“May be some poor fellow overcome by the heat and thirst,” suggested Mr. Dancer. “We’d better take a closer look.”
Accordingly, the White Shark was run right up alongside the drifting boat. As they drew near, all hands held their breaths. They did not know upon what tragedy of the ocean they might be going to stumble. But the boat—a small white one, like a ship’s dinghy—was empty. Nor did it bear any evidence of having been occupied recently.
Above the stern seat was a name board, “Mary Gloster, Liverpool.” Except for a coil of rope and some fishing lines, there was nothing to show where the boat came from or what she had been last used for. The fishing lines gave a clew, however.
“Somebody’s been fishing and got adrift and been picked up by a passing vessel which did not bother to load on the dinghy,” said Mr. Chadwick.
“That looks reasonable,” agreed Mr. Dancer. “At any rate, we’ve done all we can do and time is precious.”
“Can’t we tow it?” asked Tom. “It’s a dandy little boat, and it seems a shame to leave it behind.”
“It does; but how can a submarine tow a boat except to Davy Jones’ locker?” laughed Mr. Chadwick quizzically.
“Well, hold this rope till I get into it and examine it for more clews,” said Tom, who loved a mystery and scented one here.
“Very well, Master Tom, Jack can make the boat fast to the rail, but when the engines start you’ll have to come on board.”
Tom nodded and jumped into the boat which was bumping alongside. He threw the line in its bow to Jack, who made it fast around the submarine’s deck rail.