“Indeed I don’t,” Jim answered. “It’s no right thing, whatever it is. We’ll go along to your cabin and look out—it’s closer to the enemy.”
They filed along the gloomy alleys, silently, with hurried steps. Further inspection from Norah’s port-hole only confirmed the boys’ previous opinion. They held a council of war, whispering in the darkness.
“Let’s make a dash for him, whoever he may be,” said Wally. “If we spring in and surprise him he can’t get away, and the wind-scoop will be evidence; no other cabin has one sticking out.”
Jim hesitated.
“That won’t do,” he said at length. “He isn’t such a fool as not to have his door bolted—and a wind-scoop is evidence to a certain extent, but it won’t convict a passenger of signalling. He might simply deny any light, and say he had a passion for more air.”
“Much air he’d get with the scoop in that way!” objected Wally. “The broad part has to be against the wind.”
“Yes, but lots of passengers don’t know how to fix them. I don’t see that we can run this by ourselves, Wal—we’ll have to get an officer and let him see the flashes. We don’t want to make fools of ourselves; and there is a chance that it may be something we don’t understand, and quite all right.”
“Oh, all serene!” Wally agreed. “If you’ll watch I’ll go and report it on the bridge. I expect they’ll have to come in here, Norah—do you mind?”
“Of course she doesn’t—and it wouldn’t matter to them if she did!” said Jim in an impatient whisper, cutting across Norah’s quick disclaimer. “Hurry, Wal—it would be awful if he knocked off and went to bed!”
Wally sped for the door, a dim vision of haste, lean and long in his pyjamas. Disaster awaited him—his foot caught in the fur rug trailing from Norah’s berth, unseen in the gloom, and he fell violently against the half-open door. It crashed into a wardrobe behind it, with a clatter of timber and falling bottles within. The noise echoed through the silent ship.