Bonehill
Young Hunters in Porto Rico; or, The Search for a Lost Treasure
"The Young Hunters in Porto Rico" has been written at the earnest solicitation of a number of my young readers, who wished to follow the further adventures of the Gun and Sled Club.
In a former volume of this series, "Gun and Sled," I related how the club was formed and what a jolly time its members had during a winter outing on Snow-Top Island. In the present tale, one of the members becomes the proud owner of a yacht, and of course nothing will do but to take an ocean trip on the craft. During this trip the boys learn of a Spanish treasure said to be secreted in one of the great caves near Caguas, on the island of Porto Rico, and at once a hunt is instituted, and many stirring adventures follow.
The work was written primarily for the reader's amusement, yet I have endeavored within its pages to give a fair description of the Porto Rico of to-day, as it appears to a traveler from our States. This new island domain of ours is but little known to the majority of us, but when its picturesqueness, and its mild climate, become a matter of publicity, Porto Rico is bound to become the Mecca for thousands of American tourists, in search of health and pleasure.
From the number of letters received, I am led to believe that "Gun and Sled" was well liked by my readers. If this is so, I sincerely trust that the present volume does not fall below the other in merit.
Captain Ralph Bonehill.
CHAPTER I
A STORM OFF SHORE
"What do you think of the weather, Bob?"
"It looks like a storm, Dick, and a heavy one, too."
"Exactly my idea. I wonder how far we are from the lighthouse?"
"I can't say. Jacob!"
"What is it, Master Robert?"
"How far is it to the lighthouse?"
The old Yankee sailor at the wheel of the Dashaway rubbed his grizzled chin and cast his eyes about before replying.
"I reckon as how it is about two miles or so," he said, with deliberation. "We have been running putty lively, you know."
"Do you imagine we can make it before that blow comes up?" asked Dick Wilbur, anxiously. "We don't want to lose a stick out here."
"We can do our best, sir. But we've got to work for it, for the wind is going down fast."
"I see that, Jacob. Hadn't you better throw her over a point or two?"
"I'll throw her over all she'll stand," answered Jacob Ropes, as he moved the handles of the brass-bound and highly polished steering wheel of the yacht. "Don't you think we had better lower the mainsail?"
"I think a couple of reefs will be enough – for the present," replied Dick Wilbur. "We can get the canvas in on the run when it freshens up."
At this old Jacob Ropes shook his head doubtfully, but as Dick Wilbur was commonly looked upon as the leader in the present outing, he said nothing in opposition. Both Dick Wilbur and Bob Hobart sprang to the halyards, and soon the mainsail was set to the former's satisfaction. The topsail had already been stowed away, and now the jib was likewise made safe.
The Dashaway had been cruising off the shore of the Carolinas for the best part of a week. She was as trim and substantial a yacht as one could meet anywhere, and had been built especially for Dick Wilbur's uncle by a firm of ship constructors who made a specialty of this class of work. She was long and narrow – yet not too narrow for safety – and while her mast was a towering one, the ballast of lead in her keel was sufficient to render her sailing qualities good even in a heavy blow.
In a former story, entitled "Gun and Sled," I told how four boys, Dick Wilbur, Bob Hobart, Don Harrison and Leander Carson organized the Gun and Sled Club, and went off on a long winter outing on Snow-Top Island. They were accompanied by Danny Guirk, a poor but merry-hearted Irish lad, who did all sorts of odds and ends of work for them, and amid snow and ice the club went gunning, fishing, ice-boat sailing and the like to their hearts' content.
When the lads returned to their homes in Waterford, it was decided by a unanimous vote to make the club a permanent one, and the snow still lay on the ground while they were planning for their outing during the coming summer.
At first it was decided to go up the lake upon which the village was situated, again, for another trip to the island where they had had so much sport; but the departure of Dick Wilbur's uncle for China caused a change in their plans. Dick was named after this relative, and before going away, Mr. Richard Wilbur gave to his namesake the Dashaway.
"I am sure you will appreciate the gift, my boy," had been his words. "Have the best of good times on the craft, but take care that you don't get drowned."
My young readers can well imagine how delighted Dick was over this gift. The youth was now president of the club, and it instantly came into his head to invite the members to take the contemplated outing on board of the yacht. "And I'll take you anywhere that you want to go," had been Dick's concluding remark on making the offer.
The proposition was accepted as quickly as made, and then came the question of where they should go. Waterford lay a good many miles from the ocean, but an easy passage could be had by means of several lakes and a broad river, and it was finally decided that they should spread the Dashaway's white wings on the broad Atlantic, for a sail down the coast to Florida.
This was to be a long trip from home, and it was felt by the boys' parents that some older person should go with them. Squire Hobart, Bob's father, knew old Jacob Ropes well, and knew he was a first-class sailor, and it was this Yankee who was hired to do the main sailing of the yacht and keep a watchful eye over the lads. Old Jacob was as good-hearted a tar as could be found anywhere, and it did not take long for him and the members of the club to become warm friends.
"I don't think we are going to have any fishing to-day," remarked Leander Carson, as Dick came forward to where he and Don Harrison sat, near the companionway.
"I don't believe we're going to have any for several days, Leander," answered Dick, as he again surveyed the clouds.
"We're in for a big storm – I'm certain of it," came from Don. "If we – There goes Danny's gong!"
A loud beating of a wooden spoon on a tin platter had broken in on his speech. Now there appeared above the companionway steps the face of a chubby Irish lad wearing a big apron and a four-cornered cook's cap.
"All hands be afther comin' down fer dinner!" cried the young cook of the club. "An' don't waste no time or dem apple dumplin's will all be cold," he added.
"All right, Danny, we'll be down," answered Dick. "I can tell you what, boys, this sailing around gives a fellow a tremendous appetite."
"As if there was ever anything the matter with your eating apparatus," laughed Bob. "But say, Danny's bluefish does smell immense, doesn't it?" he went on, and was the first to slip down into the small but elegant cabin of which the Dashaway boasted. The others immediately followed, and soon all were feasting on the spread the Irish lad had prepared for them.
"Danny, I'll recommend you to the Waldorf-Astoria if ever I get to New York," observed Bob, as he paused, with a cob of green corn in his hands. "As a cook you're getting to be A No. 1."
"I don't want no recommendation," returned the Irish lad, blushing.
