"Look here!" he cried, "this pin marks our position at this moment. We are right here!" he touched the point on the map.

"How do you know it does?"

"I calculated the dock's position this morning."

"Well, what of that? She will probably lie here till she rots in this stagnant sea."

"That's the point: This is not a stagnant sea. There is a current of about six miles a day in the Sargasso, very slow, but it will change a ship's reckoning."

Greer remained unimpressed. "What do you make of that?"

"Make of that! Why, man, the person who took this reckoning, took it _this morning_! That's the only way he could have got it. There was somebody on this schooner this morning when we sighted her."

"This morning! This _morning_! Where in Davy Jones' locker----"

Madden was leaning over the chart scrutinizing it with careful eyes. At last he raised up in complete bewilderment.

"Farnol," he said in a queer tone, "the crew meant to come here! Meant to sail through the Sargasso--clear away from all trade routes--incomprehensible but--just look!"

Both boys bent above the chart, and Madden silently pointed out a row of pin holes that marked the daily reckonings of the _Minnie B_. She had sailed from Portland, Maine, had swung up the northern route past Newfoundland Banks as if going to England. On this portion of her voyage her average run was a little less than two hundred knots a day. On the fifth day out, the _Minnie B_ inexplicably deserted the normal trade course, turned from "E. NE." and sailed directly "S. SW." At the same time her speed was accelerated to a trifle over three hundred knots a day. Her last reckoning left the pin sticking in the exact longitude and latitude which Leonard had worked out for the dock that morning.

"They got in a hurry when they did turn south," said Greer vacuously.

"They certainly burned coal from there to here."

"But what could have put her in such a rush, sir?"

"She must have sailed somewhere after a cargo, and later received a cancellation of the order. With that cancellation there must have come a new commission with a time limit, from some of the South American ports, I should judge by her course, say Caracas, or Paramaribo."

"But she has no wireless, sir. She couldn't have changed her destination."

"That would be fairly easy to explain. There are so many fast liners with wireless between New York and Liverpool, it would be a simple matter to get a message signaled to a sailing vessel in the trade route."

"But I can't see why she sailed through the Sargasso?"

"If the time factor had been urgent enough, she might have tried to shorten her journey by coming this way instead of following the usual course by Cuba and through the Caribbean."

"That doesn't tell what happened to the men."

Madden shook his head and wiped the sweat from his face on his undershirt sleeve. "Let's read the log. That ought to clear up things a bit."

Both lads hurried over to the desk, drew out the greasy, well-thumbed book. In their excitement, they forgot rank and tried to read together.

"Let me read it aloud," compromised Madden.

Dripping with sweat, they leaned on the hot desk and went carefully over the log of the _Minnie B_.

The record was simple. The _Minnie B_, of Leeds, England, sailed from Portland, Maine, for Liverpool on July thirtieth with a cargo of lake copper in bulk bound for Liverpool. For the first five days, her log was written in two heavy unscholarly hands, which alternated with each other, and were evidently those of the mate and the captain. These two handwritings were quite distinct from each other and contained the usual notes of prevailing winds, state of weather, speed, distance indicated by patent log, dead reckonings, vessels sighted and such like.

From the sixth to the twentieth day, the log of the _Minnie B_ was written in a sharp, pointed, scholarly hand, and this record was confined to the mere relation of distances and reckonings. Then on the twenty-first day of August there appeared the following entry:

"46 degrees 57' W. Long. 27 degrees 24' 11" N. Lat. No wind. Sargasso Sea. Current 9.463 kilometers per 24 hrs. W. SW. Cast sea anchor. Five hundred tons ingots reshipped."

At this statement, Leonard turned and stared at Greer.

"Reshipped! Reshipped! Holy cats, Farnol! Reshipped from here--right here!" He jabbed a finger downward to indicate the spot in the dead Sargasso Sea occupied by the _Minnie B_.

Greer shook his head dully. "But this is all the wildest--" he made a helpless motion. "You oughtn't to think about it, sir, or you'll be going overboard, too. Reshipped!... This heat will get anybody in time.... The man who wrote that went and jumped overboard the next minute no doubt. Reshipped..... It ain't good for us to read it, sir."

"But something's gone with her cargo, Greer!" declared Madden vehemently. "Something's gone with it. I don't care how crazy the crew became they surely wouldn't have dumped a hold full of copper into the sea. This log says 'reshipped' and blessed if I don't believe--"

At this moment the boys seemed to hear the sound in the deathly silent vessel for which their ears had been all the time straining. Madden broke off abruptly and both stood listening with palpitating hearts. It was repeated. A repressed half groan, inarticulate, as if some human being were in distress. It was in the main cabin below them.

Hardly daring to guess at what they would see, the adventurers crept silently out of the chart room, down a short hot passageway to a door.

Leonard caught a breath, then opened it without noise.

In the brilliant westering light that flooded the main cabin through the port holes, Madden saw a dining table, disordered as from a recent feast. On the floor around it were fragments of smashed glasses and bloody stains. A cut glass decanter, half full of wine, sat on the table, and in a corner of the cabin shrank the figure of a man.

CHAPTER IX

A MODERN COLUMBUS

Hardly knowing what to expect the two advanced into the cabin, when the figure turned and looked at them with pallid countenance.

"It's Caradoc!" cried Madden in great astonishment and relief. "Scots, Smith, you gave us a jolt! We thought--what's the matter, old chap? Heat again?"

The Englishman's long face was strained. "Would you--take that decanter away, please!" he begged unsteadily.

Instantly Leonard understood the temptation into which Caradoc had unwittingly wandered. A strong odor of wine pervaded the cabin, and Smith's knock-out had given his nerves a great craving for a stimulant.

Without a word, Leonard walked to the table, took the wine bottle by its neck and heaved it through the open port. The three men in their half costumes stood listening intently until it chucked into the sea below.

All three seemed to feel relief at the sound.

"That's all right, Caradoc," said Madden with a note of comfort in his voice, "all right, old chap. It won't be like this always."

"I was unstrung--rotten heat," grumbled the Englishman in acute self-disgust. "I thought I was getting over all--" he shifted the topic suddenly: "What do you make out of all this?"

"Completest mystery I ever ran into--the crew deserted for some reason----"

"And they had a feast and a celebration before they went. What cause of rejoicing they discovered in this place is more than I can fancy."

An inspection showed Smith was correct. What the boys had taken for bloodstains in their first excitement were splashes of wine. The table was still laden with dishes and eatables. Broken glass around the table showed that the diners had followed the old custom of breaking their goblets after toasts.

"They were having a last square meal before taking to their boats,"

speculated Leonard.