A WAIF OF THE SEA
Jerry Hopkins felt himself being tossed through space. That is to say,
he felt himself moving through space; but, as a matter of fact, he
did not at that instant know whether he had been tossed or was merely
falling. There was blackness before his eyes, caused, as he learned
later, by a blow on the head, and even if that had not been the case
he could have seen little, for the fog, after the collision, seemed to
settle down heavier than before.
Jerry had a confused idea that he was shouting something. What it was
he did not know, but as there was a riot of shouts going on all about
him it did not much matter.
The crash had stunned him for the time being. It had shaken him through
and through and disturbed his logical thinking powers. He found time
to wonder what had happened to his chums, Ned and Bob, and also to
Professor Snodgrass. Was it not queer how they had so unexpectedly met
him, and in a characteristic occupation--that of gathering a rare bug
unsuspectingly harbored by some innocent spectator?
What had happened to Bob, Ned, and the professor? Did he get the bug he
was after? What had become of the surprised sailor?
These, and other thoughts, rushed through the mind of Jerry Hopkins
in a series of flashes, like the views on a moving picture screen. He
instinctively flung out his hands to protect himself when he should
land, and then----
Suddenly he felt himself being immersed in deep water. He had fallen
into the sea--he realized that--and the sudden shock cleared his
partially numbed brain. Instinctively Jerry held his breath as his head
went under, and then he began frantically striking out. He was a strong
swimmer, and, even fully dressed as he was, he knew how to take care of
himself in the water.
Giving his head a shake to clear his eyes, he looked about him. He
wanted to see, if possible, in what direction to swim to save himself.
If he had been tossed any distance from the transport he might be some
time before he could swim back to her. And it might be better to try to
reach the vessel that had crashed into the _Sherman_.
Then another thought occurred to Jerry. Was it another vessel that had
crashed into the troopship in the fog? Might it not have been some
immense iceberg, which, even now, was bearing down on the swimming lad?
And then Jerry, in a measure, pulled himself together. He knew
that to dwell on such gloomy thoughts was hampering his powers of
resistance--taking from him his own self-control that he very much
needed at this time. So, vigorously putting them aside, he increased
the power of his strokes, though he was beginning to feel the weight
of his soaked garments. Again he shook his head to clear his eyes and
looked about him for something toward which to swim. All about him was
the dense, white fog. He looked for something black looming up through
it--the black side of the troopship, or perhaps the side of the vessel
which had crashed into the _Sherman_.
And then, like a flash, it came to Jerry.
“No, it won’t be black!”
For a moment that simple thought, which came in the form of a sentence
he might have seen written down, puzzled the lad.
“Why wouldn’t it be black?” he asked himself, even as he swam about.
And then came the subconscious answer.
“Camouflage paint!”
That was it! Why hadn’t he thought of it before?
“If our vessel was camouflaged, as she was,” reasoned Jerry, “the other
might be also. I’ve got to look for something like that and not the
ordinary black-painted side of a ship. Glad I thought of that. But it’s
going to be harder to watch for.”
One thing was in his favor--the sea was calm. The absence of wind for
several days had made the ocean like some smooth lake, and there was
only a long, gentle swell on the crests of which Jerry rose and fell as
he swam onward.
But though he strained his eyes, which smarted somewhat from the salt
water, he could see no fantastically camouflaged side of a vessel
toward which he might make his way to safety.
“This is queer,” he found himself reasoning. “I couldn’t have fallen
a great way from the _Sherman_ or the other ship. I must have been
swimming the wrong way in the fog. I’ll turn back.”
He turned squarely around--as nearly as he could judge the direction in
the fog--and began striking out again. And just as he was beginning to
wonder why it was he did not see something, his ears became aware of a
confused shouting off to his left; at least he thought it was his left.
“There she is! There’s the _Sherman_!” Jerry told himself. “I’ve been
headed wrong! Why didn’t I hear that noise before?”
