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CHAPTER IV.
WHEN THE ENGINE FAILED
Joe Hartley’s mind, while not as active as Nat’s, worked quickly, and he sensed instantly a connection between the presence in the engine room of Sartorius and the stoppage of the motor. And this, although he could not imagine what possible purpose the man could have in such actions. Sartorius had tiptoed back into the cabin, where lay Mr. Jenkins, without casting a glance behind him. Joe crept forward with the same caution till he gained a point of vantage from which he could see into the lighted cabin.
Lounging back in a swivel chair with a magazine in his hand and a cigar in his mouth was the black-bearded doctor. On his face was a look of content and repose. Apparently he was utterly oblivious to the wild tossing of the Nomad in the rough sea, and had not Joe been certain that it was their more or less unwelcome guest whom he had seen sneak out of the engine room, he would have been inclined to doubt his own eyesight.
Ding-dong’s sudden reappearance chased these thoughts swiftly out of his mind.
“Where on earth have you been?” he demanded, staring open-mouthed at Ding-dong as if he had been a ghost.
“Wer-wer-what’s happened to the engines?” sputtered Ding-dong anxiously.
Joe drew him aside.
“I came down here the instant they stopped,” he said. “I caught our black-whiskered friend sneaking out of the engine room into the cabin with a monkey wrench in his hand. I’m sure he tampered with the engine.”
“Phew! That’s rer-er-right in line with what I went on deck to tell Nat about.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just this. Happening to pe-pe-peek into the c-c-c-cabin a while back, I sus-sus-saw Wer-Wer-Whiskers kneeling in front of one of Jer-Jer-Jenkins’ trunks. He couldn’t get it open, and then I saw him tip-toe over to Jer-Jenkins and start to go through his pockets. I ber-ber-beat it up on deck to tell Nat.”
“Then you must have been going up the port companionway while I was coming down the starboard, and that’s how we missed running into each other.”
“Ther-ther-that’s about it.”
“What did Nat say?”
“To ger-ger-get the engines going and not mind anything else just now.”
“That’s right; we’re in a bad fix. I’ll stay down here and help you go over the motor. I can be of more use down here than up on deck.”
While the Nomad took sickening swings and plunges, at times rolling over on her beam ends, the two lads went over the motor painstakingly. It was no light task in that turmoil and fury of wind and wave. Every once in a while, when the little craft took an exceptionally bad plunge, they exchanged glances which plainly said:
“Are we going to get out of this alive?”
Once in a while Joe stole away to take a look at the doctor, whom he suspected of tampering with the motor. Each time he discovered no difference in the man’s strange repose. He might have been taking his ease on a Pullman drawing-room car instead of being on board a craft with which the elements were playing battledore and shuttlecock, for all the signs he showed of uneasiness. Joe did notice, though, that from time to time he cast glances from the magazine in which he appeared so much interested toward the lounge on which lay extended Mr. Jenkins’ senseless form.
It was on his return from one of these excursions that Joe was hailed by Ding-dong in an excited voice. Above the racket of the storm and the shouting of the voice of the wind there was not much danger of their being heard in the cabin.
“Lul-lul-look here, Joe; the pur-pur-precious rascal!”
The young engineer pointed to the carburetor of the two forward cylinders.
“What’s the matter with them?”
“The auk-auk-auk-auxiliary air valves have been tampered with, that’s what, and lul-lul-look on the stern cylinders; the spark plugs have been tightened on till the porcelain cracked. No wonder she went out of business.”
“Crackers! The fellow who did that was no greenhorn round an engine.”
“Well, I gug-guess not. Just watch me get busy. We’ll attend to his nu-nu-nibs later on.”
Joe got fresh spark plugs from the locker where the extra parts were kept, and, while Ding-dong fitted them, he started adjusting the carburetor which had been so skillfully tampered with. They were in the midst of this work when the tall form of Dr. Sartorius appeared in the doorway between the cabin and the engine room.
“What is the matter? What has happened?” he asked, as if noticing for the first time the stoppage of the engines.
“The motor stopped, that’s all,” spoke up Joe sarcastically.
“Dear me, in this storm that might have been serious,” said the doctor, holding on to the casement of the doorway to steady himself.
