It was evening on board the Northland, cool, calm and altogether delightful. Just enough of twilight lingered to make visible the broad expanse of ocean, so calm that, if it were not so vast, one might almost think it an inland lake. A silver-crescent moon, growing brighter every moment as the soft light waned, cast its bright reflection into the quiet water where the dancing ripples broke and scattered it into myriad points of gleaming light. As the darkness grew, the stars came out and added their beauty to the night.

To the groups of young athletes, lying at ease in steamer chairs on the deck, the cool quiet of the perfect evening was most welcome, for it had been a strenuous day. The hours allotted to practice had been filled to their limit, and now it was luxury to lie with tired muscles relaxed and enjoy the peace and beauty of the quiet night.

For a long time no one spoke, but Tom, who could never bear to be quiet very long, nor let other people be, broke the silence by wondering what Berlin was like.

“Why,” answered Reddy who had twice visited the great German city, “it’s fine, but it sure is laid out queer, with the river running straight through it, cutting it clean in two. They’ve had to build many bridges, for the river branches off in more than one direction and you have to be crossing over the water every little while.”

“I’ve read about those bridges,” said Bert, “and of the eight immense marble statues that are to be seen on one of them. The statues represent the different stages of a soldier’s career. On another is an equestrian bronze statue of Frederick of Germany.”

“Well,” said loyal Tom, “that’s all right for Berlin, but I think we’ve left behind in little old New York, about everything that is really worth seeing.”

Every one laughed, and Axtell said, “There’s one thing in Berlin, you must admit, that not even New York can boast; the thing we are all more interested in just now than anything else in the world, the great Olympic athletic field.”

This brought them around to athletics again and the talk ran on different events and their hope of success in each until Dick rebelled. “Do let’s talk about something else once in a while,” he remonstrated, “it’s a wonder we don’t all dream about the Stadium and get up in our sleep and go through the motions. They say your dreams are influenced by what has made the strongest impression on your mind during the day. At least that’s the theory.”

“Well,” laughed Drake, “I can confirm your theory in part, anyway; for last night I had the most vivid dream of a hurling match. I suppose that was because I thought of very little else all day.”

There was quite a little discussion then as to whether dreams could be controlled by the will or were entirely involuntary.

“Well,” Bert said finally, “as opinions seem about evenly divided, I propose that we all go to bed to-night with a determination not to dream of any form of athletics, and, in the morning report our success or failure.”

In order to give their minds a different bent, they sang college songs for the next hour, then bade each other good-night, and went to put their theory to the test.

Perhaps the very determination not to dream of the athletic contest made it more certain that he would dream of just that; but, at any rate, Drake did have a most vivid dream.

He thought that the great day of the meet had arrived, and, at last, the hour to which he had looked forward for so many weeks. The great audience had assembled and sat in hushed expectancy, while he stood ready with muscles tense and discus poised.

So real was the dream that his body followed its movements. Slipping out of bed he moved noiselessly, still sleeping, up the stairs, and, as directly as if it were broad daylight instead of black night, on to the practice space on the training deck, where a portion of the rail had been removed to facilitate the throwing of the discus. Here, taking his place in the dream, within the circle of space allotted to him, he stood firm, poised the discus and stepped forward a couple of paces as he threw. But, alas, that circle of space was only in his dream and in reality he had passed through the opening in the rail. The two paces carried him over the edge of the vessel, through forty flying feet of space, and plunged him into the dark waters beneath.

The plunge awoke him. As he rose to the surface he instinctively struck out and kept himself afloat. Bewildered and half dazed, he asked himself, “Where am I? How in the name of everything that’s horrible, did I get here in the water?” Vain questions to which there came no answer.

He had fallen with his back to the ship, but now, as full consciousness came to him, he turned, and, to his horror, saw the lights of the Northland drawing steadily away from him. Without stopping to reason, he began shouting at the top of his voice, and swimming with all his strength after the departing steamer. His one impulse was to reach it, his one thought that he must not be left alone there in mid-ocean.

For many minutes he swam madly, desperately, but soon the brief insanity passed, his self-control returned, and he realized the uselessness of the vain struggle. He ceased swimming and, alternately treading water and floating, to rest his strained muscles, tried to collect his thoughts and determine what to do.

