The Cruise of the Dry Dock
By T.S. Stribling
Illustrated by Herbert Morton Stoops
1917
_The Cruise of the Dry Dock_
_Lovingly Dedicated to My Mother_
CONTENTS
I The Dry Dock
II Adventure Begins
III The Last of the _Vulcan_
IV An Interrupted Meeting
V Sail Ho!
VI The Cul de Sac
VII Trapped
VIII The Mystery Ship
IX A Modern Columbus
X The Strange End of the _Minnie B_
XI Caradoc Shows His Mettle
XII The Return of the _Vulcan_
XIII The Sea Serpent
XIV Caradoc Wins His Fight
XV Towed!
XVI Caradoc Takes Command
XVII The Get-Away
XVIII Nerve Versus Gunpowder
XIX Chased by a Submarine
XX The Lone Chance
XXI The Battle
XXII The Victoria Cross
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
They Were at Last Under the Overhang of the Mysterious Schooner
Out There Lay Adventure, Mystery - More Than Either Dreamed
Caradoc Stands the Acid Test
The Battle
CHAPTER I
THE DRY DOCK
"She's movin'!" cried a voice from the crowd on the wharf side. "Watch
'er! Watch 'er!"
A dull English cheer rippled over the waterfront.
"Blarst if I see _why_ she moves!" marveled an onlooker. "That tug
looks like a water bug 'itched to a 'ouse-boat - it's hunreasonable!"
"Aye, but they're tur'ble stout, them tugs be," argued a companion.
"It's hunreasonable, just the same, 'Enry!"
"Everything's hunreasonable at sea, 'Arry. W'y w'en chaps put to sea
they tell we're they're at by lookin' at th' _sun_."
"Aw! An' not by lookin' at th' map?"
"By lookin' at th' sun, 'pon honor!"
"Don't try to jolly me like that, 'Enry, me lad; that's more
hunreasonable than this."
By this time the cheers had become general and the conversation broke
off. An enormous floating dry dock, towed by an ocean-going tug, slowly
drew away from the ship yards on the south bank of the Thames, just
below London. The men on the immense metal structure, hauling in ropes,
looked like spiders with gossamers. A hundred foot bridge which could be
lifted for the entrance of ocean liners, spanned the open stern of the
dock and braced her high side walls. These walls rose fifty or sixty
feet, were some forty feet thick and housed the machinery which pumped
out the pontoons and raised the two bridges, one at each end. The tug,
the _Vulcan_, which stood some two hundred yards down stream,
puffing monotonously at the end of a cable, did seem utterly inadequate
to tow such a mass of metal. Nevertheless, to the admiration of the
crowd, the speed of the convoy slowly increased.
Tug and dock were well under way when the onlooking line was suddenly
disrupted by a well-dressed youth who came bundling a large suit case
through the press and did not pause until on the edge of the green
moulded wharf.
"Boat!" he hailed in sharp Yankee accent, gesticulating at a public
dory. "Here, put me aboard that dry dock, will you? Hustle! the thing's
gathering way!"
"A little late," observed a voice at the newcomer's elbow.
"Yes, I hung around London Tower trying to see the crown jewels, then I
broke for St. Paul's for a glimpse of Nelson's Monument, then I ran down
to Marshalsea, where Little Dorrit's father - make haste there, you
slowpoke water-rat! Rotton London bus service threw me six minutes
late!" he concluded.
The American's explosive energy quickly made him a focus of interest.
"What are you trying to do?" smiled the Englishman, "jump out of a
Cook's tour into a floating dock?"
The American turned on the joker and saw a tall, well-set-up young
fellow with extraordinarily broad shoulders, long brown face, stubby
blond mustache, who looked down on him with amused gray eyes.
"In a way," grinned the man with the suit case. "I'm knocking about all
over the map, trying to see if the world is really round. Got a job
aboard that dock - going with her to Buenos Aires - Say, slow-boy, is that
dory of yours anchored, or is it really coming this way?"
"Coomin' that way, sor!" wheezed the waterman from below.
"That's a coincidence," observed the stranger, twirling his pale
mustache. "I had a berth on her, too." He indicated a huge English kit
bag at his feet.
"Then you'd better get a move on if you're going!" snapped the American,
instantly taking charge of the whole affair. "Shoot your grip here!" He
stood ready to receive and deliver it to the boatman who had landed
below.
