Bert Wilson, Marathon Winner Part 8

"No doubt about it," said Bert, and then they all joined in a hearty laugh.

After this they dispersed to their various training "stunts," which must be gone through, wrecks or no wrecks.

CHAPTER IX

MAN OVERBOARD!

Dusk had succeeded the glorious sun-set and touched it with the sombre hue of twilight. The day had been exceptionally hot, a day when one seems to find just sufficient energy to lounge in an easy chair under the pretense of reading a novel until a delightful drowsiness creeps over you and all pretense is at an end--you are sleeping the sleep of the just on a scorching summer day.

But now night had descended on the stately _Northland_, and with it had come a cool, refres.h.i.+ng breeze. All was quiet, serene, peaceful, and among the pa.s.sengers, lounging in groups about the deck, conversation was carried on in undertones.

"Gee," Tom was saying, softly. "This has been one great day, hasn't it?

Nothing to do but hang around on deck, alternately reading, sleeping and watching the wheels go 'round."

"Yes, I guess this is about the first day since we have been on board that something exciting hasn't happened and it seems mighty good for a change."

"Look out," Bert warned. "The day isn't over yet and there is plenty of time for something exciting to happen between this and midnight. For my part, I wouldn't much mind if it did, for after a day like this you feel as if you needed something to wake you up."

"Do you?" Tom queried, sarcastically. "I feel just now as if I had more urgent need of something to put me to sleep," and with a yawn he dropped into a convenient chair and settled himself comfortably with his feet against the rail. "Sing us that song you used to sing at college before we threatened to set the Black Hand on your trail, d.i.c.k," he invited.

"Perhaps that will help to woo sweet slumber."

"It would be much more likely to woo sweet nightmare," said Bert, which was true if not complimentary.

"That's all right," d.i.c.k retorted, good-naturedly. "Of course, I understand that this apparent reluctance on your part is due entirely to sour grapes since you doubtless are aware of the fact that I never would condescend----"

"Oh can it," Tom murmured, sleepily. "If you won't sing, the least you can do is to keep still and let a fellow go to sleep."

"Oh, certainly," d.i.c.k said, obligingly, "anything you wish. As I was saying," he went on with a wink at Bert, "you are doubtless aware that I would never condescend to render that immortal ballad before so----"

"You have gone too far," Tom cried in a terrible voice, as he sprang for d.i.c.k. "You have dared disobey my mandates and now you shall suffer the penalty----"

But the mock tragedy was never enacted, for, even as Tom spoke, his attention was caught by the figure of a man covered from head to foot with soot and grime and running toward their end of the deck at full speed. At his heels was a crowd led by the steward who cried out frantically to the boys, "Stop him, stop him! He's gone mad!"

So suddenly had come the thunder-bolt from a clear sky that for a few seconds the boys could do nothing but stare at the spectacle before them and wonder if they could be awake. In fact, Bert confessed later that he had had a faint impression that d.i.c.k's nightmare must have come upon them ahead of time.

Bert was the first to take in the situation and with a cry of, "I guess it's up to us, fellows," he ran toward the wild figure now only a few feet in front of them. But even as the three comrades threw out their hands to halt the flying madman, he paused, glared around him for an instant with the look of a hunted animal brought to bay, and then, with a fierce, inhuman cry that echoed in Bert's memory for many a long day after, he threw himself over the rail and into the gla.s.sy depths nearly forty feet below!

For a brief moment there was the silence of death on board the _Northland_, and then arose such an uproar that even the captain's great voice, shouting orders to the crew, could scarcely be heard above the din.

"'Tis nought but a stoker gone crazy with the heat of the day," Bert heard a man say.

"Ay," growled a stoker who had also overheard. "'Tis a wonder that we are all not crazy or dead this day, but that poor devil is worse off than us for he can't swim a stroke."

"Did you say that that man can't swim?" Bert demanded, while a look of horror crept over his face.

"That I did, young feller," the stoker answered, as he eyed Bert insolently from head to foot, "though doubtless he can find something to hang on to until----"

But Bert never heard the end of the sentence for he was busy untying his shoes and stripping off his coat.

"Bert, Bert, you are never going to risk your life needlessly for that madman," Tom pleaded. "The boat is stopping, now, and it will pick him up in a few minutes. Anyway he's crazy----"

But Bert stopped him. "He's a man," he said simply, "and he can't swim."

