Bert Wilson, Marathon Winner
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Indeed, it was as the captain said. In the distance was what looked to be a low-lying island, but they were assured that it was in reality a fog bank, lying close to the water. It drifted nearer and nearer, and before they knew it had begun to envelop the ship. First they were conscious of a damp, cold feeling in the air, and then gradually nearby objects grew less and less distinct.
“Say, fellows,” laughed Dick, “I think we’d better get some rope and tie ourselves together before it’s too late. We’re not going to be able to see each other very long, if this keeps up.”
“Righto!” responded Bert. “Why, I can hardly see my own hand now, and for all I know my feet may have walked off on their own hook and got lost in this infernal mist. I can’t see them, at any rate.”
“Gee, I hope they haven’t, old top,” said Tom. “I’m afraid it might be rather an inconvenience to you to lose them just now. It will be quite a handicap when you try to run a few days from now, don’t you think?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I think I could run about as fast on my hands as you could on your feet,” retorted Bert, and turned the laugh against Tom.
But by now it was really impossible to see objects more than five feet away, and the boys had to grope their way about with outstretched hands, like so many blind persons. After a while somebody started a game of “blind-man’s tag,” as they christened it. The one who was “it” had to locate the others by sound, and when he thought he had done so would make a wild rush in the general direction of the noise. Then there would be a wild scramble to get out of his way, and more than one laughing athlete was sent sprawling in a head-on collision. They kept this up till they were tired, and then dropped down on the deck to rest and listen to the yarns of the sailors. Naturally these tales were all about troubles at sea due to fogs, and many a weird story was told that stamped the teller as an inventive genius. Each one tried to crowd more exciting events into his tale than the last narrator, and the result was lurid.
Of course, in most of the stories some part was based on an actual occurrence, but to sift out the truth was like looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack. However, these old tars were past masters at the art, and there is no doubt that they made their stories interesting. The boys listened with great interest, now and then putting in a question when it seemed needed.
Mermaids and sea serpents abound in many of these yarns, and, as Bert afterward remarked, “seemed commoner than squirrels in a park.” But they passed the time away very pleasantly, and before the boys realized it, Reddy was among them, commanding, “Off with ye now, and get a good night’s rest. Ye should have all been in bed a good half-hour ago.”
Of course there was no resisting this mandate, even had they been so inclined, so off to bed they went, groping and stumbling through the fog, that by this time had grown dense almost beyond belief.
“Good-night!” exclaimed Tom, as he tripped over a coil of rope and then slipped on the slippery deck. “I only hope this old tub doesn’t go ramming any icebergs the way the old Titanic did a little while ago. Mermaids may be all right in stories, but I don’t care to make their acquaintance under water just yet a while.”
“No, I think I can pike along a little while longer without a closer acquaintance,” laughed Bert, “and also without seeing any hundred-foot sea serpents in their native element. Why, according to the stories we’ve just been swallowing, one of those fellows could twine himself around the Woolworth Building and wave his head over the roof without half trying.”
“Without a doubt,” said Dick, “and I imagine it would be rather embarrassing to look up and find one gazing at you through the skylight.”
“I wouldn’t be a bit surprised,” said Bert. “However, I guess we won’t lie awake very long to-night worrying about it.”
“Righto!” acquiesced Dick, and with a few more remarks along the same line they descended the steep cabin companionway. It was a relief to get out of the dense, clammy fog, and you may be sure the dry, comfortable berths felt very grateful to the tired athletes. In less time than it takes to tell, they had all dropped off into deep slumber.
It seemed but a few moments later when Dick found himself sitting bolt upright in his berth, with a vague but none the less terrifying sensation that something terrible had happened. At first he thought he must have been dreaming, but a moment later shouts and cries on deck dispelled this idea. Dick hastily awakened Bert and Tom and all three bounded up on deck, where they found everything in confusion.
As they emerged from the companionway hatch they saw that the fog still held, thicker, if that were possible, than when they had gone below. The captain was shouting orders from the bridge, and members of the crew were scurrying wildly here and there across the slippery decks.
