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

The Red Cross man’s amazement was plain. He stared at the girl in some perturbation, at the same time neglecting his breakfast.

“You tell me this for a fact, Miss Fielding?”

“Quite.”

“Have you spoken to the captain – to any of the officers?”

“To nobody but you,” said Ruth gravely. “I – I shrink from making anybody unnecessary trouble. Of course, there may be nothing wrong in what I overheard.”

“But a passenger talking German with a stoker! What were they saying?”

“They appeared to be quarreling.”

“Quarreling! Who was the passenger? Is he here at table?” the Red Cross man asked quickly.

“Do you think I ought to point him out?” Ruth asked slowly. “If it is really serious – and I asked for your opinion, you know – wouldn’t it be better if I spoke to the captain or the first officer about it?”

“Perhaps you are right. If it was a merely harmless incident you observed it would not be right to discuss it promiscuously,” said the man, smiling. “Don’t tell me who he is, but I do advise your speaking to Mr. Dowd.”

Mr. Dowd was the first officer, and he presided at the table on this morning as it was now the captain’s watch below. Ruth had been careful to say nothing which would lead her friend to suspect that the passenger she mentioned was a woman.

“Yes,” went on the Red Cross officer firmly, “you speak to Mr. Dowd.”

But Ruth did not wish to do that in a way that might attract the attention of any suspicious person. The woman, Irma Lentz, had mentioned another person who seemed to be one of the queer folks. “Boldig.” Who Boldig was the girl of the Red Mill had no idea. He might be passenger, officer, or one of the crew. She had glanced through the purser’s list and knew that there was no passenger using that name on the Admiral Pekhard.

Even if Miss Lentz was out of sight, this other person, or another, might be watching the movements of the passengers. Ruth did not, therefore, speak to the ship’s first officer in the saloon. She waited until she could meet him quite casually on deck, and later in the forenoon watch.

Dowd was a man not too old to be influenced and flattered by the attentions of a bright young woman like Ruth Fielding. He was interested in her story, too, for the Red Cross officer had not been chary of spreading the tale of Ruth’s courage and her work in the first cabin.

“May I hope the shoulder and arm are mending nicely, Miss Fielding?” Mr. Dowd said, smiling at her as she met him face to face near the starboard bridge ladder.

“Hope just as hard as you can, Mr. Dowd,” she replied merrily. “Yes, I want all my friends to will that the shoulder will get well in quick time. I haven’t the natural patience of the born invalid.”

He laughed in return, and turned to get into step with her as she walked the deck.

“You lack the air of the invalid, that is true. Remember, I have had much to do with invalids in the time past. Although now we do not see many of the people who used to think there was something the matter with them, and whose physicians sent them on a sea voyage to get rid of them for a while.”

“Yet you do have some queer folks aboard, even in war time, don’t you?” she asked.

“Why, bless you!” said the Englishman, “everybody is more or less queer – ‘save thee and me.’ You know the story of the Quaker?”

“Surely,” rejoined Ruth. “But now I suppose most of your queer passengers may be spies, or something like that.”

She said it in so low a tone that nobody but the first officer could possibly hear. He gave her a quick glance.

“Meaning?” he asked.

“That I am afraid I am going to make you place me right in the catalogue of ‘queer folks.’”

“Yes?”

His gravity and evident interest encouraged her to go on. Briefly she told him of what she had overheard that morning at daybreak. And this time she did not refuse to identify clearly the woman passenger who had talked so familiarly with the flaxen-haired stoker on the afterdeck.

CHAPTER X – WHAT WILL HAPPEN?

Ruth Fielding was not a busybody, but the peculiar attitude of the woman, Irma Lentz, toward America’s cause in the World War and what she had overheard on deck that morning, as well as the advice the Red Cross officer had given her, urged the girl to take Mr. Dowd, first officer of the Admiral Pekhard, fully into her confidence.

