THE STORM
Filled with his new idea, and alarmed at the possible menace to
himself, Tom turned, and was about to retrace his steps up on deck to
speak to the captain. Then he paused.
“Hold on a minute, Tom Fairfield,” he told himself. “And don’t do
anything in a hurry. You came off on this voyage in a rush, and maybe
that was a good thing. But just wait a minute now, and see if this is
the best step to take.”
He turned again, and once more walked past the stateroom of the
suspected man. The door was closed this time, and Tom was rather glad
of it, for he did not want to meet the passenger, now that he knew who
he was.
“I’ll just wait a bit about telling the captain,” reflected Tom. “When
I tell him the story he’s bound to take some action, seeing that Mr.
Trendell is sailing under false colors. And that’s bound to make a
row. It won’t be pleasant for me, either, seeing that I’ve got to stay
on this ship with him for some time yet. And a ship isn’t like dry
land--you can’t get away from a person when you want to.
“No, it’s better for me as it is, I think. As long as he stays shut up
in his stateroom he won’t bother me, though he knows that I’m on board.
That’s why he acted so queer, and why he’s been in retirement. Now he’s
planning some new move.
“Yes, I’ll just lay low for a while, and see what happens. There’s time
enough I guess. I’ll go develop this picture.”
Tom found the dark room well fitted up, and he was soon at work, taking
the films from his camera, and putting them in the developing bath.
As soon as the yellow coating began to dissolve he saw, coming out
of the shadows, as it were, the dim image of the waterspout, and the
shattering of it by the cannon ball.
“Say! That’s a crackerjack snapshot!” he exclaimed. “As soon as it’s
dry enough I’m going to print some views and show ’em. I don’t believe
anyone on board has any better pictures than these.”
In his enthusiasm over his views he forgot, for the time being, the
matter that was troubling him. He found that he had a number of
excellent negatives of the waterspout, showing it approaching, its
destruction, and the raging sea after it had subsided into the waves.
“Good! That’s great!” exclaimed Mr. Blake, one of the passengers to
whom Tom showed his views a few hours later. “I hope mine come out as
fine as yours. How did you print them so quickly?”
Tom explained how he had dried his negatives by dipping them in
alcohol, and pinning them in front of an electric fan, so that he could
make prints a comparatively short time after developing. He even used
the dark room for some of the other passengers, making some prints from
their films, but none of them were as good as those of our hero.
“You ought to make a set for the captain,” suggested Mr. Blake. “I
believe he’d like them to hang in his cabin, as a souvenir of the
occasion.”
“I will,” declared Tom, and this brought up anew in his mind the
question as to whether or not he ought to inform the commander of the
secret he had unexpectedly stumbled upon.
“I guess I’ll take a chance, and tell him,” mused the lad. “I’ve
thought it all over, and I’ll feel better if I tell. If I don’t, and
anything happens, I’d feel as if I was to blame. I’ll tell Captain
Steerit.”
But an unexpected obstacle developed. First, when Tom went to look for
the captain the latter was working out some reckonings, and could not
be disturbed. And then, a little later, it was time for supper, and a
concert was to be given afterward, the captain having arranged for it
among the musical members of his passengers. He was really too busy for
Tom to see him in private.
“Oh, well, morning will do,” decided our hero, little knowing what was
to happen between night and dawn.
The concert was a great success, though it was strictly amateur. There
were songs and instrumental numbers, for the _Silver Star_ carried a
piano. Some one discovered that Tom was a school lad, who had been a
member of the glee club at Elmwood Hall, and nothing would do but that
he must sing some songs. He did not want to, but was finally prevailed
upon to do so, and he had a better voice than he himself suspected.
“Great! Fine!” complimented Mr. Blake. “If there were more of us here
we could charge admission and make a fund for the sailors. Now, Mrs.
Ford, another of your piano solos.”
Thus the evening went on in gaiety until even the gayest were ready for
their staterooms.
“Maybe I’ll get a chance to speak to the captain now,” thought Tom,
wishing to get the unpleasant matter off his mind before he went to
bed, if possible. But Captain Steerit was still busy, and when he did
have a moment’s leisure, after the main cabin had been put to rights
following the concert, he was summoned to the bridge by an unexpected
call.
“I wonder if anything can be wrong?” asked Mr. Blake of Tom.
