The Argosy, Vol. 82, No. 3 — page 20: what you’re looking at

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

394 THE abject capitulation was quite opposite to his intentions, and it was with hard-set jaw that he faced Steelfist Marshall in the little sa- loon cabin. Forrester had the deck. The second mate, Long Rube Bower, a lanky, pock- marked ruffian, who chewed steadily at monstrous quids, stood at the captain’s el- bow. Near Blake’s shoulder hovered the steward, the largest Chinaman he had ever seen. ‘“What’s your name?” snapped Marshall wolfishly. “Vou’ll discover that at our first port,” said Blake steadily, giving look for look. cio 3g 9 PR SY ’ “You'll sign on as Ordinary Seaman, at ten dollars a month, and you'll keep your watch on deck with the other rats—” ‘“Confound you,” broke in Blake angrily, “T’ll do nothing of the kind!” ~ “T will now read you the articles—” be- gan Marshall... But the articles were omitted at that in- ' terview, for Blake’s rage overtopped his caution and he rushed. As he did so, however, the long arms of the steward encircled him from behind and grappled him in a hug that made arms and ribs crack together. In the same instant the second mate reached out a pair of claws like grappling arms and twisted them in a choking grip about the American’s neck. Flung to the cabin floor, he was wrenched over on his face and felt the iron of hand- cuffs closing on his wrists. His legs were lashed with small rope. Then Bower rolled him over with an ungentle foot and squirted a stream of tobacco juice into his face. “Those who won’t work won’t eat,” re- marked Captain Marshall. “Mr. Bower, find a soft spot in the chain locker. Don’t mishandle him—more than usual. He won’t appreciate punishment for assaulting his commander, yet a while. Treat him gently; I'll punish him later.” At a sign from Bower the Chinaman seized the ropes confining Blake’s legs and marched up the companionway dragging Blake as he would a sack of coal. Striking each brass-bound step with his head, while the handcuffs tore the skin from his wrists as they hitched under. the steps, Blake soon lost all sense of separate pains. His whole body burned and tingled in one tremendous bruise; his brain went numb under the torture. Across the poop deck and down the short ARGOSY. ladder-—there were six steps, as Blake dim- ly remembered afterward—then the long stretch of the main deck, dry and hot under the sun which had appeared toward noon. So they came to the fo’c’s’le hatch. ‘Stand from under!” barked Bower, and dropped his prisoner headlong. The chain-locker hatch abaft the heel of the bowsprit was lifted, and, with no “stand from under” this time, Blake was bundled through the hole, to fall with a crash on the piled chain cables. Then the hatch was re- placed. Here was torture such as Blake had never in his life dreamed or read of. Painfully squirming until he found the middle of the range of chain, he composed himself in bit- terness of spirit and body, amid the deaf- ening clatter of chain-links. The air was poisonous, his lungs were clogged as though with ashes. With every leeward lean of the ship the bilgewater, compounded from salt water and drainings of the last cargo of raw sugar, erupted a stench that would have turned the stomach of a Hottentot. Each lurch of the vessel flung poor Blake into the tiers of chain with sickening force. How long he lay here he never knew. He was in a half stupor of abject misery and anguish when the hatch was lifted and a man dropped cautiously beside him. ‘Where are ye, matey?” whispered a hoarse voice. “It’s me, Paddy Ryan!” Blake felt kind, groping hands at his head. Ryan’s arm came beneath him, lift- ing his face from the chains. “Here, take a swig on this, matey—” and Blake felt the neck of a bottle at his lips. “°Tis good stuff, for I did be swipin’ it from the stooard’s locker. Tokay, ses the label.” Jack Blake managed to swallow a mouth- ful, chokingly. The fire of the wine crept through his veins and gave stimulance to his outraged body, and restored his nerves te some semblance of strength. “T dassn’t let ye loose,” lamented Paddy Ryan, “it’d only make ’em use ye worser. But here’s a hunk o’ horse. Chaw on it an’ ye'll feel better, mebbe.”’ For a moment Blake bit hungrily into the piece of salt, hard beef that was poked at his mouth. It softened under his teeth, but he felt too ill to continue. “You’re mighty good, Ryan,” he mut- tered thickly. me like this?” (€(0) v.OOK “How long will they keep — (E@)