Ainslee's Magazine, February 1913 — page 82: what you’re looking at

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

72 left him in possession of the gangway, those in front recoiling on the press be- hind in many-voiced confusion. Tall and gaunt, with a trickle of blood on his gray beard, the stark, old captain stood squarely over his stricken quartermaster, and, when he could no longer reach the crowd with his fists, he lashed them still farther back with his tongue. When he advanced, they re- treated step for step. For a moment he had them cowed merely by his rasp- ing speech and the tip of his extended forefinger. The foremast light’s dull gleams, slanting across their staring, sullen faces as they fell away before his grizzled incarnation of outraged author- ity, showed that they had met their master. And then, from the bridge, came a sound that would have thrilled the old captain on his deathbed, the wail of a ehild,-a cry of “Uncle Josh!” | And hard upon it, the voice of the pilot raised in violent expostulation. Turning his head, he was just in time to see the Cherub, a splash of white against the darkness, vanish in the di- rection of the after gangway, in the arms of the huge Portuguese who had led the stampede. Two other rufhans defended the rear from the harrying at- tacks of the stout pilot, who cursed loudly, and loudly called for aid. But that one cry of the Cherub’s had been sufficient for Joshua Nixon. He thought no more of his ship, and for- got instantly his human cargo, now crowded forward, sullen and watchful. The Union Transport might break its own strikes for all he cared! If the Chicola sailed without the Cherub, he would not be the skipper who sailed her. That was the one point on which he was perfectly clear. With an energy almost insane, he stumbled aft over the deck hamper, planting a blow with every last ounce of his flagging strength between the eyes of one of the pilot’s antagonists. Gasping and speechless, he threw himself upon the Cherub’s abductor, who dropped the child and turned upon him with a grin of cruelty. Joshua Nixon felt himself seized by the throat AINSLEE’S in an iron grip, and saw before him a dark, savage face that gnawed at a clasp knife. Spent and dazed, he watched the dago’s free hand describe a swift, gleaming circle, felt a searing like the brand of a’red-hot running iron on his neck and shoulder. 3 The next instant the Portuguese per- formed a startling back somersault, alighting with a crash headfirst on the: deck; and in his place, lit with the lust of battle, appeared the swarthy gorilla features of Tamale Tom. “The kid!” whispered Captain Nixon, gazing round him like a man wakened from a nightmare. Then the faces of Tamale Tom, the Cherub, and the Bluenose mate swam together in the haze of the masthead light and the rising mist from the har- bor, and for some time Joshua Nixon was beyond the reach of any anxiety whatsoever. When the old captain became aware of his surroundings once more, the first object that impressed itself upon his returning consciousness was a_ chro- nometer that ticked so noisily that it sounded like a pounding hammer. Next he became cognizant of satinwood paneling and a bunk, in which he was lying, edged with a polished nickel rail. Opposite was another bunk, closed and covered with maroon-velvet cushions. Above it a deadlight looked out upon a snowy, sunlit deck, and a section of | steamer rail bright with new enamel, whereon there hung a buoy with the name “Doris” in black letters. A clean- looking steward in smart ducks was re- garding him sympathetically. “What the ” said Captain Nixon, and halted with an exclamation of pain. It became plain that he would not have to turn his head. He gazed sideways at the steward with a certain suspicion. “What’s all the fuss about?” he said, after prolonged reflection. “All right, captain!’ was. the steward’s enigmatical assurance. ‘“‘You ain’t got to move. You been hurt.” “What boat’s this?” asked the cap- . tain, after he had drunk something fizzy (©) AMC Ook (F@