Suddenly the two met, forming a black pillar, and there was a loud roaring sound.
“What is it?” cried Tom, but, even as he asked he knew what the captain would say.
“Waterspout! A waterspout, and a big one, too!”
The attention of everyone on board had been called to the strange and threatening phenomenon by this time, and they all watched it anxiously.
“A waterspout,” murmured Tom. “I’ve often heard about them, but I never saw one before. What will it do?”
“Break when the whirlwind that caused it dies out,” was the answer, “but——” The captain suddenly ceased speaking. Then he cried:
“It’s headed right this way! The waterspout is coming toward us!”
CHAPTER VI
SEEN IN THE GLASS
Instantly there was a commotion all through the Silver Star. The captain’s alarming words had frightened the sailors as well as the passengers. As for Tom, he stood in fascinated wonder on the bridge, watching the approaching waterspout.
And that it was approaching, and rapidly too, could not be doubted. It was sweeping onward with a whirling motion, straight for the ship, and there was a low, moaning and humming sound to the wind that had created it, which did not add to the pleasure of the spectacle.
“Is there any danger?” asked Tom.
“There is if it hits us,” was the captain’s grim answer. “But I’m not going to let that happen, if I can help it. I’ll go ahead full speed and try to get out of the way. It’s only in a sailing ship, where it’s hard to change the course against a perverse wind, that there is really any great danger, though I have heard of steamers being hit.”
“Oh, Captain Steerit!” cried a woman passenger from the deck below. “Will we be wrecked?”
“Not if I can help it,” was his answer. “There is comparatively no danger. I’ll pass the spout to one side.”
“Then I’m going to try for a picture!” exclaimed Tom. “Will it last long enough for me to get my camera?” he asked, pausing on his way down.
“It will if you hurry,” answered the commander. “And I may be able to give you a chance to get a rare view.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I’m going to try to break that spout with a cannon shot. I’ve read of such things being done, but I never tried it. I’ve got a gun on board, for saluting some of the owners at the islands where I trade, and I’ll have my gunner try a shot at it.”
“Great!” cried Tom. “If I can get a view of the spout, as the cannon ball hits it, that will be a rare one.”
He hurried below for his camera, while the captain gave his order about the cannon, and the crew ran the gun out on the bow.
When Tom came up from his stateroom he saw that the spout was much nearer. But the course of the Silver Star had been so changed that she was in comparatively no danger of being struck, unless the waterspout suddenly shifted.
“All ready now with that gun!” cried the captain.
“All ready! Aye, aye, sir!” came the answer.
Tom was taking several views of the waterspout as it was whirling along, and some of the other passengers, grown bolder as they saw that there was no danger, were doing the same.
“Ready to snap her, Tom?” asked the commander.
“Yes, sir,” answered our hero.
“Then here she goes! Fire!”
There was a puff of white smoke, a dull flame, and a report that seemed to jar the whole ship. Tom had a glimpse of something black bounding over the waves. It was the round shot from the old-fashioned cannon, and had no great speed, as cannon balls go.
“Get ready, Tom!” called the captain.
Tom focused his camera on the whirling waterspout, and waited the right moment to push the shutter lever.
It came.
Surely aimed had been the cannon, for the ball cut right through the center of the twin-joined funnel-shaped masses of water. The one that had risen from the sea slumped down into the waves again, carrying with it the mass of water that had been drawn from the heavily charged cloud, and Tom got a wonderful picture of the destruction of the spout.
“There, I guess that won’t trouble us any more, even if it had been headed directly for us!” called the captain, while he signalled for full speed ahead, since he had slowed down the vessel to enable Tom to take the snapshot.
“It was great!” exclaimed our hero, as he went up on the bridge to thank his friend the commander. “Do waterspouts do much damage?”
“They do when they’re big enough, and when they hit a small vessel. Even a big steamer might suffer from having thousands of tons of water dropped on her decks at once. I don’t want to encounter a waterspout. They are quite rare I believe. At least I’ve seen very few, and the farther off they are the better I like ’em. Did you get a good picture?”
“I hope so. But I can’t develop it here.”
“Oh, yes you can. I used to be quite an amateur photographer myself, and I had a dark room fitted up on board. I guess there are all the chemicals and other things you need, including the ruby light. Go ahead and develop your film, and see what sort of a view you have.”
“That’s great!” exclaimed Tom. “If they’re any good I’ll make some for you.”
“All right. I’ll be glad to have ’em.”
Tom went below, noting as he did so that the sea was still foaming and agitated where the waterspout had subsided into the waves. The passengers were crowded about the gun that had been fired, congratulating the gunner, and talking about the waterspout and its sudden destruction.
To get to the dark room, fitted up in a small stateroom, Tom had to go past the room of the “mysterious” passenger.
“Queer he wouldn’t even come up on deck to see the waterspout,” mused our hero. “He must have some strange object in remaining below. Well, I’m not going to think anything more about him.”
As Tom got in front of the stateroom he noticed that the door was partly opened, and, almost instinctively, and with no intention of prying, he looked in as he passed.
What he saw startled him. There was an electric light aglow in the apartment, for the clouds had made the day gloomy, and Tom caught the reflection in a looking glass on the wall. And what he saw in the glass was the face of a man with a beard and moustache. It was a face that Tom knew well, but it was not the face of the passenger who had so hurriedly boarded the ship, and who had kept to his berth ever since.
“A beard and moustache!” gasped Tom. “I wonder if they’re false? And yet they might have grown naturally. But no, they couldn’t have, in this short time. They’re false. And I know who that man is now! I didn’t know him smooth shaven, but I do with his beard.”
He had a good glimpse, by means of the mirror, of the face of the mysterious man. The passenger appeared to be contemplating his countenance in the glass.
“He here!” gasped Tom, as he hurried on to the dark room. “That man on board! I must tell Captain Steerit!”
