The Great Airship Part 37

He went off into a paroxysm of silent laughter, which shook the bunk and brought the tender-hearted Hawkins to his side within a moment.

"Eh, mate?" he asked gently enough, for your sailor or your soldier attendant is the very best of fellows, as gentle as any woman, and often almost as clever where nursing is necessary.

"Eh, mate? Got the s.h.i.+vers? Fever? Well, I've had it, and it ain't too agreeable. But Mr. Andrew'll put you right. He's the doctor aboard this s.h.i.+p, and a good 'un. I'll send along for him."

"Please," gurgled the wretch in the bunk, still keeping his head hidden.

"Please, I'm as cold as an icicle at times, and then boiling hot. I'm dying."

"Not you, mate," came from the encouraging Hawkins, who hastened away at once so that he might save this derelict fisherman some suffering. And Mr. Andrew was equally solicitous.

"Come, let us have a look at you, my friend," he begged, arriving in the men's quarters. "Show your face and so let me judge what is the matter."

The crafty Fruhmann complied in a measure. He roused himself on to one elbow, and then fell backward as if the effort had weakened him. Then he pushed the clothes back from his face with one hand, keeping the other firmly across his eyes.

"Can't see," he mumbled. "Almost blind after those days and nights in the open. Don't dare to open my eyes."

Andrew left him with a draught, and a caution to Hawkins to see that the wide windows of the men's quarters were curtained.

"Shade the electric light when it gets dark," he said. "No doubt he is suffering with his eyes. I've known the same with men lost in the backwoods of Canada in the winter. There, my friend, a few days will put you right. You'll be fit to travel back once we get to England."

"But not aboard this s.h.i.+p, no," smiled the artful Fruhmann, burying his head again once Andrew was gone, just as if he were a frightened ostrich. "Not aboard this flying vessel, mister. 'Cos she won't be flying then if Adolf Fruhmann has anything to do with the matter. And to think I'm here, and so easily, when Carl was in a funk all the while that I'd miss 'em!"

That set him off into another smothered giggle, which again shook the bunk and called Hawkins over to him. Indeed, that big-hearted fellow was decidedly ill at ease, till the arrival of Andrew's promised draught and its administration to the patient produced an apparently instantaneous effect.

"Take the s.h.i.+vers out of yer," said Hawkins. "Make yer easy and send yer to sleep. Sing out when you're wanting anything. There's soup here that'll make you fit for anything, and lemonade and what not."

Fruhmann thanked him with his tongue in his cheek, disappeared again beneath the blankets, and gave himself up to scheming and considering matters. Indeed he was a cunning, clever fellow, and by adopting the excuse of sickness was entirely freed of suspicion. More than that, there was no danger of recognition, and the hints and information which the rascally Carl Reitberg had been able to give him had showed this wretch that there was little need for caution.

"That beard and the dirt and so on fooled 'em finely," he told himself.

"Not that there's a one to be feared save Sergeant Evans, the man who worked with the police in South Africa. But he's a saloon man, and didn't catch sight of me. If he had he'd have been bothered finely. But if I was to use soap and water and a comb, not to mention a razor, well, the tale'd be different. And so here I am aboard, a sick and exhausted fisherman, cared for and molly-coddled by that thundering lout Hawkins, left pretty much to myself because I'm supposed to be extra sleepy. Ho!

ho! This'll make Carl laugh fit to hurt himself. It's a tale that'll help to make him pay up extra handsome."

It was, in fact, just the sort of story to go down with the rascally magnate. All the sporting instincts and ideas as to love of fair play which he may have possessed in his youthful days were gone entirely. And even had he still retained a few shreds and remnants of honest feeling for others at this period he threw them overboard when dealing with Joe Gresson, Andrew Provost, and the crew and pa.s.sengers of the great airs.h.i.+p.

"We're bound to beat them," he had told Fruhmann, when the latter had hurried away from England to meet him at Suez. "We're bound to follow the s.h.i.+p and break her somewhere. There's money in it."

"I hope so. That's why I'm here. That's why I'm ready to take risks,"

his rascally hireling told him.

"And we've got to find a way to get about the business. Now, I've failed with the bombs."

"And got scared mighty badly," grinned the other. "Well, it's my turn.

You leave this to me. How will I do it? You listen. See here. The papers wherever the s.h.i.+p goes are crammed with columns full of her history, her wonderful powers, her beauty of outline and construction; not to mention photos. And there's something far more important."

"Eh, yes? What?"

"There's always a list of places she's intending to visit. For instance, here's the latest telegram from India. Let's read it."

Fruhmann lolled back in his cane-work seat on the veranda of the hotel and unfolded a paper. "Listen," he said, taking his cigar from his lips and admiring the cloud of smoke he sent upward. "Here it is. The cable companies are making a fortune over this airs.h.i.+p."

"As I hope to do," sn.i.g.g.e.red the magnate.

