S.O.S. Titanic by Eve Bunting Read Free Book Online Page A

breakfast in bed. Never could tolerate it myself." He forked kippers and scrambled eggs into his mouth. "Good God, man, what happened to you?"
    "A shark bit me," Barry said. If he was going to be asked the same question by everyone, he should have a better answer ready.
    The colonel guffawed and sprayed kipper morsels across the table. "And that pasty-looking fellow you're with? Did the sharks swallow him in one bite? He's not much of a seagoing man, I expect. Weak stomach."
    "I'm afraid so." Barry allowed the dining steward to spread a serviette across his lap and take his order.
    "Wouldn't have had a fellow like him in my regiment," the colonel said. Amidst spattering kipper showers he told Barry how he himself had been attacked once, not by a shark, but by a tiger. "An unhealthy-looking beast. Mange, most likely."
    Barry only half listened, examining the knife at his place. It was of heavy silver, with the White Star logo etched on the handle. What if he slipped it into his pocket? At least he'd have a weapon if the Flynns found him again. But that knife was too long, and the bread-and-butter one too small. Useless with its blunted point and flat edge.
    "Excuse me," he told the colonel, interrupting a story about another daring escape. "I have to go to the Marconi Room to send a wireless home."
    The first-class shop was on his way. Its windows were filled with all kinds of
Titanic
souvenirs: caps and trousers and elegant scarves. Instandy Barry spotted the small penknives, their ivory handles etched with the ship's image. He went inside and asked to see one. There was a notch at the edge of the blade so you could put your thumbnail to it and pry it out. It fit tightly, but if he nudged it just right it slid out easily. The point was sharp and the edge fine-tuned. Could he use it if he had to? If someone were pushing him over the railing into the cold, dark ocean he could.
    He was sweating, and he wiped his face with the back of his hand. The pig stickers came to Mullinmore every year at butchering time. You could hear the squeals all over the village as the pigs' throats were cut, even down in the woods where Barry went to cover his ears. Would he be able to stick a knife in anyone?
Yes,
he told himself.
If I have to.
    "One shilling and sixpence," the smiling clerk said. "It is rather a sweet little souvenir."
    On the counter was a basket half filled with silver whistles on chains. They were the kind that policemen carried and blew when they needed help—one had shrilled all through Mullinmore the day Jonnie Flynn had grabbed a woman's hat from McKee the draper's and ran with it. "I'll take this, too," Barry said. "How much?"
    "Ninepence. Aren't they nice?" She picked one up and gave it a polite little toot. Barry hoped he could make more noise with it than that.
    Outside the shop he put the knife in his pocket and the whistle around his neck, letting it hang cold and hard inside his shirt. If he unbuttoned the second button, he could pull it out fast.
    He practiced opening the knife blade one-handed as he walked.
Quick draw,
he thought.
And I'll get quicker.
    The Marconi Room was jammed with bodies. If he blew his whistle here, now! Barry grinned and felt the jagged edges of the stitches cut into his skin. He'd have to remember not to smile until this healed up.
    What were all these people doing here anyway? It was like the club room at the Bantry horse races. He jammed himself in at the back. Between the heads he could see the wireless operator at his desk, black earphones in place, sparks flying from under his fingers as he tapped out messages on the set in front of him. The room surged with excitement and impatience. Behind the counter, filling in wireless forms, was another man, younger than the operator. "Yes, sir. Certainly, sir. As quickly as we can," he kept saying over and over. The "in" basket where he put the completed message forms was bulging to overflowing.
    "Can you do one right away, Mr. Phillips?" the