ROUND THE CAMP-FIRE.
By Harold Ericson.
VIII.—THE MAN AT THE WHEEL.
'Have either of you fellows ever been in the middle of a fire at sea?' asked Vandeleur one evening, when informed that it was his turn to spin a yarn for the benefit of the rest. 'If not, I advise you to keep as far away from such a thing as you can. My own experience is only, so to speak, on a small scale; that is, I was only, at the time, upon a short journey across a lake in a small Japanese steamer—a voyage of about sixty miles—but I can assure you I was never more frightened in my life. One feels so utterly helpless when apparently at the mercy of the most pitiless of the elements, far from shore, and—for all one can see—confronted by the necessity to choose one of two kinds of death, if one is more terrible than the other—drowning or burning.
'Am I right in believing that you succeeded in cheating both the fire and the water, perhaps out of deference to the hangman?' asked Bobby, 'or am I speaking to a somewhat solid ghost?'
'Escaped, I believe.' replied Vandeleur, 'in order that I might try to teach manners to a certain ruffian of the name of Robert Oakfield.'
With the words, Vandeleur fell suddenly upon Bobby, and quickly upsetting him, rubbed his nose in the soft moss. There was a short, sharp struggle, and Vandeleur returned to his seat.
'I have not yet succeeded in my object,' continued Vandeleur, 'but I hope for the best.'
We had gone about half-way to our destination—town called Shukisama, on the other side of the lake—when it was suddenly discovered that our little steamer, the Toki Maru, was on fire. With very little warning, flames sprang up from the hold—no one ever discovered how the fire began—and almost in an instant the half of the steamer which lay aft of the hold became unapproachable on account of the dense volumes of black smoke which flew in clouds over it, driven by the head-wind against which the little steamer was making its way.