Chapter XV: A Roar From the Deep

“It will be an hour or two before I can get out,” Blackie said next morning, standing up to stretch himself before the fire. “I want to go over some maps Red McGee gave me. Lawrence can draw up a simple chart that will keep us going right.

“MacGregor,” he turned to the aged Scotchman. “How would you like to take Johnny for a circle or two in the fog? You might discover some evidence. It’s nets we want most. If we can discover some of those nets inside the three-mile limit it will help a lot.”

“Like nothin’ better,” said MacGregor. “Come on, Johnny, let’s get goin’.”

MacGregor had spoken for both of them. Johnny was fond of the engineer. He was old, mellow and kind, was MacGregor. This, he had confided to Johnny, was to be his last year with the service. Another twelve months and he would be pensioned. “And, Johnny,” he had added, “I’m as eager as any boy to have a part in something big before I am compelled to go.”

“I hope you can have,” had been Johnny’s heartfelt wish.

So now, with the sun still low and the fog, it seemed, thicker than ever before, they slipped out of the snug little natural harbor into the great unknown that is any sea in time of fog.

Standing at the wheel, Johnny watched the dark circle of water about them. Ever they moved forward, yet never did this circle grow larger. It was strange.

There was life at this circle. Now a whole fleet of eider-ducks, resting on their way north, came drifting into view. With a startled quack-quack they stirred up a great splatter, then went skimming away.

And now a seal with small round head and whiskers like a cat came to the surface to stare at them.

“Not worth much, that fellow,” was MacGregor’s comment. “Not much more hair than a pig.

“But look, Johnny!” his voice rose. “There’s a real fur seal. His hide’s worth a pretty penny. Wouldn’t have it long either, if those Orientals sighted him. We used to have a hot time with ’em over the seals. Had to pay ’em to get ’em to leave the seals alone. That was a shame. Have to do the same with the salmon, like as not. We—

“Look, Johnny! What’s that?” His voice suddenly dropped to a whisper, as if he believed the fog had ears. “Right over to the left, Johnny. Ease ’er over that way.”

“Another seal,” said Johnny.

“It’s no seal,” MacGregor whispered. “Johnny!” His whisper rose. “We got ’em. It’s a net marker. Inside the three-mile limit. An’ it’s none of Red McGee’s net markers either.”

“That—that’s right,” the boy breathed.

“And there’s the floats, Johnny! There they are!”

Sure enough, leading away into the fog was a wavering line of dots.

“We’ll follow it,” was MacGregor’s instant decision. “See how much net there is, then—”

“I’ll follow it,” Johnny agreed.

“Set the boat to go five miles an hour. I’ll time you.” MacGregor pulled out his large, old-fashioned watch. “Now we’ll see.”

For a full ten minutes, in silence, the two of them watched the apparently never-ending line of net floats appear and disappear into the fog.

“Near two miles of it,” MacGregor growled. “And yet no end. No wonder some of our fine boys come in with empty boats. These Orientals, they just find a place outside where the salmon run an’ head ’em off. They—

“Slow up, Johnny!” he warned. “There’s the end. Shut off the motor.”

The motor ceased to purr. Silence hung over the fog. A seal bobbed up his head, then ducked. A large salmon, caught in the net close to the surface, set up a feeble splatter.

“Ease about,” said MacGregor. “I’ll pick up that net with this pike pole.

“Now,” he breathed, leaning far out over the rail, “now I got her. Now—”

He had succeeded in getting his hands on the marker when catastrophe came thundering up at them from the deep. A tremendous explosion sent the water rocketing toward the sky. The prow of the _Stormy Petrel_ rose until it seemed she would go completely over.

Frantically Johnny gripped the wheel to save himself from being plunged into the icy water. But where was MacGregor?

For ten tense seconds the boat stood with prow in air. Then with a slow, sickening swash, she came down.

“MacGregor!” Johnny cried. “What happened? Where are you?”

“Here—here I am!” MacGregor’s voice rose from the sea.

“Johnny!” his voice was hoarse with emotion. “Shove off that life boat. Get her off just any way. There’s a terrible hole in the _Stormy’s_ side. She’ll sink in another minute. For God’s sake, be quick!”

Johnny was quick and strong. If ever his strength stood him in good stead it was now.

The life boat hung over the afterdeck. The knots of ropes that held it in place were wet and stiff with fog.

“No time,” he muttered. With his knife he slashed away the ropes. The boat fell on deck with a thud. It was a heavy steel boat. To his consternation, he saw that it had fallen squarely between the heavy rails. The prow must be lifted. Creeping under it, he put all the strength of his back against it. It rose.

“Now!” he breathed. “Now! And now!”

The boat was on the rail. He could fairly feel the _Stormy’s_ deck sinking beneath him. She was doomed, there was no doubt of that. Those heavy motors would take her down fast.

Once again he heaved. The life boat was now a quarter over the rail, now a third, now half.

Leaping from beneath it, he executed a double movement, a shove and a leap. He was in the life boat. The life boat plunged, all but sank, swayed from side to side, then righted herself.

There was a low, sickening rush of water. Johnny looked. The _Stormy_ was gone. In her place were swirling water and in the swirl an odd collection of articles; a coat, a cap, a pike pole, and MacGregor’s checkerboard.

“MacGregor!” Johnny called hoarsely. “MacGregor! Where are you?”

“Here! Over here!” was the cheering response. “I had to get away. She would have sucked me down.”

Seizing an oar, Johnny began sculling the boat. In a moment he was alongside his companion. A brief struggle and MacGregor, watersoaked and shivering, tumbled into the boat.

“John—Johnny,” his teeth were chattering. “There—there shou-should be d-d-dry clothes in the stern.”

Dragging a half barrel from the prow, Johnny pulled out shirts, underclothing, trousers, socks and shoes.

“Seems you were looking for this,” he chuckled as he watched the plucky old man disrobe himself.

“Johnny,” said MacGregor. “In the Coast Guard service you are always looking for it an’ all too often you’re not disappointed.”

When, a few minutes later, after a brisk rub-down, MacGregor had struggled into dry clothes and had succeeded in lighting his pipe, he said, “Well, me boy, we thought we had ’em an’ now they’ve got us. We’re miles from anywhere in a fog. And that’s bad! Mighty bad.”

“Do you suppose Blackie heard it?”

“What? The explosion? ’Tain’t likely. We’re all of four miles from there. Don’t forget, we followed that net two miles. An’ that explosion was muffled by the water.

“An’ if he heard,” he added after a brief pause, “what could he do? He’s four miles away. No compass. An’ no boat except maybe a fishing skiff. No, Johnny,” his voice sounded out solemn on the silent sea. “For once in our lives we are strictly on our own, you and me.

“Well, me lad,” he murmured a moment later. “They got us that time. Attached some sort of bomb to their net, that’s what they did. Safe enough in a way, too, for how you goin’ to prove it was their net? Yes, they got us. But you wait, me lad, we’ll be gettin’ them yet.”