Читать книгу The Disappearing Dhow - Percy Francis Westerman - Страница 5

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For the rest of the forenoon they “just carried on”. That is to say the picket-boat proceeded under easy steam on a course laid down in the Senior Midshipman’s instructions.

Nothing was in sight except the barren, hilly coast-line, partly hidden in a sweltering mist on the one hand and the line of creamy foam indicating the low-lying reefs on the other.

At noon, having arrived over the El Arush Shoals, the picket-boat dropped anchor, and during the heat of the day her crew bore their discomforts under the unsatisfactory shelter provided by the double sun-awning.

It was too hot even to maintain a conversation. The two midshipmen seated in the stern-sheets tried to concentrate their thoughts upon the Manual of Swahili and Hindustani without a Master respectively.

“Dashed if I can stick this swotting!” declared Kelby after a while. “I say, how about hands to bathe?”

“Good idea,” agreed Burton. “There’s no current to speak of. Righto; pass the word for’ard.”

But even this inducement had little effect upon the lethargic hands. Rather reluctantly a couple of bluejackets stripped off their scanty uniforms and prepared to dive overboard, while the torpedo coxswain slipped a round into the breech of his rifle and crouched on the fore-deck—a precaution rendered necessary by the ever-present probability of the presence of sharks.

“You go in first, Badger,” suggested Burton. “Both officers aren’t allowed in at the same time, you know.”

Kelby was about to dive overboard when Wilson shouted:

“Hold on, sir! Look astern!”

The warning came just in time, for less than twenty yards from the picket-boat two large black dorsal fins were leisurely cutting through the water. A couple of enormous sharks of a particularly ferocious type were waiting in anticipation of a satisfying meal.

“Hand me a rifle, Wilson!” exclaimed the Senior Midshipman. “I’ll settle the brutes’ hash!”

“Not worth the trouble of cleaning the barrel, sir,” protested the torpedo coxswain. “Leave it to me, sir, and I’ll make Johnny Shark sit up and take notice!”

“Carry on, then,” agreed Burton.

Wilson went below and presently reappeared with what seemed to be an empty tobacco tin. This he wrapped in a piece of red bunting.

Hanging on to the engine-room casing, the torpedo coxswain hurled the tin far astern.

Instantly both sharks disappeared, but before the ripples had died away the dorsal fin of one of the brutes showed above the surface.

In a few moments its companion also made its reappearance, and both commenced to swim in wide but gradually decreasing spirals round the floating tin.

At length one of the sharks made a dash for the bait. Its “opposite number”, unwilling to be deprived of what it took to be a dainty morsel, also swam hurriedly to the spot. They collided and once more vanished in a smother of foam, leaving the bunting-covered tin bobbing on the surface.

Before long their shadowy forms were discerned at a depth of about two fathoms as they “jockeyed for position”. Each appeared to have a wholesome respect for the other, yet was loath to let its rival carry off what seemed to be a tasty prize.

Suddenly the larger of the two sharks turned on its back and made a vicious snap at the bait. The tin disappeared within the triple line of serrated teeth in the brute’s mouth.

Beyond that, apparently nothing happened.

“What’s the idea, Wilson?” asked Kelby. “Some stunt of yours hung fire, eh?”

The torpedo coxswain’s weather-tanned face crinkled into innumerable wrinkles.

“I’ll chance my killick on what I do in that line, sir!” he replied. “Another ten seconds maybe and then——”

He broke off and pointed at the still agitated water. A cloud of white smoke was breaking surface. Then, with a frantic succession of lashes from its tail, the shark that had swallowed the bait came into view looking like a marine dragon. Vivid white flames and ever increasing volumes of smoke were pouring from its widely distended jaws.

Both midshipmen tumbled to the petty officer’s ruse. Wilson had placed a small quantity of calcium in the tin. The chemical had ignited on contact with water directly the shark’s teeth penetrated the air-tight tin.

“You’ll be for it, Wilson,” declared Burton with mock severity. “You’ve been tampering with the calcium light-buoys. There’ll be a dust up when we return to the ship!”

“Never fear, sir! It was some stuff left over from condemned stores. I thought it might come in handy, just for a little sport.”

“Sport!” echoed the Senior Midshipman, still trying to get to wind’ard of the torpedo coxswain. “Sport! you jolly well deserve to be reported to the Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Animals!”

“Sharks ain’t animals within the meaning of the act,” declared Wilson, who had the reputation of being a regular sea lawyer. “They’re classed with vermin. Look at the other brute, sir! Making a meal of its chum!”

Not only that, but other tigers of the deep, attracted by the smell of blood as the second shark began to tear huge pieces from its now deceased rival, were joining in the cannibalistic feast.

Apparently the torpedo coxswain was anxious to continue the discussion.

“Talking of vermin, sir,” he remarked, “I knew an old bloke in Pompey^[1] who was so set against taking life that he wouldn’t kill a blackbeetle or a flea.”

“And what happened to him, Wilson?” asked Kelby. “Was he eaten up by the creature he refused to slay?”

“Dunno, sir!” replied Wilson. “All I knows is he got six months for knocking his own kid about something cruel!”

“Carry on, Wilson!” ordered the Senior Midshipman laughingly. Then, as the petty officer went for’ard, Burton glanced at the still fiercely squabbling sharks.

“I don’t fancy I’ll have a swim just yet,” he remarked to his chum.

[1]	Naval slang name for Portsmouth.