Lantern Sam and the Blue Streak Bandits by Michael D. Beil

the pier onto the deck. I poked around the companionway for a while, watching and listening for signs of life below deck.
    When I was sure the coast was clear, I climbed down the stairs into the cabin, where the smells of fish and mildewed foul-weather gear mingled irresistibly. I searched that boat from bow to stern without turning up so much as a crumb. Cold and discouraged, I curled up next to the kerosene lantern for a short nap before moving on.
    The next thing I remember was the sound of feet hitting the deck right above my head and the engine roaring to life. The kerosene lantern must have burned itself out hours earlier because it was icy cold to the touch and I couldn’t stop shivering. Outside the porthole it was still dark, and by the time I was awake enough to get a good look, the
Susie G
was on her way, slipping under the drawbridge and heading out into the lake!
    Unsure of how the crew would react to finding a stranger aboard, I shook off the cold and the sleep and searched fora place to hide until we returned to shore. And I almost succeeded.
    Almost.
    Above the counter where I had spent the night was a cubbyhole full of canned goods. Someone had left the door open an inch or two, just enough for me to squeeze inside. I crawled into the back corner and wedged myself in place as the
Susie G
began to rock back and forth in the waves. And I would have been fine if the weather had cooperated a little more.
    The wind began to pick up the moment we cleared the breakwater in the harbor, and the waves began to grow higher and higher, until they were crashing over the bow and the little
Susie G
was tossed this way and that, over and over. Secure in my cubby, I closed my eyes and prayed that the crew knew what they were doing.
    “Nasty out there,” a man’s voice said.
    “Nor’easter,” said another. “Three days of this. The fishing will be lousy and the captain will be grouchy.”
    Just then the
Susie G
fell off the top of an especially large wave and landed with a shudder, causing all the cans in my cubby to fly toward the door, crashing through it—with me right behind! Down I went in a cascade of soup cans, landing on the back of a crew member who had momentarily lost his footing.
    “Hey! What’s going—” he shouted.
    “Where did
that
come from?” the other asked, pointing at me.
    Before the first one could answer, however, we hit another wave and the last can in the cabinet flew out the open door as if it had been shot from a cannon and hit me square between the eyes. The last thing I saw before everything went black was a bright red label decorated with a tiny fish and the words
Sail On Sardines
.
    When I came to, my head was throbbing and it took me a few seconds to remember where I was. A bearded, scruffy man in blue coveralls smiled when I opened my eyes.
    “I’ll be darned,” he said. “You’re right, Irv. She’s not dead.”
    “Not yet, anyway,” said the other. “Just don’t let Jim see her. He hates cats almost as much as he hates his ex-wife.”
    “What should we do with it?”
    “Mrrrraaa,” I said.
    The second man felt my ribs. “Why don’t you give her some of those sardines? Looks like she hasn’t eaten in a while. You know, she’s sort of
like
a sardine—all skin and bones.”
    It seems hard to believe now, but until that moment, I had never even heard of sardines—the Dillys were strictly meat-and-potatoes people. So I watched with fascination as the bearded one twisted the key around and around, finally lifting the lid to reveal the irresistible scent that has hauntedme ever since. He set the tin on the floorboards, and I paused for a moment to savor that delicious smell and then took my first bite of sardine.
    It was almost my last, as well.
    The two men immediately backed away from me as Jim Elbert, the captain of the
Susie G
, clomped down the companionway stairs. I was too busy inhaling the heady odor of sardine to