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Mystery of the Iron Box

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<h2 id='chap15' class='c011'>CHAPTER XV</h2> <div class='nf-center-c0'> <div class='nf-center c013'> <div>CATAPULT</div> </div></div> “But that doesn’t mean we can’t try your scheme, Sandy,” Ken said after a moment. “It just means we have to speed up the schedule.” “That’s what it means,” Sandy said. He laughed grimly. “I’ve got no feeling in my legs. My arms are numb to the elbow. I’ve got about as much chance of standing up as I have of—” He broke off, and Ken could hear him edging over on the bunk. “But I might as well try,” he concluded. Ken moved until he could see over the rim of his own bunk. “Why stand up? All you have to do is turn around on the bunk.” “I’ve got to get you down,” Sandy muttered. “If you try it by yourself you’ll probably break your neck in the drop.” Sandy had flung his legs sideways and was lowering his bound feet to the floor. Because his ankles were crossed he could put only one foot flat on the floor at a time. He leaned forward, pushing himself with the hands tied behind his back. He waited until the barge was momentarily on an even keel and then forced one foot to take his weight. The leg was numb. It collapsed immediately. Sandy barely managed to fling himself back into the bunk, to save himself from toppling forward onto his face. Ken could feel sweat tickling his own forehead. Outside, the pumping engine coughed. It spit, missed fire, caught again, and then died. “Hear that?” Ken’s voice was as cheerful as he could make it. “Cal’s having a little trouble.” Sandy was on the edge of the bunk, ready to try again. But he held himself still to listen. “He’d better get that engine going before too long,” he muttered. He pushed his foot against the floor and once more the leg crumpled. “Try beating your foot on the floor,” Ken said. Sandy raised his legs and lowered them, thumping first one foot and then the other against the floor. “What’s all the hurry—about the engine, I mean?” Ken asked, in an effort to distract Sandy’s attention from the knifelike pains that he knew must be shooting through the redhead’s feet and legs. “Barges don’t really need to be pumped out, do they? You couldn’t sink them if you tried, could you?” “Sure they sink,” Sandy grunted, “if they get enough water aboard.” He gave one last thump and then again tried his weight on his foot. His knees buckled, but with a desperate effort he straightened up and wedged his broad shoulders against the upper bunk. He braced himself there for a moment, his face contorted with pain. The barge tilted, lifting its forward end as if the entire Atlantic were piling up under it, thrusting it skyward. Sandy’s shoulders began to slide along the bunk, his poorly balanced body tilting sideways. Ken twisted swiftly and thrust his legs out over the edge of the bunk, holding them stiff with all his strength. Sandy slid against them. For a moment Ken thought the redhead’s weight would push them aside, and that Sandy would fall past them to the floor. But just as Ken realized that he could no longer bear the strain, the barge reached the peak of its upward lift and began to tilt the other way. Sandy’s body slowly righted itself. “Now,” Sandy said, “I’m—” The pumping engine coughed and started. The boys froze. If it began to work smoothly again, Cal would certainly not remain outside in the driving wind and weather. Just then the engine sputtered several times and died again. “Quick!” Sandy said. “Maybe the next time he’ll make it. Force your knees apart and bring your legs down over my head. I’ll set you down pickaback.” “You can’t!” Ken told him. “Come on. Stop arguing.” Sandy barked the words. There were times, Ken knew, when Sandy’s stubbornness was like a rock. This was apparently one of those times. He lifted his legs above Sandy’s head, forcing them apart at the knees until they formed the facing halves of a diamond. The movement was agony. Sandy ducked his head and brought it up between Ken’s legs, so that Ken’s crossed ankles thrust themselves out before his chin. Again the engine coughed into life, sputtered, and died. A wave struck the barge’s aft bulwark, and shattered into spray which rattled against the cabin like a hail of machine-gun bullets. “Throw yourself forward,” Sandy ordered, “and hope for the best. If I go down try to protect your head.” Ken took a deep breath. Suddenly his perch, five feet above the floor, seemed atop a skyscraper. “Get ready,” he muttered. “Here goes.” He leaned back and then lunged forward, his weight shoving Sandy clear of the bunk. The redhead’s foot slid on the tilting floor, his legs buckling. His shoulders jerked to the right. He was fighting with everything he had to keep himself steady. “Hang on!” he gasped. A single grunt of pain escaped him as he dropped forward onto his knees, striking the floor with a bone-jarring crash. For a moment he knelt almost upright, balanced by a fortunate roll of the