Ruth Fielding Homeward Bound; A Red Cross Worker's Ocean Perils

“This was on the starboard run, Miss Fielding?” suggested Mr. Dowd.

“Yes, sir. It was right yonder,” and she pointed to the spot in question.

“It must be Dykman, then, you wish to see, Mr. Dowd,” said the under officer, saluting. “Shall I send him here, sir?”

“If you will,” Dowd said, and remained himself to talk pleasantly to the American girl.

After a time another man in uniform approached the spot. He was not a young man; yet he was smooth-faced, ruddy, and had a smart way about him. But his countenance was lined and there was a small scar just below his eye on one cheek.

“Mr. Dykman, Miss Fielding,” Dowd said. “Is Mr. Dykman the officer whom you saw, Miss Fielding?”

Dykman bowed with a military manner. Ruth eyed him quietly. He did not look like an Englishman, that was sure.

“This is the officer I saw this morning,” she said, confidently. She felt that she could not be mistaken, although she had not noted his manner and countenance so directly at the time indicated. He looked surprised but said nothing in rejoinder, glancing at Mr. Dowd, instead, for an explanation.

“We are trying,” said the first officer, “to identify a man – one of the crew – who was out of place on the deck here this morning during your watch, Mr. Dykman. About what time was it, Miss Fielding?”

“The sun was just coming up,” she said, watching Dykman’s face.

“There were various members of the deck watch here then, sir,” Dykman said respectfully. “We were washing decks.”

“You came past here,” Ruth said quietly, “and admonished the man for standing here. You told him he had no business aft.”

The man wagged his head slowly and showed no remembrance of the incident by his expression of countenance. His eyes, she saw, were hard, and round, and blue.

“You intimated that he was a stoker,” Ruth continued, with quite as much confidence as before.

Indeed, the more doubt seemed cast upon her statement the more confident she became. She could not understand why this man denied knowledge of the incident, unless —

She glanced at Dowd. He was frowning and had reddened. But he was not looking at her. He was looking at Dykman.

“Well, sir?” he snapped suddenly.

“No, sir. I do not remember the occurrence,” the sub-officer said respectfully but with a finality there could be no mistaking.

“That will do, then,” said Mr. Dowd, and waved his hand in dismissal.

Dykman bowed again and marched away. Ruth watched the face of the first officer closely. Had he shown the least suspicion of her she would have said no more. But, instead, he looked at her frankly now that the sub-officer had gone, and demanded angrily:

“Now, what do you suppose that means? Are you positive you have identified Dykman?”

“He was the man who spoke to the stoker – yes.”

“Then why the – ahem! Well! Why should he deny it?”

“It seems to clinch my argument,” Ruth said. “There is something underhanded going on – some plot – some mystery. This Dykman must be in it.”

“By Jove!”

“Have you known the man long?”

“He is a new member of the ship’s company – as I am,” admitted Dowd.

“He may be ‘Boldig,’” said Ruth, smiling faintly.

“I will find out what is known of him,” the first officer promised. “Meanwhile do you think you would like to look over the seamen and other members of the crew?”

“I do not think there would be any use in my doing so – not at present. They probably know what we are after and the flaxen-haired man will remain hidden. The boat is large.”

“True,” Dowd agreed thoughtfully. “And as we do not know his name it would be difficult to find him on the ship’s roster. Besides, I do not believe that Captain Hastings would allow further search. You see what kind of a man he is, Miss Fielding.”

“Make no excuse, Mr. Dowd,” she said hastily. “You have done all you can. I am sorry I started this in the first place. I merely considered it my duty to do so.”

“I quite appreciate your attitude,” he said, bowing over her hand. “And I think you did right. There is something on foot that must be investigated, Captain Hastings, or no Captain Hastings!”

He went away abruptly, and Ruth had time to think it over. She did not fancy the situation at all.

CHAPTER XII – THE MAN IN THE MOTOR BOAT

She felt that she had taken hold of something bigger than she could handle just at this time. Ruth really wanted to remain quiet – on deck or in her stateroom – and nurse her injured shoulder and fix her mind on the troubles that seemed of late to have assailed her.

There was trouble awaiting her at home at the Red Mill. Aunt Alvirah must be very ill, or Uncle Jabez Potter would never have written as he had. The miserly old miller was in a greatly perturbed state of mind. He and Aunt Alvirah would need Ruth’s help and comfort. She looked forward to a very inactive and dull life at the Red Mill for a while.

After her activities in France, and in other places before she sailed as a Red Cross worker, home would indeed be dull. She loved Aunt Alvirah – even the old miller himself; but Ruth Fielding was not a stay-at-home body by nature and training.

She might have mental exercise in writing scenarios for the Alectrion Film Corporation. She had had good success in that work – and there was money in it. But it did not attract her now. Her work at the Clair hospital seemed to have unfitted her for her old interests and duties. In fact, she was not satisfied to be out of touch with active affairs while a state of war continued abroad.

The trouble at home, and the anxiety she felt for Tom’s safety, served to put her in a most unhappy frame of mind. She surely would have given her mind to unpleasant reveries had not this matter which began with Irma Lentz come up.

This racked her mind instead of more serious troubles. Perhaps it was as well. Ruth disliked having been considered unwarrantably interfering, as Captain Hastings undoubtedly considered she had been.

She answered the second luncheon call and passed Irma Lentz coming out of the saloon-cabin. The woman with the eyeglasses looked her up and down, haughtily tossed her head, and passed on. Ruth was aware that several other first cabin passengers looked at her oddly. It was plain that some tale of Ruth’s “mare’s nest” had been circulated.

And this must be through Captain Hastings. Nobody else, she was sure, could have been tactless enough to tell Miss Lentz what Ruth had said. Had the short-haired “artist” taken others of the passengers into her confidence, or was that, too, the work of the steamship’s commander?

At about this time there probably was not a steamship crossing the Atlantic of the character of the Admiral Pekhard, and with the number and variety of passengers she carried, on which there was not some kind of spy scare. So many dreadful things were happening at sea, and the Germans seemed so far-reaching and ruthless in their plots, that there was little wonder that this should be so.

It would have been the part of wisdom had Captain Hastings kept the matter quiet. Instead, the pompous little skipper had evidently revealed Ruth’s suspicions to the very person most concerned – Miss Lentz. Through her, word must have been passed to the flaxen-haired man Ruth had seen talking with her, and likewise to the officer, Dykman, who must likewise be in the plot.

What would be the outcome? If there really was a conspiracy to harm the ship, either on the sea or after she docked at New York, had it been nipped in the bud? Or would it be carried through, whether or no?

There was so little but suspicion to bolster up Ruth Fielding’s belief that she had no foundation upon which to build an actual accusation against Miss Lentz and her associates, whoever they might be.

She felt the weakness of her case. There was, perhaps, some reason for Captain Hastings to doubt her word. But he should not have revealed her private information to the passengers. That not only was unfair to Ruth but made it almost impossible for her to prove her case.

She ate her lunch with the help of the steward, for her Red Cross friend had eaten and gone. When she returned to the open deck she saw Miss Lentz the center of a group of eagerly talking passengers. There were two wounded army officers in the group. They all stared curiously at Ruth Fielding as she passed. Nobody spoke to her. There was evidently being formed a cabal against her among the first cabin passengers.

Not that she particularly cared. There was really nobody she wished to be friendly with, and in ten days or so the ship would reach New York and the incident would be closed. That is, if nothing happened to retard the voyage.