CHAPTER XVI

A WAIF OF THE SEA

Jerry Hopkins felt himself being tossed through space. That is to say, he felt himself moving through space; but, as a matter of fact, he did not at that instant know whether he had been tossed or was merely falling. There was blackness before his eyes, caused, as he learned later, by a blow on the head, and even if that had not been the case he could have seen little, for the fog, after the collision, seemed to settle down heavier than before.

Jerry had a confused idea that he was shouting something. What it was he did not know, but as there was a riot of shouts going on all about him it did not much matter.

The crash had stunned him for the time being. It had shaken him through and through and disturbed his logical thinking powers. He found time to wonder what had happened to his chums, Ned and Bob, and also to Professor Snodgrass. Was it not queer how they had so unexpectedly met him, and in a characteristic occupation--that of gathering a rare bug unsuspectingly harbored by some innocent spectator?

What had happened to Bob, Ned, and the professor? Did he get the bug he was after? What had become of the surprised sailor?

These, and other thoughts, rushed through the mind of Jerry Hopkins in a series of flashes, like the views on a moving picture screen. He instinctively flung out his hands to protect himself when he should land, and then----

Suddenly he felt himself being immersed in deep water. He had fallen into the sea--he realized that--and the sudden shock cleared his partially numbed brain. Instinctively Jerry held his breath as his head went under, and then he began frantically striking out. He was a strong swimmer, and, even fully dressed as he was, he knew how to take care of himself in the water.

Giving his head a shake to clear his eyes, he looked about him. He wanted to see, if possible, in what direction to swim to save himself. If he had been tossed any distance from the transport he might be some time before he could swim back to her. And it might be better to try to reach the vessel that had crashed into the _Sherman_.

Then another thought occurred to Jerry. Was it another vessel that had crashed into the troopship in the fog? Might it not have been some immense iceberg, which, even now, was bearing down on the swimming lad?

And then Jerry, in a measure, pulled himself together. He knew that to dwell on such gloomy thoughts was hampering his powers of resistance--taking from him his own self-control that he very much needed at this time. So, vigorously putting them aside, he increased the power of his strokes, though he was beginning to feel the weight of his soaked garments. Again he shook his head to clear his eyes and looked about him for something toward which to swim. All about him was the dense, white fog. He looked for something black looming up through it--the black side of the troopship, or perhaps the side of the vessel which had crashed into the _Sherman_.

And then, like a flash, it came to Jerry.

“No, it won’t be black!”

For a moment that simple thought, which came in the form of a sentence he might have seen written down, puzzled the lad.

“Why wouldn’t it be black?” he asked himself, even as he swam about. And then came the subconscious answer.

“Camouflage paint!”

That was it! Why hadn’t he thought of it before?

“If our vessel was camouflaged, as she was,” reasoned Jerry, “the other might be also. I’ve got to look for something like that and not the ordinary black-painted side of a ship. Glad I thought of that. But it’s going to be harder to watch for.”

One thing was in his favor--the sea was calm. The absence of wind for several days had made the ocean like some smooth lake, and there was only a long, gentle swell on the crests of which Jerry rose and fell as he swam onward.

But though he strained his eyes, which smarted somewhat from the salt water, he could see no fantastically camouflaged side of a vessel toward which he might make his way to safety.

“This is queer,” he found himself reasoning. “I couldn’t have fallen a great way from the _Sherman_ or the other ship. I must have been swimming the wrong way in the fog. I’ll turn back.”

He turned squarely around--as nearly as he could judge the direction in the fog--and began striking out again. And just as he was beginning to wonder why it was he did not see something, his ears became aware of a confused shouting off to his left; at least he thought it was his left.

“There she is! There’s the _Sherman_!” Jerry told himself. “I’ve been headed wrong! Why didn’t I hear that noise before?”

Then his ears felt as though warm water had suddenly run out of them from inside his head, and he knew what had happened.

Both ears had filled with water when he took his plunge into the sea, and this had temporarily deafened him. He always had had trouble that way, even when a small lad, and he used to wear wads of cotton in his ears when he went for a swim. He remembered that on several occasions he had feared he was going deaf, only to feel, later, the sensation of warm water running from his ears, and then his hearing returned.

The explanation was simple. Jerry’s inner ears filled with water. It became warmed up to nearly 98 degrees by his blood, and then, expanding with the heat, was forced out naturally. Once his ears were clear of water, he could hear as well as before. And that accounted for the fact that he now suddenly heard the shouting which, probably, had been going on all the while he was in the water.

“I’m all right now,” decided the tall lad. “I know which way to swim.”

He really thought he did, though, as it turned out later, he had mistaken the direction of the noise. And as he swam on, blissfully unconscious of the fact that he was going farther and farther away from the _Sherman_ instead of nearer to it, another thought came to Jerry. He expressed it subconsciously:

“Why don’t I hear some whistling or some other noise from the vessel that crashed into us?”

That was it--why did he not? Once his ears had cleared, Jerry could continue to catch the sound of distant shouting, and also the periodic whistling of the _Sherman_--he well knew the tones of that instrument. But he did not hear any corresponding note from the other ship that had been in the collision.

“She ought to be whistling, too,” decided Jerry. “Maybe she’s damaged, and maybe some of her men have been knocked overboard as I was. She ought to be whistling.”

But on that mist-covered sea there seemed to be but one vessel in the neighborhood of the swimming lad--and that was the transport which he was vainly endeavoring to find.

Then, like a flash, one of his previous thoughts came to Jerry Hopkins.

“An iceberg can’t whistle!”

That must be it. An iceberg had been responsible for the crash, and even now was out there, somewhere, in the fog.

“_Sherman_ ahoy!” cried Jerry desperately.

He listened, but there came no answer. The tumult and the shouting seemed to have died away. Was he leaving the vicinity of the transport, or was she being borne from him in the frozen grip of a mountainous berg?

Just for an instant, but for an instant only, Jerry lost hope and courage. He seemed to want to cease swimming and let himself sink. Then he got control of himself again, and struck out more vigorously than before.

“I’m not going to die! I’m not going to die!”

This he told himself over and over again, fiercely.

“I’m not going to quit! I’m not going to be a quitter!”

He felt better when he said this over once or twice. He was beginning to feel weary, but he would not allow his mind to dwell on that. His brain forced his legs and arms to do their duty.

And then, when for perhaps the fiftieth time he had feverishly repeated: “I’m not going to be a quitter!” Jerry became aware of something looming up before him out of the fog. At first he took it to be merely but a thicker cloud of the white mist, and then he imagined it to be the dirty white of some iceberg.

But a moment later he knew it for what it was--the camouflaged side of a vessel.

“I’ve found the _Sherman_!” cried Jerry aloud. “On board the transport!” he yelled. “Throw me a line!”

Nothing but silence greeted him. In growing wonder and fear he swam along the side of the craft. The waves rose and fell along it lazily, now raising, again lowering him.

What did it mean? Was the _Sherman_ so badly damaged that she was sinking and had been abandoned? This could hardly have taken place so quickly. There would have been some boats remaining in the vicinity. But no, there was not a sign.

“Ahoy the _Sherman_!” yelled Jerry.

No answer. He swam along the side. He came upon a dangling rope, and, by the exercise of his last-remaining strength, he managed to reach the deck.

Then one look told him the story. It was a derelict that had crashed into the _Sherman_, and Jerry Hopkins was now aboard this waif of the sea.