But Tom had been a scout and he was prepared. The two big clumsy hands which bore the captain’s tray back and forth each day had once torn a pack of thirty cards in half to entertain tenderfeet at campfire. And one of those hands clutched this thing now with the grip of a bulldog.
His excitement and his pounding heart did not embarrass him in the brief tussle. A few dexterous twists this way and that, and he withdrew his hand triumphantly, scratched and bleeding, the light in the passage glinting upon the polished surface of the mess plate which he held.
Scarcely three minutes had escaped since he came down from the deck, but in that short period his usually sturdy nerves had borne a terrific strain and for a moment he leaned against the opposite side of the passage, clutching the dish in consternation.
In that brief moment when he had paused before putting his hand through the transom, he had thought that if indeed the plate were being held there even still the conspirator’s eyes would be fixed upon the stationary mirror in order to keep the reflection centered in direct line with the porthole. Evidently he had been right and had taken the plotter quite unaware.
Sherlock Nobody Holmes had succeeded beyond his most extravagant dreams!
The door of the little room flew back and a figure stood in the dark opening, looking at him.
“That—that’s what you meant,” Tom stammered, scarcely knowing what he said, “about the same idea as a periscope. You thought—you thought——”
The man, evidently surprised at seeing no one but the captain’s mess boy, stuck out his head and looked apprehensively up and down the passage.
“There’s nobody,” breathed Tom, “except me; but it won’t do you any good—it won’t—because I’m going to tell——”
He paused, clutching the mess plate, and looked aghast at the disheveled, half-dressed man who faced him. Then the plate dropped from his hand, and a strange, cold feeling came over him.