“A PHANTOM OF LIGHT.”
For a long time Jack tried to keep Tom’s spirits up by joking and
laughing. But jokes in a situation like the one that encompassed the
two boys are but sorry things, and at length Jack gave over.
“Is there anything we can do?” asked Tom mournfully.
“We might cut holes in the fog and climb to the top,” laughed Jack, and
then more seriously he continued: “I don’t know what there is to do,
Tom, old boy, except to wait. ‘Wait till the clouds roll by, Nellie,’
you know.”
“That may not be for days.”
“Don’t let’s discuss that. Are you hungry?”
“Pretty well. But I think we had better go easy on what food we have;
we may need it before long.”
“All right, we’ll put off the lunch part of it, then. But I must have
some water; I’m awfully dry after that row.”
“So am I; but we must be careful of the water, too.”
The boys each took a sparing drink from the stone bottle, letting the
water first moisten their mouths and then trickle down their parched
throats. This done they looked about them once more. But if they had
expected to discern a single ray of hope, they were disappointed. The
fog was as dense as ever, denser, if anything. The outlook, to say the
least of it, was not encouraging.
Hour after hour wore on thus. During the afternoon they ate sparingly,
and took turns lying in the bottom of the boat and taking a nap. At
last darkness shut down on them, and then they began to be really
panic-stricken.
Not a sound had come to them out of the fog, and, for all they knew,
they might be miles from the _White Shark_. The ocean was full of
currents thereabouts; that, Jack knew full well. Possibly they had
been caught in one of those and were being carried farther and farther
from their friends. At any rate, it seemed certain that if they were
anywhere near the submarine they would have heard the sound of the
whistle; for Jack knew that those on board that craft must be worried
half distraught by the nonappearance of the young fishermen.
“I wish this old boat had been at the bottom of the sea before we ever
found her,” muttered Tom disconsolately.
“So do I. But wishing will do no good. It’s action that counts in this
world.”
“Of course; but how are you going to get action when there is no field
for it?”
“You’re right, Tom; but waiting about like this, not knowing what’s
going to become of us, or even being able to see a foot ahead, is
tough.”
“Wonder what they are doing on board now?”
Tom’s words brought up a vision of the snug cabin of the submarine with
all its comforts, and the table spread with Jupe’s excellent cooking.
“Don’t,” groaned Jack, “don’t make me think of it. They must be
terribly worried, Tom.”
“I wish their worry would bring them to find us,” rejoined Tom; “but,
of course, they couldn’t do that in this mess. It’s a regular game of
blindman’s buff.”
“Yes, and we are _it_, I’m afraid.”
The night wore on. It was deathly silent there in the dense fog. In
the pauses of the conversation they bravely tried to keep up, they
could hear the lapping of the little waves against the side of the
boat. This made Jack think what a good thing it was that a gale had not
sprung up instead of a fog. In such case, their position would have
been even worse.
All at once, far off in the fog, came a peculiar sound—a throbbing like
the beating of some titanic heart.
“A steamer!” exclaimed Jack.
This suggested a fresh peril. In the fog they might be run down by the
unseen ship. Clearly, judging by the increasing sound of the throbbing
propeller, she was coming toward them.
“We must get out of her path!” cried Tom.
“Of course; but how are we to tell just where she is, in this fog? I
can’t locate sound at all.”
“No more can I. I only wish it was possible to attract her attention in
some way.”
“Why? I don’t see that that would do us much good. We could get out of
her way quicker than she could out of ours.”
“That’s true; but she might pick us up.”
“What good would that do? You couldn’t expect them to heave to and go
hunting for the _White Shark_, especially if she is a mail boat. The
best she could do would be to land us in some port, and—— G-g-g-great
S-s-cott, Tom, _pull for your life_!”
Both boys snatched up the oars and pulled for all they were worth,
digging the oar blades deep into the water.
A spot of light loomed up through the fog. A huge bow towered blackly
above them. With the sweat starting from every pore, the boys pulled
frantically. They just managed to avoid the vessel which, like a ghost,
glided past in the smother. Bright beams came from her portholes and
she seemed like a phantom of light as she swept by.
For a minute she shone glitteringly through the mist, and then was gone
as quickly as she had appeared. Through the fog came the sound of music
and laughter. She was a passenger ship, and there was a gay dance going
forward on board. But not one of the dancers so much as dreamed that
they had passed almost within a handshake of two lost and miserable
boys, adrift on the broad Atlantic in a cockleshell of an open boat.