The Argosy, April 1912 — page 44: what you’re looking at

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

30 pudiate the agreement on which I had staked my life and Smith’s. Low gamesters as they were, they had not even sufficient manhood to abide by the turn of the fortune they themselves had invoked. Possessed by the superstitious belief that Smith’s continued presence on the ship would bring them disaster, they abandoned even such feeble hold upon honor that the average gamester is supposed to maintain. Smith read their vile intent, as did I, even before their drawn blades gave proof of it. “Your gallant fight was useless, Clyde,” said Smith. “They mean to have me.” “And they have my sword,” I growled. “T cannot help you hold the doorway against them on the next rush.” _. They had bunched themselves in rude military formation, and were preparing to charge. I could see this would be no wild, -unarranged assault like the first. We were doomed, we three men, of whom two were wounded, and one weaponless. Nevertheless I darted back and snatched up a three-legged stool from the cabin be- hind me. With this rude weapon I took up my place in the doorway beside the two others. I hoped to strike some one before being killed. “Charge!” bawled a skeletonlike gal- lant, with a shock of black, oily hair. He stood in the lead of the mutineers, and had evidently assigned himself to Crow- ley’s vacated place as their captain. “Charge!” he ordered, waving sword. And, in the same breath, even as we three braced ourselves for our hopeless defense, a hoarse, quavering voice from far to one side, called: “ Halt!” So unexpected was the crack-voiced command, and from so unforeseen a direc- tion, that all of us turned instinctively to look. Even the mutineer leader, who stood just in front of his compactly massed men. And at what we saw, we every one stood aghast—dumfounded. his CHAPTER XIII. I AM FORGIVEN—FOR NOTHING! On the high-jutting little platform just beyond the “break” of the deck, a culverin THE ARGOSY. (a small cannon) was situated. One stood at each end of the ship, as precaution against pirate attack. The two culverins had been overhauled and reloaded that very morning. For the storm-spray of the past three days had soaked their powder. Idly we passengers had watched dry powder and a bagful of slugs and nails rammed into them not two hours before. Now, instead of pointing swiftly out to sea, the culverin above the “break” had been slewed about on it’s greased base- wheel, and was so tilted as to point at the direct center of the mutineer group. To turn and sight the cannon thus was no great task for one man. But what took us so vastly by surprise was the identity of the man who had done it. Crouching at the culverin’s side, a light- ed slow-match held just above its priming, was Mark Frrol! His thin, white hair waving in the wind, his somber face aglow, he seemed like some grimly grotesque caricature of Nemesis. I had flung him out of harm’s way from Crowley’s threatening blade. Aquia had bundled him into the cabin like a sack of rags. But Errol had evidently crawled out by the other and smaller door at the cabin’s far side, and had made his way un- seen to the nearer of the two culverins. In any case, there he was, with the can- non trained full on the mutineer group, and the sputtering slow-match within an inch of the priming’s powder. I speak, of course, only for myself. But I think we all, at that minute, recalled how large a bag of slugs, nails, and scrap- iron had that morning been crammed into the culverin’s gaping mouth. And I think we all realized just what hideous execution that charge of assorted metal would inflict at close quarters. It would sweep the whole deck like the wind of death itself. And, straight in the path of the discharge, the mutineers were bunched. By a common impulse, all at once they started to spring aside from the menace. But ere they could move a step, old Errol’s cracked voice pealed out again in menace: “Halt!” he screamed, his husky tones scaling to angry falsetto. “The instant the first man of you stirs hand or foot I shall fire.” Quickly as the group could scatter, they knew the hail of death would be among comicloool. (CO