“The Ship Is Sinking!”
“Why, they’re gone! Where did they go so sudden!”
Guy gazed helplessly at his companion. Glennon looked sharply here and
there and along the promenade, while the other boy continued:
“They didn’t have time to get out o’ sight so quick. They must be hiding
near.”
“I guess not,” said the older boy quietly. “No place to hide around
here. They probably dodged into the smoker or cafe.”
“That’s it,” agreed Burton, rushing out.
He led the way into the cafe, whose entrance was near the shelter.
Inside, however, he stopped short with a look of disgust and said in a
low tone to Glennon:
“There’s a dozen men in here and probably as many more in the smoker. I
don’t know how I’m going to pick him out unless I hear him talk.”
“Yes, you’re probably up against it,” agreed Glennon. “I think your fog
pirate’s escaped you.”
“Well, anyway, I’m going to have a good look at the face of every one in
here.”
The inspection in the cafe was soon finished, and then the boys passed
into the smoker. There were eight men in this room, and one of them was
an acquaintance of the boys, Mr. Gunseyt.
The younger “fog pirate” hunter was a little startled at coming so
unexpectedly upon this man under the circumstances, but after the first
thrill of surprise, he dismissed as ridiculous the vague suspicion that
came to him. Why shouldn’t the “wireless passenger” be here as well as
anywhere else? He was ubiquitous, as well as “all-wise” and “acquainted
with everybody.”
“Hello, boys,” he called as the two entered the smoker. “Where you
going? You look as if you’re looking for somebody.”
“We are,” answered Guy, approaching the man and speaking in tones
intended only for Gunseyt.
“Who is it?—another burglar?”
“Not exactly. It’s the fog pirate this time.”
“You don’t say! He hasn’t been performing any more deeds of the mist,
has he?”
“If you mean Mr. Watson, no. He surely isn’t the man this time. I
recognized his voice.”
“You did? What does he look like?”
“That’s the trouble—I didn’t see him. I heard him talk, and he had the
same old voice, that squeaky-roar. He was with another man, and they
came in here, we think. You didn’t see them, did you?”
“I don’t know,” replied Gunseyt inconsequentially. “Just came in myself.
I thought I saw one or two men enter the cafe a few minutes ago, but I
guess they passed through. Ask the waiters.”
“I guess it isn’t worth while,” said Guy to his companion as he and
Glennon walked away. “I’ve lost my man, and I may as well give up. They
probably heard or saw us while we were listening and ducked when we
left. If that’s the case, they wouldn’t be likely to stop here.”
Glennon was not sufficiently interested to urge further search, and Guy
proposed that they play a set in the tennis courts. The older boy agreed
and went to his stateroom for his racket. Guy had none and applied for
one belonging to the steamer.
“This is a peach of a racket,” Carl remarked as he returned with the
object thus referred to. “It was given to me by a man in London. He must
have paid a fancy price for it. Your friend Gunseyt nearly had a fit
over it yesterday.”
“It must be a dandy to affect him so,” said Guy, examining the object of
interest. “He seldom reaches the boiling over anything.”
“Oh, it wasn’t as bad as that. I didn’t mean he kicked the deck
overhead. But he said I was mighty lucky to have a friend like
Smithers.”
“Smithers! Who’s he?”
“The man who gave me the racket.”
“In London?”
“Yes.”
“I met a man of that name there. He’s the one that rescued me and a
friend from the fog pirate. He’s a jeweler.”
“So’s this one,” exclaimed Carl. “They must be the same man. Did your
man have a store in Bond street?”
“Yes.”
“What kind o’ looking fellow was he?—kind o’ stout with sharp, black
eyes?”
“That’s him,” said Guy eagerly. “It’s a wonder I didn’t meet you with
him or hear him speak about you. He told me all about himself and his
friends, I thought. Were you with him much?”
“Quite a good deal. We took several motor rides together.”
“So did we.”
“And he didn’t give you a racket?”
“No.”
“Nor anything else?”
“No.”
“I got the idea that he was fond of giving presents to his friends.”
“I guess he is, but I suppose I wasn’t a good enough friend. He gave me
a present to take to a friend of his in New York.”
“What was it—a tennis racket?”
“No, a pair of wireless shoes.”
“Wireless shoes!” Glennon exclaimed with a laugh of surprise. “Well
that’s a good one. I bet I know what he did that for. The fellow you’re
to turn them over to is a sprinter, and the shoes are intended to make
him sprint faster.”
“No, you’re mistaken. They’re not sprinting shoes; they’re intended to
cure rheumatism.”
“Quite an idea. Let’s see, how do they work? Probably with induction
coil and antennae concealed somewhere—eh?”
“How in the world do you know that?” Guy demanded in astonishment.
“Oh, I’m a radio enthusiast,” Glennon replied. “I’ve got a set at home
and what the neighbors call a set of wire clothesline between our house
and the garage. Besides, I’ve had some wireless experience with this
fellow Smithers. This racket he gave me is a wireless racket.”
“You don’t say!” exclaimed Guy. “How does it work?”
“Very simply. Some of the strings, if you’ll observe closely, are of
wire. They constitute the antennae. In the handle is an induction coil.
The circuit is closed when I grip the handle over two electrodes on
either side.”
