Accordingly they blended their voices, far from musically, but into what they hoped would prove to be an appeal for help. Whether it was effective or not they could not tell, as the fog shut them in like a great white blanket.
“If we could manage to propel our craft in the direction of the ship we might be saved sooner,” said Professor Snodgrass. “What do you imagine hit us, Bob?”
“Oh, some sort of ship—derelict, I imagine, because I didn’t hear any whistle before the crash. Ours was the only one going. It wasn’t an iceberg—I know that. I had a glimpse of something big looming up in front of me, then I heard and felt the crash, and—here we are!”
“Yes, here we are!” agreed the professor. “And the next matter to consider is—what are we going to do?”
“We’ve got to hold on to what we have until we can get something better,” the Motor Boy decided, after a moment of thought. “If we smashed the other ship up much, or she smashed us, there’ll be a lot of wreckage floating around soon, and we may be able to pick up a bigger piece. As it is, I think you can get on this one, Professor, and let me swim behind and push it. In that way we can make better progress, and may get back to the transport.”
“I suppose that would be a good plan, Bob. But why can’t we both get on this bit of wreckage?”
“Won’t hold us,” was the answer. “It’s just big enough for you. I’m too fat. Besides, I guess I can stand it better swimming and pushing than you. I’ll get off some of my things, though, and make it easier.”
Partly supporting himself on the mass of wreckage, Bob removed his shoes, trousers and coat, and remained in his underwear, which did not form a bad bathing suit.
His garments he rolled up and stuffed into a big crack in the mass of timbers and boards.
Professor Snodgrass was small and light, and when he had managed, with Bob’s help, to clamber up on the wreckage he found he had a fairly comfortable position compared to being unsupported in the water. Nor did he submerge the mass very much.