HE MAKES A DISCOVERY AND IS GREATLY AGITATED
Suddenly his hand encountered something hard and cold, and he grabbed it
like lightning. His heart was in his throat now. There was a scuffling
sound within and the object was wrenched and twisted and pulled
frantically.
But Tom had been a scout and he was prepared. The two big clumsy hands
which bore the captain's tray back and forth each day had once torn a
pack of thirty cards in half to entertain tenderfeet at campfire. And
one of those hands clutched this thing now with the grip of a bulldog.
His excitement and his pounding heart did not embarrass him in the brief
tussle. A few dexterous twists this way and that, and he withdrew his
hand triumphantly, scratched and bleeding, the light in the passage
glinting upon the polished surface of the mess plate which he held.
Scarcely three minutes had escaped since he came down from the deck,
but in that short period his usually sturdy nerves had borne a terrific
strain and for a moment he leaned against the opposite side of the
passage, clutching the dish in consternation.
In that brief moment when he had paused before putting his hand through
the transom, he had thought that if indeed the plate were being held
there even still the conspirator's eyes would be fixed upon the
stationary mirror in order to keep the reflection centered in direct
line with the porthole. Evidently he had been right and had taken the
plotter quite unaware.
Sherlock Nobody Holmes had succeeded beyond his most extravagant dreams!
The door of the little room flew back and a figure stood in the dark
opening, looking at him.
"That--_that's_ what you meant," Tom stammered, scarcely knowing what he
said, "about the same idea as a periscope. You thought--you thought----"
The man, evidently surprised at seeing no one but the captain's mess
boy, stuck out his head and looked apprehensively up and down the
passage.
"There's nobody," breathed Tom, "except me; but it won't do you any
good--it won't--because I'm going to tell----"
He paused, clutching the mess plate, and looked aghast at the
disheveled, half-dressed man who faced him. Then the plate dropped from
his hand, and a strange, cold feeling came over him.
"Who are you?" he gasped, his eyes stark and staring. "I--I didn't
know--I ain't----"
He stopped, refusing to believe, and groped for the precious mess plate,
part of the makeshift periscope which his own keenness had discovered
and rendered useless. Then he stood again, fumbling the thing in his
clumsy hands and staring, all bewildered, at the traitor who had used it
to betray his country.
Was it----? It could not be---- But the years had wrought more change in
Tom himself than in the man who stood there glaring back at him, half
recognizing.
Yes, it _was_ his own brother, William Slade, who had left home so long
ago!