CHAPTER VII
THE STORM
Filled with his new idea, and alarmed at the possible menace to himself, Tom turned, and was about to retrace his steps up on deck to speak to the captain. Then he paused.
“Hold on a minute, Tom Fairfield,” he told himself. “And don’t do anything in a hurry. You came off on this voyage in a rush, and maybe that was a good thing. But just wait a minute now, and see if this is the best step to take.”
He turned again, and once more walked past the stateroom of the suspected man. The door was closed this time, and Tom was rather glad of it, for he did not want to meet the passenger, now that he knew who he was.
“I’ll just wait a bit about telling the captain,” reflected Tom. “When I tell him the story he’s bound to take some action, seeing that Mr. Trendell is sailing under false colors. And that’s bound to make a row. It won’t be pleasant for me, either, seeing that I’ve got to stay on this ship with him for some time yet. And a ship isn’t like dry land—you can’t get away from a person when you want to.
“No, it’s better for me as it is, I think. As long as he stays shut up in his stateroom he won’t bother me, though he knows that I’m on board. That’s why he acted so queer, and why he’s been in retirement. Now he’s planning some new move.
“Yes, I’ll just lay low for a while, and see what happens. There’s time enough I guess. I’ll go develop this picture.”
Tom found the dark room well fitted up, and he was soon at work, taking the films from his camera, and putting them in the developing bath. As soon as the yellow coating began to dissolve he saw, coming out of the shadows, as it were, the dim image of the waterspout, and the shattering of it by the cannon ball.
“Say! That’s a crackerjack snapshot!” he exclaimed. “As soon as it’s dry enough I’m going to print some views and show ’em. I don’t believe anyone on board has any better pictures than these.”
In his enthusiasm over his views he forgot, for the time being, the matter that was troubling him. He found that he had a number of excellent negatives of the waterspout, showing it approaching, its destruction, and the raging sea after it had subsided into the waves.
“Good! That’s great!” exclaimed Mr. Blake, one of the passengers to whom Tom showed his views a few hours later. “I hope mine come out as fine as yours. How did you print them so quickly?”
Tom explained how he had dried his negatives by dipping them in alcohol, and pinning them in front of an electric fan, so that he could make prints a comparatively short time after developing. He even used the dark room for some of the other passengers, making some prints from their films, but none of them were as good as those of our hero.
“You ought to make a set for the captain,” suggested Mr. Blake. “I believe he’d like them to hang in his cabin, as a souvenir of the occasion.”
“I will,” declared Tom, and this brought up anew in his mind the question as to whether or not he ought to inform the commander of the secret he had unexpectedly stumbled upon.
“I guess I’ll take a chance, and tell him,” mused the lad. “I’ve thought it all over, and I’ll feel better if I tell. If I don’t, and anything happens, I’d feel as if I was to blame. I’ll tell Captain Steerit.”
But an unexpected obstacle developed. First, when Tom went to look for the captain the latter was working out some reckonings, and could not be disturbed. And then, a little later, it was time for supper, and a concert was to be given afterward, the captain having arranged for it among the musical members of his passengers. He was really too busy for Tom to see him in private.
“Oh, well, morning will do,” decided our hero, little knowing what was to happen between night and dawn.
The concert was a great success, though it was strictly amateur. There were songs and instrumental numbers, for the Silver Star carried a piano. Some one discovered that Tom was a school lad, who had been a member of the glee club at Elmwood Hall, and nothing would do but that he must sing some songs. He did not want to, but was finally prevailed upon to do so, and he had a better voice than he himself suspected.
“Great! Fine!” complimented Mr. Blake. “If there were more of us here we could charge admission and make a fund for the sailors. Now, Mrs. Ford, another of your piano solos.”
Thus the evening went on in gaiety until even the gayest were ready for their staterooms.
“Maybe I’ll get a chance to speak to the captain now,” thought Tom, wishing to get the unpleasant matter off his mind before he went to bed, if possible. But Captain Steerit was still busy, and when he did have a moment’s leisure, after the main cabin had been put to rights following the concert, he was summoned to the bridge by an unexpected call.
“I wonder if anything can be wrong?” asked Mr. Blake of Tom.
“Wrong? How? What do you mean?”
“Well, I mean that the wind has been rising rapidly in the last hour, and the barometer is falling. I heard one of the crew say so.”
“That means a storm,” suggested Tom.
“I guess so. Notice how we’re pitching and rolling.”
“That’s right,” agreed our hero, for, now that his attention was not occupied with the music and songs he could observe that the ship was heeling over at a sharper angle. And, too, she seemed to be climbing up some mountain of water, only to slip down into the hollow on the other side of it.
“It is a little rough,” spoke Tom, “but I don’t believe it will amount to much. Let’s go up and look around.”
The motion on deck was more pronounced than it had been below, and the two had some little difficulty in keeping their feet as they got outside. They felt the strong wind in their faces, a wind that seemed to be momentarily increasing in violence.
“Better get below!” shouted Captain Steerit to Tom and Mr. Blake, from the bridge. “We’re in for a spell of bad weather I fancy.”
“Any danger?” yelled Mr. Blake, above the roar of the wind, which was humming through the mast and funnel stays. “My wife is very nervous.”
“No danger,” answered the commander, and then he disappeared into the charthouse that opened off the bridge.
The vessel pitched and tossed, but Tom had been in worse blows than this, and he saw nothing to be alarmed about. The sky was overcast with clouds, for no stars were visible, and the wind was strong, but aside from these indications there did not seem to be anything to be alarmed about.
“Well, I’ll have to wait until morning, all right,” mused Tom, as he took a turn about the deck before going in. Mr. Blake left him with a good-night.
“I’ll go tell my wife there’s nothing to be alarmed about,” he said, “but she’s that nervous that it’ll be just like her to sit up dressed all night.”