Then his ears felt as though warm water had suddenly run out of them
from inside his head, and he knew what had happened.
Both ears had filled with water when he took his plunge into the sea,
and this had temporarily deafened him. He always had had trouble that
way, even when a small lad, and he used to wear wads of cotton in his
ears when he went for a swim. He remembered that on several occasions
he had feared he was going deaf, only to feel, later, the sensation of
warm water running from his ears, and then his hearing returned.
The explanation was simple. Jerry’s inner ears filled with water. It
became warmed up to nearly 98 degrees by his blood, and then, expanding
with the heat, was forced out naturally. Once his ears were clear of
water, he could hear as well as before. And that accounted for the fact
that he now suddenly heard the shouting which, probably, had been going
on all the while he was in the water.
“I’m all right now,” decided the tall lad. “I know which way to swim.”
He really thought he did, though, as it turned out later, he had
mistaken the direction of the noise. And as he swam on, blissfully
unconscious of the fact that he was going farther and farther away from
the _Sherman_ instead of nearer to it, another thought came to Jerry.
He expressed it subconsciously:
“Why don’t I hear some whistling or some other noise from the vessel
that crashed into us?”
That was it--why did he not? Once his ears had cleared, Jerry could
continue to catch the sound of distant shouting, and also the periodic
whistling of the _Sherman_--he well knew the tones of that instrument.
But he did not hear any corresponding note from the other ship that had
been in the collision.
“She ought to be whistling, too,” decided Jerry. “Maybe she’s damaged,
and maybe some of her men have been knocked overboard as I was. She
ought to be whistling.”
But on that mist-covered sea there seemed to be but one vessel in the
neighborhood of the swimming lad--and that was the transport which he
was vainly endeavoring to find.
Then, like a flash, one of his previous thoughts came to Jerry Hopkins.
“An iceberg can’t whistle!”
That must be it. An iceberg had been responsible for the crash, and
even now was out there, somewhere, in the fog.
“_Sherman_ ahoy!” cried Jerry desperately.
He listened, but there came no answer. The tumult and the shouting
seemed to have died away. Was he leaving the vicinity of the transport,
or was she being borne from him in the frozen grip of a mountainous
berg?
Just for an instant, but for an instant only, Jerry lost hope and
courage. He seemed to want to cease swimming and let himself sink. Then
he got control of himself again, and struck out more vigorously than
before.
[Illustration: HE SEEMED TO WANT TO CEASE SWIMMING AND LET HIMSELF
SINK.]
“I’m not going to die! I’m not going to die!”
This he told himself over and over again, fiercely.
“I’m not going to quit! I’m not going to be a quitter!”
He felt better when he said this over once or twice. He was beginning
to feel weary, but he would not allow his mind to dwell on that. His
brain forced his legs and arms to do their duty.
And then, when for perhaps the fiftieth time he had feverishly
repeated: “I’m not going to be a quitter!” Jerry became aware of
something looming up before him out of the fog. At first he took it to
be merely but a thicker cloud of the white mist, and then he imagined
it to be the dirty white of some iceberg.
But a moment later he knew it for what it was--the camouflaged side of
a vessel.
“I’ve found the _Sherman_!” cried Jerry aloud. “On board the
transport!” he yelled. “Throw me a line!”
Nothing but silence greeted him. In growing wonder and fear he swam
along the side of the craft. The waves rose and fell along it lazily,
now raising, again lowering him.
What did it mean? Was the _Sherman_ so badly damaged that she was
sinking and had been abandoned? This could hardly have taken place so
quickly. There would have been some boats remaining in the vicinity.
But no, there was not a sign.
“Ahoy the _Sherman_!” yelled Jerry.
No answer. He swam along the side. He came upon a dangling rope, and,
by the exercise of his last-remaining strength, he managed to reach the
deck.
Then one look told him the story. It was a derelict that had crashed
into the _Sherman_, and Jerry Hopkins was now aboard this waif of the
sea.