# The Boy Scouts of the Air at Cape Peril/Chapter 13

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CHAPTER XIII
RESCUE THROUGH THE STORM
Jimmy, keyed to the highest tension by this sudden plunge into a perilous adventure, followed close on Turner's heels, axe a-shoulder, down to Lake Herring. While the lake presented a peaceful scene in comparison with the billowy ocean, its wind-lashed surface could scarcely be likened to a millpond.
"I wonder where in the mischief the rowboat is?" Turner took time to ask as he shot his light about the shore near the hangar bridge.
"What rowboat? Were you going in a rowboat?" Jimmy returned with some uneasiness.
"No time for that, boy, when the hydro can do the business. Remember we had a rowboat chained here—the one that belonged to the house?"
Jimmy recalled the fact instantly.
"Maybe the wind tore it off?" he suggested.
"Maybe it did, but it's powerful funny, for there's the chain hanging to the post."
​There was no time for further speculation. The two made their way along the foot bridge, moving with great caution to keep from being swept over. The hydro shed seemed intact, and within, the pilot, examining every section of his machine, found she had ridden the swelling waters without damage. In a few minutes, he had her ready for action.
Once Jimmy had interrupted the work by declaring he had heard a sound of oars in the distance. Turner, pricking up his ears, noticed nothing but wind and splashing water.
"Wind, my boy, can make you think you hear almost anything on a dark night. Get in here and forget your nerves," was all the satisfaction he gave the detective.
Silently, Jimmy climbed aboard.
The lad in place, the pilot started his motor. Swiftly the boat glided out into the night. Guided partly by his instruments and partly by instinct acquired by long experience, Turner headed her boldly due south, let her skim the waters for a space, then took a flying leap of something over half a mile, and before Jimmy had time to take full stock of the flying ​sensation, he felt the spray on his face and knew that the boat was once again cleaving the water.
"Now," shouted the pilot. "Nearly there! Now for a place to anchor."
Swift maneuvering brought the ship athwart the shore-line, vaguely visible in the gloom. Jimmy was almost too excited by the experience just past to think of any perils ahead. A journey—even such a brief one—in a flying ship by night would have thrilled any youngster.
"Now," directed Turner when the anchor was cast and the boat tipped the sand. "Out, quick as you can make it. Hold tight to the axe. Don't drop that, for heaven's sake!"
"Reckon any crook will smash the ship while we're gone?" the boy asked as they ploughed through the sand.
"I'm not reckoning anything. You follow me."
The two made their way stealthily from the lake through the sand path up to the mound, pausing from time to time to listen for suspicious noises amid the howling of the tempest. Before them in the gloom the lighthouse loomed like a weird and gigantic phantom. Jimmy, fighting ​off any rising nervousness, felt his heart pounding against his ribs as he followed his resolute guide up the slope. On the summit of the sandhill, Turner paused again to reconnoiter, his pistol ready for action. Then he pushed on to the door. He tried to open it but it refused to budge. His first impulse was to yell for Buffum. His next to go for the fishermen. He dismissed both thoughts. He no longer hesitated what he should do.
"Here, the axe," he whispered to Jimmy, as he thrust his pistol into its holster. "Stand away while I smash the door in and stay there till I call you."
Under a few pounding blows, the door yielded and crashed open.
"Be careful," he whispered once more in Jimmy's ear as he made ready to enter. "Stay where you are till I whistle, you understand; then come in."
Leaping ahead, Turner dropped his axe within the doorway and flashed his light, his right hand holding the pistol with perfect steadiness. A glance assured him that the brick paved, circular room, bare as a vault, was free of lurkers.
​Then he softly called up the stair, "Cap'n Buffum!"
With tense ears he listened. A slight noise, the mere ghost of a scraping sound, attracted his notice. Again he called. This time the same scraping, scratching sound followed, a shade more distinct.
