He did not pause long to ascertain what sort of craft it was on which he found himself. That it was a derelict, and that it was probably the one that had crashed into the Sherman, or the craft into which the troopship had crashed, was very evident to Jerry Hopkins. That it was a derelict was sure, for there was not a sign of life on deck, nor was the vessel under command. There was no vestige of sail, and no smoke came from her single funnel, nor was there any vibration to tell of engines in motion.
Jerry made a quick tour of the deck, moving swiftly to restore his partially suspended circulation. The vessel showed many evidences of damage, whether by shell fire or collision Jerry could not determine. Her rails were broken in many places, and all her boats were gone except a broken one on the port davits. Looking over the side as best he could the lad decided that there was not much damage below the water line, or, if there were punctures, the bulkheads confined the leakage to one small section.
“She floats pretty well,” mused Jerry, after he had made a tour of the craft and had seen no one on the deck. “She may ride quite a while yet. There’s no one up here, that’s sure, but that isn’t saying there mayn’t be some one below. I’m going to look.”
The sea was calm and the vessel rode on an almost even keel, so the lad had no difficulty in going below. In spite of her comparatively small size, the derelict contained many places where persons might be either in hiding, or perhaps ill or dead. But Jerry moved quickly about below, using his knowledge of ships which was not small, and as he moved here and there he shouted.
The echoes of his own voice were the only answers he received, and when he had penetrated to the engine room, and even to the stokehold, and had seen the boilers cold and dead, and not a soul in sight, he came to the most natural conclusion.
“I’m all alone here!” he exclaimed aloud. Somehow, it seemed less lonely to speak in this way. “Well, since I’ve got to entertain myself,” mused Jerry whimsically, “I’m going to see if there is anything I can wear and anything I can eat. Might as well be as comfortable as I can since I’m to be ‘cook and captain too, and mate’ of this derelict. Wonder what her name is, anyhow?”
A look at the one remaining lifeboat—useless as it was,—showed painted on her bow the words: “Altaire, New York.”
“Never heard of her,” mused the lad. “She’s probably some small tramp steamer, and maybe was doing a sort of free and easy freight business to Europe. The Germans caught her and—good-night! She must have been floating around for some time, though.”
Going below again, out of the cold, damp fog, Jerry came upon what he took to be the cabin of the captain or one of the mates. It bore evidences of having been ransacked, but there was clothing scattered about, as was the case in adjoining cabins, and Jerry at once stripped, rubbed himself down well until his whole body was in a glow, and then he dressed himself in the best of what he found. It was rather nondescript, to say the least.
“But I’m warm, and that’s a whole lot,” reasoned the lone navigator. “And as there’s no one to see me, who cares how I look?”