Bert Wilson, Marathon Winner

by J. W. Duffield

“Well, men,” said Mr. Pollard, “I guess there’s no use in staying here any longer. Evidently there’s no living soul on board, and as far as I can see there seems to be nothing worth taking away.”

Accordingly, after one last glance around the forlorn cabin, they had turned and were preparing to go on deck, when they were startled by a shout from above and the man who had been left to take care of the small boat poked his shaggy head inside the door.

“You’d better make haste, sir,” he exclaimed, in an excited voice, addressing Mr. Pollard, “this old tub’s settling fast, sir, and I think she’s about due to go under in something less than a quarter of an hour.”

Accordingly Mr. Pollard gave the order to return to their boat, but the words had hardly left his mouth when the wreck gave a sickening lunge, and the face of more than one in the little party went pale.

“Step lively, now, men!” ordered the officer, in a tense voice. He had no need to repeat his order, for the ship began to list over at a sharp angle, and the men broke into a run. The sight that met their eyes as they leaped up the stairs to the deck was terrifying. When they had gone below, the deck had been perhaps four feet above the water, but now it was almost level with the waves at its highest part, and where it had listed over the water was lapping above the boards.

A shout went up from the sailors, and they made a wild dash for the boat. Into it they tumbled, pell mell, and last of all came the three boys and Mr. Pollard. They leaped into the boat without selecting their landing place very carefully, and those nearest the oars snatched them up and began pulling for dear life. They were not in unison, however, and the boat fairly crawled away from the side of the doomed vessel. It seemed like some horrible nightmare, in which deadly peril is seen approaching, but from which the sleeper is unable to escape. Fortunately, both Dick and Bert had managed to get hold of an oar on opposite sides of the boat, and they at least kept their heads and worked together.

They knew that if the wreck sank before they got one or two hundred feet from it, the whole boat load would be drawn under by the suction. They tugged and pulled desperately, and gradually, aided to some extent by the cooler of the crew, drew away from the dangerous vicinity. In their excitement they had forgotten the poor dog, but now they were reminded of his presence by seeing him come to a broken place in the bulwarks and gaze after them with beseeching barks and whines.

Dick looked at Bert, but the latter shook his head. “No, we can’t take a chance and go back for him, Dick,” he said, “it would be staking all our lives against that of a dog. We’ll have to leave him, that’s all.”

“Gee, but I hate to do that,” exclaimed Tom, “maybe we can get him to follow us,” and he started whistling to the dog.

The animal seemed uncertain what to do, but after giving one despairing glance around at the dismantled deck, he appeared to make up his mind, and plunged boldly overboard. Those in the boat would have liked to wait for him, but they dare not. They were not yet at a safe distance, and the wreck was going down fast now. She was listed considerably to port, and they could see the waves washing further and further up the sloping deck.