The ship’s engines had been stopped, as they could tell by the absence of vibration, but it was several minutes before they could get hold of anybody to tell them what was amiss. Finally, however, they managed to stop one of the crew long enough to be told that they had rammed what appeared to be a fishing schooner, and that the latter was sinking fast. Then the sailor hurried off on his interrupted errand, and the three boys dashed forward to the bows, where most of the excitement seemed to be.
As they drew nearer the forward part of the vessel they were able to see grotesque figures, distorted by the fog, hurrying to and fro. Soon, as their eyes became accustomed more and more to the dim light of lanterns, they could make out the outline of the mast and rigging of a sailing vessel close against the side of their own ship.
Up this rigging men were climbing swiftly, and jumping on to the deck of the Northland. Already there was a group of eight strange sailors standing there, with more coming all the time. Even as the boys watched, however, the mast of the sailing vessel gave a great lurch, and a cry went up from everybody watching.
“For the Lord’s sake, hurry!” went up a shout from those on the stricken vessel. “She’s sinking beneath our feet. Jump lively there!”
By the light of the binnacle lamp on the sinking vessel could be seen the sturdy figure of her captain, standing immovable and calm and giving orders as coolly as though he were not in the slightest danger. According to the unwritten law of the sea, a captain may not leave his ship until all his crew are off, and it was plain that this man would be staunch to the end.
It became evident that the doomed vessel was sinking fast, and there were still several men on her deck waiting their turn to climb the rigging to safety. Could they possibly get up before the ship foundered? – that was the question.
The mast sank lower and lower, until the last sailor up had to be grasped by friendly outstretched arms and dragged over the rail. There was now no reason for the captain to stay on deck, and seeing this, he made a dash for the mast. But he was a second too late. The waves for several minutes had been lapping at the decks of the doomed craft, which lay at a sharp angle to the water, and now with a sickening lurch it dived under the waves, taking its devoted captain with it.
“Lower a boat, there! Lower a boat,” vociferated the captain of the Northland, and the crew hastened to obey. In an incredibly short time two boats had been manned and lowered, and began cruising about over the spot where the vessel had sunk. In that dense fog, however, there seemed little hope of ever again seeing the heroic captain, and they were just on the point of giving up the search and returning to their ship when suddenly they heard what seemed to be a faint shout for help out of the fog about fifty yards from them. They rowed toward the sound, after shouting back encouragingly, and it was not long before they made out the figure of a man struggling stoutly in the icy water.
In less time than it takes to tell they had fished him out, and started rowing back to the steamer. Soon they were on board, and were accorded a royal reception by the assembled passengers and crew, all of whom were by this time on deck.
The man whom they had picked up proved to be the captain of the foundered vessel, and everybody crowded forward to shake his hand and congratulate him on his escape.
But now Captain Everett pressed through the crowd, and after greeting the unfortunate skipper and expressing his deep regret over the accident, hustled him off to his cabin. Here he was wrapped in blankets, and served with boiling hot coffee.
After he had recovered his strength somewhat, he proceeded to give his account of the accident.
“We had a lucky day yesterday,” he said, “and were anchored over the same spot, intending to start in again early the next morning. Most of the crew was asleep, and on account of this cursed fog our lookout was unable to see your vessel until it was too late to give warning. But fortunately, every body was saved, and as the ship was fully insured, matters might have been much worse, I suppose.”
“Yes,” said Captain Everett, “we were steaming only at quarter speed, or we would not have been able to get about in time to render you assistance. I am very thankful that no lives were lost, which is rare good fortune in an accident of this kind.”
“It is, for a fact,” responded the other, and sank into silence. He appeared to be troubled in mind, and little wonder. Even though he were not actually to blame for the disaster, as of course he was not, still he knew that his employers would hold him responsible. And there is probably no other profession in the world where a clear record is more highly prized than in seafaring.
However, under the cheerful influence of the cabin table his depression seemed to lighten somewhat, and he joined in the general conversation. He proved to be a man of some education and widely varied experience, and he recounted many tales of peril by sea.
It was late before the party broke up, and the unfortunate mariner was shown to his cabin. He and the members of his rescued crew stayed on the Northland several days, but then a homeward bound vessel was hailed and they were placed on board. There were hearty leave-takings on both sides, with mutual expressions of regret.