“I guess the fellow that did it didn’t know that we might all have gone to the bottom, or maybe he’d have thought a second time,” sputtered Joe, red-hot with indignation and not caring a snap if he showed it. He stared straight at the other as he spoke, and he could have sworn that under his steady, accusing gaze the doctor paled and averted his eyes.
“But you have it fixed now?” inquired the doctor after a second, ignoring Joe’s peppery remark.
“Oh, yes, we’ve got it fixed all right, and we’ll take precious good care it doesn’t get out of order again for any cause,” exploded Joe; “and another thing, doctor, we boys regard this engine room as private property. Will you please retire to the cabin?”
With a shrug of his shoulders, the doctor turned, and Joe shut and locked the door behind him.
“We’ll have no more meddling on board here,” he muttered.
In a few minutes Ding-dong announced that all was ready to try the motor once more. Joe switched on the electric self-starting appliance and the cylinders began to cough and chug welcomely. But it took some time longer to get them properly adjusted. At last the task was completed, however, and once more the Nomad was able to battle for life. No longer a helpless plaything of the giant rollers, she fought them gallantly, with her heart beating strong and true again.
Joe brewed coffee and got cold meat and bread from a locker, and the boys took turns relieving each other at wheel and engine. In the driving spume and under the dark clouds that went whistling by above their heads it was impossible to see more than a few yards before them. They had not the slightest idea how far they might be off the coast.
In the middle of all this anxiety and turmoil, Joe got the fright of his life. He was on the bridge, holding the Nomad to her course as well as he could – considering the drift she had made when the motor was idle – when, out of the storm, terror, real and thrilling, swept down upon him. Above the crest of a big wave there suddenly appeared the wallowing hull of another motor boat! She was smaller than the Nomad and was making dangerously bad weather of it.
Joe had hardly time to see the other craft before she was flung toward the Nomad like a stone out of a catapult. Joe spun the spokes of the Nomad’s wheel furiously, but with her rudder clear out of the water half the time the motor craft did not respond as obediently to her wheel as usual.
“Look out! You’ll run us down!” bawled Joe to a figure he saw crouching behind the cabin of the other boat.
“Our engine’s broken down!” came the answer, flung toward the young helmsman by the wind. “Help us!”
Above the bulwarks of the other boat, as the two small craft swept by in the storm rack within a few inches of each other, appeared two other heads. Joe caught their shouts for aid and frantically rang the signal bell to summon the others on deck. Nat and Ding-dong came tumbling up to ascertain what fresh accident had happened. They arrived just in time to see the other motor boat, a white-painted, dainty-looking craft, swept onward amid the towering seas.
“They’ve broken down – need help – what can we do?” bawled Joe into Nat’s ear.
The leader of the Motor Rangers looked troubled. The other craft was by this time wind-driven some distance from them. To try to overtake her would be a most risky maneuver. Nat saw in his first glance at the other boat that she was not fitted at all for outside work. She was evidently a mere pleasure craft which had probably been overtaken unexpectedly by the northwester before she had had time to make port.
It was a trying dilemma that faced those on the Nomad. Below, they had what was in all probability a dying man. At any rate, his life depended upon the speed with which they could make port. On the other hand, three human beings equally doomed to destruction, if help did not speedily reach them, had just been driven by, the helpless victims of the storm.
Nat and his chums found themselves facing a question which comes to few men, and assuredly to still fewer lads of their ages. As usual, the others looked to Nat for a decision. But it was longer than usual in coming. Young Trevor felt to the full the heavy responsibility that lay upon him in this crisis. If he took after the storm-wracked pleasure craft with its human cargo, he was running a grave risk of losing all their lives without saving the others. On the other hand, the appeal for help from the powerless victims of the storm had struck a chord in Nat’s heart which was never unresponsive. In the course of their adventurous careers the Motor Rangers had aided and benefited many a human being, but never before had they encountered any in such urgent need of succor as those who had just flung their prayer for aid broadcast on the wings of the wind.
“Well, what’s the decision?” shouted Joe, as the three lads stood side by side on the wildly swaying bridge.
“To put her about. We’ll go after them,” was Nat’s response, as with firm hands on the wheel he swung the Nomad full into the teeth of the gale.
CHAPTER V.
