Argosy All-Story Weekly, April 14, 1928 — page 108: what you’re looking at

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

246 “T must go a good way up the beach. Stay here and be calm. It ll be quite all right—the whole mess. Don’t worry. “Allow me, say, three-quarters of an hour, and I’ll be out on the bay in some sort of craft or other. At mid- night you put off from shore. That’s all there is to it. Quite simple.” She put out her hands to him, and he grasped them, kissing them, not chivalrously as was his habit in such cases, but with a long, a hungry ca- ress. The very ferocity of his kisses reassured her. He could do no wrong. He bore a charmed life. Luck—that made some men rich in old San Francisco, and some men beggars—had picked him out as her own. He was Luck’s favorite son. He was indomitable. But when he left she fell to her knees and prayed feverishly, madly, during that eternity which spanned the interval until midnight. CHAPTER XXVIII. TWO SHOTS. T was likewise an eternity of wait- ing for Swope and Brass, for the sea-cook and the doughboy, and for their prisoner, Skipper Bartlett. They had taken turns guarding the old man, while three stayed above leaning over the rail and eagerly watching the shore line or the surrounding ships for a sign of an attack. It must be said, however, that not one of the five men expected trouble, with the possible exception of Tom Brass. Swope was confident that the girl would not dare to breathe a word of her plight. The negro, who was a happy-go-lucky scoundrel, put an un- bounded and childish faith in the mate’s machinations. The doughboy, bloodthirsty and 1m- aginative, did not care one way or another. He was at the age when most ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. of our gunmen of to-day commit their crimes. [f an attack came, he would at least have the thrill of using his gun a thrill which his cautious master had insistently denied him. These two latter, the negro and the doughboy, remained on guard, one on each side of the ship. Swope watched eagerly for an hour, then went below to count up the gold hoard. Brass was sitting on a bunk opposite the old skipper, watching him out of wide-open, fiery red eyes. The skipper with clasped, manacled hands and bowed head, was patiently waiting. Above, Slushy and the doughboy, walking the deck, stopped periodically to vie with each other as to who was the most nonchalant in this hour of tense danger. ‘“How you feelin’, sucklin’?” the cook chuckled. ‘“ How come you’re so green about the gills?” ‘“ T ain’t green. I’m hopin’ they come. Let ’em come—I’m ready. You ain’t seen me in action yet.” “They won’t come.” “Let ’em come. Hope she tells. Hope they come.-I want to use this—”’ He kept taking his pistol out of his belt and caressing it. “* Let ’em come.” “Let who come? Ain’t no one goin’ to come to this party—except the lil angel herself, bringin’ mo’ nuggets— for me and the mate—and maybe Brass.” | This got under the boy’s skin. “You ain’t forgettin’ how much I’m goin’ to ask for this night’s work? One-quarter—that’s how much. As much as Swope gets, I get.” “Swope will give you a couple of quills of dust. That’s all. Saw him di- vidin’ it, sucklin. You’ll be lucky if you get a chicken quill of dust. Only chickens don’t have quills.” He went off, his mountainous shoul- ders heaving rhythmically, his fingers snapping, his feet shuffling. It was an idiosyncrasy of his; when he was tickled, he was tickled all over, until he cakewalked on the deck. (E00) oOLOKS mie (E@)