Adventure Magazine Cover — page 101: what you’re looking at

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

Intuition “Ye were speakin’ of fever just now— I overheard you. Yon’s th’ answer to th’ fever. See th’ kirk over there an’ th’ graveyard. How many have died at Natir”’ Again Red Landyard felt a chill in the tropic air; he followed the direction of Blue Peter’s shaking finger and saw a broken- down church beneath the cross for which was a jungle-tangled graveyard—the rest- ing-place of many Dutch traders and white beachcombers. Nati, with all its charm, was a fever-hole. Micky went into the cabin and called the mate to him. “Red,” he said, ‘‘we’ll hopen a square-face of trade gin an’ forget th’ old fool’s croakin’! My boy’s not set on leavin’ this port for many weeks, ’Ere’s ’ow to success in th’ pearls!” 1 SUCCESS, in a measure, came to NN Micky McMasters and Son; the 3 three divers gutted the seventeen- fathom lava-reef and repaired their gear for deeper diving on a twenty-fathom reef at the northeast bight of the lagoon. They worked through the tropic days. Micky assisted. Once the little skipper went down himself, but the strain was too much for his unaccustomed lungs. He spat blood and bent over with pains when he returned to the Calipso. “Better take to your bunk,” advised Red Landyard. “‘I’ll,.get a doctor from town if th’ pains continue.” “Gin!” gulped Micky. He grew dizzy, reeled, fell over; and Red Landyard had to lift him into the cabin- bunk. The mate opened the portholes, stationed a Lascar as nurse, and went on deck. Blue-Peter’stood in the waist of the schooner, regarding the slimy walls of the wharf and trading-sheds. “‘Th’ old man’s got th’ bends,” said the mate. Blue Peter nodded. ‘“‘He’ll have worse than that, sir.” *““What do you mean?”’ “‘T mean, sir, this is a cursed island—no good ever came out of Nati. Wasn’t I here in 89? I was here, sir, as knows, an’ there was fever then. Cappin Jones of th’ Bernicia almost died of it—an’ three of th’ crew grew black as pitch an’ sprang over- board. But it wasn’t that I feared of this island—it is somethin’ else——’”’ 93 Red Landyard glared over the top of his beard. “You quit your croaking! quit!” Old Blue Peter rolled forward, filled his pipe, sat down on the forecastle deck and puffed slowly as he eyed the dipping shore- lines and the sheer of the trading-shed. A silence came upon the lagoon; the tropic stars torched the night—the world slept. Bob McMasters came on the wharf at sunup. ‘‘How’s th’ governor?” he called to Red Landyard. The mate climbed ashore and whispered, out of any possible hearing of Blue Peter or the cook: “T guess your old man’s all right, Bob. He’s been spittin’ blood—but not much. I calculate he’ll pull through, with th’ medicine I gave him an’ a little quiet. He seems to have a touch o’ fever—not much. I dosed him with veronal an’ fed him qui- nin three times. Better let him sleep—an’ go on with your pearling.”’ Bob McMasters strode up the wharf and took the jungle trail that led to the pearling- sheds at the north of the lagoon. Red Land- yard, watching, concluded he had never seen a finer young man. The doctor came to the schooner in the morning and sat on the edge of Micky’s bunk. “What you need,” he said after taking the little skipper’s temperature, “‘is sea air, and plenty of it. You’re a blue-water man—and this lagoon is almost stagnant.” Red Landyard saw the doctor ashore; then the mate returned to Micky’s cabin. ‘Suppose,’’ drawled the mate, “‘we take Blue Peter and the Lascar and set out. Bob can do without you for a few days. I guess that doctor was right.” “T’m willin’ to do anythin’,” breathed Micky. “I wish I ’ad a ton of ice!” The mate went on deck and consulted with Blue Peter, who was leaning over the rail in the bow, watching the shore-lines dipping in the slime of the lagoon. The seaman turned his head. “Ye are right,” he said, “‘about goin’ to sea for th’ old man’s health. We all should go away from here. Ye see that?” —— you, Blue Peter’s fingers were spread toward | the rotting wharf. ‘See th’ rats—they’ve been swarmin’ along th’ shore-lines all night an’ all day. COMmMicaoo® S (© iin