Amazing Stories, Vol. 2, No. 2 — page 22: what you’re looking at

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

126 that blow shot out of nowhere, picked me up, and insisted that I go with it. “About an hour ago I thought I saw a chance to zoom up and out of it. I turned, and blick went my upper right wing, and down I dropped.” “IT don’t know how we can notify your ship, Lieu- tenant O’Keefe,” I said. “We have no wireless.” “Doctair Goodwin,” said Da Costa, “we could change our course, sair—perhaps——” “Thanks—but not a bit of it,” broke in O’Keefe. “Lord alone knows where the Dolphin is now. Fancy she’ll be nosing around looking for me. Any- way, She’s just as apt to run into you as you into her. Maybe we'll strike something with a wireless, and I’ll trouble you to put me aboard.” He hesi- tated. ‘Where are you bound, by the way?” he asked. “For Ponape,” I answered. “No wireless there,” mused O’Keefe. “Beastly hole. Stopped a week ago for fruit. Natives seemed scared to death at us—or something. What are yeu going there for?” Da Costa darted a furtive glance at me. It troubled me. O’Keefe noted my hesitation. “Oh, I beg your pardon,” he said. oughtn’t to have asked that?” “Tt’s no secret, Lieutenant,” I replied. ‘I’m about to undertake some exploration work—a little digging among the ruins on the Nan-Matal.” “Maybe I LOOKED at the Portuguese sharply as I named the place. A pallor crept beneath his skin and again he made swiftly the sign of the cross, glanc- ing as he did so fearfully to the north. I made up my mind then to question him when opportunity came. He turned from his quick scrutiny of the sea and addressed O’Keefe. “There’s nothing on board to fit you, Lieu- tenant.” -“Oh, just give me a sheet to throw around me, Captain,” said O’Keefe and followed him. Dark- ness had fallen, and as the two disappeared into Da Costa’s cabin I softly opened the door of my own and listened. Huldricksson was breathing deeply and regularly. I drew my electric-flash, and shielding its rays from my face, looked at him. His sleep was chang- ing from the heavy stupor of the drug into one that was at least on the borderland of the normal. The tongue had lost its arid blackness and the mouth secretions had resumed action. Satisfied as to his condition I returned to deck. O’Keefe was there, looking like a spectre in the cotton sheet he had wrapped about him. A deck table had been cleated down and one of the Tonga boys was setting it for our dinner. Soon the very ereditable larder of the Suwarna dressed the board, and O’Keefe, Da Costa, and I attacked it. The night had grown close and oppressive. Behind us the forward light of the Brunhilda glided and the binnacle lamp threw up a faint glow in which her black helmsman’s face stood out mistily. O’Keefe had looked curiously a number of times at our tow, but had asked no questions. | “You’re not the only passenger we picked up to- AMAZING STORIES day,” I told him. “We found the captain of that sloop, lashed to his wheel, nearly dead with exhaus- tion, and his boat deserted by everyone except him- self.” “What was the matter?” astonishment. “We don’t know,” I answered. ‘He fought us, and I had to drug him before we could get him loose from his lashings. He’s sleeping down in my berth now. His wife and little girl ought to have been on board, the captain here says, but—they weren't.” “Wife and child gone!” exclaimed O’Keefe. “From the condition of his mouth he must have been alone at the wheel and without water at least two days and nights before we found him,” I re- plied. ‘And as for looking for any one on these waters after such a time—it’s hopeless.” — “That’s true,” said O’Keefe. “But his wife and baby! Poor, poor devil!” He was silent for a moment and then began to tell us stories of the great war and of what he had seen in Flanders of broken hearts and homes, and tragedies of motherhood and childhood. He had served there, it appeared, during the first year. He had been wounded at Ypres and, recovering, had been assigned to the naval service. For the last year he had been cruising along the Australian and New Zealand transport lanes. “And while the war’s over, still I’m homesick for the lark’s land with the Boche planes playing tunes on their machine guns and the Hun Archies tickling the soles of my feet,” he sighed. “If you’re in love, love to the limit; and if you hate, why hate like the devil; and if it’s a fight you’re in, get where it’s hottest and fight like hell—if you don’t life’s not worth the living,” sighed he. I watched him as he talked, feeling my liking for him steadily increasing. If I could but have a man like this beside me on the path of unknown peril upon which I had set my feet, I thought, wistfully. We sat and smoked a bit, sipping the strong coffee the Portuguese made so well. Da Costa at last relieved the Cantonese at the wheel. O’Keefe and I drew chairs up to the rail. The brighter stars shone out dimly through a hazy sky; gleams of phosphorescence tipped the crests of the waves and sparkled with an almost angry brilliance as the bow of the Suwarna tossed them aside. O’Keefe pulled contentedly at a cigarette. The glowing spark lighted the keen, boyish face and the blue eyes, now black and brooding under the spell of the tropic night. “Are you American or Irish, O'Keefe?” IT asked suddenly. “Why?” he laughed. “Because,” I answered, “from your name and your service I would suppose you Irish—but your command of pure Americanese makes me doubtful.” He grinned amiably. “T’l] tell you how that is,” he said. “My mother is an American—a Grace, of Virginia. My father was the O’Keefe, of Coleraine. And these two loved each other so well that the heart they gave me is half Irish and half Aercatra s\cVoy <ctherotael when I was sixteen. I used to go to the States with asked O’Keefe in