[CHAPTER VII]
THE STORM
Filled with his new idea, and alarmed at the possible menace to himself, Tom turned, and was about to retrace his steps up on deck to speak to the captain. Then he paused.
“Hold on a minute, Tom Fairfield,” he told himself. “And don’t do anything in a hurry. You came off on this voyage in a rush, and maybe that was a good thing. But just wait a minute now, and see if this is the best step to take.”
He turned again, and once more walked past the stateroom of the suspected man. The door was closed this time, and Tom was rather glad of it, for he did not want to meet the passenger, now that he knew who he was.
“I’ll just wait a bit about telling the captain,” reflected Tom. “When I tell him the story he’s bound to take some action, seeing that Mr. Trendell is sailing under false colors. And that’s bound to make a row. It won’t be pleasant for me, either, seeing that I’ve got to stay on this ship with him for some time yet. And a ship isn’t like dry land—you can’t get away from a person when you want to.
“No, it’s better for me as it is, I think. As long as he stays shut up in his stateroom he won’t bother me, though he knows that I’m on board. That’s why he acted so queer, and why he’s been in retirement. Now he’s planning some new move.
“Yes, I’ll just lay low for a while, and see what happens. There’s time enough I guess. I’ll go develop this picture.”
Tom found the dark room well fitted up, and he was soon at work, taking the films from his camera, and putting them in the developing bath. As soon as the yellow coating began to dissolve he saw, coming out of the shadows, as it were, the dim image of the waterspout, and the shattering of it by the cannon ball.
“Say! That’s a crackerjack snapshot!” he exclaimed. “As soon as it’s dry enough I’m going to print some views and show ’em. I don’t believe anyone on board has any better pictures than these.”