As the ships rapidly drew apart, the captain and crew of the sunken sailing vessel lined the rail, and waved to the athletes until their figures became indistinguishable.
“Well,” remarked Bert, as they turned away. “That was an occurrence that we won’t forget in quite some time, I guess.”
“Bet your life it was,” agreed Tom. “It isn’t every voyage that we get the chance to do the rescue stunt like that.”
“Which is a very fortunate thing,” remarked Dick. “It’s all right for us, and gives us a lot of excitement, but it’s not much fun for the poor fellows that get wrecked. Here’s their vessel, which they probably thought a lot of, as all sailors do, gone, and their employment with it, for the time at least. And that’s saying nothing of the close approach to death which they had. I think I’d rather pursue some other occupation than that of the sea. You have too many chances of making a personal visit to the well known Mr. Davy Jones.”
“Righto,” agreed Tom, with a twinkle in his eye. “I’d rather do something safe, like running a sixty-horsepower automobile at the rate of eighty miles an hour, or some other little amusement like that, wouldn’t you, Bert?”
“Oh, of course,” grinned Bert, “there’s no doubt that that’s the safest thing in the world to do. You never hear of anyone getting hurt doing that, do you?”
“Certainly not,” said Tom. “Why, I’ve even heard that doctors recommend it to patients suffering from nervous disorders, and requiring a little mild diversion. In fact, it’s the customary thing to do.”
“No doubt about it,” said Bert, and then they all joined in a hearty laugh.
After this they dispersed to their various training “stunts,” which must be gone through, wrecks or no wrecks.
CHAPTER IX
Man Overboard!
Dusk had succeeded the glorious sun-set and touched it with the sombre hue of twilight. The day had been exceptionally hot, a day when one seems to find just sufficient energy to lounge in an easy chair under the pretense of reading a novel until a delightful drowsiness creeps over you and all pretense is at an end – you are sleeping the sleep of the just on a scorching summer day.
But now night had descended on the stately Northland, and with it had come a cool, refreshing breeze. All was quiet, serene, peaceful, and among the passengers, lounging in groups about the deck, conversation was carried on in undertones.
“Gee,” Tom was saying, softly. “This has been one great day, hasn’t it? Nothing to do but hang around on deck, alternately reading, sleeping and watching the wheels go ’round.”
“Yes, I guess this is about the first day since we have been on board that something exciting hasn’t happened and it seems mighty good for a change.”
“Look out,” Bert warned. “The day isn’t over yet and there is plenty of time for something exciting to happen between this and midnight. For my part, I wouldn’t much mind if it did, for after a day like this you feel as if you needed something to wake you up.”
“Do you?” Tom queried, sarcastically. “I feel just now as if I had more urgent need of something to put me to sleep,” and with a yawn he dropped into a convenient chair and settled himself comfortably with his feet against the rail. “Sing us that song you used to sing at college before we threatened to set the Black Hand on your trail, Dick,” he invited. “Perhaps that will help to woo sweet slumber.”
“It would be much more likely to woo sweet nightmare,” said Bert, which was true if not complimentary.
“That’s all right,” Dick retorted, good-naturedly. “Of course, I understand that this apparent reluctance on your part is due entirely to sour grapes since you doubtless are aware of the fact that I never would condescend – ”
“Oh can it,” Tom murmured, sleepily. “If you won’t sing, the least you can do is to keep still and let a fellow go to sleep.”
“Oh, certainly,” Dick said, obligingly, “anything you wish. As I was saying,” he went on with a wink at Bert, “you are doubtless aware that I would never condescend to render that immortal ballad before so – ”
“You have gone too far,” Tom cried in a terrible voice, as he sprang for Dick. “You have dared disobey my mandates and now you shall suffer the penalty – ”
But the mock tragedy was never enacted, for, even as Tom spoke, his attention was caught by the figure of a man covered from head to foot with soot and grime and running toward their end of the deck at full speed. At his heels was a crowd led by the steward who cried out frantically to the boys, “Stop him, stop him! He’s gone mad!”
