CHAPTER XXIII

THE HORRORS OF THE LAGOON

Not until he had reached the rise of ground from which he had first looked down into the ravine did Phil pause. Then he turned and cast one backward glance at the sinister group gathered about the fire.

They seemed to have settled down into a drunken sleep, for their figures, dwarfed with distance, were sprawled upon the ground and the fire had burned low.

Phil wondered about the man whom Ramirez had shot down. Was he dead? He shuddered at the thought of that shapeless, huddled figure on the grass. He turned and hurried on through the blackness.

But he had not gone very far when he was stopped by an obstruction which had not been there when he had passed that way before.

At this point the rocky side of the mountain jutted almost to the sea. Phil remembered how when he had been cautiously following the flitting shadow of Ramirez, he had been forced to circle this projection, coming well out onto the sandy beach.

Now there was no beach, nothing but a swirling sea of water, seeming to mock at his helplessness. For a moment Phil was dumbfounded and then the explanation of the thing came to him.

While he had been following Ramirez, while he had been spying upon that band of ruffians gathered about the fire, the water, urged on by the incoming tide, had crept up and up until it had covered that narrow strip of sand, pounding in vain against the almost perpendicular side of the mountain.

For a moment Phil did not realize the full meaning of this calamity. But it was not long before the peril of his predicament was brought home to him.

At first he thought that the water could not be very deep. He did not realize how long a time had passed since he had been that way before. Tentatively he put his foot in it, then stepped back quickly. He had seen something that made the blood run cold in his veins.

There, dimly outlined in the wan light of the stars was the dorsal fin of a shark! He thought there were more than one, but he could not be sure.

Sharks! It is no wonder that for a moment Phil felt utterly thwarted and helpless. He was caught, caught in a trap as pretty as though Ramirez himself had set it for him.

He might get back to the cave by retracing his steps toward the ravine he had just left and find another route across the island, but this after a moment he rejected as being almost impossible.

He was not familiar with this part of the island and he knew that the damage done by the earthquake had made some sections of it impassable. It was getting near morning too, and it would never do to be found wandering about this part of the island after daybreak.

Someway he must get back to the cave and warn his unsuspecting comrades. Someway he must get across that swirling lagoon. Once on the other side, the rest would be simple. He had only to follow the shore to reach the cave.

But once more the problem confronted him. How to cross that narrow stretch of water. The water was probably swarming with sharks. He could not hope to get a third, no, not even a quarter, of the way across the death stretch without meeting a most horrible fate. And yet his comrades must be warned!

He gazed up at the stars as though seeking some help from them. But they looked down at him unblinkingly, far away, remote, cold. He could expect no help from them.

Although the night was breathlessly hot, Phil shivered. He stared at the narrow, menacing lagoon as though it fascinated him. He made a step toward it, then stopped as something wound and clung about his foot.

He stooped to disentangle himself and his groping fingers found themselves buried in wet seaweed. Suddenly, with the swiftness of inspiration, the idea came to him. It was a mad idea of course, utterly desperate, but then, his case was desperate.

There was plenty of that seaweed, great bunches of it, thrown up by the incoming tide. If he should bury himself in it, winding it about him so that he resembled a huge tangle of the stuff, might he not hope to fool the sharks? He could not fool them for long that was sure, but the lagoon was narrow. Their bewilderment might give him the chance to get across.

No sooner did Phil think of it than he began to put the idea into practice. He was feeling excited, almost elated. Now that he had a plan, no matter how dangerous, there was a great relief in being able to put it into practice.

He had no difficulty in gathering together all the sea weed needed for his purpose. Dexterously he wound it about his body, binding it about his waist with his belt and fastening it about his neck and arms and ankles with long strands of the grass itself.

When his work was finished, he looked like nothing so much as a huge haystack in action. The seaweed was mighty uncomfortable, its dampness penetrating his clothes and the sharp edges pricking his skin where it was exposed.

“I hope I can manage to keep afloat with all this cargo aboard me,” he said grimly to himself as he paused on the edge of that death stretch, gathering courage to fling himself into its shark-infested waters. “Now for it—and here’s trusting to luck that I ever come out of it.”

He tried to speak lightly, more for the sake of his own encouragement than anything else, but as he slowly waded into the water he knew that the adventure he was entering upon might very well be his last.

Slowly, with infinite caution, he waded into the water till it was about his waist, then slowly raised his feet and lowered his arms till he lay face downward, swaying with the motion of the water.

Never before in his life had he done anything as hard as that. As long as he was on his feet, it seemed there was the chance to fight. But lying there like this, at the mercy of those giant pirates of the sea! He shivered and still lay motionless.

Then quietly, very gently, so as not to arouse the suspicion of his enemies, he began to move his arms, then his legs, ever so slowly, so that the motion was scarcely noticeable in the swirling of the water.

Before him, beside him, everywhere around him, flashed the sinister fins of sharks. Puzzled, they swam closely about this queer object that looked like seaweed but that moved as though it had life.

Phil hardly breathed. It seemed to him as though even his heart had stopped beating. The shore—would he never reach it? He did not even dare to lift his head to see.