said Jack.
“Yes, and in a way I’d never have guessed in a thousand years. Mr. Jukes must be very fond of his brother. It’s a new side of his character to me.”
“Same here,” agreed Jack. “While he has always been just and kind, I thought him a regular man of business, with ice-water instead of red blood in his veins, and his heart in his enterprises only.”
“Just goes to show that you are liable to run up against a streak of sentiment when you least expect it,” said Raynor.
“I see now why an embargo was put on the wireless,” said Jack presently.
“I can’t figure it out. I should have thought he would have used it to try and locate the Centurion.”
“I guess he figured that if he did so, some ship might pick up the message and it would reach the ears of that Amsterdam firm and they would find out about this expedition in search of Jerushah Jukes.”
“Perhaps that’s it. But there’s one thing sure and certain, Jack.”
“And that is – ?”
“That we can’t do much without coal.”
“Jove, that’s true; I’d forgotten that. What rotten luck! Where is the nearest coaling place?”
“Papeiti, in Tahiti, I reckon.”
“How close are we to that port now?”
“Well, to-day’s reckoning puts us in Latitude 29 degrees, 49 minutes.”
“I’ll have to look at the map, but that makes it quite a run.” The second mate came bustling up to Raynor.
“The skipper and Mr. Jukes want to see you in the captain’s cabin,” he said.
“Do you know what about?” asked Raynor.
“Coal, I think. How much have you got to keep those old tea-kettles of yours chugging?”
“Precious little since your gang on deck let that deck-load be washed overboard,” grinned Raynor, as he hurried off.
The consultation lasted a long time. But at length Raynor returned with the news that, for as long as possible, full speed was to be made with the coal in hand, and that then canvas would be spread, for the Sea Gypsy was schooner rigged and in addition carried a big square sail on her foremast.
For two days good time was made, but when Raynor, with a rueful face, announced that only a few shovelfuls more coal remained in the bunkers, they were still many weary sea-miles from their destination. However, sailors are proverbially inclined to make the best of things. The Sea Gypsy’s canvas was bent, and under a spanking breeze they glided, at a fair speed, over the sparkling waters, while in the engine room the fires were drawn and the engines grew cold.
But a steam vessel, while she will behave fairly well under canvas, is not designed for sail and makes an astonishing amount of what sailors call “lee-way,” that is, the wind, if it blows a’beam, constantly drives her side-ways, or crab-fashion, of a direct course, so that for every mile she makes in a forward direction a considerable amount of lee-way has to be deducted. For this reason all hands looked forward to a long and tedious voyage before the highlands of Tahiti were sighted.
Now that there was no doubt as to the fate of the Centurion, and no danger of her being captured, the Sea Gypsy’s wireless was set to work again. But they were traveling a lonely tract of the Pacific, and no answer came to Jack’s messages, nor did he “listen in” on any outside conversations.
Captain Sparhawk was in hopes of encountering an English, French or German cruiser, for all those nations keep war craft in these Pacific waters to watch out for pearl pirates and other law-breakers, but the wireless failed to pick any up, although Jack worked it assiduously.
For two days the favoring breeze that was helping the crippled Sea Gypsy along held. Then there fell a flat calm, and the glass began to drop ominously. Captain Sparhawk went about with a grave face. Jack gathered from a few remarks the reserved seaman had let fall, that he expected another hurricane. Situated as she was, the Sea Gypsy’s predicament would be a serious one if such a tornado as the one she had safely weathered were to strike her now. The sailors stood about in little knots discussing the situation and casting anxious glances at the horizon. Mr. Jukes and the captain and officers spent long hours on the bridge in careful consultation.
Before the sun set, the question as to whether or no the Sea Gypsy was in for a second fight with the elements was definitely settled. Thunder and lightning deafened and blinded the voyagers. Rain descended as only tropical rain can, flooding the decks and blinding the look-outs and the officers on the bridge. The Sea Gypsy’s canvas was reduced, only enough being kept on to keep her from literally rolling her hull under the towering water mountains.
The crew clawed their way about the decks by holding fast to life-lines which Captain Sparhawk had ordered stretched when the storm broke. Raynor, coming on deck to report that all was well below, met Jack on his way back to the lower regions of the ship.
“Well, old fellow, this is a corker and no mistake,” he observed, raising his voice in order to make it audible above the frantic battle noises of the storm.
“It’s the worst yet,” Jack agreed.
“And it will be worse than ever before it gets better, according to the way Captain Sparhawk put it when I reported to him,” said the young engineer.
“Hullo, what’s that?” exclaimed Jack suddenly.
“We hit something,” shouted Raynor. “Look at the watch running forward.”
“Storm or no storm, I’m going forward to see what’s up,” ejaculated Jack, and, followed by Raynor, he hurried toward the bow where several of the oil-skin coated crew were already clustered.
CHAPTER VIII. – “LAND, HO!”
It was a fight every inch of the way, but at last they reached the bow and found the sailors bending over the recumbent form of a youth.
“What has happened? What did we strike?” asked Jack of one of the sailors.
“Struck a small boat,” was the reply. “How it ever lived in this sea is a wonder. This fellow was in it.”
“Is he all right?”
“No; about half dead,” rejoined the third mate. “Carry him aft, men, and put him in one of the spare cabins. With care he may pull through. I’m going to notify the captain,” and he hurried off.
Several men picked up the form of the rescued one. Jack suddenly saw his face, pale as death, with his wet hair hanging over his forehead.
“Great guns, Billy!” he gasped.
“What is it? What’s the matter? Do you know him?” queried Raynor.
“Know him? I should say so. So do you. It’s Harvey Thurman.”
“Impossible.”
“Not at all. Take a look at him yourself.”
“By George, you are right. What a strange happening,” declared