Casting aside all thought of danger to himself, Turner thrust his flash-light into his pocket and, revolver advanced, began to grope his way up the pitch-black stair, stealthily as an Indian, fully aware that he might receive a bullet at any moment. Up, up he crept until his left hand felt the floor of the upper room. Then he listened for a brief moment. Again, the scratching sound, louder and more insistent. His keen ear had located its direction to the inch. He bounded up the last steps, and snatching out his flash-light, held it at arm's length shooting its ray straight at the noise, his pistol ready for instant action. There, revealed by the ray, was a form bound hand and foot, roped to the great chair, and with eyes bandaged and a gag in the mouth. It was Cap'n Buffum.
By a desperate effort, the captive had managed ​to strain and stir his chair a few inches and thus create the mysterious sound that the Tarheel had heard.
"This is Turner," called out the rescuer in a low tone, "Is the man who did this upstairs?" he took time to ask as he advanced.
The head shook a feeble negative.
Flashing his light, Turner's first act was to survey every nook and corner of the room, moving with swift steps. Then he rushed to the head of the stairway, gave a shrill whistle, and lighted the way for the plucky Jimmy as the lad bounded up the stairs.
"Hold the light," he commanded. "It's Cap'n Buffum knotted up. Here—here."
The lad took in the situation at a glance.
Instantly the man set nimbly to work to release the captive. He snatched the handkerchief from the eyes that stared out in a mute and pathetic gratitude. Then he succeeded in extracting the gag.
"The light! My light! Bill Perkins!" were the words that came feebly from the throat. Then the eyes closed; the lips and face blanched; the old man had fainted.
​Without a word, Turner worked like a demon with his knife to sever the cords that cut into the wrists and ankles and those that bound the prisoner to the chair.
"Some sailor did this," he muttered as he slashed the hemp. Freed of his bonds, Cap'n Buifum revived for the moment, passed his hand over his brow, and started up; but his feeble knees gave way and he would have sagged to the floor if Turner and Jimmy had not supported him.
"Get him to the bed," commanded Turner.
A moment later the limp burden was stretched out on the cot, and the Tarheel had located and was lighting the lamp.
"Quick, water," he cried to Jimmy, at the same time pointing to the washstand. Jimmy, seizing the pitcher, began to lave the wan face, while Turner, snatching a flask of stimulant from the cupboard, forced a liberal dose down the old man's throat.
In a few moments the closed eyelids opened. "Where am I?" he asked, light-headedly.
"You're all right. Just a little faint," encouraged Turner, leaning over him. "It's Turner ​and one of the boys with you. Easy, now!"
The old man's fingers began to pluck nervously at the buttons of his coat. "My light! My light!" he whispered as recollection dawned on him once more.
"Listen," Turner said earnestly. "Don't worry. I've set fire to a shack on the shore—you know Thompson's old cottage—so there's no danger to ships. Cheer up now, and tell us how it happened when you feel a little stronger."
The words had their effect.
"You done that? You throwed out the life-belt. Lemme see it, mate."
To humor him, Turner lifted him so he could see the glow through the window.
"You done it, mate, and to think my light ain't never been out befo'. 'Twar that scum Bill Perkins that tied me and smashed my light, and—"
What the Cap'n was about to add was interrupted by sounds without. Turner rushed to the window and was able to distinguish a group of men, with lanterns swinging in the wind, a party from the fishing settlement. There was a rush for the stairs and the men thronged into ​the room. Anxious questions and a babble of speculations filled the air; it was some minutes before the crowd could be sufficiently calmed to listen to Buffum's story.
"My heart near cracked them two hours I war tied up a-thinking about my light bein' out," he moaned. "That thar fire won't last till day." he added with a sudden attack of dismay.
"Listen here, Cap'n," put in one of the fishermen, "soon as you tell us yo' tale I'll go up and fire a shanty near the settlement. That 'll keep goin' till daybreak that ain't far off. Tomorrow a lightship will come down. Tain't no use to worry."
The words seemed to put more life into the old man, and he launched off on his story.