“Oh, I guess the Silver Star can weather this little blow,” said Tom.
Remaining on deck for about half an hour longer Tom was beginning to feel sleepy enough to turn in. The wind had not increased. If anything it had gone down, though the lad could see, over the rail, that the waves were running high. They did not break, however, being more like huge oily swells that heaved up in the darkness, showing dimly the reflection of the ship’s lights.
“Some power to those waves,” reflected our hero. “A lot of power there when it’s needed, but the trouble is it can’t be controlled. Well, I hope we don’t run into a worse blow by morning.”
A little saddened as he looked off across the black waste, and reflected that somewhere on that heaving ocean his father and mother might be helplessly drifting, Tom went below.
As he did so he cast a look at the bridge. He saw Captain Steerit standing there with the first mate, their figures being brought out in relief against the glow of light from the charthouse. The two seemed to be in earnest conversation, and Tom, who was unaccountably nervous, could not but wonder if there was any danger in their situation.
As he passed the room of the mysterious passenger Tom saw that the door was closed, though a light showing over the transom indicated that the occupant was still up.
It must have been past midnight when Tom was suddenly awakened by being pitched sharply against the side of his berth.
“Hello! What’s up?” he cried.
There was no answer, but he felt himself tossed in the opposite direction, while some loose objects in his room rolled about the floor.
“Something’s going on!” said Tom aloud, as he reached out and turned the electric switch, flooding his room with light.
As he did so he became aware that the vessel was rolling and pitching at what, even to his accustomed senses, was an alarming degree. Tom sprang out of bed, and brought up with a bang on the opposite side of his little apartment, giving himself quite a severe knock.
“Ouch!” he exclaimed, rubbing his elbows. He forgot to hold on to something, and felt himself sliding back toward his berth, but he had sense enough to put out his hands and save himself from another collision.
“Some motion here!” thought Tom.
At the same time he became aware of a rushing of feet on the deck above him, while hoarse commands were cried out, coming but faintly to his ears.
Without waiting to dress, Tom cautiously opened his porthole a trifle. In an instant, even through the small crack, he was drenched with a spray of salty water.
“Say! It must be a blow!” he cried, screwing the porthole glass back into place. “It’s a storm all right! I’m going to get dressed, and go on deck. No telling what might happen.”
Steadying himself with one hand, he sorted out his clothes with the other. He could hear the passengers in the stateroom adjoining his moving about, and he thought he detected a woman crying.
CHAPTER VIII
A BLOW IN THE DARK
“Trouble somewhere,” reflected Tom, as he hastily dressed as best he could in that small stateroom, which seemed uncertain on its own part as to what was the floor or ceiling. Sometimes one of the walls would serve as the floor, and again as the ceiling.
“Trouble,” repeated Tom, “or else some one is frightened. The storm must have developed in a hurry. I’m going to see what’s up. I don’t like being below when there’s any danger.”
Finishing with his dressing, Tom hurried along the passageway leading to the upper deck. He had to steady himself as he went along, or he would have received more hard knocks.
Coming opposite the room where the “mysterious” man was quartered, Tom noted that the door was ajar a trifle. It went shut with a slam as our hero passed, but whether the occupant had been the cause, or the swaying of the ship, Tom could not determine.
“No chance to talk with Captain Steerit now,” Tom reflected. “But I guess it will keep until after the blow.”
On deck our hero was at once made aware of the fury of the storm, and its increasing violence. He had a glimpse of great billows, foam-capped, racing along at the side of the Silver Star, as if to keep pace with her, mocking her efforts to speed away from them. He heard the wind fairly howling through the wire stays, as if giant fingers were playing a wild tune on some immense harp. And he felt, too, the violent pitching and tossing of the craft, as he had not in his cabin below. In fact so great was the motion that he had difficulty in keeping his feet.
“Some blow—this,” gasped Tom, the words being almost snatched out of his mouth by the wind.
He saw sailors making their way here and there, fastening in place such gear as might tear away when the storm became worse. And that this was likely was becoming every moment more evident.
Tom managed to make his way forward, clinging to some safety ropes that had been rigged. He was near the bow, and could see towering billows curling toward the ship, when a voice hailed him.
“Get back! Go on back, Tom!” someone shouted.
He looked up toward the bridge, to see Captain Steerit standing there, clad in oilskins, for the spray was flying from the crests of the mountain-like ridges of water.
“Is there any danger?” Tom shouted back.
“There always is—in a storm,” was the grim response. “Get back. No telling when a comber may come aboard, and it will carry you off like a chip. You can’t hold on. Get back, Tom!”
Our hero decided that it was good advice to follow, and, even as he turned he felt the ship stagger as though some giant had dealt her a blow. There was a shower of spray and a rush of water that drenched Tom, and nearly carried him off his feet.
“Well I’m wet through,” he reflected. “I’d better get back to bed, or else put on dry clothes. I should have put on oilskins before coming up.”
As he went down a companionway he saw Mr. Blake coming up, with his wife clinging to him. She had been crying, and was even now sobbing.
“Don’t go up,” Tom advised them.
“Oh, is it as bad as that? Are we sinking?” gasped Mrs. Blake.
“Oh, there’s no particular danger,” said Tom, as calmly as he could, “only you’ll get all wet. I’m drenched. Captain Steerit warned me back, just as a big wave came aboard.”
“Oh, Will, I’m so frightened!” wailed Mrs. Blake. “I know we’ll go to the bottom!”
“Nonsense!” answered her husband. “I told you we’d better stay below.”
“It’s more comfortable, at any rate,” said Tom, and he helped Mr. Blake assist his wife to their stateroom.
Tom lost no time in putting on dry garments, and over them he put a suit of oilskins, that would keep out the wet. Thus equipped he started for the deck again.
“Now that I’m up I may as well stay and see the storm out,” Tom reflected. “If it grows worse I don’t want to be below, anyhow. I’ll have more chance in the open.”