NAT TO THE RESCUE
There followed moments of the most intense and thrilling anxiety. Clouds of salt water broke thunderously over the plucky little Nomad as she battled her way on the path of rescue. Her framework quivered and groaned, and she was flung upward on mountains of water and dashed into liquid abysses till the boys’ heads began to swim. But still Nat, with cool, steady eyes, gazing straight ahead through all the wildly flying smother, held her toward the spot where an occasional high-leaping wave surged and showed the little craft that they were following. Down below Ding-dong had returned to his engines and was urging them to their best efforts.
Bit by bit they overhauled the other motor boat, but it was killing work. Time and again it seemed that they would have to give it up, but each time the Nomad drove on, and at last they were close to the other boat. She was a pitiful sight. From the water-logged way in which she behaved, it was clear that she was half full of water and utterly unable to keep up the fight any longer.
Nat crept up to windward of her and then shouted that he would stand by. The wind hurled away any reply that might have come, but Nat was pretty sure that the men on the other boat could hear him, which was all that he wanted.
“We dare come no closer,” he bellowed, “but we’ll chuck you a life-ring on the end of a rope. Jump overboard and grab it, and we’ll haul you aboard!”
A wave of the arm from one of the three figures crouched under the bulwarks of the other boat for protection against the breaking seas showed him that his message had been heard and understood. On the bridge rail of the Nomad were three life-rings, with plenty of light, strong rope attached. Nat ordered all three of these cut loose and flung toward the other boat.
Joe worked like a beaver getting them loose and chucking them out toward the storm-battered crew. They were heavy, but the wind helped in propelling them, and they drifted down in the right direction.
“Now!” yelled Nat, as the first of them came close alongside the distressed launch. Without hesitation, except to shake his comrades’ hands, one of the men mounted the bulwarks and dropped into the boiling sea.
He fought for a few seconds and finally succeeded in reaching the bobbing, dancing life-ring. The way in which he got into it, by pressing on one edge and then tipping it till it encircled his head, showed that he was familiar with the trick of getting into a life-ring so as to make it most efficient.
Joe began hauling in with might and main. Nat, one hand on the wheel, helped him. Slowly but surely in the teeth of the storm they drew the rescued man toward them. When he was alongside and in the comparatively smooth water of the Nomad’s lee, Joe sent the bridge “Jacob’s ladder” snaking down; and in a few seconds more the man, a stalwart-looking young fellow in a blue sweater and rough serge trousers, stood dripping beside them. There was no time to ask questions, for by this time another of the distressed party had plunged into the sea. Like his predecessor, he, too, grasped a life-ring, and, with the added strength of the rescued sailor (for such appeared to be the rank of the first man saved), the boys made good time getting him on board.
“For heaven’s sake,” he panted, as he was hauled to safety on the Nomad’s bridge, “lose no time in getting Doc Chalmers off. Nate,” he added excitedly, turning to the roughly dressed young fellow, “the gasolene tank is leaking. The whole boat reeks of the stuff.”
“Good land o’ Goshen, and that lantern in the cabin be alight!” cried the other, an expression of alarm coming over his sunburned, weather-beaten face.
“Look, he’s on the rail now!” cried Joe, as the third figure, the one of the man still remaining on the launch, was seen to mount the coamings.
There was a sudden flash of flame and the roar of an explosion. Flames shot up from the launch and the lead-colored waters grew crimson under the angry glare.
“The doctor! Nate, do you see the doctor?” asked the other survivor of the sailor.
“No, sir, Mr. Anderson! Land o’ Beulah, I don’t!” wailed the other.
“There he is! Look! Off there!” cried Joe suddenly.
He pointed to a black speck, the head of a human being, in the midst of the blood-red waves.
“He’s missed the life-ring!” groaned the man who had been addressed by the sailor as Mr. Anderson.
“Is he a good swimmer?” demanded Nat anxiously.
“No, he can only handle himself in the water a little,” was the reply.
They all gazed as if fascinated at the struggle on the flame-lit waters surrounding the blazing launch. The face of the castaway was toward them now and they could see his agonized features as he struggled amidst the surges.
“Joe, take the wheel. One of you throw another life-ring after me!” came suddenly in Nat’s voice. “Bear down after me, Joe, and look lively to chuck the second ring if I miss the first!”
Before they could lay hands on him or utter one word of remonstrance, Nat was overboard. On the bridge lay his oilskins, shoes and outer garments. While they had been gazing, horror-stricken, at the struggle for life going on apparently beyond the power of human aid, Nat had acted. But it was a chance so desperate as to seem suicidal.