So suddenly had come the thunder-bolt from a clear sky that for a few seconds the boys could do nothing but stare at the spectacle before them and wonder if they could be awake. In fact, Bert confessed later that he had had a faint impression that Dick’s nightmare must have come upon them ahead of time.
Bert was the first to take in the situation and with a cry of, “I guess it’s up to us, fellows,” he ran toward the wild figure now only a few feet in front of them. But even as the three comrades threw out their hands to halt the flying madman, he paused, glared around him for an instant with the look of a hunted animal brought to bay, and then, with a fierce, inhuman cry that echoed in Bert’s memory for many a long day after, he threw himself over the rail and into the glassy depths nearly forty feet below!
For a brief moment there was the silence of death on board the Northland, and then arose such an uproar that even the captain’s great voice, shouting orders to the crew, could scarcely be heard above the din.
“’Tis nought but a stoker gone crazy with the heat of the day,” Bert heard a man say.
“Ay,” growled a stoker who had also overheard. “’Tis a wonder that we are all not crazy or dead this day, but that poor devil is worse off than us for he can’t swim a stroke.”
“Did you say that that man can’t swim?” Bert demanded, while a look of horror crept over his face.
“That I did, young feller,” the stoker answered, as he eyed Bert insolently from head to foot, “though doubtless he can find something to hang on to until – ”
But Bert never heard the end of the sentence for he was busy untying his shoes and stripping off his coat.
“Bert, Bert, you are never going to risk your life needlessly for that madman,” Tom pleaded. “The boat is stopping, now, and it will pick him up in a few minutes. Anyway he’s crazy – ”
But Bert stopped him. “He’s a man,” he said simply, “and he can’t swim.” Then there was a flash of white in the air, a quick splash and Bert was on his way to save a life.
Down there in the eddy and swirl of the waves, Bert had but one thought, one hope – to reach that little speck that he had sighted from the deck of the steamer. Nor did it once occur to him that he could have acted otherwise. One of his fellow beings had need of his splendid strength and skill, and not until they failed him would he give up the fight.
So on and on he swam, taxing his great vitality and endurance to the utmost. But to his tortured fancy it seemed as though he were being dragged backward. Surely he could not be making any progress at all at this speed. Then a fierce feeling of anger swept over him, burning him like a flame – anger at this feeling of impotence that threatened to master him.
“One would think,” he raged, “that I had never been outside a country town in my life. I am making progress. I can save that fellow’s life, and what’s more, I’m going to.”
Ah, that was better! Now every long, powerful stroke did its work and soon he was within a few feet of the spot where the madman was holding on to a slippery piece of driftwood, that now and again slipped from his numbed fingers, only to be regained by a desperate effort.
As Bert neared him, the stoker cried out frantically, “Don’t come near me! Don’t touch me! I’ll kill you if you do!”
But as he spoke his fingers lost their grip and he would have sunk below the surface if it had not been for Bert’s cat-like quickness. In a flash, he had grasped the stoker around the waist and lifted his head above the water, but he was not quite prepared for what was to follow.
For a second the stoker lay passive in Bert’s grasp, gasping for breath. Then with the quick, sinuous motion of a reptile he twisted about and met his fingers around Bert’s throat in the vise-like grip that only a maniac can effect and began slowly to tighten his hold.
In desperation Bert tore at the relentless fingers, fighting with all the fierceness of a wild animal for his life. But the more he struggled the tighter grew that band of iron about his neck. They were under water now, but not even threatened suffocation could make the madman loose his grip. Tighter and tighter it grew, until Bert felt the blood go pounding up into his brain and his eyes seemed starting from his head.
Was this to be the end, then, of all his hopes, of all his dreams, of all his aspirations? His college, his friends, his two dear comrades, was he to lose all these now, when his future was filled with such bright promise? And that by the hands of a man he had risked his life to save!
Then once again came that rush of wild, hot anger, this time a thousandfold more fierce than before, and again it seemed to give him exhaustless strength. He drew his arm back slowly, and then with all the strength of his body behind it planted his fist squarely in the madman’s forehead.
Then, at last, that iron grip loosened and the fingers relaxed their hold. With great joy and exultation in his heart, Bert grasped the arm as it slipped past him and dragged him to the surface.
