next week. A storm sometimes lasts that long, Abe says."
"A storm; eh?" remarked Mr. Ringold, absentmindedly. "Well, that will interfere with our plans for to-morrow. I had intended to have some peaceful scenes on the beach; but I'll postpone them. I wish I could work out this wreck problem," he added, as he pored over the manuscript of the sea drama.
One did not need to go outdoors that morning to appreciate the fury of the storm. The gale had come in the night, and the force of the wind had steadily increased until its violence was terrific. There was no rain, as yet, but the sky was obscured by hurrying black clouds.
"Let's go down to the beach and see the big waves," proposed Blake to Joe after breakfast.
"All right," agreed his chum. "There won't be anything doing in the moving picture line today, I guess."
"Say, that's some surf!" cried Joe in his chum's ear, as they got to the sandy stretch. "Look at those waves!"
"I guess they're what you call 'mountain high,'" answered Blake, himself yelling, for their ordinary voices could not be heard above the thunder of the surf and the roar of the gale.
They stood for a few minutes watching the big rollers pounding on the sand, and then, looking down the strand, they saw a figure running toward them.
"Here comes a life guard," remarked Joe.
"And he acts as if something was up," added Blake.
Nearer came the man, dressed in yellow oilskins, for the spray from the sea flew far inland, almost like rain. Joe and Blake had on rubber coats.
"What is it?" cried Blake, as the man came opposite.
He held his hands in funnel shape and yelled:
"A wreck—a big sailing vessel is coming ashore! Her masts are gone, and she can't get off! She'll strike soon. I want all the men I can get to help us with the breeches buoy. We can't launch our boat—too heavy surf!"