Making northward was a smart gasolene craft motored with a powerful
engine. She was the power tender of the _Thespis_, a taut, seaworthy
craft, especially designed for the work of the revenue service, and
she had taken part in many a chase after smugglers and other
would-be evaders of Uncle Sam’s laws.
But just now her errand was one of rescue and mercy. The machine gun
at her bow was swathed in its waterproof covers and the bulletproof
housing of the engine was not in place.
She was making eighteen miles an hour on her way to Skull Island and
her motors were turning as steadily and truly as if they knew that
they were on a mission of deep importance.
There were three persons on board. In the bow sat Jack Ready, his
hand on the steering wheel and ever and anon taking a glance at the
compass before him. Amidships, pipe in mouth, was Matt Sherry, the
engineer, lovingly feeding his motors oil and “mothering” them with
waste and fussing. Astern, preparing a meal on a gasolene stove was
Hank Merryweather, a stalwart tar from the _Thespis_ detailed to
accompany the relief expedition.
When Jack had made known to Captain Simms the plight of Raynor and
the others, the commander of the _Thespis_ had easily read in the
boy’s excited words his intense desire to proceed to the aid of the
castaways at once. But there was a difficulty in the way, as the
captain explained. Duty held the _Thespis_ to the iceberg patrol.
She could not wander from her post of duty.
Captain Simms suggested sending out a message to other ships and
also to the government stations ashore and having a rescue
expedition despatched from the most convenient points. But Jack had
already got a plan in his head, and at the risk of offending Captain
Simms, he could not help but broach it.
“It’s only 250 miles to the island, sir,” he said, “the gasolene
tender could do it in little more than twelve hours and be back at
the ship by to-morrow.”
The captain smiled at his enthusiasm.
“But who could take the wireless while you are gone? I appreciate
your anxiety to be reunited to your chum,” for Captain Simms knew
the story, “but it’s duty first, you know, Ready, all along the
line. We are here to warn liners of icebergs. I really think that
we’ll have to let others do the actual rescuing. It isn’t as if the
castaways were in actual want. They say they have plenty of
provisions and fresh water so that a brief stay on the island till
relief can be sent from the mainland won’t be much of a hardship.”
Jack’s face fell. He had set his heart on going. But it appeared
from Captain Simms’ attitude that that would be impossible under the
circumstances.
But he did not mean to give up without a struggle to gain his point.
“Young Higgins has developed into a very competent operator, sir,”
he ventured. “I know that the wireless would be safe in his hands
till I got back.”
“You can guarantee that, Ready?” asked Captain Simms, giving the boy
one of his quick glances.
“Yes, sir. I’ll answer for him.”
The captain tugged his gray mustaches, a way he had when considering
a question. Jack watched him eagerly.
“Well, then, I suppose I’ll have to give you my permission to go,
Ready,” he said at length. “You can take your portable wireless with
you and keep in constant communication with the _Thespis_. I will
detail Sherry and Merryweather to go with you. The prospects are all
for fine weather and I shall expect you back to-morrow.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” choked out Jack, saluting respectfully and
restraining himself with difficulty from uttering a shout of joy.
And so it came about that we find the gasolene tender of the
_Thespis_ racing northward.
“Take the wheel, Merryweather, while I send a message,” said Jack
presently, and as the seaman gripped the spokes of the wheel, the
lad hoisted his aërials aloft on the tender’s single military mast.
They were not long enough for sending messages a great distance. But
for communication with the _Thespis_ they answered admirably. Jack
reported “Progress and all O.K.”
They took turns at eating supper and all devoured their food with
ravenous appetites. By his portable wireless, Jack had instructed
young Higgins to tell the castaways, to hang out a lantern that
night so that if they approached the island in the darkness they
could lie off till daybreak and not tempt fate by venturing among
unknown waters, for the charts did not bother to give soundings
round such a seldom visited speck of land as Skull Island.
As it grew dusk and night began to close in, old Matt Sherry came
forward and spoke to Jack.
“I don’t like the look of the weather,” he said.
“What do you mean? Are we in for a storm? This craft is staunch
enough to ride out anything that is likely to hit us.”
“It’s not that,”
“Well, what then?”
“Fog. Do you see that smoky looking line yonder to the north?”
“Yes, it does look like smoke on the top of the water.”
“That’s fog. It’s the warm air hitting the cold water. It’ll be all
around us in a few hours.”
“Humph! That is bad. Would you suggest lying to?”
“No; for there ain’t likely to be any other craft but ourselves in
this part of the ocean and we’ve got a clear run on the compass
course to Skull Island. But we’d better keep taking the temperature
of the water; there may be ice about and we don’t want to hit a
berg.”
“I should say not. Better put Merryweather to work with a bucket and
a thermometer and tell him to make half-hourly reports. If the
temperature drops, he is to report at once.”
“Very well; that’s a wise plan,” agreed Sherry and went aft to give
the seaman his instructions.
As Matt Sherry had prophesied, within a few hours they were driving
forward through a blinding white fog. But Jack easily kept the boat
on her course by the compass bearings worked out before they left
the _Thespis_. Merryweather reported regularly and so far no
alarming drop in the temperature of the water, showing the near
presence of ice, had occurred.
“We’ll pull through after all,” said Jack to Sherry, who had come
forward to see the result of Merryweather’s latest reading.
“Hark! What was that?” cried Merryweather suddenly. He leaned
forward listening.
“Sounded like the creak of a ship’s block to me,” exclaimed Matt
Sherry, “sound your siren quick, Jack.”
Jack pulled a lever and the compressed air siren let out a long
dismal screech. At the same instant, from the out of the white
smother, came a shout. They could not determine its direction in the
obscurity.
“In the name of heaven, a boat!”
“Where away?” came another voice gruffly out of the fog.
“I dunno. Right under our bow it sounded like----”
There was a sudden sharp shout from Sherry.
“Save yourselves. They’re right on us!”
Above the doomed launch, from out of the mist, a towering black mass
obtruded.
There was a splintering crash, a confusion of shouts and cries and
then Jack felt the tender sinking under his feet while the water
rushed up to his knees.
More by instinct than reason he gave an upward leap into the fog.