“Wrong? How? What do you mean?”
“Well, I mean that the wind has been rising rapidly in the last hour,
and the barometer is falling. I heard one of the crew say so.”
“That means a storm,” suggested Tom.
“I guess so. Notice how we’re pitching and rolling.”
“That’s right,” agreed our hero, for, now that his attention was not
occupied with the music and songs he could observe that the ship was
heeling over at a sharper angle. And, too, she seemed to be climbing up
some mountain of water, only to slip down into the hollow on the other
side of it.
“It is a little rough,” spoke Tom, “but I don’t believe it will amount
to much. Let’s go up and look around.”
The motion on deck was more pronounced than it had been below, and
the two had some little difficulty in keeping their feet as they got
outside. They felt the strong wind in their faces, a wind that seemed
to be momentarily increasing in violence.
“Better get below!” shouted Captain Steerit to Tom and Mr. Blake, from
the bridge. “We’re in for a spell of bad weather I fancy.”
“Any danger?” yelled Mr. Blake, above the roar of the wind, which was
humming through the mast and funnel stays. “My wife is very nervous.”
“No danger,” answered the commander, and then he disappeared into the
charthouse that opened off the bridge.
The vessel pitched and tossed, but Tom had been in worse blows than
this, and he saw nothing to be alarmed about. The sky was overcast with
clouds, for no stars were visible, and the wind was strong, but aside
from these indications there did not seem to be anything to be alarmed
about.
“Well, I’ll have to wait until morning, all right,” mused Tom, as he
took a turn about the deck before going in. Mr. Blake left him with a
good-night.
“I’ll go tell my wife there’s nothing to be alarmed about,” he said,
“but she’s that nervous that it’ll be just like her to sit up dressed
all night.”
“Oh, I guess the _Silver Star_ can weather this little blow,” said Tom.
Remaining on deck for about half an hour longer Tom was beginning to
feel sleepy enough to turn in. The wind had not increased. If anything
it had gone down, though the lad could see, over the rail, that the
waves were running high. They did not break, however, being more like
huge oily swells that heaved up in the darkness, showing dimly the
reflection of the ship’s lights.
“Some power to those waves,” reflected our hero. “A lot of power there
when it’s needed, but the trouble is it can’t be controlled. Well, I
hope we don’t run into a worse blow by morning.”
A little saddened as he looked off across the black waste, and
reflected that somewhere on that heaving ocean his father and mother
might be helplessly drifting, Tom went below.
As he did so he cast a look at the bridge. He saw Captain Steerit
standing there with the first mate, their figures being brought out in
relief against the glow of light from the charthouse. The two seemed
to be in earnest conversation, and Tom, who was unaccountably nervous,
could not but wonder if there was any danger in their situation.
As he passed the room of the mysterious passenger Tom saw that the door
was closed, though a light showing over the transom indicated that the
occupant was still up.
It must have been past midnight when Tom was suddenly awakened by
being pitched sharply against the side of his berth.
“Hello! What’s up?” he cried.
There was no answer, but he felt himself tossed in the opposite
direction, while some loose objects in his room rolled about the floor.
“Something’s going on!” said Tom aloud, as he reached out and turned
the electric switch, flooding his room with light.
As he did so he became aware that the vessel was rolling and pitching
at what, even to his accustomed senses, was an alarming degree. Tom
sprang out of bed, and brought up with a bang on the opposite side of
his little apartment, giving himself quite a severe knock.
“Ouch!” he exclaimed, rubbing his elbows. He forgot to hold on to
something, and felt himself sliding back toward his berth, but he
had sense enough to put out his hands and save himself from another
collision.
“Some motion here!” thought Tom.
At the same time he became aware of a rushing of feet on the deck above
him, while hoarse commands were cried out, coming but faintly to his
ears.
Without waiting to dress, Tom cautiously opened his porthole a trifle.
In an instant, even through the small crack, he was drenched with a
spray of salty water.
“Say! It must be a blow!” he cried, screwing the porthole glass back
into place. “It’s a storm all right! I’m going to get dressed, and go
on deck. No telling what might happen.”
Steadying himself with one hand, he sorted out his clothes with the
other. He could hear the passengers in the stateroom adjoining his
moving about, and he thought he detected a woman crying.