For a moment his heart misgave him, as he thought of the storm through which the ship on which his father and mother were sailing had gone.
“I do hope the Silver Star isn’t wrecked,” mused Tom. “That would upset all my plans. But pshaw! It won’t happen.”
He passed one of the sailors whom he knew.
“What do you think of it?” asked Tom.
The man paused for a moment before replying. Then, looking to see that no one overheard him, the man answered:
“We’ve got orders to put fresh water in the lifeboats, and to see that all’s clear for getting away in a hurry.”
“As bad as that?” asked Tom, in some surprise. “Why I fancied the ship wouldn’t make much of this storm.”
“It isn’t so much the storm,” went on the sailor, “though that’s bad enough, and it’s getting worse. But she’s opened some of her seams, and we’re taking in water.”
“Have they started the pumps?” asked Tom in some alarm.
“Sure, but one of them is out of commission, and the others have all they can do. Take my advice and get ready for any emergency.”
“Jove! As bad as that!” exclaimed Tom with a gasp. “Surely the passengers ought to be told.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” the sailor advised him. “The captain will tell them soon enough. And if they know too soon it may start a panic.”
“That’s so,” agreed our hero.
He turned to go back to his stateroom, and, as he did so, he became aware that the door to the apartment of the man he suspected had been open a crack. It was quickly closed as our hero came opposite it, as if the occupant had been listening to what the sailor had said.
“I wonder if I hadn’t better give Mr. Blake, and some of the others, a little warning,” reflected Tom. “No, I guess I won’t. The women might get all excited. Captain Steerit will surely take no chances. But now what had I better do? I’m going to take my money with me, anyhow, if we have to leave the ship.”
Tom had provided himself with a money belt before coming on his trip, and he now strapped this about his waist with the pockets filled. He also took a few personal belongings that would not take up much room, nor be heavy. He had on warm but light clothing, and light shoes.
“If worst comes to worst, and I have to swim for it, I can do it this way,” he reflected. “It won’t be cold, that’s one good thing, and there aren’t any icebergs in this part of the Pacific. Still I hope nothing happens.”
Once more he made his way up on deck. He saw none of the other passengers there, and, taking his place in a sheltered spot, he watched the storm.
It was certainly growing worse. Every now and then big seas came crashing over the bow, sending a shower of spray up to the bridge where Captain Steerit kept unceasing watch. The Silver Star was pitching and tossing more than ever. Now she would poke her nose toward some big, dark billow, and it seemed as if she must bury herself beneath it. But she would rise to it, and ride on the crest, being poised there for a moment with her bow and propeller clear of water.
At such times the engines raced, the screw having no resistance, and the whole vessel quivered from stem to stern. Then the staunch craft would slide down the inclined plane of water into the valley below, only to repeat the process at the next huge wave.
Then, when some big comber came aboard, the ship would stagger under the blow, until it seemed as if she must be crushed. But ever she would emerge from the battle with the sea, to stagger on once more.
It was magnificent, but terrifying, and Tom, who had never been in such a storm, was not a little frightened. But when he looked toward the bridge, and saw the commander there in his glistening oilskins, as calm and undisturbed as though he was but guiding his vessel on a summer day, our hero felt reassured.
“The ship’s in good hands,” thought Tom. “We’ll pull through yet, barring accidents, and even with a leak, and one pump useless.”
Yes—“barring accidents.” That is the one thing on which sailors cannot count.
All had been done that human ingenuity could suggest. Everything movable on deck had been made fast, and the engines were going at top power to force the ship through the storm. Tom could see dark figures clustered about the lifeboats, and he knew the sailors stood ready to lower them in case of necessity.
“But I think I’d rather take my chance on the Silver Star than in a small boat in such a sea,” reflected Tom, not without a shudder, as he looked at the heaving billows.
He could not tell whether it was raining or not, as the spray was like a fall of the drops from the clouds. There was no thunder or lightning—just a hard, steady blow.
On staggered the steamer. Tom braced himself in a corner by a deckhouse, and held on. He could look over the rail at the hissing seas that ran alongside.
Suddenly there came a hoarse cry from the lookout in the bows.
“Port! Port your wheel!” he screamed. “We’ll be upon it in a second. Port!”
“Port it is!” came the quick voice of Captain Steerit.
A moment later there came a staggering blow in the dark—a blow that seemed to halt the Silver Star in her career—a blow that made the craft shiver from stem to stern!
CHAPTER IX
TOM GOES OVERBOARD
“Stand by to lower the boats! Order all hands on deck! Women and children first!”
Captain Steerit was yelling these commands through a megaphone to his crew, even while he turned to order the first mate, on the bridge with him, to go below to the engine room, and see what damage had been done.
The Silver Star, after the first staggering blow, had come to a stop, and lay pitching and tossing on the waves. Clearly her engines were motionless, for Tom missed the vibration that had told of their ceaseless revolutions.
“Something bad has happened,” reflected our hero. “I’ve got to be on the lookout.”
He glanced over the rail, and could see nothing but the black, rushing waves. He had half a mind to go back to his cabin, and see if he could not crowd some of his belongings into a valise.
“If we’ve got to take to the boats,” he reflected, “there are not so many of us but what we can each take a little baggage. I’ll need some other clothing if we come out of this safely. I’ll take a chance.”
He was about to go below when he once more felt the throb of the engines, and the ship quivered.
“We’re under way again,” he said, half aloud. “I guess it’s all right. We may have hit a floating spar, or something like that. And yet, from the way the lookout yelled, it seemed to be more dangerous than that. I guess it’s all right, though.”
But the order to stand by to lower the boats had not been recalled, and already the sailors were swarming about them, seeing that the falls were clear, and that food and water were on board the small craft.