barge. Then he slumped sideways, no longer able to bear Ken’s weight on his shoulders. They sprawled in a tangle, Ken’s legs still fastened around Sandy’s neck, their chests heaving, their bodies aching. Outside, the engine started again. The throb of its exhaust, muffled by the sound of wind and water, seemed steady. Sandy groaned. “He’ll be coming back in! Get going! Get off my neck!” Ken tugged and Sandy squirmed and wriggled. Finally Ken was free. With a burst of frenzied strength he managed to roll over on his stomach and shove himself upward to his knees. Then he began to inch his way over the floor to the place in front of the door—the spot where they wanted Cal to stop. Sandy had also gotten to his knees in front of the bunk. He waited, panting, until the barge heaved in the right direction, and then threw himself over the edge of the lower bunk, squirming and fighting until he was on it again. When they were both in place, Ken said, “I’ll have to tell you exactly when to kick the door shut. You won’t be able to see him, once it’s open. When I yell, you let drive.” Sandy didn’t answer for a minute. When he did, his voice was low and jerky. “It’s no use, Ken. I wouldn’t be able to kick a ping-pong ball now.” “Cut that out!” Ken said sharply. “You’ll do it all right. When you’ve had a minute’s rest. Listen! The engine’s stopped again! Now he’s got to work on it some more. Just relax until he comes in. Take deep breaths.” A wash of solid water struck the side of the cabin, and water began to ooze in under the door, forming a slowly widening puddle. The kerosene lamp in its wall bracket flickered as a gust of cold wet wind rattled the windows and penetrated inside. Sandy was lying perfectly still on his back, his legs hanging over the side of the bunk. Ken watched him tensely. Finally Sandy gave a long, shuddering sigh. Then he lifted his head slightly to take a sight on the door, shifted his body a few inches, and slowly brought his knees up toward his chest. If he thrust them out they would strike the outer edge of the door as it was flung open. Ken’s own sigh of relief came all the way from his numb and nerveless toes. Sandy was going to be all right. “This look O.K. to you?” Sandy muttered. “Just right,” Ken told him. “Perfect.” “But I won’t be able to hold this position for very long. And if I let my legs down—” “No! Don’t do that!” Ken said urgently. “We won’t get any warning. He’ll just burst in when he comes.” The engine started up once more. “See?” Ken said. “It’s going again. Any second now—” He broke off and listened intently. There was a lull in the storm, and in the unexpected quiet they could hear the pumping engine ticking smoothly away. They could even hear the gurgle of water spouting out of its pipe. A long minute passed, and then another. Ken watched Sandy, and his heart thudded in sympathy. Sometimes Sandy’s legs would sink forward and down, and Ken would catch his breath. But Sandy always pulled them back again, the muscles of his neck drawn tight with the effort. “He’ll be here any second,” Ken repeated. “The pump sounds steady as a watch now.” With a rush the wind came back again, throwing a ton of water against the side wall. “He won’t stay out in this if he doesn’t have to,” Ken said. Sandy’s feet suddenly crashed to the floor. “Sandy!” Ken’s voice snapped like a whip. “Get them up! He might—” They both heard Cal’s heavy body lunge against the wall near the door, thrust off balance by the wind. “He’s coming! Sandy!” Sandy’s feet came up from the floor slowly, inch by inch, and his knees bent back toward his chest. And then the door started to open, and a heavy rubber boot stepped over the threshold. Ken’s view of Sandy was immediately cut off. He had no idea whether Sandy would be able to get into position in time or not—or whether he had the strength left to get into position again at all. Cal’s whole body was in the room now, his right hand pushing the door wide ahead of him. Water streamed down his face. He brushed it out of his eyes with the left hand and caught sight of Ken, near his feet. Instinctively he leaned forward over Ken’s prone body. “Now!” Ken shouted. The heavy door traveled only six inches before it struck its crouching target. But those six inches were enough. Somewhere Sandy had found the strength to put his whole weight behind the push. Cal’s body zoomed sideways. The force of the drive had knocked him off his feet like a bowling ball hitting a tenpin. His arms flailed as he fought for balance. His mouth opened on a shout. But the shout was never uttered. Cal flew across the cabin, missing the stove by inches. His head crashed against the far wall with a thud that jarred loose a frying pan hanging above the stove. The clang of metal on metal was still echoing in the little room when Cal’s whole big body collapsed in an inert heap. The door banged shut. <div class='pbb'></div> <hr class='pb c000' /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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