"As you will do if you trust things to me. Now listen. 'Departure of the great airs.h.i.+p. Huge excitement in India. Mr. Joseph Gresson confident of successful ending to his trip. Proposes now to steer for Borneo and New Guinea; afterwards for Australia and New Zealand. Will cross the South Pole direct for Cape Horn, and may be expected in North America. Will visit Canada finally and make a triumphal return by way of Quebec and the Gulf of St. Laurence. Those who wish to see the last of her must hasten to Newfoundland or the Island of Cape Breton.'"

Fruhmann took to his cigar again, looking sharply at his master. Carl meditated deeply. He was not brilliant at any time, and was now dull to the point of exasperation.

"Yes," he drawled sluggishly. "But--er--I don't quite see where this helps us. You can't, for instance, hope to come up with the s.h.i.+p at the South Pole."

"Stop fooling!" growled his amiable lieutenant. "Who is talking of the South Pole? You want me to get aboard. Well, Canada's as good as Australia, and it's possible. I couldn't reach the first before the s.h.i.+p had pa.s.sed. But I can reach Canada. There's a steamer leaving the Ca.n.a.l this very evening. She's a pleasure cruiser direct from New York, and she steams straight home from the Mediterranean. Now, I board her. Never mind if they won't take pa.s.sengers. I'll smuggle myself aboard and your money'll do the rest. From New York the train takes me quick to Nova Scotia, and from there to Cape Breton Island it's a mere step."

"Ah!" The fat magnate began to follow. "But----" he gasped, turning in his chair. "Then?"

"Easy. I steal a boat and put out to sea just before the s.h.i.+p leaves Quebec. I've built a sort of raft already. I sink the boat and take to the raft, while I've been growing a beard from this very instant. I signal the s.h.i.+p----"

"Stop!" cried Carl. "It may be night-time when she comes over."

"But I have a lamp. Fortunate, ain't it? It's all I've saved from my boat. A mere lamp! No food. No drink. Just that lucky lamp, and I signal. I'm taken aboard. I'm ill, desperately bad. I lie up in a bunk, and----"

The fat magnate laughed till he coughed, and then became positively purple.

"You--you're a boy, Adolf," he wheezed. "It's a fine scheme. But--but supposing it fails. Supposing the s.h.i.+p changes her course? Then it's too late. You're leaving the attempt to the very last instant."

"And all the better. It won't fail. Besides, at the end the folks aboard won't be suspicious. They've been looking out for you since you planted those bombs aboard. They've had a wary eye open for sportsmen. But I'm merely a poor, exhausted fisherman. I don't count. I'm too ill to be interviewed, and I----"

"How'll you do it?" asked Carl eagerly.

"Ah, that's telling!"

It was a matter on which Fruhmann had been absolutely silent. But he had his plans. Indeed, his scheme had been completed long ago in every detail, and as he lay in that bunk, sn.i.g.g.e.ring violently at times, he was a proud and happy scoundrel. For his plans had carried so far wonderfully. He was in the camp of the enemy, but as a friend. He was a pampered, unfortunate fisherman, at whose presence no one could feel suspicion. In fact, he was on the verge of a triumph. Nor was he the one to hurry.

"Let 'em settle down to the feeling that I'm aboard," he told himself.

"To-morrow night'll do. I ain't going to spoil things by hurrying."

And so till the following night he lay inert in his bunk, still a prey to those extraordinary attacks which alarmed the honest Hawkins. It was after midnight when he crept from the men's quarters, leaving them all slumbering, and made his crafty way along the gallery. Nor, strangely enough, did he need a guide.

"Got Carl to draw a sketch of the s.h.i.+p, and studied it," he smiled.

"That's the way to do this sort of business. Ah! That's the engine-room.

I have to go for'ard to find the ladder. Wonder who's on duty?"

He could hear the soft purr of those motors so beloved of Joe Gresson.

He halted just above the place and stared in through the transparent floor of the gallery. One light was burning, a shaded light, and close to it sat the man in charge of the engines. He was asleep. Fruhmann almost whistled.

"Got him!" he hissed. "Easy as smoking. Slip down there, keeping the motors between me and him. There's enough noise to keep him from hearing. Then--then I do it."

A pair of socks were his only foot covering, and made not a sound as he placed a foot on the first rung of the ladder. If anyone could ever creep like a cat it was this scoundrel. He seemed to slide down the ladder while never once did he take his eyes from the form of the sleeper. Then he went on hands and knees and crawled down one side of the range of motors.

"Better than bombs, far," he was saying. "Must work things so as to make the s.h.i.+p helpless. Just now her automatic gear's steering her upon the course they've set. But there won't be any automatic movement when I've finished. And the best of my scheme is that it don't endanger life, that is, my life. It's blowing tidyish now, and of course the s.h.i.+p'll feel it. She'll get sent this way and that, and be wellnigh wrecked. But she's got wireless, and we're over the track of s.h.i.+ps. That's handy."