Adventure Magazine Cover, December 10, 1922 — page 98: what you’re looking at

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

heavily, and the little craft was plowing her way, without running lights, through inky blackness and rising seas. Dockery braced his feet on the deck of the shower-whipped bridge and leaned hard against the wheel. The feeble light from the binnacle gleamed faintly on his broad, wet chest. Indications called for a dirty night, and that meant a constant vigil for Dockery, . but he was giving it little thought; nor was he thinking of the two back there on the Reefs, four fathoms under. For in the little cabin below, tucked away in his pouch, were six pearls, which one could sell and live on the proceeds for a considerable time, until _ those interested had forgotten or had grown weary of hunting for poachers. Then one could come back, discreetly—as a traveler, perhaps—and the Minerva Reefs would still be waiting. Dockery strummed the rings in the king- spoke and whistled a tune. He had plenty of food for thought without concerning him- self with the past, or the present either. Wend WITH the first dawn Dockery uasy4 dodged below for a minute and slipped into some clothes. The rain had stopped, but the breeze was more lively and carried a bit of chill with it. By the middle of the morning the sun blazed out, and he stretched himself out on the bridge deck for a nap, having lashed the wheel as nearly as possible to the course. There was a sextant aboard, but he didn’t know how to use it, which was bad business, considering that the practise of leaving the helm at intervals would throw him far off the plotted course. Furthermore, Sunday Island is not.so confoundedly large that one can set out blindly and run into it willynilly. These things occurred to Dockery as he dozed off, and he reflected drowsily that he would fetch up somewhere anyway, so it would be foolish to miss his sleep. And of course, in the afternoon of the third day of an impossible voyage, he awoke refreshed from a couple of hours’ nap and sighted land five miles or so off the port bdéw. Dockery caught hold of the wheel and hauled himself lazily to his feet. “There she is,” he said aloud, without the least surprize, and with all the assurance in the world. / And sure enough it was—Sunday Island. it is highly probable that a large percentage of the deceased master mariners turned over Adventure in their graves at this moment and cursed the-sea they had once loved. Dockery put over the helm and pointed the bow toward the beach, then went below to warm the last can of soup and make ready for landing. A pair of sailor’s white beil-bottoms received attention first. He turned each trouser-leg back until it would hit just above the knee, and sewed it there—not, however, until he had wrapped the six pearls and put three in each leg. This done, he put on a blue flannel C. P. QO. shirt, and, slipping into the carefully arranged trousers, buckled his knife around the outside. The matter of clothes was now solved. Dockery sat down to drink his soup. He would have liked a smoke, but the shore-line was becoming more distinct, and he had decided not to be spotted from a distance if possible. He stooped into the diminutive engine- compartment and selected a tool. The sturdy old motor was chugging away faith- fully. He crawled forward in front of the fly-wheel and quickly removed the bilge- boards. The bilge was practically dry. Squatting down, he set to work. The tool was a brace and bit. A little later Dockery lay down for a sun bath on the bow and watched the craft lose speed and the water mount higher and higher on her sides. Now he had just about enough time for a smoke. The engine was giving a surprizing performance, but it couldn’t last forever. The water climbed higher. Presently the motor took a paroxysm of coughing and choking, but hung on to its job fora while, nevertheless. However, the sea was nearly flush with the deck, and after a spasmodic struggle the motor gave it up. Dockery waited until all headway had | stopped and then took a dive, shoreward. He turned on his back at a reasonable distance and watched Captain Cassius Cleaver’s boat settle and sink, a tattered burgee flap- ping dejectedly from the peak. A noble craft—but it had served its purpose and must of necessity go, after the manner of all things on earth—with the exception, apparently, of John Dockery. You know, one doesn’t eat soup, or any- thing else, just before jumping off for a swim of several miles; and, which is more, one doesn’t ordinarily care to swim several miles through shark-infested waters. But Eomichbooks i (E)