Adventure Magazine Cover — page 91: what you’re looking at

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

JUKES the course to the mate and went to join his fellows on the hatch. “A fine man that, Mister,” said the skip- per to the mate. “Ow would you like to ’ave a little place ashore?” asked one sailor of another on the hatch. “TI ain’t goin’ to sea no more after this passage,” answered the other. Jukes lighted his pipe and sat among them. ‘The sea was blue-black; the sky blue-black above. Whispering from horizon to horizon the sea crests murmured of clean free windy things. “* *Ow would you like to ’ave a little place ashore?” asked the last speaker of Jukes. Jukes turned and faced the man. His eyes shining and eager, he drew the oilskin package from his pocket. They gathered round him as he opened it. They passed the picture from hand to hand. .“T wisht as I was ’im,”’ muttered one and another. ; They looked at him enviously, seated serene and confident among them. NOTHER month was gone. A canopy of cloud hung low over the mastheads. It was with- out break, or rift, uniform from horizon to horizon. It was of that cold gray that presages snow. Because it was uniform it seemed to be without motion. Beneath it the cafion hollows of the sea were black. From horizon to horizon white sea cataracts roared. Every two hours a sailor peered from the forecastle. Watching his opportunity, leav- ing those behind him to close the door, he sprang to the deck. Now running a few steps, now desperately clinging to the wire- tight life-line, now leaping high into the rigging to escape the raging sea, he battled a slow way to the wheel; whence the helms- man whom he relieved made an equally pre- carious passage to the forecastle. It was midday when Alf Jukes opened the forecastle door. Unlike the others, he did not hesitate, or pause to scrutinize the chances of the deck. Though in the past two days no man aboard had slept, there was no sign of weariness about him. As he opened the door he looked with a casual but compre- hensive glance to the gale-whipped and snow-laden sky. Then, stepping to the waist-deep smother of the forward deck, he turned and deliberately banged the door 89 behind him. Head unbowed, gaze straight- forward, light hands upon the rigid life-line, he strode sure-footed through the tempest’s rage. When an insweeping sea completely submerged him, the mate, who was watch- ing from by the helmsman’s side, made for the chart room and bellowed to the skipper. Jukes’s head and shoulders reappeared as the skipper leaped out to the poop deck. The groan of the ship’s hull, the creak and outcry of a hundred straining blocks, the clack of chains and parrals, were inaudible. Had the three masts simultaneously splin- tered and gone over the side not a sound would have been heard. The skipper and mate looked amusedly into each other’s faces. Alf Jukes’s shoul- ders, his gripping hands, his arms, the every motion of his entirely reckless body, ap- peared as the limbs and motions of a gam- boling schoolboy. By the toss of his chin, by the shake of his head, by the partings and closings of his stubble-surrounded lips, the universe might observe that Jukes, on his way to relieve the wheel, was singing. Pointing to the helmsman, the skipper yelled an order into the mate’s ear. The mate nodded. Waylaying the man, the mate dragged him into the chart room. So ordered by mate and skipper, the exhausted helmsman sought shelter in the chart house instead of attempting to reach the forecastle. When sailors looked from the forecastle door to see what was become of Jukes, or of the man whom he had gone to relieve, it was to see the mate gesticulating to them to go back; voicelessly ordering them to remain where they were. Afternoon passed, and no man ventured to the wheel’s relief. Toward dusk the wind fell, its uproar ending abruptly—as if a multitude of yell- ing maniacs had leaped from a precipice edge to instant extinguishment. The crests of the sea died down. The _ horizons widened. For a little while gray ocean rolled under gray sky. Snow fell. The horizons were blotted out. Skipper and mate descended to the sa- loon. Jerking the door of the steward’s pantry open, the skipper shouted for the steward. A trap-door in the pantry deck opened slowly and the steward, who had lain hidden below, arose. His teeth chat- tered. For a moment he looked dazedly up at the skipper; then, realizing that the COMICLOOOKS Cc (C@