A WHISPER OF DANGER.
Jack made his second eastward trip on the _Ajax_ under smiling skies and
seas almost as smooth as glass. Nothing out of the routine happened, and
in due course the _Ajax_, once more in ballast, cleared from Antwerp for
the home run. Jack had heard nothing more from Mr. Jukes and deemed that
the magnate had utterly cast him off.
Before he left the hospital, he had had visits from Captain Dennis and
his daughter and from Tom Jukes, who came secretly and brought the
information that, although his father was furious with the young
wireless man for rejecting what he deemed a magnificent offer, he would
yet pay Jack’s hospital bill.
“He’ll do nothing of the sort,” Jack had flared up, and when he left the
institution, it was the lad himself who footed the bill.
It ate quite a hole in the check that was his reward for his share in
the detection of the tobacco smugglers, but it would have choked him to
think of accepting Mr. Jukes’ charity after the scene at his bedside the
morning after he had received his injury.
But the disfavor with which he was regarded by Mr. Jukes was the only
cloud on Jack’s horizon. Since that night in New York, Captain
Braceworth’s manner toward the young wireless boy had changed. He was
still austere and silent, but now and then, as he swung past the
wireless room on his way forward or to his cabin, he would exchange a
word or two with the lad. Perhaps he never guessed how much this
encouraged the boy who, on his first voyage, had set down the skipper of
the _Ajax_ as a cruel, harsh despot.
Knot after knot the steadily revolving engines of the _Ajax_ brought her
closer to home. The weather continued fine until one day, when Jack was
half wishing something would happen, the curtain began to draw up on
what was to prove a drama of the deep, destined to test every man on
board the big tanker.
A fog, dense, swirling and moist as a wet sponge, shut down all about
the _Ajax_ that morning soon after breakfast. The captain donned his
oil-skins and took up his position on the bridge, to stay there, as was
his custom, till the fog should lift and everything be secure again.
The chief engineer was sent for and instructed to keep his force in the
grimy regions below, keyed up for instant obedience to orders from the
bridge, for the _Ajax_ was on the Atlantic lane, a well-traveled,
crowded ocean track.
Like a blind man, the big tanker felt her way along, now starting
forward and now almost stopping with an air of fright, as some fancied
obstruction loomed in her path.
Through the weary day and the long night that followed, the _Ajax_
groped her way through the fog blanket that hung like a dense
mist-shroud over the sullenly heaving sea. It was a marine game of touch
and go, with possibly death and disaster for the stakes.
The engine-room telegraph spun in a weary succession of “Come
ahead”—“Slow”—“Ahead”—“Slow”—“Stop her”—and “Come ahead, slow” again.
When daylight came, it shone on the fog walls that bound the _Ajax_
prisoner. The wan light showed Jack the figures of the captain and his
first officer on the bridge. He knew that through the long night they
had kept their weary vigil. But so dense was the fog that it was not
always possible to see the bridge from the after superstructure.
Only when light and vagrant breezes sent the fog-wreaths fluttering and
writhing, like ghosts, could a blurred view of the forward part of the
ship be obtained.
Jack, too, had been on duty all night and he felt dull and wretched.
Through the fog had come calls from other ships, and vague whisperings
and chatterings, all fraught with fear and caution.
So far as those on the _Ajax_ knew, there was no ship closer to them
than the _Plutonia_ of the Smithson Lines. Jack had been busy through
the night, running back and forth with messages. Now, as he came to the
door of his cabin for a breath of the fog-laden air, he was musing to
himself on the anxious look on the captain’s furrowed face.
It was not the fog. Jack had seen the captain guide his ship through
even denser smothers than the present one. He had always been his calm,
collected, even cold, self.
But now the very air appeared to be vibrant with some vague apprehension
which the boy could not name or even guess at. But it was something that
lay outside the fog. Some overshadowing peril of more than ordinary
imminence.
As the steamer crawled forward, the mournful hooting of her siren
sounding like the very spirit of the mist, Jack revolved all these
things in his mind. He felt vaguely troubled.
It was no small thing that could worry the stalwart skipper of the
_Ajax_, as he palpably was worried. Fog was dangerous, yes, but what
with the wireless and the extraordinary caution observed, the peril was
reduced to a minimum.
The watches forward had been doubled and in the crow’s nest two men had
been stationed. But that was customary in a fog. Suddenly, as Jack stood
there, his wireless alarm,—he had perfected the device and had made
application for a patent on the same,—began to clamor loudly.
Jack hurried to his post. It was the _Westerland_, a hundred and fifty
miles east and considerably to the south, calling.
“Dense fog clearing here,” so the message ran, “but many large icebergs
in vicinity. If in fog, use great caution. Please repeat warning.
“KRAUSE, Master.”
Jack’s heart gave a bound.
“Icebergs!”
So it was fear of the white terrors of the north that kept the captain
chained to the bridge with that anxious look on his weather-beaten face.
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