The Argosy, Vol. 82, No. 3 — page 16: what you’re looking at

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390 Blake stared at his informant, incredu- lous. Shanghaied? Impossible! “But how did I come here? Isn’t this ship sailing?” Sullivan roared with amusement. “Sure she’s sailin’, me lad! How ye come here I dunno. Mebbe ye paid yer passage, huh? Don’t ye like yer cabin ’commoda- tions?”’ Shanghaied—in this day of law and or- der? He, Jack Blake—shanghaied? Then, by the Lord Harry, some one was ‘going to suffer for it! A storm of rage surged through Blake. He rose and started toward the only out- let in sight—a rough wooden ladder nailed against the after side of the den, which led through a small, square trap up overhead. ‘Better stop where ye are, me lad,” ad- vised Cutlip with a drunken leer. ‘The mate’s left us here to git over our jags, mebbe. Bully Forrester ain’t the bucko to leave seamen in their bunks if there’s any chanct o’ using ’em on deck! Wait till yer hauled out, me lad—that’ll be quick enough, Heaven knows!” With which Sullivan raised his own bot- tle and gurgled. Overhead, Blake could faintly hear a babel of sounds that spoke eloquently of hard work being done, and of harder driving helping the work. A gray patch of breaking day showed against the square glass in the hatch, criscrossed by a maze of ropes. A lifting, roaring shape surged and strained into Blake’s sight, then vanished, as the flowing sheeted fore-course snored with wet wind. Over all rose a strident, powerful voice bawling sturdy sea-oaths in accompaniment to resounding thuds of blows. The voice came nearer, and Cutlip’s prophecy was borne out. A huge bulk filled the hatch. Two thick, sea-booted legs felt for the ladder; and rough and blusterous as a deck-sweeping sea itself, Bully Forrester dropped to the ° fo’c’s’le floor. | He stood stooping, bowed arms hanging to his knees, peering into the dim dark hole. “Ves, sir, I’m goin” cried Sullivan, mak- ing up the ladder nimbly enough before the mate could speak. Forrester grinned. “Up, you sojers! Want any help?”’ Lurch- ing over toward Blake, Bully Forrester stumbled over the prostrate form of the man on the floor. THE ARGOSY. “What in—who’s this cherub?” A closer scrutiny satisfied the mate that the Bottle Heaver was far from being an able seaman just at present. Accordingly he put his foot to the man’s ribs and shoved him beneath the lower bunk. Standing erect, he looked at Blake. “Out o’ this, you skulker!” A great fist, knotted as an oak root, was drawn back. Then it dropped slowly, the fingers opening — and clutching Jack’s arm as Forrester leaned forward to look closer. “Oh, scissors! You’re the dude that put the shiner on the skipper, ain’t you? Mister, he'll be plumb tickled to see you!” Blake savagely shook off the clutching hand. A red gale of anger sweeping him, he stepped to the ladder. “You bet he will!”’ he made answer grim- ly. “And if he thinks he can get away—” “Hold on there!” growled the mate, seiz- ing Blake’s flying coat-tails in a firm and determined grip. “Git this in your bean— I’m mate o’ this ship! Fo’c’s’le dogs say ‘sir’ to me. Savvy that?” Blake was too angry for coherent thought. He replied with a wicked upper- cut landing with the full swing of his body. It caught the mate flush on the chin and hurled him against the bunks with a crash. Then Blake leaped for the deck, reached it after a scramble, and looked around. Dazed by the sudden change from the fetid air of that fo’c’s’le to the fresh, crisp gale that poured upon him from beneath the foot of the foresail, Jack Blake stag- gered unsteadily to the maze of ropes around the foremast. He clung to them, fully satisfied to recuperate for a moment before seeking the skipper. Looking over the side and weighing his chances of quitting the ship, he saw the coast stretching in a blue line to port, under a heavy gray pall of morning clouds. To starboard, farther distant, the Farralones spiked out of the slate-colored sea, to spike into the slate-colored sky and vanish. All around him the outlook was gray and dismal. A dreary drizzle of rain fell in- cessantly, soaking him to the skin. Gray decks, aglisten with dampness, gray sails booming in the wind overhead; sullen, slouching, gray-faced men toiling in the rainy mist coiling up gray ropes. Ugh! Blake felt the unsteadiness slowly going out of his legs. Under the stinging fresh breeze his blood began to course again. Despite the damp dreariness of it all, he (e(0) DOO AAG CS (C©)