Argosy All-Story Weekly — "Sea Marauders" — page 71: what you’re looking at

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

THE SCANDAL ON KITIKAT KEY. the sea, as it was played upon by errant breezes, and to drink in the colors. The water at the beach was pale, silvery green, and this shaded off into a green as bright as creme de menthe, which, in its turn, gave way to the deepest, brightest blue. Out there, in the purpling depths, were gamy bar- racuda and sea bass. He knew where there was a rock ledge from which suc- culent Florida lobsters could be en- ticed and captured. That tropic sea was, in fact, alive with edible occu- pants. Kitikat Key was, indeed, a one-man paradise with emphasis, at the particu- lar moment, on the one man. Behind the bungalow stood a small but stout shanty where dwelled Aunt Becky, who was black, fat and ageless—a woman of deeds but not words. She prepared delectable meals for him, kept his bungalow in apple pie order, and otherwise looked after his creature comforts. — The bungalow had been thoughtful- ly and selfishly designed as a one-man refuge. It had but one sleeping room, and this contained but one bed. The sleeping room was copper screened against mosquitoes which were, at this time of year, always a bane. It caught the night breezes. Here a man could lie, snug under soft blankets when nights were chilly, and sleep for ten or twelve hours, his senses lulled by the crisp and endless murmur of waves tumbling up on the silver white beach and falling back again into the sea. In the morning, when the spirit moved him, Gerald took himself down to the beach, threw aside his bathrobe and leaped into cool, invigorating brine as naked as the day he was born. A swimming suit, he declared, robbed the swim of half its pleasure; and there ws no one to see; no conventional de- mand for more modest attire. Even Aunt Becky would be hidden away at the back of the bungalow, preparing his breakfast of cereal, ham and eggs, wheat cakes, and coffee and toast. 493 It was a great life for a man who didn’t mind solitude, and Gerry didn’t mind it in the least. He reveled in it. There was nobody to pop in at odd and shameful hours and drag him off on some wild party; there was no tele- phone to interrupt the even bliss of his days, with some girl or other at the other end wanting to be taken to luncheon, tea, or dinner. Every evening before he sat down to dinner, Gerald mixed himself a rum cocktail. It was his one drink of the day. He would drink it, standing, al- ways in Aunt Becky’s presence, and his toast was always the same: “To the ladies—God bless their ab- sence!” How glad he was that Fulalie May- time wasn’t here—Eulalie or one of her ilk! Chatter, chatter, chatter. Clothes, cosmetics, reducing, boy friends, girl friends, scandal, stage, movies, night clubs. Girls digging away cleverly for gold. Girls craving a “ Mrs.” on their ticket. Girls bored with life. Girls, girls, girls, “To the ladies—God bless their ab- sence!” The only other room, aside from the breezy sleeping room and the tiny kitchen, was the living room; and this was a room to bring joy to the heart of any man. It was filled with fine, heavy, solid furniture. You could kick it and it wouldn’t break. You could flop down in it and it wouldn’t | collapse. ‘There was a big coquina rock fireplace against one wall, and on chilly nights a driftwood fire in there made the room wonderfully cheerful and cozy. The walls were banked with books of all descriptions; books on hunting, fishing, travel; history, novels, biogra- phy; science, law, medicine. They were not Gerald’s selections; the man he had bought the bungalow from had left them there, but he enjoyed looking at the titles. At least, he enjoyed hav- ing them around him. If he ever got bored, he had only to think of all those