As he floated, he forced his mind backward. One by one the events of the evening on board the Northland came back to him. The quiet loveliness of the night, the talk about Berlin, about the events so soon to take place and about dreams——

“Ah, dreams,” he said aloud. Like a flash he remembered his vivid dream of the Olympic field in Berlin; remembered how in his dream he stood ready to take his part in the great contest; remembered the strained muscles, the poised discus, the forward step—ah, that was it! He felt certain that now he had the reason for his present desperate plight. He must have walked in his sleep and, in his sleep, slipped overboard.

This plausible solution of the mystery was some small satisfaction. Question after question assailed him. How long after he tumbled into his berth had this happened? Was it hours afterward? If so, it would soon be daylight and then he might be able to sight some object that would help him. Had it happened shortly after he fell asleep? Then long hours must pass before the dawn. Stout, husky fellow and strong swimmer that he was, could he keep afloat through those endless hours? He knew that an ordinarily strong man could keep himself afloat five or six hours, seldom longer.

It was eleven o’clock when he went to his berth. The sun rose at this time of the year at about half-past four, so that would make five and a half hours at the most; but the probability was that an hour or more had elapsed before the dream came. That would leave four hours or so before dawn. They would not miss him before breakfast and that would double the four hours.

He did not doubt that they would search for him. If the Northland had been a passenger steamer, sailing under regular schedule, she would not have been able to waste hours, perhaps for one missing passenger. Being under special charter, her time was at her own disposal, and he knew that she would return over her course and send her small boats in every direction in search of him. But at least twelve or fourteen hours must elapse before any aid could reach him.

As this terrible realization came upon him, he was filled with despair. What use to continue to struggle for the few hours that his strength would hold out? It would only be a drawing out of misery with death surely at the end. Better by far to hold himself, deliberately under water and in a few brief minutes end it all. But, no, he would not. He would keep himself afloat till daylight. Perhaps the dawn would show him some floating spar or piece of wreckage to which he might cling. It was his duty to preserve his life as long as possible. If at last he must yield himself to old ocean, he could at least die with the consciousness that he had not yielded like a coward, but had fought on until the end with dauntless determination.

At that moment, as if to reward his courage and manly resolution, a faint light began to creep over land and ocean. With a thrill he realized that the dawn, which he had feared was hours distant, was at hand, and hope sprang anew. But as the light grew and the great, desolate expanse of ocean spread itself out before his eager eye, despair again seized him.

On every side nothing but that great stretch of water. Not a speck as large as his hand upon its calm, cruel surface.

But wait!—what was that black object that caught his eye as he rose to the crest of a wave? Was it only imagination? a shape born of his desperate desire? No, there it was again. It was real.

Swimming with renewed energy he steered straight for the floating object, but paused again as a new fear gripped his heart. What if it were the fin of a shark! If that was what it was, then he was just hurrying to meet a terrible death. He would rather drown than suffer such a death as that. A few moments he hesitated, but the thought that sharks were not so numerous in the Atlantic as in the Pacific reassured him, and he said aloud, “Well, it is a last chance, and I’ll take it.”

Resolutely, now, he swam on, until as he rose to the crest of a large wave, he found himself near enough to observe that what he had feared at a distance was a shark’s fin was a floating cask. He instantly recognized it as one which had been rolled near to the rail of the Northland for the fellows to sit on. He must have touched it as he went overboard and it had fallen with him.

With a cry of joy he reached it, and, after a failure or two, succeeded in grasping it firmly. Now he had a much better view of the ocean. Again he cast his eager eyes across that great waste of water—and his heart nearly stopped beating. At no great distance and bearing directly toward him was a large steamer flying the French colors. Would she see him or would she pass him by? He scarcely dared hope he would be seen, he was such a speck on that boundless ocean. He could only wait with heart aching with suspense.

Nearer and still nearer came the great ship, until, after what seemed an age of waiting, she was within hailing distance. Eagerly he scanned her for sight of any living being, but he could see no one moving on her decks.

Stripping the jacket of his pajamas from his shoulders he waved it desperately, and shouted with all his strength. Ah, she is passing, she does not see him! But just as all hope seemed lost, he saw hurrying figures on board, and a ringing voice came over the water. “Have courage, we will come to you.”