"Had about decided not to go," frowned the Briton with an odd change of
manner. "It looks - er - so nasty over there - still, if you can endure it
I suppose I - " the final phrase was lost in the swing at his big kit
bag.
The American followed the luggage hurriedly; the tall fellow lowered
himself calmly and with a certain precision into the stern of the dory.
The boatman set out toward the gliding mass of iron.
The blond youth surveyed their distance from the great dock and marked
its deliberate but deceptive speed.
"I doubt whether we catch it after all," he remarked with slight
interest in his voice.
"Then we'll take a train to Gravesend and get aboard boat there,"
planned the American promptly.
A smile glimmered on the long brown face for a moment. "That's very
Yankee-like, I believe," he said complimentarily.
With the brisk friendliness of his nation, the Yankee drew a morocco
case from his pocket. "Leonard Madden is my name," he said as he offered
a bit of engraved card.
The Englishman started to reach inside his coat but paused. "I am
Caradoc Smith," he replied gravely. Then, as an afterthought, he drew a
small silver-mounted flask from his pocket, unscrewed the cap, poured it
full of a liquor and offered it.
"To a pleasant acquaintance and a profitable journey, Mr. Madden," he
began ceremoniously.
A slight flush reddened the white skin at Madden's collar, but did not
show on his tanned face. It always embarrassed him to be forced to
reject friendly overtures.
"Sorry," he shook his head; "don't use it. But the wish goes."
The Englishman looked his surprise. "Then, if you don't object - " he
lifted pale brows.
"Certainly not; do as you like."
Smith tossed the capful down his throat. "You know, I've met several
Americans," he commented more warmly, "and half of them don't use
alcoholics. Strange thing - can't fancy why."
Madden went into no explanation. They were nearing the dock by this time
and their boatman began a hoarse calling for some one on board to toss a
line.
It was like shouting for a man in a city block. The basal pontoon rose
twelve feet above their heads; beyond this towered the thick side walls
spanned by the bridge. The waterline of the whole dock was painted a
bright red, some four feet high, and above this rose an expanse of raw
black iron, punctuated with long rows of shining rivet heads.
The boatman was rowing at top speed and bellowing like an asthmatic fog
horn. "We'll never git nobody," he wheezed. "Nobody seems to stay around
this section of th' dock, sor."
Madden raised a lusty shout; the great structure was slowly increasing
her speed.
"Yell, Smith, yell!" he counseled between shouts. "We may not be able to
get a train to Gravesend in time!"
"I'm not that eager to go," observed the Englishman with a shrug.
The dory was falling behind. Madden leaped up, ran to the oars and began
pushing as the boatman pulled. Their united efforts just kept the blunt
little dory in the hissing wake of the dock.
"Help! Line! Aboard dock! Lend a line!" the two of them roared
discordantly.
"We're not going to make it!" cried Madden desperately. "Lend a hand
here, Smith!"
At that moment a dark head with sharp black mustaches popped over the
stern of the dock.
"Ah-ha! A race!" cried the man above in a French accent. "Come, Mike,
zee the English sporting speerit! Voila! What a race - a dory and a dry
dock!"
"Throw us a line!" shrieked Madden, "you blithering - think this is fun?"
"Ah, pardon, a thousand pardons! I hasten!"
He disappeared and a few seconds later a coil of rope came hurtling
down. Madden caught it and his toil was over. A moment later another
sailor, of distinct Irish physiognomy, dropped down a rope ladder to the
boat. They paid the sweating boatman a double fare, climbed up and
hoisted their bags with the line.
Only when on board did the lads appreciate the enormous size of the
dock. It would have been impossible to throw a baseball from one end to
the other. The black sides rose above them like an iron canyon. Ranging
down these precipices were innumerable huge iron stanchions for the
shoring of ocean liners. Toward the forward end of the dock was a two
hundred ton pile of coal, for the use of the tug, but it was dwarfed to
the size of a kitchen supply by the black expanse around it. On the
other side there were erected a few temporary wooden houses to serve as
kitchen, dining room, and quarters for the crew on the voyage. There
were a group of men loitering about these cabins.
The newcomers still stared at their gigantic surroundings when the
interested Frenchman said politely:
"It ees large, beeg, yes?"
"Where's the boss?" inquired Leonard. "We've got jobs aboard this
craft."
"He is making out the papers now, I think, and ees in a bad temper,
too."
With this discouraging information, the two young men started for the
officers' cabin. As they entered the place they met a crew of typical
London longshoresmen coming out. Inside, a stocky purple-cheeked cockney
stood at a little desk and glowered at them with small red eyes.
