Adventure Magazine Cover — page 143: what you’re looking at

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

EAST OF THE BISHOP “Three fools for th’ Rocks to grind ’stead o’ one,” he roared at the watching Sir Ansel, as the Banner’s head pointed toward the yawl. ‘Git forward, an’ scream an’ shout an’ beckon un to follow as we draw ‘longside. --— ’ee, scream your lungs out! Shred your throat!”’ With the wind abeam, and jib, mainsail and mizzen drawing, the fishing boat’s blunt bow curled the water from her sides with slowly increasing force. Sir Ansel crept carefully forward and stood on the weather side of the mainmast, waiting, and shuddering, as the Banner lurched through seas so white and leaping that they could not but mask rocks more frightful than those that lifted their heads boldly above the whitecaps. But ever their menace was dissipated in spray and a souse of water over the bows. The wind and currents played no favor- ites. As violently as they assailed Miller’s yawl, they rioted about the Banner. But Rob did not answer violence with violence. A gale or a tide has more strength than a man, and well the Scillonian knew it. His keen eyes were fixed upon the waters around the boat, his immovable cheek and shoulder gauged the violence of the wind that came shrieking through the rocks. His hand on the tiller did not thrust it back and forth like a man doing battle. Rather it gently swayed this way and that, interpreting the mood of the telltale wa- ters and the chill of the air on his cheek. With the tiller moved the hand that held the sheet, spilling the violent puffs, but holding the weakened boom to its work. Miller, glancing up, white-faced, to antici- pate the next gust, saw the Banner. Rob tucked a knee over the tiller and waved a hand; Sir Ansel, clinging to the shrouds with one hand, shouted and gesticulated madly. The boat raced on, nearer and nearer the bewildered amateur. Miller watched them come with staring eyes that slipped past the man in the bow of the Banner to the grim little fisherman at the tiller. Rob raised his hand again, and beckoned him to follow. There was no possibility of anything but utter disaster in an attempt to come alongside the uncontrolled yawl in those waters. Rob held his course to southward, and swept abeam of the yawl. Easing off the sheet till it no longer drew, he passed by with slackening speed, to give 137 Miller a chance to come about and follow close. The man in the yawl grasped Rob’s meaning, and thrust the tiller away from him. The yawl came around so sharply that she buried her lee combing in the foam and water poured into her cockpit. But she righted herself, and followed, though now her movements were less lively. Toward that seemingly impregnable wall of black rocks and white water to the southward the Banner ploughed her way, and after her the yawl danced along, reeling to windward and to lee under the frantic, overreaching efforts of Miller to lift her out of the control of currents and wind alike. ‘The man’s seamanship had deserted him under the strain of his plight, and he strove to remedy the defect with muscle alone. But the yawl was a good sea-boat, and struggled on after the Banner like a badly ridden thoroughbred in a race. The two staggering craft drew closer and closer to the granite chain to windward. No passage could be seen among the more scattered rocks ahead and to leeward. Miller’s fear increased. He shouted wildly, questioningly to the boat ahead. Rob Trevellick, hunched over his tiller, paid no heed. His eyes, streaming with spray, were turning ceaselessly now. From the water ahead his intense gaze leaped to the spouting bursts that rushed through the Rocks to windward, then passed on to the seas a-lee, and paused for a moment to rest on the straining boom. If that went now— He shook the thought out of his head with a growl. ‘To the frightened man in the boat behind he raised his hand briefly in a beckoning gesture. There was no time now for more than that. The critical moment had come. To Sir Ansel, clinging tightly to his place on the foredeck of the Banner, it seemed that the boat, half in control of the grip of the tide and half under the will of the man at the tiller, was rushing toward a destruction as certain as if it were an abyss that yawned ahead. The roaring of the contending crags and water rose toacrescendo. ‘The currents, as a rocky islet loomed higher ahead, increased in strength and waywardness. Sir Ansel turned to send a glance of doubt and appeal back to the man at the tiller, but there was no reassurance, no recognition, even, in the stern, set counte- nance he saw. It was as if Rob Trevellick COmiclboooks.CO