Small craft, indeed, they seemed, to be trusted on the mighty ocean in a storm, and yet they were staunchly made, and Tom knew that if they could be successfully launched they could weather many a blow.
“Well, if I’ve got to take a chance, I’ve got to,” he reflected. “I’ll get some of my things, and wait for my place in the boat.”
The sound of crying and tearful exclamations could now be heard above the roar of the gale, and Tom recognized the voice of Jackie Case, the little boy whom he had saved.
“Poor little chap!” he mused. “It’s tough on the women and children.”
After that first staggering blow, and the confusion that followed, order seemed to come out of chaos. Captain Steerit had matters well in hand, and he issued his orders calmly. The women were comforted as best they could, and urged to get in the small boats. Some objected, fearing to trust themselves to the craft in such a storm. But the captain insisted.
“Is there really any danger?” asked Mr. Blake, as he stood by one of the starboard boats, his wife clinging to him. Tom was near enough to hear the captain’s answer.
“We have sprung several bad leaks,” was what the commander said, “and the pumps can’t keep the water down. We must have struck a half-submerged wreck, and that further opened the seams which were started by the strain of the storm. I regret to say it, but I fear we must abandon the ship—before it is—too late!”
His solemn words set the women to weeping again, but their relatives tried to calm them. Tom had started for his stateroom, intending to get some of his belongings, when little Jackie spied him.
“Tom! Tom!” he called. “Come with me.”
“In a little while, Jackie, my boy!” Tom answered. “I’ll get in after you do.”
“Come with me and my papa,” invited the little lad, and he started to run across the heaving deck, but his parent caught him up in his arms and hugged him close.
The engines that had started up, after a temporary stoppage caused by the collision, again suddenly ceased to work, and once more the Silver Star lay at the mercy of the wind and waves. It was raining now, and the storm was at its height, the wind whipping the stinging drops into the faces of everyone.
“Hurry, men!” urged the captain. “Get them into the boat and follow yourselves. Where are you going, Tom?” he asked, for the commander had come down from the bridge.
“To my cabin to get some of my things,” answered the lad.
“Better not. We’ll have to be quick! She’s beginning to settle. She won’t last much longer! There must be a big hole ripped in her. What’s the matter with those signal lights?” he cried.
“Aye, aye, sir!” came the answer, and a moment later there flared up the glare of the rockets that might serve to call help to the stricken vessel. The wireless, too, was crackling out an appeal, but this did not last long, as the dynamo was soon put out of commission, and the storage battery did not seem to work.
“Well, I guess we’ve got to go,” mused Tom. “This is certainly a bad start toward the rescue of dad and mother!” and he felt a mist of tears come into his eyes, that mingled with the rain and the salty spray of the sea.
“Are all the women and children in?” asked the captain, for one boat would more than serve to hold them.
“Aye, aye, sir!” came the answer.
“Then let their husbands or other relatives join them.”
The men involved in this order moved forward over the sloping and heaving deck, in the glare of the signal fires, and took their places.
“Tom! Tom Fairfield!” cried little Jackie. “I want you with me!”
“Yes, Tom, you might as well go,” said the captain, holding out his hand to our hero. “Good-by.”
“But, aren’t you coming? There’s lots of room.”
“I’ll come—last,” was the grim answer. “Go! And good-luck to you. I’ve put a trusty man in charge of that boat.”
Our hero sprang toward the lifeboat which was all ready to be lowered at a favorable moment. But Tom Fairfield was not destined to enter her.
At that moment, and with a suddenness that took them all unprepared, there came another frightful blow against the side of the ill-fated Silver Star. She heeled over, and in such a manner that the lifeboat with its load of shrieking women and pale-faced men overhung the sea.
“Lower away!” shouted some one.
“Wait!” cried Captain Steerit.
Tom felt himself knocked down and hurled across the sloping deck. In vain he tried to grasp something to stay his progress. A wave splashed up, making the deck even more slippery.
Over and over rolled Tom, and he hoped, when he came to the rail, to save himself. But the rail was not there. In the glare of the burning signal lights Tom could see where a great portion of it and the netting had been torn away. There was nothing to save him from rolling into the sea.
In vain he tried to clutch the slippery deck, to hold on to something. He did not cry for help. He knew it would be useless. Over and over he rolled.
The vessel was sinking fast now. Tom, imperiled as he was, could tell that. She rose more sluggishly to the heaving waves. There were cries of pain, terror and confused shouts.
A moment later our hero found himself shooting off into space.
Down and down he plunged. He could see the glare of the rockets reflected from the surface of the boiling waves. He saw something white floating, and he tried to hurl himself toward that.
In another instant he had hit the water feet first, and felt himself going down into the depths. He had been tossed overboard into the midst of the ocean and in the heart of the storm. The waters closed over him, and filled his ears with their booming sound.
CHAPTER X
THE DERELICT
“Air!” thought Tom gaspingly, as he went down and down into the depths. “I must get air! My lungs! They’re bursting!”
He felt himself being buffeted by the waters. It seemed as though he was in a whirlpool of foam. He was being sucked down.
Even then he found himself thinking of many things besides the very evident necessity of saving himself. He was wondering what had struck the Silver Star. He wondered if the ship had gone down, or had gone to pieces. What had become of her passengers and crew?
And, with all that, and with the vital necessity of getting a breath of air soon, Tom found himself regretting that his mission to rescue his parents must now fail.
“But it shan’t!” he found himself exclaiming mentally. “I’ll get up and save myself, and them too!”
Tom had grit. It was the kind of grit that enabled him to win the football game, and to lead his class to revolt against unfair treatment.
Striking out with all his might our hero swam upward. He felt that he would never reach the top so that he might fill his lungs with air, and he blessed his lucky stars that he had put on light clothing, soft shoes and was not encumbered with anything.
For he felt that he was mounting upward. Upward through the blackness and dark waters to what?
