Adventure, July 1, 1928 — page 90: what you’re looking at

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

84 GEORGE ALLAN ENGLAND ** "Twas gave out de pulpit pounder fell overburd,” continued Solomon, “but ahl hands knowed he was huv over de rail, an’ knowed who done it, too. An’ after dat, we had gert time wedder an’ ahl lovely. An’ a woman, she’m a $wonnder- ful lot worse ’n a preacher. Women bein’ ahl as foolish as a she capelin, anyhow, an’ bound to get t’ings ahl in a brile!” “Don’t talk rot!’ Tyson growled at him, now down from aloft. ‘‘You’re old enough to know better, Chips!” “T’m old enough to know women!” the carpenter stoutly defended his position. “De bulk of ’em is ondly made to help men kitch hell! Wid de exception o’ women in gineral, De Man Above made few mistakes when He created de yearth. After He created woman, de Book say He rested, an’ since dat time, ain’t neider God ner man rested much. He’d done a better job if He’d quit afore woman was made, I’m t’inkin’!’”’ Wherewith old Solomon liberally tinc- tured the sea with tobacco juice. The laugh that went round at this bit of misogyny only the more inflamed Solomon. “No, sir,” he indignantly repelled one allusion, “I ain’t got a t’ousand wives an’ don’t want ’em, whatsomever. Women is worse luck ’n a blue painted ship, tippin’ over a saucepan, or layvin’ y’r old shoes an’ clothes ashore. Dey’m de worst luck as is! Id sooner put a match to de divil’s tail "an have one aburd. We got to kape our wedder eye lifted now, me sons, you wait an’ see!” ; Even aft, anxiety touched Leadspitter and Peter Mayes. “There ain’t no good comin’ o’ this,” the mate growled. “I hate like thunder to have petticoats aboard! This is likely to get the wind of us; bust up discipline, hell bent an’ crooked. As cargo, I'd a damn’ sight rather carry oil an’ dynamite, or quicklime in a leaky ship, than what I would a woman!” “Same here,” Mayes agreed. ‘This is goin’ to put a kink in us, sure as guns. We're liable to go a lee, bad.” His black brows ‘contracted; all his short, hard, bow legged figure expressed anxiety. “Sure, *twould ha’ been a good job if we'd gave that there boat the go by, sir.” “Damn’ ’f I don’t think you’re in the rights of it—for once,” Leadspitter as- sented, his lip asnarl. “By Judas Priest, I would have, too, if ’'d known. But it’s too late now, devil burn the boat an’ the woman, too! I reckon,” he added on: a tone of great uneasiness, “I better go down an’ tell the Old Man. As a job, I’ve seen others I liked better!” OWN in his cabin, Isaac Bohannon was at this moment lying stretched out in his berth. Pipe in jaw, he lay there, a scarred, eagle beaked old ruffian of the seven seas. Shirt sleeved, unshaven, sweating and bald, ridged with muscular saliences and ugly as a Chinese demon, he had just wakened from a good kink of sleep and was now indulging in reflections of great and happy poignancy. His pale blue eyes surveyed the repeat- ing rifle in the rack above his bunk and the two revolvers over the chart table; the chronometer and navigating instru- ments; the shelves containing his nautical almanacs and tables, ““Bowditch’s Navi- gator’, and trashy paper novels that at odd times beguiled him. Then they fell upon the medicine chest affixed to the bulkhead, the chest containing no incon- siderable supply of his choicest stimu- lants. The sight of that chest caused him to smile slightly. His smile widened as he gazed upon the old fashioned iron safe opposite his littered desk. Medicine chest and safe—ah! fine combination. Just now they held much that made life dear to Captain Bohannon. Without getting up, the captain poured himself a man’s size hooker of whisky from a bottle on a chair beside his bunk, and drained it. He wiped his unshaven lips with the back of a hirsute hand and sighed deeply, as one temporarily content with life. To have twenty thousand dollars in one’s possession, plus always the possibility of extorting more from a ship owner in due course of time, is not this enough to cheer even a humor as comichbooks.conm