"'Ow's this?" he growled sharply, and in some surprise. "You are not in
th' crew Hi picked hup."
"No, we applied at the office - "
"Hoffice, hoffice," snarled the man. "W'ot do they know about men,
settin' hup there with their legs cocked hup? W'ot is it ye want
anyway?"
Leonard silently offered a paper he had received from the British Towing
and Shipping Company. The mate wrinkled his half inch of knobbly brow as
he read the paper in a low undertone, after the manner of illiterate
men.
"And by the way, my man," began Caradoc in stiff condescension, "we
would like one of those cabins to ourselves."
The mate flung up a club-like head and threw back his blocky shoulders.
"_My man!_" he gasped. "Ye call me _my man_, ye little cigarette-suckin'
silk-hatted Johnny - orderin' private cabins! W'ot ye think this is - a
floatin' 'otel?"
Madden bit his lip to keep from smiling at the odd play of anger and
surprise on Smith's long expressive face.
"No harm meant, Mr. - - " began the American soothingly.
"Malone - Mate Malone!" stormed the angry officer by way of introduction.
"You understand how friends prefer to bunk together instead of with
strangers. We thought we would ask you about it."
This soothed the irascible fellow somewhat. Still glowering, he
spraddled out of the cabin with the boys after him, and presently
indicated one of the small temporary cabins with a jerk of his thumb. As
to whether his intentions were kindly or cruel, Madden could not
determine, but their lodgment was a low kennel-like place, the smallest
in the row. Nevertheless it was very clean and smelled of new lumber. It
held four bunks, two on a side. The boys dropped their luggage inside
with the pleasure of travelers reaching their destination.
"Got no fire arms nor whiskey?" growled the mate, looking through the
door at his new men.
Both answered in the negative.
"All right; step lively now. We want to raise that waterline 'igh enough
to work in the waves before we reach th' Channel."
The lads shut the door after them, then started under Malone's direction
for whatever work he had.
They found the whole crew swinging along the hundred foot front of the
dock, broadening the brilliant red waterline with all possible dispatch.
The reason for attacking the front first was obvious. In case of rough
weather, the way of the dock would pile the waves higher ahead than
anywhere else. Leonard and his new friend lowered themselves on a
swinging platform over the twelve-foot pontoon and joined in the work.
Tug and dock were now passing through the congested traffic of the lower
Thames and the enormous English shipping spread in a panorama before
them. Here were barges, smacks, scows, sailing vessels; big liners
plowing through the press with hoarse whistles; rusty English tramps,
that carried the Union Jack to the uttermost ends of the earth. Even a
few dreadnoughts lay castled on the broadening waters. On both sides of
the river, dull warehouses and factories stretched out rusty wharves,
like myriad fingers, to receive the tonnage that converged on this
center of the world's activities.
American curiosity almost prevented Madden from working at all. He
painted intermittently, between wonders, so to speak. As for Caradoc, he
made no pretense to labor, but propped a broad shoulder against the
supporting rope, stuck a cigarette under his white mustache and fell to
regarding the waterscape in a serious, preoccupied fashion.
"Say, old man," warned Leonard in an undertone, briskly plying his
brush, "that mate looked down at us then. He'll raise a rough house if
we don't get a move on and keep our section up."
Caradoc came out of his muse, tossed his cigarette into the swirling
water a few feet below him. "Impudent chap!" he snapped.
Madden laughed. "His trade is to get work out of men and it requires
impudence."
Caradoc grunted something, perhaps an assent. The two fell briskly to
work and soon made an impression on the blank iron wall. At first the
American chatted of this and that, rehearsing his own aimless ramblings
as men will, but presently he observed that Smith was painting away and
paying no attention to his partner's chatter.
"What's the worry, old man?" queried Madden lightly. "'Fraid the
paint'll give out?"
"I presume they have sufficient paint," answered Smith stiffly, as he
flapped his brush across the bright head of a big rivet.
"Why - yes," agreed Madden, a little taken aback, "but you look like you
might be getting up a grouch at something - "
"About time to pull up, isn't it?" interrupted Smith.
The brusqueness in the speech grated on Madden, but they hauled up their
platform without further remarks on either side. The Englishman seemed
to work slower than the American, but somehow covered as much ground.
The coat of red paint had risen considerably on the dock when the
bosun's whistle gave a faint shrill from the deck. The whole string of
painters facing the pontoon's bow began hauling up their platforms. The
lads followed their example.
