All Story Magazine, December 1913 — page 16: what you’re looking at

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

726 bound? To suit my fancy, she-was a tramp — black and storm-beaten, with _a rugged, bearded skipper on the bridge, guiding her on her wallowing course from Hamburg to Honolulu. She had anchored in the shadow of Table Mountain, stuck her nose into the shifting Niger mud, became ice- bound at Archangel, and run foul of a pirate junk off Hong-Kong. According to my arrangement of her movements, she was plowing through the treacherous, heaving Bay of Biscay, bound for Tangiers. “The Earl of Didderington is not a believer in the old adage of early to bed and early to rise?” The voice was deep and low, and as I turned my head sharply I saw that - the owner of it was quite worthy. His face was not quite distant at first, but there was no mistaking his size. He was huge —dwarfed me com- pletely in height, breadth, and person- ality. One felt the last first and at once, even in the dark—as if one were standing in a presence and was instant- ly awed thereby. I was startled, of course. Never having seen the man before, I was at a loss to know how he knew my name, and as I tried to peer under the broad- rimmed felt hat he wore a soft laugh escaped him. “That is a waste of time,” he told me quietly. “ Will you walk, or do you prefer to watch that tramp ped- dling her way to the scrap-heap? It’s all the same to me.” The authority in his tone nettled me for a bit. I gasped and stood still, wondering why I did it. Then I laughed—as best I could. “Youre a queer chap—very inter- esting, no doubt, and all that—but, you see, I don’t know you. My name is Mason. Good night.” I intended to walk away and leave him there, but I didn’t. A large finger ‘halted me—just a finger; the hand it belonged to must have resembled a - roast. “T am glad to make your acquaint- THE ALL-STORY MAGAZINE. ance, Mr. Mason,”’ he said calmly. “Men who know me little call me Campbell. That will do for the pres- ent. Others who know me better have another name for me, but it canna be even whispered here. I am your friend. Ts not that enough? Are ye a man or a cateran?”’ : I stayed and puzzled and looked blankiy up at him, with that “ canna” of his sticking in my ears. ‘That word, apart from the name he had given me, fixed his nationality. “Very well, Mr. Campbell, I'll re- turn the compliment and say I am glad to make your acquaintance,” I decided at last. ‘‘ Let's go and sit down some- where, farther away from the smoke- room. I’m interested, really, and if it’s anything one-half as mysterious as you are, I’m selfish enough to want to keep it all to myself.”’ Without another word he piloted me into the shadow of a deck-house, where he distributed his huge bulk over a deck-chair, while I lit a cigar—offering him one, which he refused—and sat down beside him. “T seldom smoke when I want to talk,’’ he told me, and added: ‘‘ You’re a canny man—for a Didderington. They’ve generally been a feckless crew, and when a friend o’ us both said you might sail on the Randania, I thought I'd sail wi’ ye—tae keep ye oot o’ mis- chiet.” I sat up. ** Sysonsby ! ” Campbell nodded, and, leaning back in his chair, unconsciously gave me a better view of his face. It was broad and strong, clean- shaven, set with deep blue eyes that danced sometimes or remained danger- ously steady at others, giving one due warning of what might happen if one was not very careful. The mouth opened and closed like a trap, and no one could, for a moment, mistake the compelling quality of his voice or un- derestimate the folly of antagonizing him. “Mr. Sysonsby is the man!” he de- comicloooks.com