Adventure, July 1, 1928 — page 87: what you’re looking at

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

THE ROARING HORN 81 fellow he was, with an interesting cough. “They’re drinkin’ oh be joyful every day, but not a shoot of it do we get!” “Slum gullion an’ chicory, that’s good enough for the likes of us,’’ put in O’Hara, otherwise known as Boston Irish. He scratched a bristly chin with a hand whereon was tattooed a Sacred Heart. “The old hoss we get, sure, it’s that hard you could carve buttons out of it an’ polish *em!” “W’at you expect, anyhow, in a jink ship??? Frenchy asked. “First, she got name of a gal. Dat’s bad. Second, she got a cross eyed man aboard. More bad. Worse of h’all, she’s kill a man aloft. Kill ’m deader ’n hell!” “Who—who’d she kill?” asked the negro. “Feller named Humason. I hear ’bout dat one tam dis ship been to St. Pierre. Shortenin’ down, dis feller was on de lower foretopsail yard, an’ de chain sheet tear his h’insides out.” “Blimey!” the Cockney exclaimed. “No wonder there’s a jinx on this one!” ‘An’ no wonder, neither, that men mutinizes!”’ muttered the Rock Scorpion. “When orficers gets sent to Old Nick, serves ’em bloomin’ well right, says I!” HE SWIFT night of those southern seas engulfed the world, the watery world where the China Girl lay idly wallowing. Although with every ripple and breath of air they trimmed the yards, still she made barely headway as one more day of her death journey came to its end. From deckhouse and cabin skylight gleamed vague glows. Binnacle and running lights made three blurs—white, garnet, emerald—in the gloom. A wraith in the star flecked night, Paavola the lookout man lounged on the forecastle head. The spectral, pale eyed face of Karlstad, the Swede, half illumined by the binnacle’s sullen glimmer, hung at the wheelhouse window. Dark figures moved along the still hot decks. Voices mur- mured. From the carpenter shop, around the door of which lounged a few hands on their watch below, issued jerky and stri- dent chords from a consumptive accordion. Noah Landerry, the P. I., rated as sail- maker, was sitting on a wooden bench there. Lanternlight played uncertainly over his gaunt features as he whinneyed out that lusty old favorite: “In Amsterdam there lives a maid, Mark well what I do say! In Amsterdam there lives a maid, An’ she’s the mistress of her trade! **A-rovin’, a-rovin’, since rovin’s been my ruin, Til go no more a-rovin’, with you, fair maid!” “Walk ““Hayve a’eed !” chimed in a “Atta boy!” one approved. back on ’er!’’ another. wid de rest part of it, b’y third. Landerry turned his quid and con- tinued: “T placed my hand upon her knee, Mark well what I do say-ay-ay! I placed my hand upon her knee, Says she, ‘Young man, you’re rather free!’ “‘A-rovin’, a-rovin’, since rovin’s been my ruin, Til go no more a-rovin’, with you, fair maid!” As the old sea song proceeded in all its unexpurgated vigor, Leadspitter cursed even such light hearted diversion as this bout with the Muses. His ominous bulk lounged, a shadow among darker shadows, on the weather poop. lLeadspitter was hating all hands aboard that night; but most especially was he hating Tyson. The muscular and bare armed shanghaied man, brown and bearded and unafraid of him, filled him with poisonous antipathies. “There’s int’rest runnin’ up on that son of a one, all the time,” Leadspitter dully reflected, as he spat overside. To him it was almost a personal affront that Tyson was turning out so well, doing his duty like a proper seaman, offering no occasion for assault and battery. This, certainly, was something of a grievance to the mate. “If that laddibuck ’d only say some- thin’ or do somethin’, I’d soon preach the belayin’ pin to him, s’help my God!” Leadspitter cogitated. “I’d jump down his throat just as soon as hell ’d let me. comnliclooolks.com