Malone was hastily pulling his crew together in the mess room on the
middle pontoon. He came by waving his short heavy arms in the direction
of the long eating room.
"Get along aft; you're to sign the ship's papers!" he bawled
monotonously. "Get along!"
Most of the men walked faster when the mate flung his arms at them.
Leonard felt the impulse to step livelier but held himself to Caradoc's
deliberate stride.
In the mess room the boys found a compact, black-haired, serious-faced
young man of unknown nationality reading the ship's articles in an
expressionless tone. Nobody listened, although various penalties were
prescribed for desertion, quitting ship without leave, disobedience of
orders, each with its particular fine or punishment. When the reader
finished, the men walked around one by one and signed the register.
Then a copy of the articles was pointed out on the side of the mess
room, and again no one observed.
The performance was hardly completed when the gong rang for supper.
There were not more than a dozen men at mess. Most were of stolid
English navvy type, dirty uncouth men whose gross irregular features
told of low birth and evil life. The foreign element comprised an
Irishman named Mike Hogan and the Frenchman whom the boys had met when
they first came aboard. The crowd called him Dashalong. Upon inquiry,
Leonard found it to be Deschaillon. The young man who read the articles
was named Farnol Greer. However, he proved a silent, taciturn youth, who
seemed to converse with no one and to have no friends.
In the long narrow eating cabin mingled the clean smell of newly sawed
lumber and the odor of poor cookery. The meal proved rather worse than
ordinary steerage food. After the first taste Smith put it by,
grumbling. Leonard, who was hungry, consumed about half of his.
Beef stew and boiled white fish formed the menu. Perhaps there is
nothing quite so slippery and disheartening as boiled white fish grown
luke warm or cold. The navvies ate ravenously enough, but Hogan and
Deschaillon were not so wolfish.
Mike speared a bit on his fork and regarded it sadly. "This fish reminds
me uv a fun'ril," he observed, "an' yonder lad looks to be chief
mourner," he nodded toward Farnol Greer.
"He ees not mourning over the feesh," declared Deschaillon gayly. "He
ees struck on heemself, and found his affection ees misplaced."
Madden laughed. The spirits of the Celt and the Gaul seemed to improve
as their fare grew worse.
"Oh, av course a frog-atin' Frinchman loike you, Dashalong, would think
any kind av fish a reg'lar feast."
Deschaillon leaned over to inspect his portion. "Now eet does very
well - to wax zee mustache, Mike." He twirled his own.
Caradoc grunted disapproval of such doubtful table talk, arose and left
the rough company and rough fare with supercilious condemnation.
"Your friend's appetite sames as dilicate as his wor-rkin' powers,"
observed Hogan as he watched the Englishman stoop and disappear through
the doorway.
Madden smiled. "We didn't work any too hard this afternoon, did we?"
Mike and Pierre proved droll companions, ready to jibe at anyone or
anything in perfect good nature, so that it was an hour before Leonard
strolled outside. As he had no further duty, he climbed a long ladder to
the top of the high dock wall and walked forward toward the bridge.
By this time the sun had set and left the world filled with a luminous
yellow afterglow. The estuary of the Thames had widened abruptly off
Sheerness, and far to the south was the dim line of chalk cliffs that
England thrusts toward France. Overhead stretched a translucent
yellow-green sky with the long black line of the _Vulcan's_ smoke
marking it.
Leonard moved across the bridge slowly.
There was almost perfect silence over the great structure below him,
save for the slow creaking of new joints in the iron plates, the
softened chough-choughing of the tug ahead.
There were several paint barrels piled up on the bridge, slung there no
doubt by machinery, to prevent the men having to toil up with it from
below. The boy leaned against one of these barrels, gazing into the
yellow flood of light that bathed everything in its own saffron. His
heart beat high with a feeling of the hazard of the ocean. He tried
to fancy what would happen to the huge dock as it adventured through
tropic seas. His imagination readily conjured up a kaleidoscope of
incidents - cannibal proas, shark fights, sea serpents, typhoons,
mutinies, what not.
And at every turn of the tug's propeller all this bright dashing world
of adventure drew nearer and nearer. For some reason he recalled what
the bystander on the dock had said - "Everything is unreasonable at sea,"
and he laughed aloud.
As a sort of gloomy echo of his laugh, his ear caught a groan from the
other side of the paint barrels. With the utmost surprise and curiosity,
he straightened up and moved silently around the pile.
