Adventure Magazine Cover — page 96: what you’re looking at

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

Ss ‘s <M = = bee ~ © e¢ .". esate Reiec eS * : as ° e Pnan ¥ ° ~ : ~z « = any ay @ Poe a ‘) \\ I aN rl a i \\ tt NTN i culre ceeber ere kee \ I “4 Au PLAN on f Nt 4 Ss \ ob init i | | eo: / a ; Se = oe i Ss ae Author of “The Shell-Back,” “The Frozen Glass,’’ etc. @ SHE was the Calipso—a four-masted, By topsail schooner—varnished, holy- aby stoned, new-rigged; the pride of io" her owner’s eye as she lay tugging at her anchor-chain across the Bay from San Francisco. Her owner and skipper, “Micky” Mc- Masters, had ventured his all in the Calipso and a certain Australasian pearl conces- sion—best reached by heading south of the Line and running before the trades, after Fiji was reached, until Nati came up out of a sapphire sea like a painting on a Japanese fan. Micky McMasters called Nati “The White Man’s Graveyard.” He had returned to San Francisco in order to obtain medi- cine, stores and American divers; the last were hard to get in the South Seas and want- ed much red gold for their services. Rolling down East Street, San Francisco, Micky spied, from astern, the bowed back and swinging arms of an old-time shipmate who resembled a wreck on a hostile shore. The sailor was lurching and tacking and mumbling incoherently. Micky crept upon the man and looked him over, from broken brogans to a sorry-looking headpiece; the clothes he wore were evidently the last from a meager locker. ‘““Howdy, matey?” said Micky McMas- ters with just a touch of cockney in his speech. “Howdy, ‘Blue Peter’!”’ Blue Peter pried open a pair of matted eyes. 88 “Who calls?” asked he. Micky McMasters shrank from the dere- lict—Blue Peter reeked of gin and vice; the lips of him were swollen and the old-time fire had died. ‘Who hails?” repeated Blue Peter. Recognition came to the shell-back; his twisted digits clawed the air; they fell upon Micky’s broad shoulders and fastened with the nails ripping the cloth of the little skip- per’s pea-jacket. ‘Jumpin’ bowheads!” said Blue Peter. “It’s you!” Micky squirmed—he was in for it—Blue Peter, like the Ancient Mariner, was not to be denied. Close came his whiskered face. ‘Jumpin’ bowheads! Help me out, mate. I’m cast away an’ near to starvation. You were with me on th’ Orca—remember?”’ The mutiny of the Orca, in the Arctic, could not be forgotten. Micky avoided Blue Peter’s talons, stepped back, drew out a watch and said: “Tt’s six bells. I must be goin’. Will a little siller come in ’andy, Blue Peter?” “Siller, yes—but sign me off this cursed land—if you will save my life. Th’ pilot- fishes an’ sharks an’ harpies o’ th’ coast have plucked me clean. I want deep sea again—away from sinful men. McMasters, for ’s sake save an old mate! Ship me somewhere.” Micky McMasters whipped out a card, wrote directions, added two paper dollars, and steered away from Blue Peter. He went about his business, obtained the last GOmiGyooks C@ iin