“And one for which I will be grateful,” was the reply. “I’ll have a steward put my baggage on board your boat at once. I may be of aid to you in caring for Mr. Jenkins, too, for I am a physician.”
“Yes, this is Dr. Sartorius of San Francisco,” rejoined Dr. Adams, as the other ascended the gang plank with long, swift strides and was heard above giving orders for the transfer of his belongings.
“You know him, then?” asked Nat of the ship’s doctor.
“Well, that is, he is registered with the purser under that name,” was the reply, “and I have had some conversation on medical subjects with him. As a matter of fact, I think it is an excellent thing that he wishes to go ashore, for Mr. Jenkins is in a serious way and really needs the constant watching of a physician.”
“In that case, I am glad things have come out as they have,” rejoined Nat. “Joe, will you go below and fix up the cabin for the injured man’s use, and then, doctor, if you will have him brought on board I’ll be getting under way again.”
Dr. Adams reascended the gangway and in a few minutes two sailors appeared carrying between them a limp form. The head was heavily bandaged, rendering a good look at the man’s features impossible. But Nat judged that he was of powerful build and past middle age. He descended into the cabin with Dr. Adams, and under the surgeon’s directions Mr. Jenkins was made as comfortable as possible. His baggage, as well as that of Dr. Sartorius, was brought below, and then everything was ready for a start.
Dr. Sartorius bent over the injured man and appeared really to take a deep and intelligent interest in the case. The ship’s doctor indorsed one or two suggestions that he made and the boys, for Ding-dong had joined the party, began to think that they might have been mistaken in their first estimate of the doctor’s character.
“After all,” Nat thought, “clever men are often eccentric, and this black-whiskered doctor may be just crusty and unattractive without realizing it.”
When everything had been settled, Nat and Joe made their way to the bridge and bade farewell to the doctor. The two sailors who had carried Mr. Jenkins on board cast off the Nomad’s lines, and the steamer’s siren gave a deep booming note of thanks for their act.
“You’d better lose no time in getting ashore,” hailed the captain, after he had thanked the boys for their timely aid.
“We shan’t, you may depend on that,” cheerily called back Nat, as the Nomad’s engines began to revolve and the big Iroquois commenced to churn the water.
“We’re in for a sharp blow of wind, or I’m mistaken,” came booming toward them through the captain’s megaphone, for the two craft were by this time some little distance apart.
Nat looked seaward. Dark, streaky clouds were beginning to overcast the sky. The sea had turned dull and leaden, while a hazy sort of veil obscured the sun. He turned to Joe.
“Hustle below and tell Ding-dong to get all he can out of the engines, and then see that all is snug in the cabin.”
“You think we’re in for a blow?”
“I certainly do; and I’m afraid that it’s going to hit us before we can get ashore. It is going to be a hummer, too, from the looks of things, right out of the nor’west.”
“But we’re all right?”
“Oh, sure! The Nomad can stand up where a bigger craft might get into trouble.”
Nat’s tone was confident, but as Joe dived below on his errand he glanced behind him at the purplish-black clouds that were racing across the sky toward them. The sea began to rise and there was an odd sort of moaning sound in the air, like the throbbing of the bass string of a titanic viol.
“This is going to be a rip snorter,” he said in an undertone. “I’ll bet the bottom’s tumbled out of the barometer.”
CHAPTER III.
IN THE GRIP OF THE STORM
“Phew! Hold tight, Joe; here she comes!”
Under the dark canopy of lowering clouds the leaden sea about the Nomad began to smoke and whip up till the white horses champed and careered, tossing their heads heavenward under the terrific onslaught of the wind.
“Some storm, Nat,” gasped Joe, clutching the rail tightly with both hands as the Nomad began to pitch and toss like a bucking bronco.
“About as bad a blow as we’ve had on this coast in a long time,” agreed Nat, raising his voice to be heard above the shrieking tumult of wind and sea.
“I’ll go below and get the oilskins, Nat,” volunteered Joe.
“You’d better; this will get worse before it’s better.”
Grabbing at any hand-hold to prevent himself being thrown violently on his back, Joe made his way below once more.
“Goodness, this is fierce,” he muttered, as he went down the companionway and entered the cabin. Ding-dong had switched on the current from the dynamo in the engine-room and the place was flooded with light.
The injured man lay on the lounge where he had been placed and was breathing heavily. At the table sat Dr. Sartorius. He was bending over a bundle of papers and perusing them so intently that, above all the disturbance of the elements without, he did not hear Joe enter the cabin. He looked up as the boy’s shadow fell across the papers. Startled by some emotion for which Joe could not account, he jumped to his feet, at the same time thrusting the papers into an inner pocket.
“What do you want?” he breathed angrily, glaring at the boy with fury in his dark eyes.
“Why, I came below for the oilskins. What’s the matter, did I startle you?” asked Joe, regarding the man curiously. On his face was an odd blend of alarm and ferocity.
“Yes, – that is, no. I am very nervous. You must forgive me. I – there is bad weather outside?” he broke off abruptly.
“It’s blowing pretty hard,” Joe informed him, while he still noted the man’s odd manner.
“It will delay us in reaching shore?” demanded the other, sinking back into his chair and staring at the heavily breathing form of Mr. Jenkins.
“I’m afraid so. If the weather gets any worse we shall have to slow down. It’s too bad, for it is important that we get Mr. Jenkins to the hospital as quickly as possible. He needs immediate medical aid.”
Dr. Sartorius ignored this remark. Instead he fixed his queer eyes on Mr. Jenkins.
“How much shall we be delayed?” he asked eagerly the next minute.
“Impossible to say,” rejoined Joe; and then he added, with his accustomed frank bluntness, “You don’t speak as if you were in any particular hurry about landing.”
“It’s Jenkins yonder I’m thinking of,” was the reply in a semi-musing tone. “He may die if we are delayed, and you say that the storm is a severe one?”
“We’ll have to slow down, I guess,” rejoined Joe, and then, as the gong in the engine-room rang for reduced speed, he nodded his head. “There’s the slow-up signal now. It must be getting worse. I’ve got to get on deck.”
So saying, he rummaged two suits of oilskins out of a locker and hastened on deck. Spume and smoky spray were flying over the Nomad in clouds. The craft looked like an eggshell amidst the ranges of watery hills. Joe slipped into his oilskins and then took the wheel while Nat donned his foul-weather rig.
Presently Ding-dong, grimy from his engines, joined them.
“How is everything running below, Joe?” asked Nat, as the figure of the young engineer appeared.
“Fur-fur-fine as a h-h-h-hundred dollar war-watch,” sputtered Ding-dong; “ber-ber-but I’ve got her slowed down to ten knots. How about the