A MYSTERY ADRIFT.
That night the watches at the steering appliance were divided into
four. Mr. Dancer who, with the exception of a few brief snatches
of sleep, had been at the controls of the _White Shark_ almost
continuously since the voyage had started, went to his cabin right
after supper.
Then came Tom’s watch, lasting from eight till midnight. Jack’s
followed, from midnight till 4 A. M., and Silas Hardtack’s from that
hour till 8 A. M., when Mr. Dancer insisted that he would be able to
resume control.
This arrangement put at least one person who understood the engines in
the engine room constantly. Mr. Chadwick watched while Jack steered,
sleeping from time to time; for it will be recalled that the engines
were controllable from the steering compartment, so that actually all
the engineer was compelled to do was to “stand by” for signals and see
that the motors were properly lubricated and kept in order.
At eight o’clock, when the signal sounded for every one to turn out,
Mr. Dancer emerged from his cabin, looking, as Tom put it, “as fresh as
a daisy.” Each in turn took a salt water shower in the bathroom, while
the appetizing aroma of Jupe’s bacon and coffee and hot biscuits filled
the main cabin.
Through the night the submarine had been run at a distance of fifty
feet below the surface of the water, so as to avoid all risk of
striking floating objects or passing vessels. At such a depth the craft
was safe from the risk of contact with the keels of even the largest
ships.
It had seemed odd to the boys as they stood their “tricks” at
the wheel to think, as they alternately eyed the compass and the
observation tube, that above them vessels might be passing “on their
lawful occasions,” wholly unconscious of the “man-fish” cruising below
them in the quiet depths.
One thing, too, the boys noticed was the immense amount of fish
attracted by the glare from the observation searchlights. Through
the green, pellucid water, illuminated by the bright light from the
observation tube, it at times appeared as if they were gazing into a
show tank in some vast aquarium. Like most boys, Jack and Tom had both
read “Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea,” but even that fascinating
history of life in deep waters had failed to give them any idea of the
immense amount of life that goes on in the submarine depths.
Of course, at the speed the _White Shark_ kept up—for time was
imperative—it was impossible to see much more of the fish than their
fleeting forms, like flocks of birds seen from a train window. But even
this was interesting. You may be inclined to ask how the _White Shark_
was kept on her course without danger in the depths.
The answer is that she was guided just like any other ship in the dark
night, by her compass. Before turning the watch over to the next man,
each occupant of the steering chair gave him the direction in which
Silas Hardtack, the ship’s navigator, had ordered the prow to be kept.
The course was due south, and this made it doubly easy to keep the
_White Shark_ on her true line of progress.
As to depth, the chart showed ample water everywhere, even should the
_White Shark_ traverse the underwaters at a depth of two hundred feet.
But there was nothing to be gained by doing this, as, at such great
depths, pressure and friction would be so increased as to seriously
impede the submarine craft’s progress, and haste was a necessity.
After this digression concerning the night, we will follow the boys up
to the deck after breakfast, for at dawn the _White Shark_ had been
driven to the surface and the ventilators opened. While the air was not
foul, still it was a relief to open everything that could be opened,
and set in motion fans that drew the stale air out of the interior of
the craft.
As soon as their morning meal had been dispatched, both boys hastened
on deck. The sea was still and calm, the air cool and clear and the sky
cloudless.
They were in the gulf stream, and the water was of an intense blue. At
the sides where the Archimedian screws were biting steadily into the
water, it had a hue of the most transparent turquoise. Great patches
of yellow gulf-weed floated everywhere, and as the _White Shark_ nosed
through these, flying fish flew from them in whole coveys.
It seemed as if the boys could not tire of watching these strange fish,
which, of course, do not “fly” at all in the true sense, but skim the
water, supported by their broad fins.
“Hullo!”
“Hullo, yourself, Tom; what’s up?”
“Look yonder there, Jack. Don’t you see some object?”
“I do, floating off to the eastward.”
“What can it be?”
“Don’t know. Looks as if it might be a boat.”
“I’ll get the glasses. We’ll soon see.”
Tom dived below and reappeared with the binoculars. A short scrutiny
convinced them that their eyes had not played them false. The object
on the horizon was a boat, a small craft like a rowing skiff—at least,
that was as well as they could make out.
“Shall I tell Mr. Dancer?”
The question came from Tom.
“Yes; do so at once. It may be some shipwrecked sailor adrift. At any
rate, we ought to look into it.”
Both Mr. Dancer and Mr. Chadwick agreed with this. For the second time
in forty-eight hours the _White Shark_ was diverted from her course,
and headed toward the drifting object. As they drew closer it became
evident enough, however, that the boat was empty, or at least if it had
an occupant that he was past sitting up.
