36xxxx 055 Sub Catches Up

When the powerful diesel-matered cruiser bearing the Gregory party swept away from the Magic Island, their escape seemed perfect. With only enough oil on board to run the motors a short time, a radio message from Johnson saying he was dropping drums of oil with lighted boys along their course, cheered them on.

Then, just 50 miles from Euclidea, the motors sputtered and went dead. And barely in time the first oil drum was sighted and picked up. But it's now three hours later, nearly midnight. And the motors of the Gregory boat have not turned over since the oil drum was taken aboard.

They will never run on the oil from that drum, because the drum contained not oil, but turpentine. In the inky blackness of the subtropic night, Captain Bradford and Jerry stand at the rail near the stern of the helpless boat.

Gee, Tex, we've only made about two miles in the last three hours. That won't do us any good. I know a Jerry, but there isn't a thing we can do about it. That little scrap of sale is all we can hang on her.

And even in a stiff breeze, we couldn't make over four or five knots. With this deadly calm that's all our honors, we're lucky to hold her steady. Why can't we add more sale, Tex? Oh, you've got plenty of canvas, and we could lash a long spark to the mast and hang it on there.

It might not look so good, but it'd catch a lot more wind than that dinky little thing. I don't think I haven't thought of all those things, Jerry. That would only make matters worse if we got a real breeze.