THE EMPTY CABIN.
“JIM! Wake up, you old sinner!”
Jim, in his sleep, was riding after a bullock on the Billabong plains.
The bullock was speedy, and he and Garryowen were doing their utmost to
catch and turn him. They drew near—he swung up his arm with the
stockwhip, and met a soft obstacle that surprised him effectually from
his dream.
“By Jove, you can hit, old man!” said Wally, in a sepulchral whisper,
rubbing his side. “Call yourself a pal? Wake up?”
“I’m sorry,” Jim said, struggling to consciousness. “Did I hit you?
What’s the matter, Wal?”
“Be quiet, fathead, can’t you?” whispered Wally, impatiently. “I’ve been
trying to wake you silently, and you’ll raise the ship. Get up—the
signaller’s at work!”
Jim was out of his berth in a moment, and at the port-hole. Far down the
side of the ship they could see fitful gleams of light.
“By Jove!” he said, bringing in his head. “We’ll get him this time, Wal.
Awfully sorry I was so hard to wake.”
“Well, you’ve had about six hours’ sleep in the last three nights, so
it’s not much wonder,” Wally answered. “Generally you wake if a fly
looks at you.” They were struggling into coats and slippers in the dark.
“Come along!”
They hurried noiselessly down the passage, and turned into the narrow
alley-way leading to the little empty cabin near Norah’s. The port-hole
had been left open, and they peered out in turn.
“There’s no doubt this time,” said Jim, excitedly; “he’s signalling for
all he’s worth. No lady with curling-tongs and a spirit-lamp about that
chap! he means business.”
“What’s the plan of action?”
Jim considered.
“I don’t believe the captain would like us to tackle him alone,” he
said. “I don’t think he’d get away from us—but he might, if he’s that
big, powerful Swede. We want witnesses and authority, anyhow. I’ll mount
guard at the entrance to that alley-way, Wal, and you go and rouse Mr.
Dixon.”
“H’m,” said Wally. “And if the beast rushes you?”
“Well, he must rush,” said Jim, philosophically. “We can’t both stay,
and I’d better be the one, being the stronger. Clear out, old man—look
sharp! I wouldn’t let old Dixon miss seeing those flashes for a fiver!”
The entrance to the alley-way leading to the suspected cabin was dark
and silent, and no faintest glimmer of light came from the skylight over
the shut door. Jim took his stand in the narrow passage, bracing his
muscles in case of a rush in the dark. No one could get past him, in so
small a space; but a strong and determined man would, he knew, make
short work of him in a wild dash for safety. Jim was grimly certain that
the Swede might go over him, but not without a struggle. He clenched his
fists, watching the door—imagining each instant that he heard a
stealthy movement, or the slow creaking as the handle turned.
Mr. Dixon, roused from health-giving slumber, was incredulous and
wrathful.
“You kids are a first-class nuisance!” he said, sleepily, getting into
his coat. “If this is another false alarm, Wally, I’ll have you
keel-hauled!”
Wally possessed his soul in patience while his body shivered—the wind
on the officer’s deck blew keen and shrill, and Mr. Dixon was far too
annoyed to offer him the shelter of the cabin. The boy’s teeth were
chattering when the chief officer emerged and ran up the steps to the
bridge. He returned in a moment, followed by two of the watch.
“Now, where’s this precious spy-hole of yours?” demanded he.
They hurried below; past the empty drawing-room and along silent
corridors, where the stillness was broken only by an occasional snore.
Wally turned down Norah’s alley-way and led the way to the empty cabin,
running ahead to glance out first through the port-hole, in sudden fear
lest the flashes should have ceased. He made way for Mr. Dixon with a
relieved little sigh.
“You can see for yourself,” he said, shortly.
The chief officer’s face was invisible, after he had peered out—but the
change in his voice was laughable.
