The Boy With the U. S. Fisheries Part 47

able to hold the fish. That'll save us fishermen a pile o' labor."

But the official was not to be tempted into talk, even on the question of his own invention. He simply nodded, and went on pursing in.

Presently the _s.h.i.+ner_ came pelting down the breeze, still carrying quite a bit of canvas, there being not enough hands on board to reef.

The weather was getting dirtier every minute.

"h.e.l.lo there the boat!" hailed the captain.

"All right," the seine-master called back. "A couple o' hundred barrels."

"Net holding?"

"Looks like it."

"Better get on board soon's you can," the captain advised; "we may have a bit of a blow."

Colin thought to himself that there was a great deal more than a "bit of a blow" at the time, but he said nothing. The worst of it was the way the rain came pelting down, for it was as thick as a fog, and dispiriting. It was a cold rain, too, and although it was September, the northeast gale was chill. Colin s.h.i.+vered in his oilskins. The pursing in done, the seine-master waved a torch, but it could not be seen in the rain.

"It's a good thing we've got a cap'n like Jerry on board, boys," said the seine-master. "He'll have to smell us out, because he can't see anythin'."

But it was a longer wait than any one expected, for the schooner had faded into the rain and could not be seen. Suddenly a hail was heard, and the _s.h.i.+ner_ pa.s.sed to leeward of the boats, dimly visible. Every one shouted, and an answering cry came back.

"He'll beat up to wind'ard a bit an' then pick us up," said the seine-master cheerfully.

Colin wondered how any man could run a schooner about in a gale of wind and come back to a certain spot, but he need not have been incredulous, for in about five minutes' time the _s.h.i.+ner_ came sliding down as though to run over the boats, being thrown up into the wind in the nick of time. As the schooner settled beside the boat, all the men but two streamed aboard her, one remaining at the bow, to shackle the seine-boat to the iron that hung from the hook at the fore-rigging on the port side, while the other, grabbing hold of the long steering-oar, did his best to fend off the stern. The seine, thus being between the boat and the schooner, was held by Roote and the seine-master. Colin climbed aboard with the rest of the men, and within two minutes' time, the big dip-net--which would hold a barrel at a time--was scooped in among the fish.

Ten or eleven times the dip-net had descended and come up full of fish, and the work was proceeding rapidly in spite of the pitching and heaving of the vessel, when suddenly every one was stopped by the long wail of a foghorn near by. Not a sound of one had been heard before, and all hands were so busy that the direction from which the sound came had not been noted. Exactly half a minute elapsed.

Then mournfully and very close, the long "Who-o-o-o" sounded almost upon them, and the captain sprang to the wheel. As he set a hand upon the spokes and spun them round, a tall gray s.h.i.+p towered above them from the side on which was the seine-boat, and seemed to hang poised a moment on the crest of a sea before the final crash. Colin, who was leaning over the rail watching the dipping of the net, was able to see everything.

The fisherman at the bow of the seine-boat jumped for the boom and clasped it safely. Then, as the sailing vessel lurched upon them, the boy noted that the seine-master and the fisherman at the stern of the seine-boat leaped for the martingale shrouds and held them.

But that instant's delay, as the bark had seemed to be poised upon the wave, had been enough for the _s.h.i.+ner_. Having her canvas up, the fraction of time gave her the chance to answer to her helm, and she spun round like a teetotum, seeming almost to wriggle from under the bow of the s.h.i.+p like a live creature. Roote, the only one left in the seine-boat, had been the last to see the oncoming s.h.i.+p. He gave one quick look upward, and plunged from the seine-boat into the sea. Even so, the chances were in his favor, but as he touched the water the s.h.i.+p crashed into the seine-boat, and a piece of the wreckage hit him on the head.

It all happened in a flash, but at the instant that he was struck, Colin, still in his oilskins and sea-boots, dived into the water.

Fortunately, he cleared the vortex. In a few seconds Roote came up, and Colin grabbed him by the hair. The statistician was insensible, which made matters easier for the boy. But the oilskins and sea-boots were an impossible load, and it was only by great exertion that he managed at last to get them off and still keep Roote afloat. Soon after this relief, too, the statistician showed signs of life, and after successfully fending off a struggle, Colin succeeded in getting the injured man to rest his weight on him in the least tiring manner.

"I don't swim much," said the net expert. "How about you? How long can you keep afloat?"

"Long enough twice over for them to find us," said Colin cheerfully.

"I'm a regular fish in the water."

But the boy soon found out that it was a far different thing swimming under normal conditions and really having to battle for his life in a fair seaway. Roote, too, soon relapsed once more into unconsciousness, and the boy had to support his weight. He was a swimmer, a champion swimmer, and it was rather a shock to him to find how difficult it was even to keep afloat. He realized how valueless a casual knowledge of swimming would be for use in the open sea.

He had not been more than half an hour in the water when his strength began to fail. He swam around expecting to find some piece of wreckage which would aid him, but not a thing could he see. His arms grew heavy and his feet hung down as though leaded weights were fastened to them.

Black spots began to dance before his eyes, and Roote's weight became a torture. But he still hung on and kept afloat.

An hour pa.s.sed of buffeting with the sea, and the boy began to grow light-headed. He had swallowed quite a little salt water, and presently he began singing, although he had a feeling as though a double self told him not to sing. A choking took his throat and startled him into full consciousness. He had nearly been down that time! But the training of years stood him in good stead now that he needed it, and he still swam on.

Then he began to dream. Once or twice he came to himself and smiled sadly to think that this was the end of all his hopes in the Bureau of Fisheries, but this consciousness did not last for more than a minute before he fell dreaming again, still, however, swimming heavily and keeping afloat. And it seemed to him that the last and the most real of his dreams was that a boat came by. But this, he thought, must be drowning and it was not hard to drown, to dream of being rescued and to go down, down, down, to the cold, strange tideless depths of sea from which no one ever comes up alive. Still, there was the boat in his dream, but it had come too late, and it seemed to Colin, that with his last effort he pushed Roote toward the outstretched arms of the men in the boat, waved a feeble farewell and sank. The water gurgled in his ears, there was a horrible strangulation, he tried to cry out, his lungs filled with water, and he knew no more.

Hours pa.s.sed. Then, with a sense of suddenly arriving from a far-off place, Colin opened his eyes. He was in the cabin of a s.h.i.+p, and despite his exhaustion, he tried to rouse himself at the sound of voices. Roote, and another man, the captain of the bark, were standing beside his bunk.

"He's a plucky youngster, as well as a great swimmer," he heard the captain say. "Who is he?"

And Colin heard the other reply, with a note of pride in his voice:

"That's Colin Dare. He's one of our men. We think a lot of him in the Bureau of Fisheries!"

And the boy, wanly, but happily smiling, fell into a deep but healthy sleep.

THE END