“May be some poor fellow overcome by the heat and thirst,” suggested
Mr. Dancer. “We’d better take a closer look.”
Accordingly, the _White Shark_ was run right up alongside the drifting
boat. As they drew near, all hands held their breaths. They did not
know upon what tragedy of the ocean they might be going to stumble. But
the boat—a small white one, like a ship’s dinghy—was empty. Nor did it
bear any evidence of having been occupied recently.
Above the stern seat was a name board, “Mary Gloster, Liverpool.”
Except for a coil of rope and some fishing lines, there was nothing to
show where the boat came from or what she had been last used for. The
fishing lines gave a clew, however.
“Somebody’s been fishing and got adrift and been picked up by a passing
vessel which did not bother to load on the dinghy,” said Mr. Chadwick.
“That looks reasonable,” agreed Mr. Dancer. “At any rate, we’ve done
all we can do and time is precious.”
“Can’t we tow it?” asked Tom. “It’s a dandy little boat, and it seems a
shame to leave it behind.”
“It does; but how can a submarine tow a boat except to Davy Jones’
locker?” laughed Mr. Chadwick quizzically.
“Well, hold this rope till I get into it and examine it for more
clews,” said Tom, who loved a mystery and scented one here.
“Very well, Master Tom, Jack can make the boat fast to the rail, but
when the engines start you’ll have to come on board.”
Tom nodded and jumped into the boat which was bumping alongside.
He threw the line in its bow to Jack, who made it fast around the
submarine’s deck rail.
“Go ahead, old Sherlock Holmes,” he grinned, “get a clew.”
“All right. I might find a bag of gold,” retorted Tom.
“Yes; and you might find a bag of cookies, but you won’t.”
Back and forth flew the raillery, but Tom patiently dug around the
floor of the drifting boat, in which, to make it more odd, were a pair
of oars.
“I guess it’s just a mystery of the sea,” he said at length, “and wow!
this sun’s hot. I’ll come on board and get a drink of water. I’m dying
of thirst.”
“Well, your enthusiasm soon petered out,” scoffed Jack.
“Wish we could go fishing, though. That’s a dandy boat for that.
Wouldn’t you like to?”
“Like to what?”
“Go fishing, of course,” responded Tom.
Mr. Dancer’s head appeared above the hatchway.
“Go fishing, eh? Well, you can if you like. Something’s wrong with the
reverse gear. It may take some time to find the trouble and fix it.”
“Do you want help?” asked Tom, hoping the answer would be in the
negative.
“No, thank you. You boys go on and see if you can’t catch a mess of
nice fresh red snapper for dinner. It will make a pleasant change.”
Tom flew below to get some stale meat from Jupe for bait, and broad
shady hats for himself and Jack.
He was radiant when he reappeared.
“Hurray, Jack, we’ll have a regular picnic. See, I got Jupe to fix us
up a lunch, and here’s a jug of water. We might get thirsty.”
“Don’t go too far,” warned Mr. Chadwick, who had come on deck to see
the fishing expedition off.
“No danger of that. We’ll be within call. Blow the whistle if you want
us.”
Jack referred to the compressed air whistle within the hatch. Its tone
was loud and carried far, and it was designed to be used when the
_White Shark_ was going through crowded waters on the surface.
“All right, three blasts will be the signal that we are ready.”
“All right, dad. Good-bye!”
“Good-bye. Careful now.”
“Oh, sure we will; it’s like a lake this morning.”
With Jack at the oars the boys rowed around a bit and dropped their
lines over from time to time with fair success.
“I guess we’ve not got the right kind of bait, Tom,” declared Jack at
length; “they don’t seem to be biting right.”
“Well, let’s pull around a bit and then try our luck again.”
“All right. You do the pulling, though. It’s too warm for one chap to
do all the work.”
“Rowing’s my middle name; give me the oars.”
“Here they are. Don’t fall overboard in changing seats. I fancy I saw a
shark’s fin cruising round here.”
“Now I’ll show you how to row.”
Tom bent to the oars and pulled with a will. The small boat cut over
the water merrily.
After a while Tom paused. They looked about them.
“My, Tom, we’re a long way from the _White Shark_,” exclaimed Jack.
“Well, didn’t I tell you I was a strong rower? I must have pulled your
lazy anatomy a good four miles.”
“Well, let’s try fishing. If they signal us we can hear it from here.”
“Oh, sure. Come on; bet you I get the first fish.”
“Bet you a doughnut you don’t. Ah, see there!”
Tom drew aboard a fine red snapper. It lay flapping in the bottom of
the boat, its bright golden scales glinting, while the boys gazed at it
admiringly.
And all the time a danger they never dreamed of was sweeping down on
them like a thief in the night, silent and unseen.