Argosy All-Story Weekly, July 11, 1925 — page 19: what you’re looking at

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

THE BIG GUN. wanted, he glanced overboard into the sea which spread like glass, and saw the Titan’s phosphorus in the wake astern, while ahead, in the new moon, spread a magic carpet. As he rounded the curving steel of the foredeck, the officer of the watch almost collided with him, and asked sharply: ‘““ Where are you going?” “T can’t sleep in my hammock, sir.” “Your first time in the tropics?” “ Yes, sir.” “Then you don’t know, but I’ll tell you: the coolest place is up close to the under- deck, in your hammock.” Cyrus was abashed. He looked on long- ingly, with yearning desire, to the indistinct form of the protruding big guns which loomed, forbidding, ghostlike. “But may I, sir—would it make any difference,”’ he pleaded timidly, “ if I went on the roof there?” “You mean the fo’castle?”’ ‘No; the roof. That little house up above the—the fo’castle?” “Ah! The sixteen-inch turret hood!” * Yes, sir.” “Very well.” Like a homing pigeon to its nest, the lad from the Linkersport shooting gallery climbed to that airy perch, high above the sea, thrust out above and beyond the dour battleship. Something sang solace to his soul. He knew not yet how he would reach his goal, but he was near—very near. He spread his blanket and lay down, keen for each slight breeze. The moon rose more and more, flooding the sea. High-girt Orion jeweled the Southern Cross. He felt projected, aS it. were, among them, above the battleship and beyond it—over the magic carpet—content, ecstatic, sail- ing, sailing, sailing into the unknown. CHAPTER VI. CLOSE TO A DREAM. HERE was fourteen inches of armor plate between Cyrus and the big gun that night. The distance to its se- crets was much farther, and seemingly as difficult to cover as it would have been to eee 173 penetrate the armor, as he was to learn presently. He had gone on the battleship to learn about the gun, but although the officer of the watch might relax discipline a trifle during a tropical night, and with a “greeny,” life and duty on a battleship are highly specialized. Cyrus’s job was to keep count of the crates of prunes, bags of flour, tins of meat, — sacks of sugar and coffee, pounds of bacon, peas, beans, tapioca, baking powder, and spice consumed by the various messes. Chief among these was the “ gob’s scoffin’,” or sailors’ table, which fed over nine hun- dred. Then there was the “‘ steerage,” feed- ing the petty officers and clerical force, to which he belonged. Above this were the higher messes, those of the “ Fourth Ward,” or the junior officers, and of the wardroom, or senior officers. Finally, there was the in- dividual mess of the captain. Enough to keep him busy, surely—too busy to pursue the studies that would fit him to complete his invention. Before a month had passed he wondered how he would ever find “ the tools, plant and ma- terial ” he felt he had been promised, with which he could complete his model and his drawings. Yet he made no complaint. Was he not there, day by day and night by night, only a few feet from the big guns? In the very atmosphere of the secret he desired? For the officers’ messes he kept tabs only on the staples, such as sugar, flour, and dried legumes. Once a month he made an inventory of each mess. Access to each was easy, except to that of the captain. To reach this he had to apply to the captain’s orderly, who accompanied him to the cap- tain’s pantry and stood beside him, waiting, while he made his list. To reach the captain’s pantry he was led along a passage that opened on the cabins of the captain and the admiral. As the Kansas was not a flagship, there was no admiral on board, and thus the admi- ral’s cabin, together with its anteroom, was vacant, and the door stood always ajar. Inside could be seen a plate glass full- length mirror and a nobly carved oaken chest, the most ornate piece of furniture on the ship. : = Comicbooks . - Y 2 » i ae = “a