Then he saw the tall Englishman leaning across the bridge rail, face in
hands, staring at the line of land silhouetted in black between the
brazen sky and the reflecting water. Smith's whole attitude was so
suggestive of trouble that Madden moved forward in generous sympathy.
The Englishman heard the movement, straightened, looked around; his long
face wore a look of suffering in the colored light.
"Sorry you're so blue, old man," sympathized the American, making a
guess at the cause of his bad spirits. "Let's have a turn around this
old tub and forget homesickness."
"Home!" echoed Caradoc gruffly. "It's - it's all England I'm leaving.
It's England and honor and - " he stiffened suddenly and snarled out: "Do
you think I climbed away up here on this bridge hunting your company?"
Leonard was utterly nonplussed by this shift. "I'm sure I meant no
harm - "
"Certainly not," sneered Caradoc. "You Americans have the undesired
friendliness of stray puppies - you have no conception of personal
reserve - you turn your souls into moral vaudevilles."
A flush of indignation swept over Madden. "That's no decent return for a
friendly approach!" he declared hotly, "and I'd rather be a puppy than a
hedgehog any day!"
Caradoc made no reply, but seemed to erase Madden from his mind and
shifted slowly around to his staring and his thoughts.
This last bit of impudence fairly clanged on Madden's temper. He felt a
desire to tell this coxcomb just what he thought of him. If Caradoc had
remained facing the American, Madden might have done so, but it feels
foolish to rail at a profile. Madden wheeled angrily, tramped across the
bridge, then down the high side of the dock toward the ladder. From far
below him came Hogan's voice, a concertina, and the sound of clacking
feet. Apparently the Irishman had induced someone to dance a jig.
CHAPTER II
ADVENTURE BEGINS
Fortunately for the British Towing and Shipping Company, the next few
days were glassy calm, and as the _Vulcan_ coughed along the South
England coast, the crew had fair opportunity to raise the coat of paint
out of danger.
They had finished the ends by this time and were now working on the high
exterior sides of the dock. The labor was distasteful to Leonard, not
within itself, but it is disagreeable to dangle in midair over a huge
iron wall, blue water gurgling below, and sit beside a man who has
affronted one by calling one's manners puppyish and one's soul a
vaudeville. Even if one really be fond of puppies and enjoy vaudeville,
the implication is unpleasant.
On the third morning after, Caradoc wielded his brush listlessly and
looked sick. His fine shoulders sagged and his eyes were hollow in his
long face. Leonard, whose spirits naturally mounted with the sun, found
it hard to continue the three days' silence. He wanted to talk about the
splendid English coast with its gemlike villages set in green, the
red-sailed fishing smacks, the social gulls feeding in the long trail
behind the dock. It is difficult to be reserved under such conditions.
Then, too, Caradoc was so obviously ill, Madden felt sorry for the
fellow.
As for the Englishman, he paid little attention to his working mate, but
languidly splashed the iron wall, and himself, with red paint. After
some two hours' work, he stood up on the platform as if sore, made an
irresolute start, finally climbing the rope ladder to the top. Madden
wondered about the queer fellow, but was rather relieved by his absence.
Within twenty or thirty minutes, however, he was back, but in
perceptibly better spirits. He worked briskly for a few minutes, then
dropped brush in pail and turned to Leonard as if no shadow had crossed
their acquaintance.
"Well, Madden, we can hardly blame the old Phoenicians for guarding the
secret of the Cassiterides, can we?"
The American almost fell off the platform in surprise.
"Why - er - no, I don't blame 'em," he blurted, not having a ghost of a
notion what the Englishman was talking about. "No, I - I never blamed 'em
a bit - never did."
"Those were poetic days, Madden."
The American stared, his mind as much at sea as his body.
"Think of that Phoenician sailing his galley for the Isles of Tin. The
Romans follow him, day after day, week after week. But does he betray
the secret of Tyre's wealth?" Caradoc made a gesture. Madden was about
to answer that he didn't know, when the orator went on.
"He does not. Rather than expose the rich mines of Cornwall, he dashes
his galley upon a reef and risks his life among the early English
barbarians."
"Was it here where that happened?" asked Madden interestedly, fishing
some such tale from the bottom of his recollection.
Caradoc stood upright on the swinging platform, hands thrust in jacket
pockets, thumbs out, Oxford fashion. His tall form swayed slowly with
the steady rise and fall of the dock.
