HURLED INTO THE SEA.
Matt was very much worried when Dick and Carl, agreeably to their
orders, went below. It was not the strange visitor that had passed the
bows of the _Grampus_ on its glowing way that rested heavily on his
mind, but the news gathered from the captain of the mail boat that had
been spoken early in the day.
On leaving the western end of the Strait of Magellan, the submarine
and her crew had, as they supposed, left behind them for the rest of
their cruise their wily enemies, the Sons of the Rising Sun. They had
had trouble enough on account of the Japanese while coming through the
strait, and Matt thought that he and his friends were entitled to a
respite, so far as the nefarious plots of the fanatical young Japs were
concerned.[A]
[A] The adventures of the motor boys, in and around Magellan Strait,
were set forth in No. 19 of the MOTOR STORIES, entitled, "Motor Matt's
Defiance; or, Around the Horn."
It was the responsibility for the safety of the _Grampus_ that rested
so heavily on the young motorist's mind. Weeks before, when the
submarine had left Belize, British Honduras, Captain Nemo, Jr., the
owner of the boat, had placed the craft entirely in Matt's hands.
"I wouldn't trust the _Grampus_ with any one else, Matt," declared the
captain. "But you've got nerve, your judgment is good, you know the
craft from one end to the other, and whenever anything goes wrong and
you get into a scrape, you've got a knack of always getting out of it
without much damage to yourself. A hundred thousand dollars is to be
paid for the _Grampus_ when she reaches Mare Island. If the submarine
doesn't reach there in good condition, the money will not be paid.
Sickness will detain me for a while in Belize, and so that puts this
work of taking the boat around the Horn up to you. Now go ahead!"
Motor Matt appreciated to the full Captain Nemo, Jr.'s trust and
confidence. He had vowed to himself over and over again that he would
prove to the captain he was worthy of the trust reposed in him. Matt
was thinking of all this on the deck of the _Grampus_, after Dick and
Carl had left him; and, in the midst of his reflection, he fancied he
heard a muffled sound from somewhere in the submarine's wake.
Instantly alarmed, he passed the conning tower, without exchanging any
words with Speake, and took up a position not far from the churning
propeller. But he heard nothing further, and could see nothing either
to increase or diminish his fears. He was just turning about to make
his way forward, when a coil struck about his throat, drawing taut on
the instant and preventing any outcry. At the same instant there came
an irresistible pull backward.
Matt, astounded by this unexpected attack, reaching him from some point
away from the boat and darting silently and suddenly out of the thick
gloom, flung up his hands in an attempt to clutch one of the wire guys
of the periscope mast.
He missed the guy by a fraction of an inch, slipped downward over the
rounded deck and rolled into the water. He made little noise, so little
that Speake could not hear it above the swirl of waves thrown up by the
rounded plates of the _Grampus_.
Another moment and Matt was in the water and swimming. The deadly
compression at his throat continued, and he was unable to voice a
sound. He could see the little search light of the submarine moving
rapidly onward into the darkness, and could see the half of Speake's
form, like a blot of shadow, rearing out of the tower hatch.
All this time Matt felt the pull of the rope about his neck, drawing
him steadily and remorselessly away into the foggy night. No one spoke
behind him, and there was not the slightest sound to tell him who his
captors were, or where they were, or how they had succeeded in making
him a victim in that mysterious fashion.
A minute, two minutes, passed. At the end of that time Matt felt his
strength leaving him because of the strangling grip about his throat.
Then, suddenly, the rearward "pull" relaxed and the constriction at
his throat ceased. With one hand he reached upward and pulled the
strangling coil loose and gulped down a deep draught of air.
A moment later he gave vent to a cry, hoping to attract the attention
of Speake. But the _Grampus_ was too far away. With difficulty Matt
freed himself of his shoes and coat. He had no idea how long he would
have to swim, but he prepared himself to keep afloat as long as
possible. What the end was to be he did not know, and he had no time to
give to that phase of the question.
Some mysterious force had hurled him from the deck of the _Grampus_
into the sea, and perhaps this same force would continue to take care
of him. Turning about in the water, he lifted himself high with a
downward stroke of his powerful arms, and peered in the direction from
which the attack had come. He could see nothing and could hear nothing.
For a moment Motor Matt was tempted to forget his dire plight in
marveling over the mysterious nature of that attack. The next instant,
however, he began asking himself if it would be possible to reach the
Chilian shore. It was a mile away, at least. To swim such a distance
was no very extraordinary feat, but there were currents sucking Matt
oceanward, and against these it was powerless for him to struggle.
Matt could keep afloat, but to what purpose? Would it be possible
for him to keep on the surface until his friends on the submarine
discovered his absence and put back to his rescue? Even if he could
swim for that length of time, could his friends find him in that
darkness, with the current dragging him farther and farther from the
course over which the _Grampus_ had recently passed?
In Motor Matt's place, a good many lads would have given up the
struggle, but Matt was of different calibre. As long as there was a
breath in his body he would fight, for he knew that while there is life
there is always hope.
Blindly and doggedly he continued his battle with the waves, peering
into the northeast from time to time, in the hope of seeing the search
light of the _Grampus_. He did not see the search light, but he saw
something else lying sluggishly in the water not a great distance from
where he was.
"A log!" he thought.
Under the impression that fate had thrown across his path a bit of
drift from the mainland, he swam to the object and laid hold of it as
it heaved and ducked on the placid waves.
It was not a log. As he put out one hand it came in contact with
smooth, wet metal. The object was a long cylinder, blunt at one end and
pointed at the other.
"A torpedo!" ran his thought, as he hung over the rounded object with
one arm and supported himself in the water. "Who fired the torpedo?"
was the question he asked himself.
He had leisure now for a little reflection. No strength was required to
keep himself afloat, for the steel cylinder supported him.
As he hung there, lifting and falling with the long, deadly tube, his
thoughts harked back to the queer object he, and Dick, and Carl had
seen in the water. The result of his reflections paralyzed him.
_Some mysterious enemy had launched the torpedo at the Grampus!_
Had the infernal machine struck the submarine, the craft and every one
aboard would have been torn to pieces.
A slow horror pulsed through Motor Matt's veins.
The same enemies who had launched the torpedo must surely have jerked
Matt from the deck of the submarine. But who were they? where were they?
With difficulty he lifted himself and got astride the rolling cylinder.
From that elevated position he looked around him into the darkness.
Silence reigned in every direction. There was no sign of the mysterious
foes who had attempted to destroy the _Grampus_ and to make a prisoner
of her commanding officer.
Presently the young motorist became conscious that the coil was still
about his throat, and that a long object was trailing downward and
hanging with some weight from his neck.
It was a rope. He began pulling it in, coiling the wet length of it in
his hand. The rope was all of seventy-five feet long, he judged, and
that distance must have marked the position of his foes when the noose
was cast. To see even half that distance into the thick darkness was
impossible, but why had Matt not been able to _hear_ the men who had
attempted such dastardly work?
Speculations were useless. Matt, however, had secured a makeshift raft
which would keep him afloat until such time as the _Grampus_, or some
other boat, could pick him up.
Hoping that the submarine would come to no harm, and determined to make
the best of his desperate situation, the king of the motor boys set
about making an examination of the steel tube that supported him.