The Argosy, Vol. 82, No. 3 — page 17: what you’re looking at

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

SHIPS OF STRIFE. 391 felt that he was now man enough to inter- view the skipper of this horrible ‘“hell- ship,” as Cutlip had termed her. He knew dimly that sailors so termed the ship where men were worked hard. Letting go the fore-topsail sheet tackles, to which he had clung, Blake took a few steps to try out his walking powers. Bully Forrester, holding his jaw in bewildered fashion, hoisted himself through the hatch, and saw him. “Skipper’s waitin’ for you aft, my bully,” he snarled. “Just you cut along, now! When Steelfist Charley’s through with you, I'll ’tend to anything else you want—if you want any more.” Blake laughed, a trifle shakily. Shang- haied! He had read about it, of course, but it “wasn’t done” now, according to books. citizen. “Tf this man Marshall overpowers me, weak as I am,” thought Jack, “he can’t hold me when we make port. In the mean- time, he’ll learn that he has Jack Blake aboard, that’s sure!” Quite unconscious of the absurd figure which he presented, Blake marched reso- lutely along the heaving deck, Forrester following him, and climbed the poop lad- der; at the top, Blake made out a vaguely familiar shape standing on the weather side, abreast of the wheel. All the happenings of the previous eve- ning surged back into his mind at sight of that tremendous figure. Crisp black curls, glittering eyes—albeit one was now surrounded by a purple ring— long arms, and black gloves; the same wolf- ish expression which, fastened on that girl, had first drawn Blake’s attention—there was no room for doubt. This skipper and the girl’s assailant were one and the same person! With double outrage burning in him, Blake strode toward this grim giant. Under the bushy brows, the glittering eyes seemed more sunken than ever, but glowed with lurid fires. The thin lips drew back from yellow, irregular fangs as Blake planted himself squarely before the skipper. “Confound you for a pirate!” he broke out furiously. “I demand that you set me ashore at once!” Steelfist Marshall raised his brows. The corners of his mouth disappeared in wrin- kles of hard muscle. He nodded to the mate, who edged up behind Blake. Anyway, he knew his rights as a, “was maddening. “Did you ship a waiter for the seamen, Mr. Forrester?” drawled the skipper in slow sarcasm. “I hate dirty waiters. You might’s well rig the head pump and wash him off before you bring him aft again.” Bully Forrester grinned appreciation. He sidled alongside Blake, an ebony fid gripped in his big fist. ‘“T’m no waiter for your hog-pen, and you know it,” shot back Blake, his fists clenched. “I’m not one of your filthy sail- ors, and unless you set me ashore at once, I can promise you a mighty unpleasant voyage—” ‘“Consarn you, keep your eyes on that compass!” stormed the skipper, whirling on the helmsman, who was grinning at Blake’s scarecrow apparel. “Mr. Forrester, are you going to take this flunkey to the pump, or do J have to take him myself?” Blake, maddened, wasted no more time in talk. He forgot the manifold aches and pains that burned his head and body, and slid close in with a neat shift which frus- trated the mate’s pleasant intention to trip him. One fierce lead he landed square on Mar- shall’s sneering mouth—then he was shaken to the heels by a terrific right countergthat made his ribs crack. It was the same bone- crushing right which had beaten him down in the fog by the Custom House. Blake’s seething rage blotted that mem- ory from his mind. He only saw his grinning enemy, the grin demoniacal by reason of the blood his first blow had drawn; flinging overboard all his knowl- edge of boxing, he rushed in wildly. Something fell across his legs, a splitting crack descended over his ear, and that ter- rible right fist of the skipper’s thudded to his cheek, cutting the flesh to the bone and hurling him bodily into the poop rail. After that, all was blank. Under the application of cold salt water that gushed burstingly from the nozzle of a pump and soaked him thoroughly, Jack Blake came to himself. The sting of the brine on his cut cheek His eyes smarted with the salt. Groaning, he rolled away from the merciless stream. A watery gleam of daylight touched his swollen face and he struggled into a sitting posture, trying to see out of his puffed and burning eyes. The voice of the mate sounded from somewhere near. “Dump him below an’ pull them rags off Gomichbooks:Go ‘ALi