"Certainly, the Cassiterides is Cornwall, and that point of land just
ahead is the spot where the Tyrian wrecked his ship, so the legend
goes."
Madden's eyes followed Caradoc's gesture. "I've read that story, but I
never thought of seeing the place."
"Cornwall is entrancing if you care for antiquities," went on Smith in
the polished style of a collegiate. "Four or five miles up that cape are
the Boskednan Circles and the Dawns-un, old Druidic stone temples. Just
across the peninsula is St. Ives, where the virgin Hya appeared
miraculously. It is really regrettable, Madden, that you are leaving
England before you tour Cornwall. A wonderful little island, England. A
land to live for - or to die for, God willing."
Caradoc stared toward the coast, frowning, with the old familiar look of
pain coming into his eyes. His hearer and his extemporaneous lecture
plainly slipped out of his mind.
"You've been along here before," suggested Madden with a hope of
diverting Smith's mind.
"Oh, yes," replied the Englishman gloomily.
"Sailor, perhaps?"
"Yes."
"Not another dry dock, I trust," laughed Madden, turning to work.
"No."
"Windjammer?"
"Yes."
Leonard nodded at his painting. "Fishing smack, I'll bet."
The cross-questioning was interrupted by a raucous voice overhead, and
both boys looked up to see the mate's thick torso hanging over the rail.
He was shaking his fist at the tall Englishman.
"W'ot you think we brought you along for?" he bawled savagely. "To give
lectures? If you don't paint and quit blowin', you win' bag, I'll ship
you at Penzance!"
Caradoc's face went white, leaving threadlike purple veins showing on
nose and cheeks. "I'm willing to do my duty," he said with a quiver in
his tone. He glanced at his empty paint bucket. "If I'm to work, bring
me paint - I'm out!"
Caradoc seemed to be able to make the mate madder and do it quicker than
anyone else.
"Paint! Bring you paint!" roared Malone, apoplectic. "Git out an' git
your paint, or I'll put a longer, uglier head than that on your
shoulders."
Caradoc gave a shrug, stooped for the bucket, then began composedly
climbing the ladder straight at the sputtering officer.
"Be careful there, Smith," warned Madden in an undertone; "he'd as soon
as not slug you without giving you a dog's chance."
Caradoc said nothing but continued his climbing. The men on the platform
fore and aft ceased work, watching the mate and the climbing man
intently. The silence following the usual drone of conversation was
noticeable.
Caradoc was just reaching up to climb into Malone, when at that moment
something happened that drew and held everybody's attention.
The whole face of the sea around the dock broke into a sort of
sputtering. The ocean seemed to boil. To his astonishment, Madden saw
the commotion was caused by millions of small fishes leaping and running
along the surface.
Cries came from all over the dock at once: "Pilchards! Pilchards are
shoaling! Pilchards are shoaling!"
The few gulls in the sky now seemed to multiply and settled in a
fluttering cloud to strike such easily captured food. Among the press of
little fish leaped cod, hake, dog fish, all feasting on the annual
migration of the pilchards. The crew on the dock scrambled up and over
the sides, flung down boxes, buckets, anything and scooped the fish from
the sea.
The diversion saved the Englishman from any bellicose intention of the
mate, who hurried off to take a hand in the sport. Madden sat on his
platform watching the fun, for it was a remarkable sight. Caradoc swung
around on the ladder facing Leonard.
"There, Madden," he cried, "is a sight characteristic of no other sea.
Every season Cornish fisheries capture millions of these fish. They
pickle 'em, can 'em. They even sell them to you Yankees for sardines.
You are fortunate to have seen this phenomenon."
Leonard studied the novel sight. Hundreds of fishing smacks converged on
the area where the pilchards were breaking, their red sails glowing
warmly against the green of the land and the blue of the sea. Gulls
whirled about the tall dock, filling the air with thin creakings. Madden
admired the sudden picturesque activity. Some of the smacks were so
close now that he could see their long trawls stringing out behind, and
little figures running about their decks, winding in nets, bringing in a
flood of silver fishes.
The metallic noise of the gulls grew so loud as to blanket all else. In
the midst of this fluttering and shrieking, Leonard heard the shouting
of human voices. He paid little attention. Then some of the men on top
of the dock's side began yelling. At that moment, Caradoc shouted down
Madden's name. Madden looked up. On the instant the swinging platform
under him tipped violently.
Next moment, Madden saw right beneath him a smack. The vessel was
floating by, and the peak of its boom scraped the high iron wall of the
dock. This boom had struck his platform.