A great revulsion of feeling passed over him and never afterward could he remember just what happened after that voice reached him, except that he clung, dazed and almost fainting, to the cask for what seemed hours, and then—nothingness!

When he again opened his eyes, he was lying at length on the deck of the strange steamer, and kind faces were bending over him.

His story was soon told and he was overjoyed to learn that the steamer was fitted with wireless apparatus and that a message would be sent as soon as possible to the Northland. Almost before he was missed, the news of his safety would reach them. With thankful heart and in ineffable content he lay, finding it hard to assure himself that death had passed him by, and life, sweeter than ever before, stretched before him.

On board the Northland the breakfast hour had come, and all took their places at the table with unusual alacrity, as they were to report the success or failure of their effort to control dreams by their will-power. Soon all were assembled but Drake.

“Where’s Drake?” was the general demand.

“He must be dreaming yet,” laughed Bert. “He sure has met with failure.”

“No,” Axtell, who shared Drake’s stateroom, assured them. “He has been up this long while. He had left his berth this morning before I awoke.”

They waited a while and then, as he did not come, Axtell went to find him. In a short time he returned with the startling news that Drake did not appear to be anywhere on the ship.

“He’s putting up a joke on us,” said Tom with a half-hearted attempt at a grin.

Everyone hoped that this might be true, but it did not prevent a thorough search of the ship, it is needless to say, without result. Great was the consternation on board.

“What under the sun could have happened to him,” Dick wondered.

“No one knows,” Axtell answered anxiously. “Come on, fellows, let’s have one more look. He must be hiding somewhere.”

“But where, where,” Tom cried, at his wit’s end. “How could he have disappeared so completely?”

“That isn’t the question,” Bert cried impatiently. “It’s up to us to find out where, if we can,” and once more the search was begun.

Five minutes more of frantic search brought no reward. The fellows, now thoroughly panic-stricken, stood and looked into each other’s pale faces, trying to imagine what had happened.

“He must be somewhere on the ship,” Martin persisted, desperately. “Nothing else is possible.”

The startling news had been carried to Captain Everett and his voice could now be heard giving orders for a most thorough search of the ship. This was done but still without avail.

At this report their last hopes were dissipated and all were forced to believe that in some mysterious way Drake had accidentally fallen overboard. At this solution of the mystery every heart was filled with frantic grief, for Drake was loved by all. Then they all felt an almost irresistible impulse to fling themselves overboard and drag him somewhere, somehow, from that sea of death.

“If he has fallen overboard,” Axtell said with a choke in his voice, “he’ll have no chance at all.”

“Oh,” Tom cried, throwing himself down in a chair, “poor, poor old Drake; and we are so powerless to help him.”

“There’s one chance left,” Reddy comforted, striving to bring back a spark of hope to their despairing hearts. “He’s right in the steamer lane and one of them may pick him up.”

Eagerly they clutched at this one straw held out to them and hope was further strengthened by the fact that the Northland had turned and, with all steam on, was retracing her course. A faint hope, at best, they knew, for even if his splendid strength had held out till then, how could such a small speck as he must seem on that boundless ocean, be sighted from the deck of a steamer? Then, too, the Northland could not retrace her course exactly and the currents might have carried the poor castaway far adrift. A forlorn hope indeed!

Click! click! went the key of the wireless, and the operator straightened in his chair as a message came over the water.

“On board the Northland,” it flashed, “Drake rescued this morning by French steamer Lafayette. Will reach Havre on Thursday at eleven A. M. Will await Northland. All well.”

A moment and the message was in the captain’s hands. Then such wild, uncontrollable joy broke out on board as the Northland had never before witnessed. Everybody shook everybody else by the hand, all talking at once and neither knowing nor caring what they said.

When, two days later their old comrade stood among them their joy knew no bounds. They carried him around on their shoulders and nearly killed him with their hilarious demonstrations.

“It’s too good to be true,” said Axtell, with his arm around his chum’s shoulder, “to have you back again safe and sound. Say, fellows,” he said, turning to the others, while his old smile flashed out again, “to think that all that came from walking in a dream. If that’s the kind of ‘stuff that dreams are made of,’ may none of us ever dream again!”