Chapter VIII: A Blow in the Dark

“Trouble somewhere,” reflected Tom, as he hastily dressed as best he could in that small stateroom, which seemed uncertain on its own part as to what was the floor or ceiling. Sometimes one of the walls would serve as the floor, and again as the ceiling.

“Trouble,” repeated Tom, “or else some one is frightened. The storm must have developed in a hurry. I’m going to see what’s up. I don’t like being below when there’s any danger.”

Finishing with his dressing, Tom hurried along the passageway leading to the upper deck. He had to steady himself as he went along, or he would have received more hard knocks.

Coming opposite the room where the “mysterious” man was quartered, Tom noted that the door was ajar a trifle. It went shut with a slam as our hero passed, but whether the occupant had been the cause, or the swaying of the ship, Tom could not determine.

“No chance to talk with Captain Steerit now,” Tom reflected. “But I guess it will keep until after the blow.”

On deck our hero was at once made aware of the fury of the storm, and its increasing violence. He had a glimpse of great billows, foam-capped, racing along at the side of the _Silver Star_, as if to keep pace with her, mocking her efforts to speed away from them. He heard the wind fairly howling through the wire stays, as if giant fingers were playing a wild tune on some immense harp. And he felt, too, the violent pitching and tossing of the craft, as he had not in his cabin below. In fact so great was the motion that he had difficulty in keeping his feet.

“Some blow--this,” gasped Tom, the words being almost snatched out of his mouth by the wind.

He saw sailors making their way here and there, fastening in place such gear as might tear away when the storm became worse. And that this was likely was becoming every moment more evident.

Tom managed to make his way forward, clinging to some safety ropes that had been rigged. He was near the bow, and could see towering billows curling toward the ship, when a voice hailed him.

“Get back! Go on back, Tom!” someone shouted.

He looked up toward the bridge, to see Captain Steerit standing there, clad in oilskins, for the spray was flying from the crests of the mountain-like ridges of water.

“Is there any danger?” Tom shouted back.

“There always is--in a storm,” was the grim response. “Get back. No telling when a comber may come aboard, and it will carry you off like a chip. You can’t hold on. Get back, Tom!”

Our hero decided that it was good advice to follow, and, even as he turned he felt the ship stagger as though some giant had dealt her a blow. There was a shower of spray and a rush of water that drenched Tom, and nearly carried him off his feet.

“Well I’m wet through,” he reflected. “I’d better get back to bed, or else put on dry clothes. I should have put on oilskins before coming up.”

As he went down a companionway he saw Mr. Blake coming up, with his wife clinging to him. She had been crying, and was even now sobbing.

“Don’t go up,” Tom advised them.

“Oh, is it as bad as that? Are we sinking?” gasped Mrs. Blake.

“Oh, there’s no particular danger,” said Tom, as calmly as he could, “only you’ll get all wet. I’m drenched. Captain Steerit warned me back, just as a big wave came aboard.”

“Oh, Will, I’m so frightened!” wailed Mrs. Blake. “I know we’ll go to the bottom!”

“Nonsense!” answered her husband. “I told you we’d better stay below.”

“It’s more comfortable, at any rate,” said Tom, and he helped Mr. Blake assist his wife to their stateroom.

Tom lost no time in putting on dry garments, and over them he put a suit of oilskins, that would keep out the wet. Thus equipped he started for the deck again.

“Now that I’m up I may as well stay and see the storm out,” Tom reflected. “If it grows worse I don’t want to be below, anyhow. I’ll have more chance in the open.”

For a moment his heart misgave him, as he thought of the storm through which the ship on which his father and mother were sailing had gone.

“I do hope the _Silver Star_ isn’t wrecked,” mused Tom. “That would upset all my plans. But pshaw! It won’t happen.”

He passed one of the sailors whom he knew.

“What do you think of it?” asked Tom.

The man paused for a moment before replying. Then, looking to see that no one overheard him, the man answered:

“We’ve got orders to put fresh water in the lifeboats, and to see that all’s clear for getting away in a hurry.”