Then there was a flash of white in the air, a quick splash and Bert was on his way to save a life.

Down there in the eddy and swirl of the waves, Bert had but one thought, one hope--to reach that little speck that he had sighted from the deck of the steamer. Nor did it once occur to him that he could have acted otherwise. One of his fellow beings had need of his splendid strength and skill, and not until they failed him would he give up the fight.

So on and on he swam, taxing his great vitality and endurance to the utmost. But to his tortured fancy it seemed as though he were being dragged backward. Surely he could not be making any progress at all at this speed. Then a fierce feeling of anger swept over him, burning him like a flame--anger at this feeling of impotence that threatened to master him.

"One would think," he raged, "that I had never been outside a country town in my life. I am making progress. I can save that fellow's life, and what's more, I'm going to."

Ah, that was better! Now every long, powerful stroke did its work and soon he was within a few feet of the spot where the madman was holding on to a slippery piece of driftwood, that now and again slipped from his numbed fingers, only to be regained by a desperate effort.

As Bert neared him, the stoker cried out frantically, "Don't come near me! Don't touch me! I'll kill you if you do!"

But as he spoke his fingers lost their grip and he would have sunk below the surface if it had not been for Bert's cat-like quickness. In a flash, he had grasped the stoker around the waist and lifted his head above the water, but he was not quite prepared for what was to follow.

For a second the stoker lay pa.s.sive in Bert's grasp, gasping for breath.

Then with the quick, sinuous motion of a reptile he twisted about and met his fingers around Bert's throat in the vise-like grip that only a maniac can effect and began slowly to tighten his hold.

In desperation Bert tore at the relentless fingers, fighting with all the fierceness of a wild animal for his life. But the more he struggled the tighter grew that band of iron about his neck. They were under water now, but not even threatened suffocation could make the madman loose his grip. Tighter and tighter it grew, until Bert felt the blood go pounding up into his brain and his eyes seemed starting from his head.

Was this to be the end, then, of all his hopes, of all his dreams, of all his aspirations? His college, his friends, his two dear comrades, was he to lose all these now, when his future was filled with such bright promise? And that by the hands of a man he had risked his life to save!

Then once again came that rush of wild, hot anger, this time a thousandfold more fierce than before, and again it seemed to give him exhaustless strength. He drew his arm back slowly, and then with all the strength of his body behind it planted his fist squarely in the madman's forehead.

Then, at last, that iron grip loosened and the fingers relaxed their hold. With great joy and exultation in his heart, Bert grasped the arm as it slipped past him and dragged him to the surface.

With a feeling of exquisite comfort and ease, he floated on his back, drawing in great breaths of the glorious air into his tortured lungs.

Softly as in a dream he heard the faint dip of oars in the water and then came d.i.c.k's voice calling his name.

"Stay where you are, Bert," it was saying. "We'll be with you in a jiffy, now."

"You mean we will if this hanged boat ever stops going backward and makes up its mind to travel in the right direction," Tom said impatiently. "We've been five minutes getting nowhere, already."

"Stop your growling, Tom," d.i.c.k commanded. "You ought to be so all-fired thankful to see Bert floating on the surface instead of being entertained in Davy Jones' locker that you wouldn't have time for anything but thanksgiving."

"You don't suppose that I'm not thankful, do you," Tom demanded, huskily. "If he hadn't come up again after we saw him go under I--well--I--Bert," he called, l.u.s.tily, to hide the break in his voice, "can you hear us now?"

"Sure thing," came a weak voice that they nevertheless recognized as Bert's.

Then the rowers redoubled their efforts and in a few strokes had reached the spot where Bert floated with his still-unconscious burden. In less time than it takes to tell, willing hands had lifted the stoker into the boat and Bert was half dragged, half pushed in after him. For the fierce, superhuman strength that had come to him in his extremity had pa.s.sed as quickly as it had come, leaving him as weak as a rag. It had been through sheer grit and will power that he had been able to hold on to the stoker until the boat could relieve him.

As he was hauled into the boat, d.i.c.k and Tom fell upon him, half laughing, half crying and wholly joyful. They showered him with praises and called him every endearing name they could think of, such as--"dear old fellow, game old scout," and a hundred others equally incoherent but eminently satisfactory.