Madden clutched impotently at the blank iron wall, then flung an arm for
one of the supporting ropes and missed.
"Jump to me!" yelled Smith. The Englishman was still on the rope ladder,
but had climbed down rapidly when he saw his mate in distress. The boom
was tilting the platform straight up and down. The deck of the smack
below promised to mash the American into a pulp. The fishermen were
shouting. Leonard made a falling leap toward Caradoc's extended hand. He
caught it in both his own. The Englishman's other hand gripped the rope
rung. Unfortunately Madden's body flung out with a twisting motion, and
he could feel Smith's arm grow tense in an effort to keep from being
wrenched.
Madden was scrambling with his legs for a foothold on the ladder when
the boom dragged past the platform and the whole thing swung back on the
distressed boys. A flying end caught Madden in the side. The blow
sickened him. He clung desperately to Caradoc's hand, his grip
weakening, his senses swimming with the feeling of an awful void beneath
him. The strength in his fingers gave way, and he felt a chill sensation
before the coming downward plunge. But even in his twisted, straining
position, the Englishman's long fingers did not loose Madden's wrist. A
moment later, Leonard had lost consciousness completely, swung in
midair, limp as a bag.
The American had a dim impression of being drawn to the top of the side
wall, and the crew clustering about him. Someone splashed water in his
face and the world cleared up before his eyes. The young fellow called
Greer was whisking on the water, but when Madden opened his eyes, he set
the bucket down and returned silently to his work.
"There, ye're bether now," grinned Hogan stooping over the wounded man.
"That platform caught yez a little love lick in the slats - break any of
'em?"
Leonard reached across and felt his side. "How came the smack there?" he
inquired weakly. "Why didn't I see it?"
"Ye was lookin' astern, an' th' vissil barely turned the bow of th' dock
an' her boom kissed us all th' way down. I yilled at ye, so did
Dashalong an' th' silent man. Thin I got so interested in l'arnin' he
could say a worrd, I quit lookin' at you complately."
"I couldn't hear for the gulls - I'll be all right in a minute."
Leonard looked around and saw Caradoc massaging his twisted arm. He had
an impulse to thank the Briton, but he changed it to, "I hope your arm
isn't badly wrenched, Smith."
"Quite all right," assured the tall fellow cheerfully.
The men began to scatter to work again.
That day at lunch the ship's fare was garnished with an abundance of
delicious pilchards. The whole crew wore a holiday air. During the
afternoon the men sang at their work and labored so merrily and so well
that a broad wash of paint was added to the outside wall.
Leonard, whose side was sore enough from the thump, did not work. Even
the mate suggested that he take a leave of absence, and stay in his bunk
if he would.
The boy went at once to his cabin and began hunting in his suit case for
a little medicine chest which he always carried. He wanted arnica for
his bruised side. To his surprise he could not find it. He gave his bag
a thorough search, tumbling garments, trinkets, souvenirs, curiosities,
helter skelter over his bunk, but failed to find his case.
The loss of the medical carry-all distressed Madden. It had proved
useful in the past. However, he hunted up the mate and begged a
liniment, which must have had a wonderful virtue if a powerful odor was
any indication.
Leonard rubbed the stuff on his side and turned into his bunk. His side
grew so sore he wondered whether or not his ribs really were broken
after all. In his dark den he could still hear the gulls wailing,
although the tug had passed the major portion of the shoaling pilchards.
There also came to him the constant creaking of the dock, the slow dull
recurrence of the ground swell against her bow. The boy's mind centered
fretfully on his lost medicine chest. No doubt it was stolen, and he
began wondering which of the crew had taken it. His suspicion played
idly over the crew, and then settled on the youth called Greer. His
reason for this was that Greer said very little. Madden thought this
must be the sign of a guilty conscience.
He did not brood long, however, as the monotonous sounds exerted a
hypnotic effect on his senses. Once or twice as he was almost falling
asleep, he felt himself clinging desperately to Caradoc's hand, his grip
weakening, the fearsome void gaping under him, then he would awake with
a start that sent a knife of pain through his bruised ribs. After that
he would be forced to feel once more to test his costal region for
broken bones. Finally the vision failed to paint itself, or did not
rouse him, and he slept.
After an indeterminate interval, he was awakened by someone entering the
room. It was fairly dark now and by lifting a head over the side of his
berth, he saw the outline of the Frenchman standing by the door. Madden
thought of the stolen medicine chest and remained silent.
