OFF FOR THE AMAZON.
Bob Steele considered himself personally responsible for the safety of
the _Grampus_. The boat had been placed in his charge by Captain Nemo,
junior, her owner, and the captain’s faith in the boys was unlimited.
Bob was to take the submarine to Mare Island Navy Yard and collect one
hundred thousand dollars for her from the government. Those were his
instructions, and the captain not only expected them to be carried out
to the letter, but he also expected to pay Bob Steele well for doing it.
All this responsibility, it may be, had got on Bob’s nerves a little,
so that he was apt to shy at imaginary dangers. But this fact in no
wise interfered with his coolness and courage.
The whole under part of the submarine’s hull was filled with smoke--a
smoke that had the acrid smell of burned gas. On hands and knees, Bob
groped his way through the haze, pulled a switch, and set an electric
ventilator fan at work. The fan soon cleared the ship, and the first
figure Bob saw was that of the gasping Chinaman. He was on his knees
in the tank room. In front of him lay a twisted and broken gasoline
tank--a small reserve reservoir sometimes used to help out the larger
tank when the fuel in it was running low. This auxiliary tank had not
been used for a month, but had hung empty from a rack in the tank room.
At the Chinaman’s side lay a cigarette and a half-burned match.
“What the deuce happened?” cried Glennie, creeping after Bob.
“Your Chinaman tried to light a cigarette,” answered the young
motorist, quick to reason out the cause of what had happened. “He was
under an auxiliary gasoline reservoir, and the match set it off.”
“Thunder, Bob!” exclaimed Gaines, who had dropped down below after
Glennie, “there hasn’t been any gasoline in that tank for a month.”
“The vapor was there, all the same.”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed Glennie. “Vapor wouldn’t stay in that tank for a
month. It would escape and find its way out.”
“Gasoline vapor is heavier than air,” said Bob; “and it would remain
indefinitely at the bottom of the reservoir. A little of it probably
leaked through the bottom of the feed pipe, so that the match set it
off. Luckily for the chink there wasn’t very much of it.”
“Gee, klismus!” babbled Ah Sin. “Me tly smokee, something go _boom!_ No
likee devil boat!”
“Have you any more cigarettes?” demanded Bob sharply.
Ah Sin dug a handful out of the breast of his blouse.
“Is that all?” demanded Bob.
“No gottee allee mo’.”
“Don’t strike any more matches,” went on Bob sternly. “You’re going
with us to Para, and you’re going to do the cooking. Take him in hand,
Speake,” he added to Speake, who had dropped down behind Gaines, “and
show him how we do that part of our work on the _Grampus_. Keep an eye
on him, and see that he doesn’t blow up the boat.”
“Never did like a Chinaman, nohow,” grumbled Speake. “If he gits too
blame’ troublesome, I’ll break his scrawny neck. Come on here, yaller
mug!”
Speake made off forward, toward the torpedo room, and Ah Sin meekly
followed. Just then a thump on the deck, and a loud hail, announced
that Dick had arrived with the gasoline.
“Rig the hose, Gaines,” called Bob. “Clackett, get the pump on deck.
We’ve got to get the fuel into the tank in short order and then slant
away for the Amazon and Para.”
While Gaines and Clackett busied themselves, Bob and Glennie went up
to the periscope room. Carl was just climbing the ladder to help Dick.
Glennie, without further talk, picked up his suit case and went on to
the room that had been set apart for his use.
“Dot Chinaman vill ged us all indo some hot vater,” grunted. Carl.
“I guess not,” returned Bob. “Speake is looking after him.”
Clackett came with the pump and passed it to Dick, who was in the boat
with the barrel of gasoline. The pump was rigged, the end of the hose
clamped on, and Clackett and Dick got busy pouring the fuel through the
hose and into the big tank below.
While they worked, Clackett explained to Dick that they were to make a
quick departure for the Amazon. Dick was disappointed, for he had hoped
for a night’s shore leave in Port of Spain, where he had some friends.
When he learned that business of Glennie’s had all to do with their
short stay in port, Dick was inclined to be resentful.
The ensign had not made much of a hit with Ferral--nor with any of the
rest of the submarine’s complement, for that matter. Dick, however, did
no more than grumble. If Bob Steele thought it necessary to pull out
for the Amazon in such short order, then there was nothing more to be
said. Bob knew what he was about.
Dick alone, of all the submarine’s crew, had been the only one to
set foot on shore. As soon as the gasoline was transferred, and
the boatman paid for his services, the anchor was taken in and the
_Grampus_ laid her course for the Serpent’s Mouth and began her long
voyage toward the Amazon. Dick took the wheel. Bob, studying the
charts, gave him the course. Glennie came out of his room and watched
the two lads while they were at work.
