The Argosy, Vol. 82, No. 3 — page 23: what you’re looking at

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

SHIPS OF STRIFE. Blake, half dead, was pulled in. He was jerked to his feet before the skipper, who eyed: him with that wolfish snarl which Blake hated with all his heart and soul. “Take care, Blake, that you don’t repeat your fault. I’ll have to punish you severely the next time. Go for’ard.”’ It was three days before he could again stand his watch. CHAPTER IV. A PROPOSITION FROM STEELFIST. URING those days of agony, it was Paddy Ryan who stole grease from the galley to rub Blake’s chafed limbs, and who filched a roast fowl from the pantry through the maindeck port, when Blake could not look at salt beef. Paddy took his life in his hands to per- form these acts of kindness, and Jack Blake was well aware of the fact. When the pain wore off, Blake recov- ered rapidly from the punishment. When mealtime came along, he was soon ready to take his place at the grimy mess kids, and to scramble for his share, and many were the rough jests passed over the remaking of the Dude. With these Blake put up good naturedly, until Cutlip Sullivan put too much of an edge into his japes. Cutlip, in common with some of the others, took for granted that the “Old Man” had effectually smashed the Dude’s spirit; and on one oc- casion allowed his personalities to become altogether too pointed. The result was astonishing—to Cutlip Sullivan. Blake, very cool and sure of him- self, blinded the other man with cutting straight drives; when Cutlip sent his bul- Jet-head driving for the stomach, Blake stepped aside and planted a neat short-arm jolt to the temple. Cutlip fell with a crash over the hawse- pipe, and stayed there. “Flap yer wings an’ crow!” advised some one. Blake, untouched, only smiled. That encounter did him good—made him sure of himself again. Also, it gave him a definite status which admitted him to the circle of deepwatermen. Thus, when both watches were gathered on the fo’c’s’le head in the dog-watches, and Blake was busily picking out the bunt- lines, clewlines, leachlines, halliards and 397 braces, in comparison with a list given him by Paddy Ryan for his guidance, Fancy Harry Lovell came and desired his pres- ence with the crowd. “We'll pull off a stunt to-night, Dude,” said the bo’sun quietly. ‘You won’t kick at getting a chanct at Steelfist on level terms, will you?” ‘Not a bit,” smiled Blake promptly, and Fancy Harry nodded at the steady gray eyes of him. “I’m not crazy any more, though. Let me get him out of reach of the big Chink and the mates—”’ “We'll ’tend to them,’ rumbled Big Frank Keough, amid a growl of assent. “If you can fix Steelfist, we’ll do the rest!” Blake glanced around cautiously. Paddy Ryan had the wheel, Marshall and Rube Bower stood together at the poop rail, and the mate was stumping back and forth on the weather side. For a moment Blake for- got what was going on, as he looked up. With the strong breeze pouring over her starboard quarter, the ship heeled easily with a throbbing hum and boom of canvas and rigging. The towering . square-sails, mounting from the great arch of the courses to the quivering royals, were suffused with the tints of mother-o’-pearl by the setting sun over the weather bow. “Listen, Dude—” the bo’sun’s voice called Blake to attention. ‘You’ve seen what kind 0’ sweet angels we got to knuckle under to! You’ve had their ’tentions too, though at that I ain’t so sure that they got much change out 0’ you. ‘“Now, we signed on for a Sydney voy- age. We could lay our course with this wind, but we ain’t headin’ that way by a handful o’ points. Steelfist is up to his tricks, see? Gawd knows where we're goin’! ” “We're not heading for Sydney?” in- quired Blake sharply. ‘Sure?” The other nodded quietly, one eye on the poop. “You come along with us at eight bells, and we’ll ask the skipper where he’s bound for. He’ll slam the man that asks him, but he won’t get a chanct at his gun—we’ll pile onto him an’ them sweet mates, an’ give ‘em holy Hades. How ’bout it?” “Eh? Mutiny?” The word was not nice to Blake’s notion of things. “We—” “Not by a jugful,” dissented Fancy Harry hastily. “Not us! We'll lick Steel- fist an’ the mates, see—lick the livin’ guts out of ’em. We signed on for Sydney, but CORMICGLOOKS (C@)