The Argosy, Vol. 82, No. 3 — page 19: what you’re looking at

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

SHIPS OF STRIFE. at once a rumble of growls buzzed from all quarters. Fancy Harry was one man to whom the fo’c’s’le might grumble and still know that their complaints would carry no farther. “Hey, Fancy! What kind o’ grub’s this?” sang out a big hulk of a man. “Dawg bis- cuit an’ boot leg! I signed for beef, didn’t -eo" “Flow the blazes do you know what you signed for, Keough?” grinned the bo’sun complacently. “It took four men to h’ist you over the rail, and both mates an’ me to get you up to the windlass. Shut your head! You'll get used to this grub afore we reach Sydney Heads!” At this, Blake raised his head and looked steadily at Lovell. | “Sydney, did you say? Are we bound for Sydney?” “Why, damme if it ain’t the dude!” ex- claimed Fancy Harry. To Blake’s surprise he extended a hairy paw covered with tatooed stars and anchors. “Put her thar, matey! I’ve sailed with Steelfist three year now, allus hoping to see him get what you gave him. Shake!”’ Those who had seen Blake’s interview with the skipper lost no time in passing the word around. The fo’c’s’le shook with deep- sea voices lifted in rude appreciation and incredulous query. “Vou the guy what plastered the Ol’ Man in the gob?” ‘An’ give him a shiner?” “An’ smeared his ugly face like a pudden?”’ : Blake looked from face to face, wonder- ing inwardly. From his own point of view, he had failed ignominiously and wished only to be rid of the subject. Yet, despite his new nickname of “The Dude,” he seemed to command respect among these men. And, suddenly realizing this, he laughed and flung back his shoulders. “Sure,” he nodded response. “And I’m going to do it again, mates. Lovell, when do we get to Sydney?” CHAPTER III. THE PUNISHMENT. FANCY Harry Lovell was a Job’s com- forter. ‘“‘Can’t say, matey,” he responded slowly, to Blake’s query. ‘‘Don’t know that we’re 393 goin’ to Sydney. Cap’n Marshall goes where he likes, mostly, an’ does worse. But you can bet you’re booked for six months—hey, where you bound for?” The bo’sun reached out and clamped strong fingers on Blake, as the latter rose with a grunt. “Where? again—”’ ‘‘Easy, now easy!” advised Lovell softly. “You ain’t got a chance against Steelfist an’ the mates, let alone the big Chink! Easy, matey; you’re too good a man to see slaughtered by the skipper’s steel fist.” Blake halted, staring at the other in sur- prise. ‘“What’s this about a steel fist?” he queried. A grin passed around the faces. “Thought you’d found out,” returned the bo’sun. ‘You been up against it twice. The Old Man’s got a steel fist—that’s no lie! He lost his right paw through med- dlin’ with a cook who could use a cleaver. New he’s got a fist of steel, padded to the stump an’ laced up his arm to the elbow. What d’ye think he wears them gloves for?” Blake nodded, and turned to his bunk. “Yowre right, bo’sun,” he said simply. “T’ll wait.” , “Yes,” said a voice, amid silence from the others. ‘An’ we’ll be wid ye, matey!” A steel hand, eh? Jack Blake remem- bered those awful right swings, and no longer wondered at how he had gone to sleep under them. As he sat there staring at the floor he did not realize that more than one of the men followed Lovell’s eyes to his face with some- thing like admiration. Blake was not good to look upon in that moment, but something in him was being slowly brought to the surface—something which had long been hidden under luxurious ease and the lazy enjoyment of wealth. It was not for Jack Blake’s eyes to see, how- ever. Whither was all this leading, he thought? Misery, squalor, brutality! Why had he been pitchforked into it—as ironic reward for championing a girl? Ah, the girl! What had become of her? Where was she? Into and out of his life had she drifted, and this was the after- math—his burden. To these reflections he was left until the afternoon watch, when the skipper sum- moned him to sign on the articles. Such I’m going to go see that pirate CORMICGLOOOKS (©)