“Well, I back down,” he whispered, “I guess you kids knew more about it
than I did. There’s certainly some little game going on there.” He
leaned out for another long look. “I believe it’s Morse code,” he said,
finally; “it’s hard to tell at this angle. But it’s signalling, safe
enough.”
“Well, hurry!” Wally said. “Jim is mounting guard alone, and if it’s
that big sailor, he’ll simply wipe him out.”
“Sure thing,” Mr. Dixon agreed. “Larsen is a holy terror when he gets
going.” He gave hasty directions as they tip-toed up the alley-way.
“All right, Jim?” Wally whispered.
“All serene,” Jim answered. “Haven’t heard a thing, and there’s no light
coming from over the door.”
“Oh, he’d be quite cute enough to block up the skylight!” Mr. Dixon
agreed. “Well, you boys had better keep back and guard the mouth of the
alley-way, and leave this thing to the men and me.”
“Us!” said Wally and Jim together, in a sepulchral duet of woe. “Not
much—it’s our game! We’ve got to see it out, sir!”
“Well, duck if he begins shooting,” said the chief officer, resignedly.
“Stay where you are, Hayward—you follow up, Bob.” He went noiselessly
as a cat down the narrow alley-way to the cabin door.
“I don’t think I’ll try it,” he mused under his breath. “Better to go in
unannounced.” He looked back over his shoulder. “Wally, you get the
light switched on as soon as you’re in the cabin.”
In his day Mr. Dixon had played Rugby football; in later years he had
been mate of a sailing ship, and had learned in that rough school how to
use his weight effectively. He drew back a pace or two now, and then
flung his shoulder against the door. The carefully-weakened hinges gave,
and the attacking party crashed into the cabin.
They had a momentary vision of a flash of light; a guttural exclamation
came from the port-hole. Then there was black darkness and the sound of
men struggling. Jim was close at Mr. Dixon’s shoulder; Wally, groping
round the ruined door, was endeavouring to find the electric-light
button. Then came another flash of light, and a report that sounded
deafening, in the tiny cabin.
“You brute, you’ve got me!” said Mr. Dixon, between his teeth.
Light flashed out as Wally found the button. The cabin was dim with
smoke, and acrid with the smell of gunpowder. Jim saw a levelled
revolver-barrel gleam in the blue haze; then he sprang past the chief
officer, and hit wildly at a face above it. The revolver clattered to
the floor. There was a thud, as the man who held it went down in a
corner.
“Hold him, Wally!”
The boys were both on the struggling form; the sailor, behind them,
gripping the man’s legs. The unequal fight was only momentary.
“I give in,” said the man. He was suddenly limp and powerless in their
hands, panting heavily. His face was turned from them as he huddled in
the corner.
“Got any more revolvers?” Jim asked.
“Nein—no. You can search me.”
Jim kept his grip on his wrists, as he glanced up at the chief officer.
“Are you much hurt, Mr. Dixon?”
“I don’t think so,” said Dixon, a little doubtfully. “Only grazed my
arm—it’s bleeding a bit—and deafened me. Oh, Lord, there’s the old
lady in the next cabin—I knew we’d have the ship about our ears!” He
went out into the alley-way, and they heard his voice patiently. “No,
it’s all right, madam—nothing to be alarmed about. No, it’s not a
German warship. You’re quite safe. Go to sleep.”
He came back.
“Shut the door, Bob. Prop it with your shoulder. Now we’ll have a look
at this gentleman. Stand up there, will you?”
The huddled figure twisted round and struggled to his feet, facing them
defiantly.
“Great Scott!” said Dixon weakly. “Why, I thought it was a decent
Swede!”
The boys gaped in silence. The short figure, dusty and bedraggled, was
Mr. Smith. He stood looking at them, pale, with a black streak across
his face; in spite of it—in spite of his stout, panting, dishevelled
form—there was something not ignoble about him. He was not at all
afraid.
“On the whole, it was foolish of me to fire,” he said. “I am glad you
are not hurt.”
