“It’s your life preserver, Red!” Don chuckled. “Don’t try to swim fast in that thing, or you’ll just spin round and round. Paddle over here slowly, and I’ll pass you an end of marline I brought along to lash us together.”
There was some more splashing, and a final grunt of relief as Red found Don’s hand holding the length of tarred cord. For a while neither of them spoke. The feeling of being suspended in wet, black space rather dampened the wish to talk.
An hour passed in gloomy, uncomfortable silence, before the first hint of daylight showed across the tossing wave tops. Little by little the night sky paled, making the water look all the blacker by contrast. Then, a mile to windward, the two officers made out the ship they had left—a faint, gray shadow breaking a wave-notched horizon.
“We’ve drifted quite a distance, shipmate,” Don observed, gazing toward the Gatoon. “Too far for anybody on board to sight us! I suppose they’re wondering whether or not the sharks have gotten us by now.”
“What I’m wondering is whether that Scorpion seaplane is going to spot us or not,” responded Red Pennington. “And something else just occurred to me—Will the pilot have orders to pick us up before or after they try the bomb the Gatoon? We didn’t think to ask Corba that one, did we?”
“He might not have known, anyhow,” Don shrugged. “Quit thinking up so many different kinds of hard luck, Red, and tell me how your appetite is. I’ve got some chocolate and a couple of sea biscuits stowed away in a waterproof envelope. There’s no telling whether we’ll eat breakfast today....”
“Or be eaten for breakfast!” Red cut in with a yell. “Look! Isn’t that a shark?”
XII
TIGERS OF THE SEA
One glance at the black, triangular fin slicing through the water was enough. It was a shark of the man-eating variety.
“Get out your gun, Red!” barked Don Winslow, reaching for his own weapon. “Hold it ready, but don’t use it until the last possible moment. The smell of blood—even shark’s blood—will drive the other sharks mad!”