“What did Smithers give it to you for—rheumatism?” inquired Guy with a
look of curious amusement.
“No, to put pep into my drives,” answered Glennon.
“And mystery into your curves?”
“I suppose so.”
“Does it do what it is supposed to do?”
“Not that I’ve been able to notice,” said Glennon. “Still it’s a dandy
racket, and I’ll take good care of it. I really can play better with it
than with any other racket I’ve ever had in my hand. Maybe there’s
something of a wireless charm in it after all.”
The boys played two sets and then found it was supper time. So they went
to their staterooms to get ready for the meal. In the dining room Guy
and his mother met Gunseyt, who sat down beside the boy and inquired:
“Well, did you find your fog pirate?”
“No, but I’ve found out who Mr. Watson is,” replied Guy as he picked up
a menu card and looked at it hungrily.
“You have! Who is he?”
“A detective.”
“You don’t say! Who told you?”
“A friend of the fog pirate.”
“Then you did find him.”
“No, I overheard their conversation. They were talking about Mr.
Watson.”
“They said he was a detective?”
“One of them did.”
“Where from—England?”
“I don’t think so. The voice I heard called him a secret service man. I
thought he meant an American.”
“What’s he doing here,” inquired Gunseyt, lapsing into a matter-of-fact
manner.
“I don’t know. The man didn’t say.”
“Well,” admitted Gunseyt; “of course, I might have been mistaken in my
recognition of Lantry, or Watson. No man should be cock-sure about
anything. But the man who thought he recognized him as a detective might
be mistaken too. So, you see there you are. But there’s a bit of
evidence on my side that he hasn’t got on his. You saw Watson come out
of your stateroom and found he’d been ransacking your trunks.”
“Yes—but—”
“But what?”
“If he’s a detective—”
“Yes?”
“—he might ’a’ thought I was a thief and been looking for stolen
property.”
“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Gunseyt. “What an imagination you’ve got! But you
imagine such impossible things.”
“Perhaps I do,” smiled the boy. “I certainly hope it’s impossible for me
to be a thief.”
“I think you’ve been reading too many detective stories,” interposed
Mrs. Burton, who had been listening to this conversation with more or
less impatience. “I wish you could find something to talk about that
would be more interesting to me.”
“I should think this subject would be exciting enough to interest
anybody,” said Gunseyt with a smile.
“It might be if there were much evidence of truth in it,” the woman
replied with a mock air of wisdom. “The trouble is you both know only a
little of what you’re talking about, and you supply the rest with your
imagination. You’d make good reporters for yellow newspapers.”
A waiter now came for their orders, and the conversation was
interrupted. After he had left them, Mr. Gunseyt changed the subject by
saying:
“We’re nearing our journey’s end. We’ll be in New York day after
tomorrow. I suppose you’re glad of it.”
“Yes and no,” replied the boy slowly. “I like the trip; I think it’s
great, but I’m a little homesick.”
“Not many boys will admit they’re homesick until they have to,” observed
Gunseyt. “They’re usually too proud.”
“I’m past that age,” assured Guy.
“How old are you—seventeen?”
“No—sixteen, goin’ on seventeen, you know.”
“Yes,” laughed Gunseyt. “I don’t want to flatter your son to such an
extent as to spoil him, Mrs. Burton,” he continued, addressing Guy’s
mother; “But he’s bright enough to be twenty.”
“He takes after his mother,” she returned smartly.
“I wish I’d taken the southern route,” said Gunseyt, changing the
subject again. “I don’t like being cooped up inside all the time.”
“Same here,” agreed Guy. “The only advantage of this route is the saving
of a little time.”
“They tell me we’re getting in the neighborhood of icebergs,” the “radio
passenger” continued.
“The wireless operator told me we ought to see some icebergs by tomorrow
morning,” the boy said. “He’s been getting messages from other ships
going east all afternoon, and they told him there was lots of ice west
of us.”
“I hope we don’t strike an iceberg as the Titanic did,” Mrs. Burton
remarked.
“No danger of that,” was Gunseyt’s reassurance. “This boat is well
piloted and supplied with searchlights. One experience like that is
enough to insure the greatest caution in vessels like this for a hundred
years.”
Guy and his mother retired early that night. Both were tired, as they
had been up late every night of the voyage thus far. Moreover, life on
an ocean liner had lost some of its novelty for them, and they were
disposed by this time to look upon the experience almost in a
matter-of-fact manner. And matter-of-fact people usually go to bed at
reasonable hours.
Guy awoke shortly before midnight. The time he learned later, as there
was reason for its being registered in the minds of others. The
awakening was not an ordinary one, for it came with a jar that shook him
heavily, though not with great violence. For a minute or two he lay
awake, wondering what it could mean. He was sure he had not been
dreaming. He had no recollection of a dream.
But he was still sleepy and ceased to wonder as he drifted back into
unconsciousness. How long afterward he was aroused again, he could not
tell, but this time his awakening was decidedly more startling.
Some one was pounding heavily at the door. Guy listened a few moments
with thrills of dread at the words that came with the knocking, and then
fairly leaped out of his bunk.
“Get up and get out o’ there as quick as you can! The ship’s sinking!”
was the fearful warning that came loudly through the panel of the
stateroom door.