Dixon broke into a laugh.
“Awfully decent of you!” he said. “Why do you carry a revolver if you
think it foolish to use it?”
“I do not think it foolish to use it,” Mr. Smith answered deliberately.
“But I had meant it for myself—if I failed. Then, in my excitement, I
fought with it. That was foolish. One cannot always think quickly
enough.”
“I’m glad you aimed too quickly!” said Dixon grimly. “It might have been
awkward for some of us if you hadn’t——” He broke off, with a shout.
“Watch him!”
Mr. Smith had sprung towards the port-hole, a dark object in his hand.
Jim was just too quick for him. He caught the up-raised arm. The little
man fought fiercely and silently for a moment; then he gave in, yielding
what he held with a little sigh.
“Pocket-book,” said Jim, examining it.
“I’ll take it, for the captain’s perusal,” said Dixon, holding out his
hand. He had twisted a towel round his arm, and his face, streaked with
blood, looked sufficiently grotesque. “Before we go any further, I think
we’ll search you, Mr. Smith.”
Beyond the bulky pocket-book which had so narrowly escaped a watery
grave, there was little of an incriminating nature to be found on the
prisoner. Dixon took charge of any papers in his pockets, and of his
keys; and in a corner of the cabin Wally picked up an electric torch—a
powerful one, of new and elaborate design.
“Signalling apparatus,” said Dixon, glancing at it. His anger suddenly
blazed out.
“What do you mean by it, you cowardly hound? Who paid you to sell your
own people to the enemy?”
“The enemy?” said Mr. Smith. “My own people?” He glanced round with
sudden pride. “My people are your enemies, and I am one of them. I am a
German!”
“Oh, are you?” said Dixon, weakly.
“But you don’t talk like one,” Jim blurted.
“No—why should I, when I do not wish? I have lived much in England;
English is as familiar to me as German. But I have but one country, and
that is the Fatherland.”
“Then it’s a pity you didn’t keep off a decent British ship,” said
Dixon, wrathfully. “It makes me sick to think of you on board, making
friends with every one—and doing your best to get us sunk. Women and
kids, too.”
“Our ships do not send people down with the ships they sink,” said the
German, proudly. “For the rest—it is war. If you were on a German ship
you would be glad of a chance to do as I have tried to do. War cannot be
made with kid gloves. If I sink you—then I have done a service to
Germany. There is not any more to be said.”
“Glad you think so,” Dixon answered; “but I fancy you’ll find there’s
rather more. However, it’s the captain’s business now.” He called the
sailors. “There’s an empty cabin in the next alley-way; put this man in
there and watch him. He’s not to go out under any pretext whatever.”
Mr. Smith disappeared, marching proudly between his captors, his head
held high. Dixon looked after him.
“Rum little beggar,” he said. “Wonderful what a lot they think of their
precious Fatherland. I travelled through it once, and I certainly didn’t
want to stay—their beastly language gives a man toothache! Well, that’s
a good job done, and thanks be to Morpheus, the ship is quiet. A single
revolver shot doesn’t make much noise, and we weren’t noisy, except for
that.”
In answer to this cheering reflection, two heads appeared in the
doorway.
“We’re bursting with curiosity,” said Grantham and West. “Can’t we be
told anything?”
“Oh, Lord!” groaned the chief officer. “Any more of you?”
“No, I think not,” West said. “I happened to be awake, and heard your
sounds of revelry; so, apparently, did Grantham. We thought of butting
in, but when we heard your voice in explaining to the old lady, we came
to the conclusion that we weren’t exactly wanted. But there is a limit
to one’s forbearance. Can’t we be told?”
“Yes, I suppose so,” Dixon answered. “Only keep it quiet. Also, these
boys can tell you, for I’m off to the captain.”
“I guess you’d better let us see to that arm of yours first,” Jim put
in. “I’m a first-aid man; let me tie it up, unless you’d rather go
straight to the doctor.”