Everything was going well, and the rhythmical hum of the motor echoed
through the boat from the engine room. Glennie walked over and took a
look at the periscope. In the mirror were reflected the slowly receding
shore line and the distant mountains that arose behind the town.
“You fellows seem to know your business,” remarked Glennie.
“Aye,” growled Dick, “and we mind it, Mr. Glennie.”
The ensign turned from the periscope and went up on deck.
“Why are you keeping the boat so high in the water?” he called down.
“He knows so much, matey,” said Dick to Bob, “why not let him figure
that out for himself?”
“Because,” Bob answered, shaking his head at Dick, “we can make better
speed when we’re riding light. Once out of the Gulf of Paria, though,
the sea will probably be so rough we’ll have to submerge.”
The ensign continued to ask questions and Bob continued to answer them
until Speake announced dinner. The meal was served to the crew at their
different stations, Ah Sin carrying the plates and the steaming cups of
coffee.
After the meal Bob went up on deck with Glennie, and Dick did the
steering from the top of the conning tower. The Gulf of Paria was
a great watery plain, over which the waters of the Orinoco spread
themselves before mingling with the sea.
The ensign, feeling that he was disliked, drew back into his shell and
bore himself with a chilly reserve. Along toward three o’clock Bob
relieved Dick and sent him below to sleep. Directly after supper Dick
would have to relieve Gaines and stand his trick at the motor, and it
was necessary for him to get a little rest. Carl would also have to
relieve Clackett, and, in order to be fit for his duties, the Dutch boy
had turned in immediately after dinner. He was sleeping on the floor of
the periscope room, and Dick curled up on the locker.
The afternoon saw the _Grampus_ well across the gulf, and by five
o’clock she changed her course to south by east, leaving the densely
wooded hills of Trinidad far behind with the coast of Venezuela in
plain view to starboard.
Ah Sin, having been duly instructed as to his duties, prepared the
supper on the electric stove, and served it. Speake relieved Bob at the
steering gear, and when Dick went below to take Gaines’ place at the
motor, Bob sprawled out on the locker to catch his own forty winks. A
stiff sea was running, and the _Grampus_ was submerged to a depth that
merely left the periscope ball clear of the combers.
As the darkness deepened, Speake had Carl put the turbines at work,
throwing out sufficient water ballast to lift the conning-tower
lunettes clear of the waves. The electric projector was then turned
on, and a ray of light shot through the forward lunette and marked the
submarine’s path through the tumbling sea.
For some hours everything went well. Then abruptly the motor began
to sputter and misfire, lessening the speed of the boat and throwing
her--now that she was riding higher and with the top of the conning
tower awash--more at the mercy of the waves.
Loose furniture began to slam around the periscope room. Bob was thrown
from the locker, and sat up, wondering what had gone wrong with the
motor.
“What’s the matter down there, Dick?” he called through the motor-room
tube.
“I’m a Feejee if I know,” Dick answered. “You’d better come down and
take a look.”
Bob was soon at his chum’s side. His keenly trained ear was usually
able to locate any ordinary trouble, but this time he was puzzled. The
ignition was all right, and the supply pipe from the tank was clear.
Nevertheless, the motor sputtered and jabbered with a wheezy but
unsuccessful attempt to do its full duty. The platinum, in the blade
or spring of the commutator, will, in rare cases, get loose and cause
misfiring, but that was not the cause of the present trouble. Another
rare cause, resulting in similar symptoms, lay in the loosening of the
carbon pole in the cell of a battery. But, just now, the batteries were
not at fault.
Finally, as a last resort, Bob examined the gasoline that was being fed
into the carburetor. A few drops in the palm of his hand aroused his
suspicions. The next moment the hydrometer test was made and water was
found in the gasoline.
“How did it get there?” demanded Dick. “The gasoline has worked well
enough all afternoon and so far during the night.”
“None of the gasoline you bought in Port of Spain has been used as yet?”
“Not a drop.”
“Well, connect up the carburetor with the storage reservoir. If there
is a little water in the carburetor, it will soon work out. After that,
empty this tank, strain the gasoline through chamoiskin, and then give
the tank a compressed-air treatment. I’ll send Clackett to help you.”
“But how, in the name of sin, did water get in that tank?” cried the
perplexed Dick.
As Bob turned to crawl away, he picked up a six-inch ebony cylinder,
about the size of a lead pencil, from near the tank. It was a chopstick!
“Has the Chinaman been here?” he asked.
“Not that I know of,” answered Dick. “Why?”
“Nothing,” said Bob, but he was thinking as he stepped into the torpedo
room, aroused Clackett, and sent him aft to lend Dick a hand.