Argosy All-Story Weekly, April 7, 1928 — page 106: what you’re looking at

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

96 looking up into the coal black counten- ance, the flash of great pearly teeth. Bartlett was wide awake, but un- mindful of the manacles on his hands. His one thought now, greater than the obsession about his whales, was the safety of his girl. “ Priscilla!” he called again, tearing his throat in that one desperate scream. Swope put his fingers in his big ears. “Cork up, old duffer! The skit ain’t on board. You know that. Think it’s mornin’? No, it ain’t even midnight by a long way. She’s on shore sing- ing hymns. Now, then, stop yowling and come aft.” Old Joshua, with hands held up so that they touched the beams of the deck above, was standing in front of the crouching Tom Brass. The latter breathed a sigh of relief when Swope and the cook came into the room with their prisoner. Bartlett’s keen gray eyes met the bleary eyes of his faithful harpooner. “ Priscilla!’ Bartlett gasped in mis- ery. He was astonished to see his old Joshua smile. “ It’s all right, skipper.” “ What in God’s name—” Bartlett began. “‘She’s ashore,” Joshua announced in grim, calm triumph. “Ashore!” the old father choked. Then he murmured, a radiant light coming to his wrinkled old visage, “ Praise the all-merciful God!” | Swope stepped between the two old men. ‘“ There’s no use keepin’ this dodderin’ idiot,” he said, looking at Joshua. ‘“‘ We've got no use for him.” “You mean you're goin’ to let him go!” Brass exclaimed. “ Don’t do that, Mr. Mate! He’ll go ashore and get the whole town after us. Kill him—that’s the best to do with him. He’s a pow- erful dangerous old dog, mate! Leave me go aboard him with this gun. It’s the only safe way—” “No shootin’,” Swope warned again. “ What we’re going to do, we do quiet- like. Bind him and gag him.” ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. ‘* Another prisoner!” the big negro grumbled. ‘* What-all’s the use of that, Mistah Mate? Ill go aboard him quiet with this heah knife of mine. In the guts. That ‘ll be quiet.” “ Stow him below in a cask.” This was Mr. Swope’s judgment. “‘ And head the cask down. Later we can heave him by the board—aiter he’s smothered. ‘They find his carcass—no signs of violence. It ‘Il be as if he drowned.” This system pleased both the negro and the cooperer. Together they took the old giant forward to the hatch. Mr. Swope turned to the skipper. “ Now then, Bartlett, my business with you won't take long. Where’s the gold?” Bartlett, standing with legs apart as if on a rough sea, hands crossed before him in irons, grizzled head bent for- ward, stared at the grinning yellow face, “'Where’s the what?” he asked. “You heard me.” “What gold?” “The dust and nuggets and pay your daughter has been filchin’ out of the drunk miners ashore.” “What lies are you spewin’ out of your foul teeth?’ the skipper roared. “You yellow-faced whelp! Strike me dead, shoot me down, but [’Il kill you first—”’ He made a lunge at the mate, who leaped agilely out of his reach. The old captain, stumbling over a chair, and losing his balance because of his man- acled hands, fell forward to the deck. Swope stood up above the exhaust- ed, panting form. Swope was laugh- ing softly. He had the whole situation well in hand. The girl ashore; the old harpooner in the hold, the decks clear; the old skipper throwing a fit down there at his very feet; that was a very comfortable state of affairs. Swope sat down. Still chuckling, he took out his pipe, filled it, tipped it toward the oil lamp chimney. The yel- low beams lit the blue ee of his A Gomichbooks (E)