That was something that even he dared not think about. Would he find himself on a waste of waters, or would there be some boat near to save him? Had the whole ship’s company perished? It seemed likely.
Then, as suddenly as he had gone into the water, he felt himself shooting up out of it. He shook his head, as a dog shakes his body on emerging from the waves, to free his eyes of water. Then he glanced about.
There was a glare on the storm-swept surface of the heaving sea, a glare that Tom knew came from the flaring rockets and signal lights. He whirled about in the water until he could face the source of the illumination, and he saw that which saddened and startled him.
About a hundred yards away, for that distance she had been swept by the storm, was all that was left of the Silver Star. She was low in the water—a wreck—and the light flared from one of her signal masts, where a sailor had fastened it.
And in the glare Tom saw something else. It was a lifeboat, filled with people, and it was headed away from him. He knew this was his one chance. Treading water, so as to bring his head as much above the waves as possible, he shouted:
“Help! Help! I’m Tom Fairfield! I’m right astern of you. Help! Help! I’m—”
His voice was drowned out in a smother of foam that broke over him from a huge wave, and he had to swim to keep himself up. The boat disappeared behind the crest of a comber, only to reappear again, the dying flare from the light showing the men rowing hard.
“Help! Help!” sang out Tom again, but at the same moment he realized that in the roar of the wind and the swish of the waves his cry could scarcely be heard. Still he called again:
“Help! Help!”
Once more he was covered by a smother of foam, and again he had to swim with all his strength. When he could see the lifeboat again it was farther off, and then Tom did what he should have tried at first—he endeavored to swim after it.
“For they’re rowing to get beyond the suction of the ship when it goes down,” he reflected, “and when they’re far enough away they’ll wait to pick up survivors.”
He struck out valiantly, his courage coming back to him now. It was not cold, and save for the violence of the wind and waves, Tom would not have been in bad straits, for he was a good swimmer. But he realized the peril of his situation—adrift on the open ocean.
He had swum perhaps fifty feet, getting occasional glimpses of the lifeboat as it rose on the crest of a wave, when the flare on the vessel seemed to be dying down.
Tom swung around and saw a weird and terrifying sight. As he looked the Silver Star seemed to stand up on end, like some stricken animal making a last stand. Then with a suddenness that was startling, the craft sank from sight, a loud boom proclaiming when the decks blew up from the compressed air under them.
Instantly the sea was in blackness again, and Tom felt his heart sinking, as he realized that he could no longer see the lifeboat, upon which his sole hope could be placed.
“But I’m not going to give up. I’ll yell some more,” he thought, and he called with all the power of his lungs.
“Help! Help! I’m Tom Fairfield! Right astern of you!”
He listened, but all he could hear was the roar of the wind and the swish of the waves. And then he knew it was hopeless to look for aid from that direction.
“I’ll keep afloat as long as possible,” he thought “and then—well—” He did not like to think further. “In the morning though,” he reflected, “Ah, in the morning I may be able to pick up enough floating wreckage to make a raft, or the boat may see me. There must be more than one boat. They had time to launch more than one when I started to make my roll into the ocean.”
This thought gave him courage, and he struck out with a better heart, determining not to give up as long as he could keep afloat.
“I wonder if there are sharks here,” thought the shipwrecked lad. “Sharks! Ugh! And other big fish!”
He felt a shiver run through him in spite of the warmth of those southern waters, and the very warmth, and the thought of how far south he had come, made him think all the more about some fierce man-eating tiger of the sea.
“Oh, pshaw! What’s the use of being a chump!” said Tom aloud, when he got a chance to free his mouth of salt water. “I just won’t think of anything like that. Of course there aren’t any sharks here. I’ll just think that I’m trying to win the swimming race at Elmwood Hall for my Freshman class.”
The very idea, thus simply expressed, made him feel better, and he struck out with better heart. Once more he went over in his mind the events that had preceded the sinking of the Silver Star and the necessity for her passengers and crew to put to sea in small boats. He found himself wondering what she could have hit, or been rammed by, to tear a hole in her.
“And my pictures of the waterspout!” reflected Tom grimly. “They’re at the bottom of the ocean by this time I suppose. And poor dad and mother—But there, I’m not going to worry. I’ve got to swim, and I guess I’ll get all I want of it, even though I am fond of water.”
All around him was blackness, save a slight phosphorescence of the ocean, and when he came up on the crest of a wave he looked about for a possible sight of a boat. But he saw nothing. He shouted occasionally, but he realized that he was only wasting his breath. On he swam, grimly and determinedly.
The storm seemed to be no worse, and Tom even found himself thinking that it was abating, after it had done all the damage possible.
There came a big wave over him, almost depriving him of breath, and sending him rolling and tumbling down into the depths again. When he came up, and had filled his lungs with air, he was almost exhausted.
When he struck out his right hand hit something in the water. Instinctively he shrank away with a start of fear that he had come in contact with some monstrous fish. Then a flash of lightning—the first since the beginning of the storm—revealed to him a large cork ring, or life preserver.
He could barely repress a shout of joy—only the thought that his mouth might become filled with salt water deterred him, for he knew what that ring meant to him.
“I can get that over my head and float,” he reasoned. He reached for it. The swell carried it away from him for a moment, and then he got hold of it. In a moment he had it under his armpits and he was riding easily on the surface of the sea, for the ring was a specially large one, and raised him well up.
He was floating on the surface of the sea, I have said, and yet it was not like the comparatively smooth surface of a river or lake. For, so large were the waves still, in spite of the fact that the storm was a little less severe, that Tom was down in a deep valley one moment, and on a wave-crest the next.
“Perhaps I can see the boat, now that there’s lightning,” he reasoned, and, each time he came up he looked about. But he could see no sign of the life-craft, nor were his shouts answered.
