Simultaneously with the shivering shock of the impact with the
iceberg, Billy Raynor felt himself lose his balance.
He grasped frantically at the air as he fell backward. But the next
moment, too alarmed to cry out, he was himself tumbling through
space. Then came the sharp shock and the icy sensation of his
immersion as he struck the water.
He came to the surface, his lungs full of brine and his ears roaring
as if an express train had been rushing past them. He gasped for
breath and spat the salt water out. Far above him he saw for a flash
the black, high hull of the _Cambodian_. He saw her lights. For a
brief instant he could hear shouts.
And then the ship had passed by. An instant later she had vanished
from the castaway lad’s sight.
“Help!” yelled Raynor, finding his voice at last. He sent the cry
echoing and volleying across the dark water again and again. But
there was no response.
A chill of deadly fear, not altogether born of the icy water, struck
in at his heart. He was alone on the Atlantic. Nothing but his own
efforts would keep him above the water very long. And weighted as he
was by his water-soaked clothes, he felt his strength ebbing every
moment.
“Great heavens,” he moaned to himself, “is this to be the end? Am I
doomed to end my life here in the ocean with nobody to know of my
fate?”
He cast his eyes upward. Then he almost gave a shout of relief.
Towering above him was a mighty white wall.
It was the iceberg to which he owed his predicament.
It has been said that drowning men will clutch at straws. This may,
or may not, be true, but certain it is that to Billy Raynor, almost
exhausted by his long fight in the chilly water, the iceberg
appeared a haven of refuge. Like most of such huge ice structures it
was very irregular in shape.
Near him was a spot at which a narrow shelf stretched out close to
the water’s edge. Raynor struck out for it and drew himself upon the
ledge of ice. Then, for a time, he lay there supine, too weak to
even move.
He was fearfully cold. His teeth chattered and he felt as if his
flesh must be blue. But at least he had saved his life for the time
being. He knew that ten minutes more in the water would have
finished him. Raynor sat up and took stock of the situation.
He was afloat on an iceberg, a precarious enough situation surely.
His momentary feeling of exultation at having found a safe refuge
began to fade. He felt a wave of fear pass over him. He shouted with
all his might, cupping his hands and casting his voice in the
direction he thought the _Cambodian_ had vanished. But had he known
it he was sending his appeals in altogether the wrong quarter, for
the iceberg was slowly revolving as it lumbered its way south.
“This won’t do. I mustn’t give way,” thought the lad, pluckily
striving to overcome his depressing fears.
He felt in his pockets. The tin box in which he was carrying down
his midnight lunch for consumption in the _Cambodian’s_ engine room
was still there.
“That’s lucky,” thought Raynor, and was still more pleased when he
found that its contents, sandwiches and a piece of pie, were not
much damaged by water. He began to eat ravenously, in the meantime
turning his dilemma over and over in his mind.
“I’m in the steamer track anyhow,” he thought. “I’m bound to be
sighted and picked up before long, even if the _Cambodian_ isn’t
standing by and waiting for morning.”
But then came the disquieting thought that the iceberg was drifting.
He had no means of knowing how fast. But by daylight it might be far
south of the steamer track, which is as well marked as any land
road, and rarely deviated from by any vessels except sailing craft.
“And just think how little things can grow into big ones,” mused the
lad, as he munched his scanty store. “Jack told me not to balance on
the rail. If I’d taken his advice instead of laughing at it I
wouldn’t be here. I’d be on board the _Cambodian_. Jove though--” he
broke off suddenly, as a new thought struck him,--“maybe the
_Cambodian_ was badly ripped by the collision. She may have
sunk--and Jack----”
He buried his face in his hands, too much unnerved by all that he
had gone through to think any longer. By degrees he regained
possession of his faculties, however. He fell once more to revolving
his plight. He need not fear death from thirst for he had his knife
and could chip off fragments of ice and let them melt in his mouth
when he felt so inclined. Food, though, was another consideration.
He resolutely set aside two sandwiches and half his wedge of pie for
emergencies.
It was still dark and misty and he could see little but the blackly
heaving water at his feet and the towering white walls of the berg
above him. Suddenly, however, he became aware of a sound, a strange
sound to hear in his present position.
It was the sound of a footfall, furtive and cautious!
The blood flew poundingly to the boy’s pulses. He sprang erect,
knife in hand. What he might be called upon to face he did not know.
But he knew he was not alone on the iceberg.
His heart beat thick and hot and then seemed to stop. Advancing
onward, from round a shoulder of ice which reached down to the shelf
on which he had found refuge, was a tall white form.
It resembled nothing that the boy had ever seen. As if in a
nightmare he stood there fixed as a graven image, staring at it with
starting eyes as it slowly approached him.