10-Story Book, February 1928 — page 55: what you’re looking at

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

THE SOUTH SEA ISLAND NUMBER fs You’re mine, Halcyon, whatever happens. But the world—my world—won’t believe it until I’ve bought you a ring—a gold ring, a charm. So we must wait until we come to Neelonga, where such things are sold—” “Ah, but now I understand. A charm, to bring good fortune, not to us, but to—” Her head drooped. Her gloriously smil- ing lips were very near mine. I caught and held her to me, close and yet closer. “Good night!” I said again, at last. “Good night!” she whispered. I went up on deck to find Sebastien. “Ah-a, the bridegroom!” he said. “But do you think you are wise? Here is a girl who, for all you know, may be a—” I caught him by the collar. “You'll be good enough to remember,” I said, “that the penalty for libeling my wife is a thrashing for the first time, and something worse for subsequent offenses. You may say what you please about the crowd she left behind on the island, but. Mrs. Gleeson’s taboo.” “Guess she’ll be that all right if any of her country folk get hold of her again!” snarled Sebastien. “Take your fist off my collar, you fool!” “You might likewise remember,” I went on as I let him go, “that I’ve lent her my automatic, and that she knows how to use it. Any further tampering with that cabin door is going to be a risky business. I’m passing the word along to the boys.” For the week after that things went as smooth as you could wish. We hardly saw the girl, except at meal times. Sebas- tien and the Kanakas treated her civilly enough. I—I slipped from just passion _ and admiration into something altogether bigger and different. The sixth day brought a sudden squall that shook the old boat badly, and jerked a nigger named Martin from one side of the deck to the other. He’d have gone clean overboard if the cook, who hap- pened to be passing, hadn’t grabbed him. The cook ran no risk worth mentioning, but Sebastien made out that he’d been a hero, and insisted on standing drinks all around. It was so different from his usu- al common sense that from the first I’d a theory that there was some motive in the background. There was. The first tot did no particular harm; the trouble lay in stopping. There was a deal of growling and muttering when I wanted to lock up the stuff again. A rumpus sprang up to get possession of the cask, and the thing got knocked over, and was forgotten—that’s like the Kana- kas—in a private and particular feud that ended in blows and drawn knives. And when it was at its height, Sebastien quiet- ly betook himself off. The last chance of bringing the brutes to their senses would have vanished if I’d followed his example, even for five minutes, and he knew that as well as I did. I waited a bit, thinking he’d come back with weapons, but he didn’t. I’d nothing beyond my fists, but I knew something about boxing, and was quick on my feet. A chap called Papua Joe came at me, flourishing a knife, and with his head down, like a bull, as I was peel- ing off my coat. I flung the thing over him and sidestepped, and he blundered into the rail, staggered, and pitched clean overboard, still tangled in the folds. He was dragged under before you could even think about rescue. Two more of the ringleaders tried rush tactics, and both went down, one, as I afterward found, with a fractured collarbone. By that time the others had begun to see that the game wasn’t worth the candle, which- ever way it ended, for the barrel had drained itself empty. There was a pause, and then a general disposition to call a truce. Martin was in the thick of trying to explain that the COMMICOOOKSsEO©