Читать книгу Mystery Island - Percy Francis Westerman - Страница 7

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A moment later the boat commenced to be violently shaken by a succession of disconcerting jolts. To the astonished lads it felt as if they were being “worried” by a gigantic dog-like creature. The whaler was much like a rat in the jaws of a terrier.

Notwithstanding her beam, the boat heeled first to wind’ard and then to lee’ard; while in spite of Alec’s efforts to keep her on her course, she persisted in flying up into the wind.

Abandoning the useless tiller, Alec let the mainsheet fly.

“The axe!” he shouted.

Brian, restraining a desire to ask what was amiss, threw open the lid of the sea-chest and handed his chum the axe.

Clambering in the after-thwarts, Alec leant over the gunwale and rained blow after blow at a large swordfish. It was a difficult matter to get in a direct blow, for the fish was struggling so fiercely that its head was for the most part a foot or so beneath the surface.

Acting under a regrettable misapprehension, the swordfish, measuring quite fifteen feet from the tip of its sharp snout to its tail, had taken the boat for a likely prey. Since swordfishes have been known to drive their “swords” through three inches of tough oak, the elm strakes of the whaler offered but little resistance. The fish’s beak had penetrated almost to the junction with its head. Had it withdrawn the sword, the boat would have filled within a minute, but so blind was its fury that the creature had not the sense to back out.

At length Alec succeeded in getting in a crashing blow. Two more followed in quick succession. Even then the vitality of the creature was astonishing, and it was not until the head of the swordfish was almost split in twain that the fish ceased to move.

But Alec’s work was not yet finished.

“Pass me the saw,” he asked breathlessly. “Keep well over to starboard, both of you.”

His chums did so. Their weight helped to bring the head of the swordfish nearer the surface. Laboriously Alec used the rusty saw until he succeeded in cutting off the horny projection within an inch or so of the outside planking.

Relieved of the side-drag, the whaler once more paid off. Alec gathered in the sheets and steadied the boat on her course.

“Take her, for goodness’ sake,” he exclaimed, for, following a long period of sleeplessness, the strenuous work had well-nigh exhausted him.

Brian took the helm. Alec, too done up to say another word, threw himself down upon the stern-gratings and fell asleep almost at once.

Presently Chris, who had been meditatively contemplating the projecting “sword,” picked up the saw.

“May as well keep that for a souvenir,” he remarked. “The thing that nearly did me in!”

“Don’t shake it too much,” cautioned Brian. “It’ll start a leak if you do.”

Grasping the horn with his left hand, Chris proceeded to saw it through close to the inside planking. So tough was the “sword” and so blunt and rusty was the saw that it took about half an hour before the task was accomplished. But in spite of Brian’s caution, the vibration had caused the piece that remained driven through the side to work loose. A thin trickle of water began to make its way in.

“Give it a tap with the hatchet,” suggested Brian.

“Better not,” objected Chris. “The plank’s slightly split already. I’ll caulk it.”

This operation he carried out by means of a short piece of tarred twine, “unlaid,” and rubbed with candle-grease. The twine was then carefully worked into the split wood with a knife.

“We ought to have got hold of that swordfish, old son,” remarked Chris.

“What for?”

“To eat,” replied the lad gravely. “If we have to eat raw fish—well, then, we just must. The biscuit and chocolate won’t last much longer.”

“It will while Alec’s asleep,” said Brian grimly. “Well, because we haven’t saved that fish there’s no reason why we shouldn’t try for another. Knock up a line, Chris, and see what you can do.”

He fully expected his chum to ask where the hooks were coming from. Chris did nothing of the kind. Already he had been working out that problem.

Calling Peter to him, Chris unbuckled the dog’s collar. Then he filed through the brass ring, straightened it out, and hammered one end until it was flattened to about a quarter of an inch in width. More work with a file produced both a sharp point and an efficient barb. The metal was then bent to fishing-hook shape and attached to a length of tarred twine, while for bait the enthusiast sacrificed a piece of his red handkerchief.

Somewhat sceptically, Brian watched his chum pay out about twenty yards of line, but his sentiments changed to those of admiration and surprise when the line tautened with the weight of a fine fish that, when landed, bore a strong resemblance to the fresh-water pike of British streams, save that it was considerably smaller.

“S’pose it’s good—not poisonous?” asked Brian.

“I’ll risk it,” decided Chris valiantly. “If it doesn’t turn me up within the next few hours, it’ll be all right.”

“Raw?” asked his chum, with a shudder.