“As bad as that?” asked Tom, in some surprise. “Why I fancied the ship wouldn’t make much of this storm.”

“It isn’t so much the storm,” went on the sailor, “though that’s bad enough, and it’s getting worse. But she’s opened some of her seams, and we’re taking in water.”

“Have they started the pumps?” asked Tom in some alarm.

“Sure, but one of them is out of commission, and the others have all they can do. Take my advice and get ready for any emergency.”

“Jove! As bad as that!” exclaimed Tom with a gasp. “Surely the passengers ought to be told.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” the sailor advised him. “The captain will tell them soon enough. And if they know too soon it may start a panic.”

“That’s so,” agreed our hero.

He turned to go back to his stateroom, and, as he did so, he became aware that the door to the apartment of the man he suspected had been open a crack. It was quickly closed as our hero came opposite it, as if the occupant had been listening to what the sailor had said.

“I wonder if I hadn’t better give Mr. Blake, and some of the others, a little warning,” reflected Tom. “No, I guess I won’t. The women might get all excited. Captain Steerit will surely take no chances. But now what had I better do? I’m going to take my money with me, anyhow, if we have to leave the ship.”

Tom had provided himself with a money belt before coming on his trip, and he now strapped this about his waist with the pockets filled. He also took a few personal belongings that would not take up much room, nor be heavy. He had on warm but light clothing, and light shoes.

“If worst comes to worst, and I have to swim for it, I can do it this way,” he reflected. “It won’t be cold, that’s one good thing, and there aren’t any icebergs in this part of the Pacific. Still I hope nothing happens.”

Once more he made his way up on deck. He saw none of the other passengers there, and, taking his place in a sheltered spot, he watched the storm.

It was certainly growing worse. Every now and then big seas came crashing over the bow, sending a shower of spray up to the bridge where Captain Steerit kept unceasing watch. The _Silver Star_ was pitching and tossing more than ever. Now she would poke her nose toward some big, dark billow, and it seemed as if she must bury herself beneath it. But she would rise to it, and ride on the crest, being poised there for a moment with her bow and propeller clear of water.

At such times the engines raced, the screw having no resistance, and the whole vessel quivered from stem to stern. Then the staunch craft would slide down the inclined plane of water into the valley below, only to repeat the process at the next huge wave.

Then, when some big comber came aboard, the ship would stagger under the blow, until it seemed as if she must be crushed. But ever she would emerge from the battle with the sea, to stagger on once more.

It was magnificent, but terrifying, and Tom, who had never been in such a storm, was not a little frightened. But when he looked toward the bridge, and saw the commander there in his glistening oilskins, as calm and undisturbed as though he was but guiding his vessel on a summer day, our hero felt reassured.

“The ship’s in good hands,” thought Tom. “We’ll pull through yet, barring accidents, and even with a leak, and one pump useless.”

Yes--“barring accidents.” That is the one thing on which sailors cannot count.

All had been done that human ingenuity could suggest. Everything movable on deck had been made fast, and the engines were going at top power to force the ship through the storm. Tom could see dark figures clustered about the lifeboats, and he knew the sailors stood ready to lower them in case of necessity.

“But I think I’d rather take my chance on the _Silver Star_ than in a small boat in such a sea,” reflected Tom, not without a shudder, as he looked at the heaving billows.

He could not tell whether it was raining or not, as the spray was like a fall of the drops from the clouds. There was no thunder or lightning--just a hard, steady blow.

On staggered the steamer. Tom braced himself in a corner by a deckhouse, and held on. He could look over the rail at the hissing seas that ran alongside.

Suddenly there came a hoarse cry from the lookout in the bows.

“Port! Port your wheel!” he screamed. “We’ll be upon it in a second. Port!”

“Port it is!” came the quick voice of Captain Steerit.

A moment later there came a staggering blow in the dark--a blow that seemed to halt the _Silver Star_ in her career--a blow that made the craft shiver from stem to stern!