<h2 id="c14">XIV</h2>
<p>Once assured that his surf-boat would
keep afloat, Blake took the oars and began
to row. But even as he swung the boat
lumberingly about he realized that he could
make no headway with such a load, for almost
a foot of water still surged along its bottom.
So he put down the oars and began to bale
again. He did not stop until the boat was
emptied. Then he carefully replugged the
bullet-hole, took up the oars again, and once
more began to row.</p>
<p>He rowed, always keeping his bow towards
the far-off spangle of lights which showed
where the <i>Trunella</i> lay at anchor.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_201">[201]</div>
<p>He rowed doggedly, determinedly. He
rowed until his arms were tired and his back
ached. But still he did not stop. It occurred
to him, suddenly, that there might be
a tide running against him, that with all his
labor he might be making no actual headway.
Disturbed by this thought, he fixed his attention
on two almost convergent lights on shore,
rowing with renewed energy as he watched
them. He had the satisfaction of seeing these
two lights slowly come together, and he knew
he was making some progress.</p>
<p>Still another thought came to him as he
rowed doggedly on. And that was the fear
that at any moment, now, the quick equatorial
morning might dawn. He had no means of
judging the time. To strike a light was impossible,
for his matches were water-soaked.
Even his watch, he found, had been stopped
by its bath in sea-water. But he felt that
long hours had passed since midnight, that it
must be close to the break of morning. And
the fear of being overtaken by daylight filled
him with a new and more frantic energy.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_202">[202]</div>
<p>He rowed feverishly on, until the lights of
the <i>Trunella</i> stood high above him and he
could hear the lonely sound of her bells as the
watch was struck. Then he turned and
studied the dark hull of the steamer as she
loomed up closer in front of him. He could
see her only in outline, at first, picked out here
and there by a light. But there seemed something
disheartening, something intimidating,
in her very quietness, something suggestive of
a plague-ship deserted by crew and passengers
alike. That dark and silent hull at
which he stared seemed to house untold possibilities
of evil.</p>
<p>Yet Blake remembered that it also housed
Binhart. And with that thought in his mind
he no longer cared to hesitate. He rowed in
under the shadowy counter, bumping about
the rudder-post. Then he worked his way
forward, feeling quietly along her side-plates,
foot by foot.</p>
<p>He had more than half circled the ship before
he came to her landing-ladder. The
grilled platform at the bottom of this row of
steps stood nearly as high as his shoulders, as
though the ladder-end had been hauled up for
the night.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_203">[203]</div>
<p>Blake balanced himself on the bow of his
surf-boat and tugged and strained until he
gained the ladder-bottom. He stood there,
recovering his breath, for a moment or two,
peering up towards the inhospitable silence
above him. But still he saw no sign of life.
No word or challenge was flung down at him.
Then, after a moment’s thought, he lay flat
on the grill and deliberately pushed the surf-boat
off into the darkness. He wanted no
more of it. He knew, now, there could be
no going back.</p>
<p>He climbed cautiously up the slowly swaying
steps, standing for a puzzled moment at
the top and peering about him. Then he
crept along the deserted deck, where a month
of utter idleness, apparently, had left discipline
relaxed. He shied away from the
lights, here and there, that dazzled his eyes
after his long hours of darkness. With an
instinct not unlike that which drives the hiding
wharf-rat into the deepest corner at hand, he
made his way down through the body of the
ship. He shambled and skulked his way
down, a hatless and ragged and uncouth
figure, wandering on along gloomy gangways
and corridors until he found himself on the
threshold of the engine-room itself.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_204">[204]</div>
<p>He was about to back out of this entrance
and strike still deeper when he found himself
confronted by an engineer smoking a short
brier-root pipe. The pale blue eyes of this
sandy-headed engineer were wide with wonder,
startled and incredulous wonder, as they
stared at the ragged figure in the doorway.</p>
<p>“Where in the name o’ God did <i>you</i> come
from?” demanded the man with the brier-root
pipe.</p>
<p>“I came out from Guayaquil,” answered
Blake, reaching searchingly down in his wet
pocket. “And I can’t go back.”</p>
<p>The sandy-headed man backed away.</p>
<p>“From the fever camps?”</p>
<p>Blake could afford to smile at the movement.</p>
<p>“Don’t worry—there’s no fever ’round me.
<i>That’s</i> what I’ve been through!” And he
showed the bullet-holes through his tattered
coat-cloth.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_205">[205]</div>
<p>“How’d you get here?”</p>
<p>“Rowed out in a surf-boat—and I can’t go
back!”</p>
<p>The sandy-headed engineer continued to
stare at the uncouth figure in front of him, to
stare at it with vague and impersonal wonder.
And in facing that sandy-headed stranger,
Blake knew, he was facing a judge whose decision
was to be of vast moment in his future
destiny, whose word, perhaps, was to decide
on the success or failure of much wandering
about the earth.</p>
<p>“I can’t go back!” repeated Blake, as he
reached out and dropped a clutter of gold
into the palm of the other man. The pale
blue eyes looked at the gold, looked out along
the gangway, and then looked back at the waiting
stranger.</p>
<p>“That Alfaro gang after you?” he inquired.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_206">[206]</div>
<p>“They’re <i>all</i> after me!” answered the swaying
figure in rags. They were talking together,
by this time, almost in whispers, like
two conspirators. The young engineer seemed
puzzled. But a wave of relief swept through
Blake when in the pale blue eyes he saw almost
a look of pity.</p>
<p>“What d’ you want me to do?” he finally
asked.</p>
<p>Blake, instead of answering that question,
asked another.</p>
<p>“When do you move out of here?”</p>
<p>The engineer put the coins in his pocket.</p>
<p>“Before noon to-morrow, thank God! The
<i>Yorktown</i> ought to be here by morning—she’s
to give us our release!”</p>
<p>“Then you’ll sail by noon?”</p>
<p>“We’ve <i>got</i> to! They’ve tied us up here
over a month, without reason. They worked
that old yellow-jack gag—and not a touch of
fever aboard all that time!”</p>
<p>A great wave of contentment surged
through Blake’s weary body. He put his hand
up on the smaller man’s shoulder.</p>
<p>“Then you just get me out o’ sight until
we’re off, and I’ll fix things so you’ll never
be sorry for it!”</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_207">[207]</div>
<p>The pale-eyed engineer studied the problem.
Then he studied the figure in front of
him.</p>
<p>“There’s nothing crooked behind this?”</p>
<p>Blake forced a laugh from his weary lungs.
“I’ll prove that in two days by wireless—and
pay first-class passage to the next port of
call!”</p>
<p>“I’m fourth engineer on board here, and
the Old Man would sure fire me, if—”</p>
<p>“But you needn’t even know about me,”
contended Blake. “Just let me crawl in somewhere
where I can sleep!”</p>
<p>“You need it, all right, by that face of
yours!”</p>
<p>“I sure do,” acknowledged the other as he
stood awaiting his judge’s decision.</p>
<p>“Then I’d better get you down to my bunk.
But remember, I can only stow you there until
we get under way—perhaps not that long!”</p>
<p>He stepped cautiously out and looked along
the gangway. “This is your funeral, mind,
when the row comes. You’ve got to face
that, yourself!”</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_208">[208]</div>
<p>“Oh, I’ll face it, all right!” was Blake’s
calmly contented answer. “All I want now
is about nine hours’ sleep!”</p>
<p>“Come on, then,” said the fourth engineer.
And Blake followed after as he started deeper
down into the body of the ship. And already,
deep below him, he could hear the stokers
at work in their hole.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_209">[209]</div>
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