The Boy Scouts for Uncle Sam. Goldfrap John Henry
without anyone on board her ever dreaming that she had been in such close proximity to the drifting derelict.
As her stern lights flashed for an instant and then were shut out in the fog, Rob's companions came rushing on deck.
"What is it? What has happened?" demanded the ensign, readily perceiving that something very serious had occurred.
Rob, still shaky from his experience, related, as briefly as possible, just what had caused his cry of alarm.
"Well, those liners take desperate chances," commented the officer; "had they struck us, not only we, but they, would have been seriously injured."
"Gee! I wish you could have found time to ask 'em to throw us some sandwiches," said Tubby, rubbing his stomach; "I'm as empty as a dry gourd."
"I reckon we could all do with something to eat," chorused the other young "Eagles".
The ensign bade them cheer up.
"By daylight we may have a wind, and then, with the fog gone, it won't take long for some vessel to pick us up."
He spoke with a cheerfulness he was actually far from feeling. In fact, his boyish listeners were not inclined to look hopefully on the situation. By this time every one of them would have given almost all he possessed for a big pitcher of cool ice water.
"I will take the remainder of your watch, Rob," said the ensign, with a glance at his watch. "You only had a few minutes to serve anyway, and the next round of duty is mine."
"Very well," said Rob; "to tell the truth, a nap would feel pretty good. I hope things will have cleared by the time I wake up."
The boys went below, leaving the officer on the fog-circled deck. The mist gleamed on everything, the rays of the candle-lamp making them glisten as if water had been newly poured on them. Far off the hoarse hooting of the ship that had so nearly run them down was to be heard.
"Narrow escape, that! Narrower than I quite care to admit, even to myself," mused the young officer. "I wonder if those lads realize how bad a fix we are in. I must confess I don't like the look of things at all."
He fell to pacing the deck, and then decided to have a cigar. For this purpose he produced a perfecto from his pocket and lighted it. Then he fell to pacing the deck once more, thinking deeply. His cigar finished, he tossed it aside. Possibly it was his worry over their predicament that made him absent-minded in this regard, but instead of observing the rule of the sea to cast all such things overboard, he threw it to the deck. A lurch of the Good Hope caused the glowing butt of the cigar to go rolling across the deck and to drop into the hold below.
It was some time later that Paul Perkins came on deck to take his turn at the night vigil.
As he came forward he was startled to see what appeared to be a ghostly figure, slightly darker than the fog, slip from the forward hold and glide across the deck toward the ensign, who was pacing up and down. Much startled, Paul called out aloud, and at the same instant a peculiar acrid odor came to his nostrils.
"Something's burning!" he cried.
Simultaneously he had come up to the side of the hatch and saw that smoke was pouring from it. What he had taken for a ghostly figure was a whirl of smoke.
"Fire! Something's on fire below!" cried the boy, dashing forward.
The ensign reached the edge of the hold as quickly. Together they peered over into the great open space below. Both involuntarily recoiled with a cry of horror and alarm at what they saw.
The Good Hope's hold was a mass of flames! To gaze into them was like looking into a red hot furnace.
Adrift in a blinding fog, on a burning ship, and without boats, was a predicament the like of which their adventurous lives had never before encountered!
The cigar so carelessly cast aside by the ensign had fallen upon a pile of sacking, grease-soaked and inflammable, lying in the former whaler's hold. Like all whale ships the timbers of the Good Hope were literally soaked with grease, the result of whale oil and blubber. Such timbers burn like matchwood.
Small wonder that, brave man as he was, and schooled against emotional display in the stern school of the Navy, the ensign should yet cry out:
"If help does not arrive, we are doomed to die like rats!"
CHAPTER VIII.
A BOY SCOUT SIGNAL
It was five minutes later that the whole company of castaways was gathered around the hatchway. A red glare from below shone on their faces, illuminating expressions of dismay and apprehension.
"What can we do?" gasped out Rob. "There are no boats, no means of escape!"
"We'll be burned to death," shuddered Paul Perkins.
All looked to the ensign for some suggestion. His tightly compressed lips and drawn features suggested that he was thinking deeply, thinking as men think whose very lives depend upon quick decision.
"We must put on the hatches," he said decisively; "there they lie yonder. That will deprive the fire of oxygen and give us at least a few hours before we have to vacate."
The coverings of the hatch, big, thick planks, lay not far away. Evidently they lay just as they did on the day that the cargo of mammoth tusks had been taken from the Good Hope and hidden. Working with feverish energy, the boys soon had the hatch covered tightly. But the work had almost exhausted their strength. The fumes of the blazing hold and the suffocating black smoke that rolled out, had almost caused them to succumb.
Their desperate task accomplished, they lay panting on the deck, incapable, for the time being, of further effort. However, with the hatch in place and tightly dovetailed, there was a gleam of hope that the flames might be smothered, or at least held in check till the fog cleared and they could sight a vessel.
The first faint glimmering of dawn, shown by an increasing transparence in the fog, found the derelict still lying inert. But a second later the boys were on their feet with a cheer. A light breeze had sprung up and the fog was agitated by it like drifting steam. Little by little the breeze increased and the fog thinned out to mere wisps. The sun shone through and disclosed a glimmering expanse of sea stretched all about. But, to their bitter disappointment, the great heaving expanse was empty of life. Not a sail or a sign of a steamer marred its lonely surface.
They exchanged dismayed looks. There was no knowing at what moment the fiery, seething furnace beneath their very feet might break through and force them to fight for their existence.
Already the decks were hot. Aside from this, however, so well did the hatch fit that not even a wisp of smoke escaped. Except the extreme heat, there was nothing to indicate that the interior of the Good Hope's hull was a fiery furnace.
The hours wore on, the little company of castaways dreading every moment that what they feared might happen. Still no indication that the fire was about to break through occurred. But their sufferings from thirst were terrible. One after another the Boy Scouts sank to the decks in a sort of coma. Rob, Merritt, and the ensign himself alone retained their strength.
"If some vessel doesn't appear before long we are doomed."
It was Rob who spoke, and the mere fact that the others were silent indicated plainly that they shared his opinion.
Despite their sufferings and anxiety a bright lookout was kept. It was Rob who electrified them by a sudden shout:
"Look! Look out there to the north!"
"A sail!" shouted the ensign, springing to his feet.
"Yes. A steam yacht, rather! She's coming this way, too!"
"That's what. But how can we signal her? If she doesn't hurry she may be too late!"
"We can wave and shout!"
The ensign shook his head.
"She is too far off to see or hear us. Is there no other way to attract her?"
A dozen plans were thought of and discarded. Then Rob spoke:
"I've thought of a way, but it's a desperate one."
"Never