The Gaul was about to withdraw when Madden called out.
"What is it, Deschaillon?"
"I just came by to say your frien' ees in trouble. Zay play cards in zee
salon. Smeeth he win _beaucoup_. Zay quarrel, perhaps zay fight. He
ees your frien', and - "
Leonard smiled when he heard the mess hall dignified into a salon; but
at the latter end of the sentence he sat up suddenly in his bunk and
began pulling on his jacket despite the twinges in his side.
"Eh, how's that - fight?"
At that instant Hogan lolled against the jamb and announced his entrance
with a laugh.
"What's this Deschaillon's telling me, Mike - the men fighting over
cards?"
"Sure now I heard him and told him not to be wakin' a sick man up for
sich trifles. They was a few raymarks ixchanged, but nawthin' ser'us."
He turned reproachfully on the Gaul. "Nixt time be advised by me and
don't be wakin' a sick man for nawthin'."
The two walked away and Leonard leaned back in his bunk, quite sleepless
now. He stared into the blackness, his mind a moving picture show of the
last three days. The Englishman was chief actor on this stage, and his
disagreeably mixed character puzzled and disturbed the American.
Caradoc's language and manners showed him to be a man of breeding, but
he was full of contradictory habits. His uncosmopolitan moodiness, his
vulgar quarreling over cards, were typical instances.
Leonard almost regretted that he had formed an uncomfortable intimacy
with the fellow, but he could not very well break it off now since Smith
had saved him from a fall that might easily have proved fatal.
Just then the Englishman entered the cabin silently. He lighted the
bracket lamp quietly and looked about to satisfy himself that his mate
was asleep. Later Madden heard him open his big kit bag and take
something out. A moment after, the odor of alcohol scented the little
cabin.
Leonard lifted his head and saw the fellow under the lamp, just lifting
the silver cap to his lips. A disagreeable smile moulded the long face,
wrinkled the nostrils and slid away under the choppy blond mustache. The
strong light from the overhead lamp brought out an almost sinister
countenance.
The thought that such a man had probably saved his life filled Madden
with a kind of repulsion. He turned in his bunk with a little disgusted
grunt.
Caradoc dropped the little cap and came to the bunk.
"Side hurt, old man?" he asked anxiously.
"Yes - no - nothing the matter."
"Oh, maybe you don't like this odor - forgot you didn't drink." He
stepped quickly to the kit bag, replaced the bottle and cap inside and
closed it. Like many alcohol users he labored under the delusion that
alcohol was not offensive on his _breath_.
"Nervous shock you received seemed to upset you more than the punch," he
diagnosed in a concerned voice. "You Americans are a high-strung
nation." He paused a moment philosophically. "I daresay you're right
about not drinking spirits. With your nervous organism, it would set you
on fire. But our foggy English climate and stodgy people call for it.
Sets our pulses going. A thought just here - Climate and Alcoholism. Not
a bad subject for a scientific investigation, is it?"
Madden grunted.
"I'll blow out the light unless you'll have me rub some more of that
villainous stuff on your ribs?"
The patient declined this.
"Need water or medicine during the night throw your boots at me - I'm
hard to wake,"
Then he puffed out the light.
[Illustration: Out There Lay Adventure, Mystery - More Than Either
Dreamed.]
CHAPTER III
THE LAST OF THE _VULCAN_
A temporary rudder had been installed on the unwieldy dry dock, and each
twenty-four hours Mate Malone detailed seven men to stand watch, which
gave the regulation dog watch, although there was no need of it with a
double complement of men. Thanks to his bruised ribs, the American had
thus far escaped duty at the wheel. About a week after the pilchard
incident, he reported ready for this service, when a twist of
circumstance rendered it unnecessary.
A long stretch of fair weather had been enjoyed by the dock painters on
a steadily dropping barometer. On this particular day a cold puffy wind
developed out of the northeast, bringing with it a rack of clouds and
spreading a choppy sea below.
From where Madden painted on the corner of the dock, he had a good view
of these chasing waves that rose a moment in the gray seascape, nodded a
white cap, then dropped back into the waste of water.
"Wonder if a storm would affect this old box much?" he queried of
Caradoc.
"Probably have a chance to see," opined Smith, looking out with a
speculative eye. "By the by, what's that?"
Caradoc pointed toward the _Vulcan_, which already exhibited the
motion of the rollers.
Madden looked. A sailor stood on the tug's round stern waving two flags
toward the dock.