With a feeling of exquisite comfort and ease, he floated on his back, drawing in great breaths of the glorious air into his tortured lungs. Softly as in a dream he heard the faint dip of oars in the water and then came Dick’s voice calling his name.
“Stay where you are, Bert,” it was saying. “We’ll be with you in a jiffy, now.”
“You mean we will if this hanged boat ever stops going backward and makes up its mind to travel in the right direction,” Tom said impatiently. “We’ve been five minutes getting nowhere, already.”
“Stop your growling, Tom,” Dick commanded. “You ought to be so all-fired thankful to see Bert floating on the surface instead of being entertained in Davy Jones’ locker that you wouldn’t have time for anything but thanksgiving.”
“You don’t suppose that I’m not thankful, do you,” Tom demanded, huskily. “If he hadn’t come up again after we saw him go under I – well – I – Bert,” he called, lustily, to hide the break in his voice, “can you hear us now?”
“Sure thing,” came a weak voice that they nevertheless recognized as Bert’s.
Then the rowers redoubled their efforts and in a few strokes had reached the spot where Bert floated with his still-unconscious burden. In less time than it takes to tell, willing hands had lifted the stoker into the boat and Bert was half dragged, half pushed in after him. For the fierce, superhuman strength that had come to him in his extremity had passed as quickly as it had come, leaving him as weak as a rag. It had been through sheer grit and will power that he had been able to hold on to the stoker until the boat could relieve him.
As he was hauled into the boat, Dick and Tom fell upon him, half laughing, half crying and wholly joyful. They showered him with praises and called him every endearing name they could think of, such as – “dear old fellow, game old scout,” and a hundred others equally incoherent but eminently satisfactory.
After five minutes of hard pulling, the little boat reached the steamer’s side. Her rails were crowded with passengers, waiting to welcome in the first real drama that many of them had ever witnessed.
As Bert was helped on deck he was welcomed with a rousing cheer that might have been heard for a mile around the ship. Bert flushed with pleasure and acknowledged the salute as best he could in his dripping garments, while he whispered to his two companions:
“Get me into the cabin as soon as you can, will you, fellows? It’s fine of them to greet me so right royally, but I know I must look a wreck and it wouldn’t feel so very bad to get some dry clothes on.”
Meanwhile, the stoker, who had not regained consciousness, was taken below to receive medical attention. As the sailors laid him on his bunk they muttered discontentedly of the inadvisability of rescuing mad stokers, who were little better than land lubbers, anyway.
“Sure and now we’ll be having one more worthless shpalpeen on our hands,” O’Brien was saying. “Oi’m not sayin’ as it wasn’t a brave thing that that young feller has been afther doin’, but jist the same it would ’a been bether to have left him there and saved us the throuble of burying of him later.”
“Ay, ay, so say I,” growled another. “He’ll probably die before the week’s out, and ’tis my opinion that he’s better dead than alive, seein’ he’s crazy, poor devil.”
“Hush! he’s conscious,” warned the doctor, as he rose from his kneeling position beside the bunk. “He will do nicely, now, with good care. I’ll be back in an hour to see how he’s getting along.”
As the doctor left the room, the two sailors neared the stoker, who lay with his eyes closed, as if absolutely oblivious to their presence.
“Well, old b’y,” said O’Brien, “how be ye feelin’ afther your duckin’? Pretty spry?”
Slowly the man opened his eyes and let them rest for a long minute on the big Irishman’s ruddy face. When he spoke, the words came haltingly, as if he were groping in his memory for facts that persistently eluded him.
“I don’t seem to recollect,” he said, “just exactly what happened. Was I – did I” – and the fear and pleading in his voice went straight to O’Brien’s heart – “was I – mad?”
“Now don’t you worry about that, son,” O’Brien lied, kindly. “Ye wuzn’t mad, ye wuz jist a thrifle touched be the heat. Oi’ll bet anythin’ ye’ll be up ’n aroun’ as hale an’ hearty as the skipper himself in a day or two.” Then he added in an undertone to his companion, “Bedad, an’ if he ain’t as sane as any man jack of us, me name ain’t Pat O’Brien. Sure an’ Oi ain’t niver seen the loike of it before.”