Bert Wilson, Marathon Winner

by J. W. Duffield

For many minutes he swam madly, desperately, but soon the brief insanity passed, his self-control returned, and he realized the uselessness of the vain struggle. He ceased swimming and, alternately treading water and floating, to rest his strained muscles, tried to collect his thoughts and determine what to do.

As he floated, he forced his mind backward. One by one the events of the evening on board the Northland came back to him. The quiet loveliness of the night, the talk about Berlin, about the events so soon to take place and about dreams——

“Ah, dreams,” he said aloud. Like a flash he remembered his vivid dream of the Olympic field in Berlin; remembered how in his dream he stood ready to take his part in the great contest; remembered the strained muscles, the poised discus, the forward step—ah, that was it! He felt certain that now he had the reason for his present desperate plight. He must have walked in his sleep and, in his sleep, slipped overboard.

This plausible solution of the mystery was some small satisfaction. Question after question assailed him. How long after he tumbled into his berth had this happened? Was it hours afterward? If so, it would soon be daylight and then he might be able to sight some object that would help him. Had it happened shortly after he fell asleep? Then long hours must pass before the dawn. Stout, husky fellow and strong swimmer that he was, could he keep afloat through those endless hours? He knew that an ordinarily strong man could keep himself afloat five or six hours, seldom longer.

It was eleven o’clock when he went to his berth. The sun rose at this time of the year at about half-past four, so that would make five and a half hours at the most; but the probability was that an hour or more had elapsed before the dream came. That would leave four hours or so before dawn. They would not miss him before breakfast and that would double the four hours.

He did not doubt that they would search for him. If the Northland had been a passenger steamer, sailing under regular schedule, she would not have been able to waste hours, perhaps for one missing passenger. Being under special charter, her time was at her own disposal, and he knew that she would return over her course and send her small boats in every direction in search of him. But at least twelve or fourteen hours must elapse before any aid could reach him.

As this terrible realization came upon him, he was filled with despair. What use to continue to struggle for the few hours that his strength would hold out? It would only be a drawing out of misery with death surely at the end. Better by far to hold himself, deliberately under water and in a few brief minutes end it all. But, no, he would not. He would keep himself afloat till daylight. Perhaps the dawn would show him some floating spar or piece of wreckage to which he might cling. It was his duty to preserve his life as long as possible. If at last he must yield himself to old ocean, he could at least die with the consciousness that he had not yielded like a coward, but had fought on until the end with dauntless determination.

At that moment, as if to reward his courage and manly resolution, a faint light began to creep over land and ocean. With a thrill he realized that the dawn, which he had feared was hours distant, was at hand, and hope sprang anew. But as the light grew and the great, desolate expanse of ocean spread itself out before his eager eye, despair again seized him.

On every side nothing but that great stretch of water. Not a speck as large as his hand upon its calm, cruel surface.