“Nat! Nat! Come back!” shouted Joe, but it was too late. Nat was already struggling in the towering seas, fighting his way toward the hapless man. The next instant Joe flew to the wheel. In the moment that it had been neglected the Nomad had yawed badly. He signaled Ding-dong to come ahead slowly, and as well as he was able he kept after Nat, in a tremble of fear lest by over-eagerness he might run him down.
“Stand by with those life-rings!” he ordered curtly to the two men already rescued, who did not appear to be so much the worse for their immersion. The sailor and the man addressed as Anderson each picked up a life-ring, and, leaning over the starboard rail, eagerly scanned the water for the moment when they were to fling them out.
“Whatever made Nat take such a mad chance?” groaned Joe to himself as he steadied the Nomad as best he could. “But it was like him, though,” he added, with a quick glow of admiration for his young leader. “He’s the stuff real heroes are made of, is Nat.”
Suddenly the man who had been battling for life in the glare of the burning launch was seen to throw up his hands, and, with a wild cry of despair on his lips, which was echoed by his friends on the Nomad, he vanished.
“Good heavens!” cried Joe in an agonized voice. “Has Nat sacrificed his life in vain?”
He scanned the waters for a glimpse of his chum, but not a sign of the plucky young leader of the Motor Rangers rewarded him.
Like the man he had set out to save, Nat Trevor, too, was apparently engulfed by the seething waters.
CHAPTER VI.
SAVED FROM THE SEA
Joe, till the last day of his life, never forgot the ensuing period of time. It appeared to be years that he stood there amidst the pandemonium of the storm, with his nerves on blade edge and his heart beating suffocatingly with anxiety. The Nomad struggled and plunged like a wild horse, and it required all his muscular strength to hold her within control.
A sudden shout from Nate caused him to look up hopingly.
“There! There they both are!” yelled the sailor excitedly.
The next instant Joe, too, saw them. Right ahead of the Nomad was Nat, apparently buoying up the limp form of Dr. Chalmers on the life-ring which the latter had missed, but which a lucky accident had brought within Nat’s grasp at the very instant almost that Dr. Chalmers sank. Nat had seen that the only chance of saving him was to dive swiftly after him and trust to luck. He had done so, and on coming to the surface had managed to grasp the life-ring. All this, however, they did not know till afterward.
From the bridge of the Nomad the two spare life-rings were flung with right good will, and Nat encased himself in one of the hooplike devices. But it was not till he and his dripping companion were hauled to the Nomad and were safe on board that they realized how great the strain on muscle and nerve had been. Nat swayed and would have reeled against the rail but for the young sailor from the boat, who caught him. As for the man Nat had saved, he lay exhausted on the bridge while his friend bent over him.
Luckily, Nat’s youthful, strong frame was as elastic as a chilled steel spring, and, after boiling hot coffee had been poured into him till he laughingly protested that he was “a regular three-alarm fire,” he was almost as spry and active as usual. Dr. Chalmers, a man of middle age, did not rally from his immersion so quickly, however. He had swallowed quantities of salt water and had had a narrow escape of being overcome altogether.
Ding-dong was summoned from his engines to look after the rescued ones as soon as Nat was ready to “trick” Joe at the wheel, and the latter, in his turn, relieved Ding-dong. Dr. Sartorius held aloof while the stuttering boy explained to his interested auditors the day’s adventures and learned how they came to be in such a fix. Dr. Chalmers, who, it appeared, was an Eastern physician of note spending a short vacation at Santa Barbara, had gone out fishing earlier that afternoon in Nate Spencer’s boat, the Albicore. His friend, Rufus Anderson, an engineer connected with the Government, had accompanied him. Time passed so pleasantly, with the fish biting their heads off, that all thought of time and distance from shore had been lost. It was not till the sun was obscured that any of the party gave heed to the weather, and then it was too late.
“We owe our lives to you boys,” declared the doctor gratefully, “and we can never repay you for what you have done.”
Rufus Anderson warmly echoed the doctor’s praise, and Nate, the sailor, shyly seconded the gratitude. Dr. Chalmers had already agreed to help Nate purchase another boat in place of the Albicore, and so the fisherman felt happier than he might have done at the thought of his trim craft lying a blackened shell in the Pacific.