“I’ll try sun-curing it first,” replied Chris. “But I’m that hungry——”

“Have another shot,” suggested Brian after a while. “You might catch something that doesn’t look quite so ferocious.”

Again Chris paid out his line. Quite a considerable period elapsed before anything happened; then a succession of jerks and a furious flutter astern announced that another fish had taken the bait.

“A smaller one this time!” exclaimed Chris, as he proceeded to haul in the line. “But he’s more of a sportsman than the other chap. He’s making a good fight for it.”

“Play him then,” suggested Brian, “or you’ll lose your precious hook. Hang it! If this one’s anything to go by, your other fish must have been in the last stages of senile decay. Steady with him!”

The fish was a determined creature. Again and again it turned in circles, breaking off at a tangent. Sometimes it dived; at others it leapt clear of the surface, all in a vain attempt to break away from the remorseless drag of the line.

At length the fish was brought to within a foot or so of the boat’s quarter.

“Wish we had a landing-net,” exclaimed Chris. “Stand by with a running bowline and slip it over its tail.”

Holding the tiller under his arm, Brian quickly made the desired running noose.

“Hold the line and give me the bowline,” said Chris excitedly.

He leant over the side ready to lasso the elusive fish. As he did so, there was a tremendous commotion. The fish, together with the hook, disappeared within the capacious jaw of a huge shark. In fact, Chris narrowly escaped losing one or both hands, for the triple row of teeth had closed within a couple of inches of his finger-tips.

“That was a near one!” exclaimed Brian.

“It was,” agreed Chris, looking very white about the gills. “Who said sharks were cautious, timid brutes? Look, there he is!”

Less than twenty yards away the blunt snout of the shark broke the surface. Its appetite whetted, it had come back for more.

“Wish we had a rifle,” said Brian, as he gathered in the slack of the mainsheet. “Dashed if I like that brute nosing round. Wind’s falling, worse luck!”

Before long it was a flat calm. The sun’s rays beat pitilessly down upon the boat. Alec stirred in his sleep; and although Chris took in the jib and used the canvas to screen his sleeping chum from the torrid glare, it was soon evident that further slumber was out of the question.

Alec sat up. His throat was so parched that he could hardly speak.

“Had any biscuit?” he asked.

“No,” replied Chris. “How could we? It’s in your pocket.”

“My error,” declared the senior lad, as he proceeded to rectify the omission. “Hello! What’s this?”

“Fish of sorts,” replied Brian. “Chris hooked it. He’s going to grill steaks in the sun.”

“Guess I know a better way,” remarked Alec. “We’ll grill them.”

“You’ll set the boat on fire,” expostulated Chris. “The wood’s like tinder in the hot sun. I can hardly bear my hand to touch it.”

“You cut the slices of fish, old son,” rejoined Alec. “I’ll do the rest.”

Placing the baler in the water lying in the bilges, Alec proceeded to cut up one of the trays of the old sea-chest. The chips he piled in the baler, keeping enough in reserve to replenish the fire.

“No; don’t waste matches!” he cautioned, as Chris produced the box. “Keep them for when the sun’s not shining.”

Using the object lens of his telescope as a burning glass, Alec soon had quite a respectable fire going. The fish, as steaks, was not a success, but by cutting the slices into small cubes a fairly satisfactory result was obtained.

For the next three or four hours the crew had perforce to remain inactive, grilling in the pitiless rays of the sun. Bathing was out of the question, for the shark showed no inclination to desert its self-appointed task of sentinel.

Late in the afternoon the welcome breeze sprang up. Again the whaler listed to the wind and leapt through the water, the shark keeping pace with apparent ease. But at sunset the breeze fell away entirely. Perhaps it was as well. The tired crew lowered and stowed canvas, threw themselves down and slept soundly till morning.

“I always thought I liked small boat sailing,” remarked Brian, after another day of discomfort. “I don’t think I’d mind if I never stepped into a boat again.”

“Don’t you believe it,” rejoined Alec. “It’s the conditions not the boat that puts you off. Why, we might have gone down with the old Cosmos. As it is, we’re alive, my lad!”

He spoke cheerfully, although he had grave doubts concerning their plight. Water was running low. The chocolate and biscuit would hardly last out another twenty-four hours.

“What’s that?” suddenly exclaimed Chris. “Is it a sail?”

His chums looked in the direction indicated. A point on the starboard bow on the hitherto unbroken horizon was cut by a faint triangular object resembling the peak of a mainsail.

“No,” replied Alec after a brief look. “It’s not a sail. It’s land!”