“Well, we’ll have a look at it,” said Dixon. “Come along to my
cabin—there’s room there and we can speak out—I’m sick of whispering!”
The arm was found to be bruised and grazed only, and the patient
declined to disturb the doctor’s slumbers. Jim tied it up in his best
style, while West and Grantham, sitting on the victim’s bunk, heard with
unconcealed envy the story of the night.
“Some chaps have all the luck,” West said, sadly. “Why shouldn’t we be
in it?—and we sleeping next door! And who’d have thought it of meek
little Smith!”
“I expect his name’s Schmidt if every one had his due,” said the chief
officer, rising. “Thanks, Jim. Now I guess you youngsters had better
turn in—there’s nothing more for you to do. I’ve got to see that that
battered cabin door is fixed before curious passengers get asking
questions in the morning.”
Mr. Smith was officially reported as ill next day, and his absence
caused no comment; a hint that his ailment might be infectious kept any
benevolent people from offering to visit him. The nervous old lady was
inclined to be garrulous about the midnight disturbance, but as she was
known to be a person of hysterical tendencies, curiosity was not
excited. Mr. Dixon, appealed to, spoke vaguely of a wave dashing in at
the port-hole and making “no end of a row.”
“But I heard voices!” protested the old lady.
“Yes, ma’am—you would, if the stewards were cleaning up a wave. It
makes ’em fluent!” said the chief officer.
To the Linton tribe, assembled in his cabin, the captain was more
communicative.
“Schmidt is his name—Hans Schmidt. There’s any amount of evidence
against him in the papers; the pocket-book he tried to throw out of the
port contains much full and true information about our transports, a
complete cipher code of signals, and translations of various other
codes. It’s evident that the police were on his heels in
Melbourne—that’s why he joined so hurriedly. He covered his tracks
well, too; made them think he had gone to Brisbane. Otherwise, they
would have caught him on the _Perseus_ at Adelaide.”
“What did he hope to do?” Mr. Linton asked.
“Well, there was always a chance of his attracting a German cruiser. I
don’t think it was a strong one—but of course you can’t tell. It would
have simplified matters for him greatly; put him safely among his own
people, and he would have done his beloved Fatherland a mighty big
service in betraying a prize like this ship into its hands. He says he
knew he was taking big risks for small chances, but apparently that
didn’t trouble him. I don’t consider he’s to be blamed from his point of
view, except in using his revolver; and that seems to distress him more
than anything else. He asked for Dixon this morning, and apologised!”
“If he could have used it sufficiently, I don’t suppose it would have
troubled him,” observed Mr. Linton.
“Oh, if he could have taken the ship, of course it wouldn’t!” the
captain said, laughing. “Patriotism would have risen beyond any claims
of mercy then. No—it’s because it was so futile to use it, and he
risked damaging Dixon and the others for nothing. That consideration is
really weighing on his mind. He’s one of those careful beggars who can’t
bear making an error of judgment, I fancy.”
“I think I’m a little sorry for him,” Norah said. “After all, it was his
own country he was battling for.”
“That’s so,” said the captain. “Put one of our fellows to play a lone
game on a big German liner, and I fancy we’d be quite proud of him if he
managed to signal a British cruiser. The shooting’s inexcusable, of
course. Well, I’ve got to take him to England—I can’t have the ship
delayed at Durban over a trial. And as the mouthpiece of the owners, I
say, ‘Thank you very much!’ to Miss Norah and you two boys.”
The three thus marked for fame looked down their noses and felt
uncomfortable.
“Glad we got him,” Jim said, awkwardly. “I wonder what about his nephew
in our contingent, by the way?”
The captain laughed.
“I rather fancy you wouldn’t find that nephew,” he said. “If he
exists—well, he’s probably in a trench, fighting in France, with a name
like Johann and an unpleasant propensity for beer!”