He swam on again, rather hampered as to speed because of the ring, but he did not mind this. His chief aim was to keep alive and afloat until morning so that he might look for help, or be located by those in the boats, if they were still on top of the sea. So Tom floated idly on, occasionally swimming when he felt a bit numbed by the cold, which he was conscious of, now that he had been in the water so long.
The lightning increased in frequency and intensity, and there were mutterings of thunder.
“In for another storm, and a different kind,” mused Tom. “I hope it clears up after that, so I have some chance.”
The flashes became more brilliant, as the storm came nearer. Tom took advantage of every one of them to look for a boat, or for a piece of wreckage to which he might cling. But he saw nothing. Then the rain, which had ceased for a time, burst with greater fury. It fairly seemed to beat down the crests of the waves, and Tom was glad of that.
“And I can get a drink, too,” he reflected, for he had swallowed some salt water, and his throat was parched. He held open his mouth and the grateful drops dashed in. The amount he was able to catch was rather disappointing, but it was better than nothing.
And then, as the fury of the storm grew, and the lightning became even more intense, Tom saw something that made his heart beat high with hope.
It was a shape of something lying low in the water, and moving sluggishly on the swell. Our hero had only a glimpse of it at almost the tail-end of the lightning flash, and he waited for another illumination before deciding what the object was.
Then the whole heavens seemed lighted up by a great flash and our hero saw the object again.
“A boat!” he cried. “And some one in it.”
He whirled about in the water, headed for the object, and struck out.
“Help! Help!” he cried again. “Wait for me.”
Back came the answer over the waste of waters.
“We can’t do anything but wait. Swim over here. Go by the lightning.”
Once more Tom saw what he thought was the boat, by the glare of a flash. Then its peculiar shape impressed him.
“It’s an upset boat!” he gasped. “They’ve been thrown out and are clinging to the bottom. But it’s a big one, though. Much bigger than any of the lifeboats. I wonder what it can be?”
On he swam toward the craft.
“Are you there?” came a hail.
“Yes, I’m coming,” Tom answered.
A huge wave seemed to sweep him onward. He saw that he was close to the wrecked boat. A few more strokes, and a hand was reached out to him. He grasped it desperately.
“Come aboard, mate!” a hearty voice sang out. “We haven’t much, but you’re welcome to it. Come aboard!”
Tom found himself scrambling up the side of some craft. In the next flash he saw the forms and indistinct faces of two men. One of them held something in his arms.
“What are you on?” gasped Tom.
“A partly submerged derelict,” was the answer. “It’s the one the Silver Star struck, I reckon, and the thing that ripped a hole in her and sunk her. It’s a big derelict, my lad,” the sailor went on, “and when we were tossed overboard we landed close to it, same as this other little chap did.”
“What other little chap?” asked Tom, as he sank down exhausted on the deck of the derelict.
He had his answer a moment later.
“Oh, Tom. Tom Fairfield!” a childish voice cried. “I want you and I want my daddy!”
CHAPTER XI
ANOTHER PASSENGER
For a moment Tom did not move from the position into which he had fallen when he clambered aboard the derelict. He was exhausted, but, more than this, he was startled by the sound of the childish voice. And yet, in an instant, he knew who had called his name.
“Is—is he here—little Jackie here?” Tom gasped.
“That’s what he is, matie,” answered one of the men. “I’ve been holding him ever since we picked him out of the wreck of a lifeboat, poor little chap. But I guess he’d rather come to you.”
“Tom—Tom Fairfield I want you!” cried Jackie. “Where is my daddy?”
Tom felt a lump come into his throat, but he rose up and answered as best he could.
“I—I’ll take care of you now, Jackie,” said Tom brokenly. “Daddy—I—I guess your daddy is off somewhere in a boat, looking for you. He’ll row up in the morning, and won’t he be surprised when he sees you here ahead of him? Oh, won’t we have a grand joke on him, though!”
Jackie laughed—laughed amid that waste of waters on the wave-washed derelict.
“Oh, how nice, Tom!” he said. “I want you to hold me, and tell me about how daddy will be surprised.”
“Poor little kid,” murmured the sailor who held the little boy, as he passed him over to Tom when a lightning flash came.
Tom was now getting his strength and wind back after his long swim. He was still soaking wet, but the rain had now ceased, and the wind was warm. If the sea went down enough so that the waves would not wash up over the derelict they might all get dry. And then the morning would come. But what would it bring?
Tom gathered Jackie in his arms, and the boy, with a contented sigh, snuggled up to our hero’s shoulders.
“Now tell me about daddy,” he commanded. “Tell me about the joke on him.”
Tom started to comply, forcing himself to make a joke out of what he feared would be a grim discovery in the daylight. The boy’s father was probably among those drowned when the ship foundered. But little Jackie must not know it. So Tom made up a fanciful little story—telling it while the lightning flashed and the thunder rumbled, and while the derelict rose and fell on the long swells.
“Move back here, mate,” said one of the sailors in a low voice. “It’s higher, and more out of the water.”
He moved forward to make a place for Tom, and the lad noticed that the man took a position where he would be more exposed to the waves than at first.
“But you—” began Tom with an objection.
“Come on,” ordered the man, half harshly. “You want to keep the kid dry; don’t you?”
Then Tom understood, and with a grateful heart he moved up so that Jackie would not be so wet. The little fellow was breathing heavily now, and Tom knew that he was asleep.
“Well, Tom Fairfield,” remarked one of the sailors, “this is tough luck, isn’t it?”
“Couldn’t be much worse, and yet there’s lots worse off then we are,” commented the other.
Tom looked at the sailors as the lightning flashed again. One he knew as Abe Fordam, and the other was Joe Weldon. They had been deck helpers, cargo shifters—doing any of the many things required on a steamer, and hardly sailors proper, for there were no sails to manipulate. Tom had made their acquaintance when he had requested them to pose for their pictures as they were coiling up an anchor chain one day on deck.
