10 Short Novels Magazine — page 55: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

} one armed with some weapon. Nelson, backing away, swung the axe around his head, a gleaming wall of steel no man cared to charge. Then the big Negro engineer sprang in, sluicing bar raised for the axe to break against. Nelson fired one shot be- neath the path of the axe blade, and at point-blank range. The Negro went down. Summers, insane with fury, lurched forward, armed with a broken-off chunk of a heavy steering oar. Again Nelson fired, aiming for the great mass of Sum- mers’ torso. Summers flinched and went white, but came on—then dropped, the force of his charge carrying him almost to Nelson’s feet. Irresolute, the crew paused, sobered by the death of two men in as many min- utes. They stayed where they were, lack- ing the courage to charge, the impulse to run. Nelson backed away, grinning. He stopped by Winlay’s side. He must get the revolvers Winlay had; they couldn’t be left where the crew might reach them. The last whirl of the axe took it overboard; the cleaver followed it, and Nelson picked up the guns Winlay had in either hand, thrust them, too, into his waist band, and snatched up Winlay. The weather-faded eyes opened. Nelson’s heart leaped. The cleaver had struck on the flat of the blade, not the edge. Win- lay, in spite of the blood, was not badly hurt. Nelson swung the old man up to his shoulder. Then, with one pistol covering the irresolute crew, he backed away to the poop, and upon it. He laid Winlay in the shade of the spanker. Then he turned, and yelled: “Now, you lice — you can pump or drown! You can take her in or go down “Wee Siphcon” foe 53 SS with her. Get back to your work. Jump!” The sight of him, his roaring voice, drove them back to work. Then, in the throb of the engine, pulsing again, in the clank of the hand pump, Nelson had his answer. He had won. A long hour passed. Then, out of the west, came the whistle of a tug, hauling down on them, eager for work. The hand pump stopped; men crowded the star- board rail to watch the tug come up. And Case, hatless, coatless and dirty, slowly drew himself erect. He looked around him—at Summers’ body, at the - crew, at Nelson, at the tug. Then, with a steady tread, he walked aft, toward the poop, and something in his posture tensed Nelson, drowned the exultation that had been welling through him. He saw that only now had Case given up the fight. Case paused, near the break of the poop, looked up at Nelson. “You appear to have won, captain,” he said, in his flawless, sardonic English. “You seem to have won. You’ll get your picture in the papers. You'll get a fat check from the Board of Marine Under- writers, You’ll have the pleasure of send- ing flowers to Mr. Summers’ funeral.” He laughed again, went swiftly to the port rail, leaped upon it, and clung to the mizzen shrouds. Turning, he said: “But you won’t get me into a federal prison!” He raised a thin arm ina last saints then he leaped. Nelson, running to the rail, saw bubbles arising. Case was forc- ing all the air out of his lungs, so that he could not rise. A long moment passed. Then Nelson saluted the bubbles, and in a queerly soft voice said: “T told you, Case, that you might be wrong.” You don’t have to pay 5¢ fora fine long- , filler cigar. Cremo, America’s favorite at 5¢, is now 3 for 10¢—the same Cremo —certified same size, shape, and quality. You get 50% more for your money. (remo CIGARS