A stowaway, a stolen book, a murderous villain: an adventure on the most famous shipwreck in history. The great ocean liner Titanic is preparing to cross the Atlantic. Onboard is a sinister thief bent on stealing a rare book that may be the key to unlocking infinite treasure; a wealthy academic traveling home to America with his rare book collection; and Patrick Waters, a twelve-year-old Irish boy who is certain that his job as a steward on the unsinkable ship will be the adventure of a lifetime. In Dangerous Waters by Gregory Mone, disguises, capers, and danger abound as the ship makes its way toward that fateful iceberg, where Patrick will have to summon all his wits in order to survive. This title has Common Core connections. “Mone seamlessly integrates details of the Titanic and its fate into Patrick's story, and his passages about the ocean voyage are vivid, even lyrical.” ― School Library Journal “Mone spins a capable caper, complete with villains so nasty you can picture them twiddling their mustaches.” ― Booklist “The descriptions are magnificent.” ― Kirkus Reviews “Mr. Mone has created an enjoyable and at times poignant literary drama. With an echo of survivor Helen Candee, he writes of the sinking's ghastly cacophony: ‘This was the music of hell.' ” ― The Wall Street Journal “Mone quickly entices readers with criminal intrigue, characters who range from eccentric to entirely ordinary, and, of course, the singular setting that is the Titanic.” ― Publishers Weekly Gregory Mone is the author of the novel Fish . He is a graduate of Harvard and lives in Massachusetts with his wife and three children. Dangerous Waters An Adventure on the Titanic By Gregory Mone Square Fish Copyright © 2013 Gregory Mone All right reserved. ISBN: 9781250016713 1 SAVED BY CERVANTES   Long after midnight, a short-haired man of average height crossed from London’s Kensington Gardens to Mount Street, headed east. Mr. John Francis Berryman had walked silently through the damp, thick grass of the park, but now his oversized heels clacked loudly as he stepped onto the cobblestone street. The noise was unacceptable, even if no other souls were out at that hour. He would have to be more careful. Silent. Ideally he would proceed unnoticed, steal the book, and return to his small flat within the hour. Steal : such a harsh, stubborn word. Was this truly stealing? He planned to return the book once he and Mr. Rockwell found what they needed. And besides, the book’s owner, Harry Elkins Widener, was so wealthy that he could hardly be stolen from. They had been in school together, at Harvard College, and Harry never once had to worry about money. His family owned streetcar lines, railroads, and office buildings. He lived in a one-hundred-five-room mansion and had begun amassing his noted collection of rare—and, in Berryman’s estimation, largely superficial—books at a mere twenty-one years of age. Berryman, on the other hand, dragged behind him a heavy chain of debts. He owed money to his grocer, his tailor, numerous professors and colleagues, even one of his students. His shoemaker was holding no less than three pairs of his boots, vowing not to restore them until he was paid in full, and the local baker refused to loan him so much as a roll. None of this was Mr. Berryman’s fault. The cruel, unbalanced world had thrust him into his present predicament. And this, he believed, granted him the right to borrow from those more fortunate. He walked carefully ahead. South Audley Street was all shadows. No lights shone through the windows looking over the narrow street. No candles burned, no streetlamps glowed, and Quaritch Booksellers, he noted with pleasure, was particularly lifeless. A low scuffling sound startled him. He turned, grabbed his knife, saw nothing; a rat, presumably. At the door to the shop he glanced once more along the length of the dark, wet street, inserted the key he’d lifted off that foolish clerk earlier in the day, and entered. He took a moment to bask: He might not have been the best of thieves, but he doubted that any other scholars possessed such skill. Inside, he breathed in the musty, aged smell of thousands of books. That book dust was fresh sea air to him. So much weathered leather, so many brittle yellowing pages. All that hardened cloth and browned book-binding glue. He found it completely invigorating. Yet he had no time to browse the shelves. He had an assignment. He was to procure the rare second edition of Sir Francis Bacon’s Essaies before Quaritch shipped it off to Widener’s Philadelphia mansion. The door to the old book dealer’s second floor office was open. The electric lights would be too bright, too conspicuous, so he lit a small candle with the deft flick of a match and examined several boxes of books stacked about the room. Widener’s supply was sitting near the door, packaged and ready to sail for America. The anticipation forced his hands to quiver, but