He listened with keen interest to what the girl had to say. He was sure Ruth was not a person to be easily frightened or one to spread ill-advised and unfounded tales. Useless suspicions were not likely to be born in her mind. She was too sane and sensible.

The chance that there were actually spies aboard the Admiral Pekhard was by no means an idle one. In those days of desperate warfare between the democratic governments of the world and the autocratic Central Powers, no effort was neglected by the latter to thwart the war aims of the former.

To deliberately plan the destruction of this ship, although it was not, strictly speaking, a war ship, was quite in line with the frightfulness of Germany and her allies. Similar plotting, however, had usually to do with submarine activities and mines.

That German agents were aboard the Admiral Pekhard with the intention of bringing about the wrecking of the ship was, however, scarcely within the bounds of probability. Notably because by carrying through such a conspiracy the plotters must of necessity put their own lives in jeopardy.

No group of German plotters had thus far shown themselves to be so utterly unregardful of their own safety.

Ruth believed Irma Lentz to be quite bitter against the United States and its war aims; but she could not imagine the self-styled “artist” to be on the point of risking her personal safety on behalf of America’s enemies.

These same beliefs influenced Mr. Dowd’s mind; and he said frankly:

“It may be well for us to take up the matter with Captain Hastings. However, I cannot really believe that German spies would try to sink the ship, and so endanger their own safety.”

“It does not seem reasonable,” Ruth admitted. “Nor do I mean to say I believe anything like that is on foot. I do think, however, that the woman and that seaman, or stoker, or whatever and whoever he is, should be watched. They may purpose to do some damage to the Admiral Pekhard after she docks at New York.”

“True. And you say there is a third person – a man named Boldig? His name is not on the passenger list.”

“That is so,” admitted Ruth, who had read the purser’s list.

“I’ll scrutinize the crew list as well,” said Mr. Dowd, thoughtfully. “Of course, he may not use that name. I remember nothing like it. Well, we shall see. Thank you, Miss Fielding. I know Captain Hastings will wish to thank you in person, as well.”

Ruth did not expect to be immediately called to the captain’s chartroom or office. Nor was her mind entirely filled with thoughts regarding German spies.

She had, indeed, one topic of thought that harrowed her mind continually. It was that which kept her awake on this first night at sea, as much as did the dull ache in her injured shoulder.

Had she expressed the desire for her companionship, Ruth knew that Helen Cameron would have broken all her engagements in France and sailed on the Admiral Pekhard. Her chum was torn, Ruth knew, between a desire to go home with the girl of the Red Mill and to stay near Tom. As long as Tom Cameron was in active service Helen would be anxious.

And did Helen know now what Ruth feared was the truth – that Tom had got into serious trouble with the flying ace, Ralph Stillinger – she would be utterly despairing on her brother’s account.

Ruth read over and over again her letter from the ambulance driver, Charlie Bragg, in which the latter had spoken of the tragic happening on the battle front – the accident to Ralph Stillinger and his passenger. Of course Ruth had no means of proving to herself that the passenger was Tom Cameron, but she knew Tom had been intending to take a flight with the American ace and that the active flying men were not in the habit of taking up passengers daily.

The American captain who had been lost with Ralph Stillinger was more than likely Tom Cameron. Ruth’s anxiety might have thrown her into a fever had it not been for this new line of trouble connected with the artist, Irma Lentz. Or, was she an artist?

The news that had reached Ruth just as she boarded the Admiral Pekhard had been most disquieting. Had her passage not been already arranged for and her physical health not been what it was, the girl surely would have gone ashore again and postponed her voyage home.

This would have necessitated Tom’s sister learning the news in Charlie Bragg’s letter. But better that, Ruth thought now, than that her own mind should be so troubled about Tom Cameron’s fate.

All manner of possibilities trooped through her brain regarding what had happened, or might have happened, to Tom. He might not, of course, have been the passenger-captain of whom Charlie Bragg wrote. But this faint doubt did not serve to cheer Ruth at all.