  Fifteen minutes more of an ominous silence which told plainer than words that the steamship Arion with all on board had gone to her final resting place at the bottom of the sea. The very thought of it made Johnny feel sick and faint. The shrill scream of wind in the rigging became to him the cries of those who called in vain for aid. “Couldn’t we reach them?” he asked the wireless man. “There might be some we could save.” “Not a chance.” The wireless man shook his head gravely. “Two or three hundred miles away. If we tried it we’d more than likely go to the bottom. Besides, there are two other ships closer than ours. I caught their answer to the S. O. S. They can’t do anything either. The Arion’s gone. God rest their souls!” “Give me your report,” said Johnny. “I’ll take it to the Captain. Got to get out of here.” He was shaking like a leaf. As he shut his eyes he could see forms battling with the black waves. “Here it is.” Taking the paper, Johnny threw the door open and shot from the cabin. The cool damp air revived his spirits. The battle he fought in making the bridge over the slippery water-washed deck put the old fighting spirit into him. “We’ll make it,” he told himself stoutly. “This ship won’t go down. She’s Norwegian built. Done by the sons of ancient Norsemen. Her every plank and beam is selected—flawless and strong.” The grizzled skipper received his message without comment. On such a night one expects anything. Battling his way back to the main deck, Johnny crept forward to the main cabin. There, he remembered, was a long mess table, a cushioned seat or two along the wall, and some chairs screwed down to the deck. “Might get a bit of rest,” he told himself, yawning. As he threw the door open a great gust of wind caught him and sent him in with such force that he went sprawling on the floor. Grumbling to himself, he struggled to his feet. What was his surprise then to find himself looking into the eyes of Madge Kennedy. “I—I couldn’t stand my stateroom all alone on such a night,” she told him. “I hoped some one would be down here, so I came.” “I am glad you did,” Johnny struggled to a place opposite her, then looked across the table at her. “You’re not used to storms at sea,” he said, noting the weary expression on her face. “Not this kind.” “Nor anyone else I guess. Don’t worry. We’ll weather it. We’ll be in New York one of these days with our cargo. Then the sun will be shining on both sides of the street.” “Will it, Johnny?” A wistful look came into her eyes. “Do you know, Johnny,” she went on, “I’ve been thinking to-night of our orchard and our jungle. I dreamed a bad dream last night. Dreamed that we couldn’t sell the fruit, couldn’t go back to our orchard and our jungle because there was no money. “That would be pretty bad, particularly for Grandfather. He’s lived there since he was a very young man. He loves it and he loves his black Caribs. “You know, Johnny,” her eyes became suddenly dreamy, her voice mellow, “I’ve read in books how people who live in other lands love their homes, their stone castles and their thatched cottages, their apple orchards, their groves and their tiny clustered villages. All that sounds fine, but very far away. For we too came to love our homes in the tropical jungle. To see sunset redden behind the tops of the tangled jungle, to hear the night birds call, to see the shadow of palms lengthen and lengthen, then to feel the damp of evening kiss your cheeks. Oh yes, Johnny, there is a charm in our land. And to us it is home.” “You’ll go home,” said Johnny with suddenly renewed determination, “and you’ll go with that ancient alligator-skin traveling bag of your grandfather’s bursting with bales of money. Never fear.” Reassured by his words, the girl bent her head forward on the table and fell asleep. As for Johnny, he did not sleep. He waited, watched and dreamed. The motion of the ship was something tremendous. Now she rose high in air to strike square into a great world of water; and now, lifting, lifting, lifting, she appeared to start on a flying trip to the stars, only at last to put her prow down as gently as a child drops his foot on a pebbly shore. “She’s a grand old ship,” he thought to himself. These were not his only thoughts. He thought of the great, gray-whiskered man and his granddaughter sitting there before him, the man who had given much to humanity and asked little in return. Then he thought of the other one, their Unwilling Guest. “Providence,” he whispered suddenly. “Providence took a hand. If we had not picked him up; if he had sailed on the Arion he would now be at the bottom of the sea. Wonder what he will think of that? “Providence,” he mused, “and back of Providence, God. God must have some work for that man to do, some great good work.” Morning broke at last and with it the storm passed. The wind went down. The sun came out. The sea was a thousand mountain ranges rolled into one, and all tossing about, rising and falling, like a new-born world. The sea calmed. Hazy clouds drifted along the horizon. The North Star, somewhat battered by the storm, but still a very seaworthy vessel, held steadily on her course. The Unwilling Guest came on deck. He seemed weak and somewhat thoughtful. No one had whispered a word to him of the ship that had gone to her grave, but the very force of the storm, the thundering peril of it had been enough to make any man thoughtful. Still he asked no questions, ventured no remarks. |
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