The doctor expressed great interest in Mr. Jenkins’ case, and, after examining him, declared that in his opinion the surgeon of the Iroquois had exaggerated the nature of his injuries. In his estimation, he said, Mr. Jenkins would pull through all right. Ding-dong stole a look at Dr. Sartorius as his brother physician announced this opinion, and detected an expression of hawklike eagerness on the black-bearded man’s features. He showed an interest beyond that of a perfect stranger in Dr. Chalmers’ opinion.
“Then he will not die, after all?” he asked in his raspy voice, coming forward to the other physician’s side.
Dr. Chalmers turned and scrutinized him quickly.
“Dr. Sartorius,” explained the other, introducing himself. “I have a professional interest in the case. You think this man will live?”
“I do, unquestionably,” was the reply of Dr. Chalmers. Ding-dong saw his eyebrows lift in astonishment at the other’s tone. It was plain that he liked the black-bearded man no better than did the boys.
When Ding-dong, shortly afterward, poked his head above the companionway for a breath of air, he found that the storm was rapidly abating. In fact in the cabin it had been apparent that the movements of the Nomad were becoming less and less erratic and violent. He told Nat of what had occurred below, and Nat, after a moment’s thought, replied:
“There’s something about all this that I can’t fathom, Ding-dong. In fact, things have been moving so swiftly since we left the Iroquois that I haven’t had time to think. Of two things I’m pretty sure, though, and one of them is that Dr. Sartorius came aboard us because he didn’t want Mr. Jenkins out of his sight; and the other is that he had a good reason for wanting to delay the Nomad’s reaching port when he tampered with the engines.”
“Y-y-y-y-you think he der-der-did it, then?” asked Ding-dong.
“Who else could have? I didn’t, you didn’t, and Joe didn’t. The injured man certainly didn’t; and, besides that, didn’t Joe see his Whiskers coming out of the engine room with a monkey wrench? What was he doing in there at all if he hadn’t been tinkering with the motor?”
“Ther-ther-that’s so,” assented the other. “It’s all like a Cher-cher-Chinese puzzle. What are you going to do about it, Nat?”
“If suspicions were legal evidence, I’d hand this fellow over to the authorities as soon as we landed; but I can’t do that very well. They would only laugh at us. Recollect, we’ve got nothing tangible to bring against the man – Hullo, Joe, what’s up now?”
Nat turned quickly as Joe came on deck. His face was troubled.
“The engines are acting awfully queerly again,” he said seriously; “I can’t make out what ails them. Everything appears to be all right, but still they’re not running as they ought.”
“Guess you’d better skip below and look at them, Ding-dong,” said Nat. “No offence meant, Joe, but Ding-dong is the mechanical crank of this outfit.”
Joe and Ding-dong were below some time, during which period the black squall about blew itself out, leaving only a heavy, blind swell to tell of its passing.
When the two lads came on deck again Nat saw at once that they had bad news.
“We’re pretty nearly out of gasolene, Nat,” announced Joe ruefully; “none of us thought to look at the main tank before we started out, and now we’ve only a few gallons left. We’ve pumped that into the auxiliary, and I guess we can limp along a few knots on it.”
“Great mackerel! That’s nice!” exclaimed Nat, shoving back his cap and scratching his curly forelock, a way he had when perplexed. “This is sure our day for troubles,” he added with a grin.
“Well, gee-whillakers, I don’t see what else can happen right off,” declared Joe.
“Unless we bub-bub-blow up,” said Ding-dong ominously.
“Shucks, we haven’t gasolene enough even for that!”
“And there’s none nearer than the island,” put in Nat. “Tell you what, boys, it’s tough on Mr. Jenkins, but there’s no help for it. We’ll have to try and reach the island and then see what is best to be done.”
“Well, there’s one good thing – we have a reputable physician on board now instead of that old Sartorius.”
“Gug-gug-glory! I dur-dur-don’t believe he’s a dur-dur-doctor at all,” snorted Ding-dong.
“Unless he’s a horse doctor,” quoth Joe, “and then any self-respecting steed would kick those whiskers off him.”
“All of which doesn’t help us in solving our problem,” struck in Nat. “We’re a good long distance from the island, but at that it’s nearer than any other place where we could get gas, by my calculations. Can we make it on what we’ve got in the tank?”
“We’ve gug-gug-got to,” rejoined the Nomad’s engineer with conviction.
