Adventure, August 1917 — page 91: what you’re looking at

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

Contraband Matrimony Lord Claragh looked somewhat humor- ously at McConaughy. “Y’m glad you all like her. And I do think she’ll stand up for you. But it doesn’t matter whether you bring her back or not— so long as you get the information you are after. Remember, though, I’d rather see you all safe than anything else.”’ _ “We ha’ lived through worrse nor this is likely to be,’’ said McConaughy. ‘‘How soon can you get away?” ‘“‘Any time ye say. ‘Tomorrer mornin’?” ‘That will be excellent.” Lord Claragh looked around him ner- vously. -Then, satisfied that no eaves- droppers were present, he continued— “T think it only right to tell you, Captain McConaughy, that I am _ particularly anxious to keep my son incommunicado, as it were. He is, I may say, inclined to be susceptible—especially to young women. I have learned lately of an incipient affection which has sprung up between him and a person—a—a—to be frank, a theatrical person. It is not the first. I have—well, I have paid substantial prices before. I regard this enterprise as a God- send, if it suffices to keep him out of the way until she can be disposed of. I have plans for my son, which make it necessary that he should be protected against those who impose upon his good-nature.”’ “Do ye tell me so?” replied McConaughy. ‘Hecht, sirr.”” And while he affected to blow his nose he winked vigorously at Jock and Evan, who wandered off presently behind a dismantled landing-stage to give vent to their mirth. “‘He’s suscepteeble, mon,’ appealed Jock. “‘He’s tae be kepit in—what did the auld lorrd say?” “‘T caannot tell’ee,” rejoined Evan. ‘we'll keep him so, Jock.” ‘“‘Ay, he'll be weell keepit care o’, puir loon.” “Put IV THE knife-bow of the Saucy I Mona sliced through the first then swung northward on the course by the Maidens, that isolated clump of rocks crowned by a lighthouse off the Ulster coast, a scant hour’s run from the mouth of Belfast Lough. Trawlers and destroyers of the submarine patrol, charged with keeping the North Channel free from the foam-capped surge off White Head, | 89 German commerce raiders, were the only craft they met. So vigilant was the patrol that there was little danger from the elusive under-sea boat, but McConaughy judged precaution wise, and he traveled at twenty miles an hour, an easy clip for the Mona, with lookouts fore and aft and his machine guns uncased and ready. An hour and a half passing the Maidens, they sighted Rathlin Island. Off to star- board was the Mull of Kintyre, and as they dropped the rocky coast of Ireland abeam they struck the heavier swells that boomed in from the North Atlantic, checked only by the Hebrides. In a short time they were out of sight of land, and to Mc- Conaughy’s intense delight the Hon. Her- bert became painfully ill. Abandoning the for’ard machine gun, which he had insisted upon serving, the heir of the Claragh Line succumbed groaning in the scuppers. Mc- Conaughy saw to it that more than one wave-top licked over him, but he never stirred, except to gulp and. groan. “A bonnie laddie tae be ownerr 0’ kittle ships,” said Jock Grant disgustedly. ‘Wad ye e’er dream de was the son o’ his daddie? He'll hae nae mair o’ the sailorr i’ him than sensabeelity.”’ ‘““He’ll ha’ been severral voyages to ‘Austrralia, the old man said,” answered McConaughy. “Ay, an’ ye’ll ken fine what that meant, returned Jock. “The ownerr’s son, an’ a’ hands fashin’ theirrselves tae mak’ siccar wi’ him, bowin’ an’ scrapin’ an’ bletherrin’. ‘Are ye sick, Mr. Tibbotts? Dinna fyke ye’reself wi’ duties ony lad i’ the crew may do Juist as weell. Lie ye doon i’ ye’re cabin an’ rest.’ ” “Hecht, there na talk the like o’ that on a vessel I command,” declared McCon- aughy. ‘Ma young lorrd will ha’ had rest enough by now.” With which he abandoned the little bridge, raised man-height above the deck, and strode down upon the luckless Tibbotts. © ‘“‘Mistherr Tibbotts!” he called. The Hon. Herbert made no answer. ‘“‘Mistherr Tibbotts!”’ | A groan was the only acknowledgement. McConaughy stopped, seized one shoulder and yanked the limp figure to its feet. ‘‘When the mastherr o’ a craft, whetherr navy or merrchant marrine, calls to a memberr o’ his crew, officerr or seaman, he expects instant answerr,’’ he said sternly. CoOmiclsoo CO 5}