“How did you happen to get aboard this derelict?” he asked, getting into as comfortable a position as possible with his little burden.
“It sort of—happened,” replied Abe.
“We had lowered away the main lifeboat, with most of the passengers in it,” added Joe, “right after the second crash came, and then there wasn’t time to do much more. It was everyone for himself. Some of the men were cowards, too,” he added contemptuously.
“That’s what they were,” growled Abe. “They swamped one boat by all trying to crowd into her. Me and Joe here shifted for ourselves, and got aboard a life-raft that we slid down the sloping deck. We were better off than most, too.”
“But how did you get aboard this derelict?” asked Tom.
“Our raft hit it, after we’d been afloat some time, and I says to Joe that we’d better take to it, seeing as how it was bigger than the raft. So we transferred our keg of water to it, and what little grub we had, and climbed on.”
“Then we found the boy,” supplemented Joe.
“That’s right, then we found the boy,” agreed Abe. “I see something awash near the bow of this old craft, and I made a grab for it, thinking it might be more grub. But it wasn’t. It was part of a lifeboat, with some life preservers jammed under the thwart. I pulled it up, and there was this kid, sort of fastened by the life preserver straps. At first I thought he was gone, but I listened close, and heard his breathing.
“We got the water out of him, as best we could, and then he began to cry. He cried for his daddy something pitiful, and nobody knows where his daddy is,” he added softly.
“Then he called for Tom Fairfield,” added Joe.
“Yes,” assented Abe, “he cried for you. And it seems sort of Providential-like that you should come swimming along. How did you do it, Tom?”
“It just happened. I rolled off the deck when the second crash came, and, when I came up I swam for it. I called for help as I saw a lifeboat rowing away, but they didn’t hear me. Then I swam until I got this life-ring, and then—well I saw the derelict and made for that.”
“And it’s a good thing you did,” commented Joe. “For Abe nor I don’t know the first thing about taking care of kids. I’m glad you come.”
“So am I,” grunted Abe.
“What sort of a craft are we on?” asked Tom.
“A derelict lumber ship, as near as I can make out,” replied Abe. “Them kind floats longest and they’re the very worst sort of derelicts for a ship to hit, for they’re so heavy—almost solid, you might say. This is what the Silver Star hit, I’m almost positive. First we hit her a light blow, and then we sort of fended off. The engines got out of commission, and something went wrong with the steering gear, I guess. Then we fetched up with another whack at it, and that finished us.”
“That’s it,” agreed Joe. “But it ain’t a bad sort of craft to float on when you’ve been wrecked. It’s better than the life-raft.”
“Will it float long?” asked Tom.
“As long as we need it—maybe longer,” spoke Abe, and his voice was rather gloomy.
“Have you any water, and enough food to—to last for some time?” asked Tom.
“Not an awful lot,” murmured Joe. “There’s water enough for four days, maybe, if we don’t take too much, and some tinned meat and biscuits in the case we put on the raft. Why, are you hungry, Tom?”
“No, oh, no, not at all. I was just thinking ahead. There are four of us, counting little Jackie.”
“And he’ll get his share, along with the rest of us, matie,” said Abe quickly. “It’ll be share and share alike, until the last crumb and drop is gone.”
“That’s what,” growled his companion.
“Are there any chances of us being picked up?” Tom inquired.
“Oh, yes, plenty of chances,” answered Abe. “But you can’t tell how long it will be before that happens. Still we can’t do anything but wait.”
“Maybe one of the lifeboats will sight us,” suggested our hero, as he moved a bit so that Jackie would rest easier.
“Maybe, but hardly. They’ll probably row toward the nearest land,” suggested Joe.
“And where might that be?” inquired Tom.
“Well, we were about three days from the Hawaiian Islands, at the rate we were going in the Silver Star,” went on Joe, “but in the storm I guess we were pretty well blown out of our course. Probably now we’re some distance to the east of ’em now, and maybe below ’em, for all I can tell. But if we can make a southwest course we’re bound to fetch up at some island sooner or later, if we’re not picked up by some vessel in the meanwhile.”
“Oh, then we’re not so badly off,” commented Tom.
“It might be worse,” agreed Joe. “Well, the storm’s over, and it’ll soon be daylight I reckon.”
The lightning had ceased, and the thunder was only distantly rumbling. It was quite dark, and the derelict drifted on with its passengers staring moodily out into the blackness—all but Jackie, who was in happy dreamland.
“There’s the sun,” announced Joe, after a pause. He pointed to where a faint light showed in the east. It gradually grew until the red ball of fire seemed to pop up from the ocean.
Jackie awoke, and sat up in Tom’s arms.
“Did daddy come yet?” he asked.
“Not yet,” replied our hero softly. “But he may—soon.”
“And he’ll be s’prised to see me here; won’t he?”
“Yes, Jackie.”
Tom looked at the craft on which he now was. As the sailors had surmised, it was a derelict lumber ship, and one end of it was well out of the water.
Tom was just wondering how they could improve their situation by making a sort of shelter and platform from some of the lumber when Joe cried out:
“Look! Look over there! It’s a boat, or part of one!”
They looked to where he pointed. There, drifting slowly toward them was a wrecked lifeboat, one of those that had been carried on the Silver Star.
“If we can only get her, she may have food and water in,” suggested Joe. “I’m going to swim for it, and tow it in. I see a rope trailing from the bow.”
Before they could object he had leaped off the derelict and was swimming toward the boat as it rose and fell on the wash of the sea. Joe was strong, and a good swimmer, and soon he was aboard again with the end of the line. By it they hauled in the boat.
“Anything in it?” asked Abe.
“I didn’t stop to look. Just grabbed the line and turned back.”
Now the boat was alongside. Tom looked into it and uttered a cry of surprise. It contained one passenger—a man, and it was the same mysterious man who had kept himself hidden in his stateroom aboard the Silver Star.