The Argosy, Vol. 82, No. 3 — page 25: what you’re looking at

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

SHIPS" “OF STRIFE. with the bo’sun gripping his revolver hand. His left was locked about the wrist of Cut- lip Sullivan; blows were raining upon him, but Forrester hung on grimly. “See to the ship, bo’sun!’’ commanded Blake sharply, flinging aside the men. A thunderous rattle and flapping aloft told of the ship rounding into the wind. Blake gripped Forrester’s revolver and tore it away; Fancy Harry leaped to the helm, leaving Blake, Forrester and Cutlip Sullivan locked together. “Hands to th’ braces! Lively, Gawd’s sake!” yelled the bo’sun. Most of the crowd melted away to secure the ship, for immediate action was impera- tive. Blake gripped Cutlip’s arm. “Down with that knife, you fool!” he ordered. Sullivan turned a face twisted with rage and madness. “Go to Hades!’ he snapped back furi- ously. Having already secured a half-Nelson on Cutlip’s free arm, Blake promptly put it into play. The man went to his knees with a bellow of pain. Instantly Bully For- rester had gripped him by the throat with both hands, a snarling oath on his lips. Blake stepped back. Again he brought the edge of his palm to the throat of a man —the blow caught Forrester fair and square. With a gurgling gasp the mate slid down, caught at the bulwarks and went limp. “Get for’ard, Sullivan!” commanded Blake swiftly, and sped the fellow with a blow. Then he leaped to the rail, where Paddy Ryan was hauling in the second mate, and in two moments had Bower spouting water like a picture-book whale. At a touch, Blake turned to find Fancy Harry at his elbow, anxious of face. “What’s to do, Dude?”’ “Suit yourself,” and Blake laughed grim- ly. He patted Forrester’s revolver, which he had slipped into his pocket. “Want to put ’em in irons?” ‘“No—we dassn’t mutiny,” returned the bo’sun. Marshall and his mate lay on the deck, staring goggle-eyed at the moon while the men examined them none too gently, won- dering at the efficacy of the Dude. Bower was in no shape to fight further, and Fancy Harry called the men around him. Big Frank Keough was something of a sea-lawyer, and threshed out the situation. for 399 Marshall had attacked Blake wantonly and had struck the first blow. If things were left in statu quo, the officers would have learned their lesson; if they were ironed and deprived of command, it was mutiny. ‘All right,” nodded Blake, taking things in charge. ‘‘We’ll have no mutiny, of course. We’ve done what we started to do, so let it end there. Keep an eye on Sul- livan, Keough, or. he’ll use that knife of his. Break up, men.” With the bo’sun he approached Bower. ‘Mr. Bower, the ship’s in your hands. You are a witness that Cap’n Marshall struck the first blow.” And in this fashion ended the amazing battle on the C. H. Marshall. Days of uneasiness followed; days when the ocean slid and writhed in long, greasy hillocks and hollows, the ship’s wake swirl- ing with oily bubbles. The fo’c’s’le was un- easy, for no word came from aft. Nothing was said by the skipper. No one was triced up and flogged. No mention of the fight was made by either skipper or mates. It was so uncanny, so contrary to custom on this hellship, that the uneasiness in the fo’c’s’le grew more painful at each watch, 2 Jack Blake discovered a still more pain- ful thing, however—he had made no friends ~ forward when he had saved Forrester from the knife of Cutlip Sullivan. In proportion as the men grew more afraid of Marshall’s grim, cryptic smile, they regretted not hav- ing killed the two mates and mutinied. Even Paddy Ryan evinced a reserve that sur- prised Blake. ‘ “Paddy, what’s the mystery about?” he asked one night. “The ship feels like the roof of a burning powder mill, and you boys seem to think I set it alight!” ‘“Ain’t no mystery, Dude,” returned Paddy moodily. ‘The crowd’s markin’ time to see what Steelfist’s got in his ugly head. What in thunder did you turn around an’ queer the game for, Dude? The crowd’s sore as a boil!” Blake’s gray eyes narrowed half angrily. “T stopped murder, Paddy. I joined in for a scrap, and had it. I didn’t look for knife-play, and sha’n’t assist it without jus- tification.”’ Ryan’s face darkened in disgust, and he spat savagely over the rail. “Justification — hell! Ain’t ye seen enough o’ that aboard this hooker? That ain’t murder—it’s jest fair come-back. CORMICLOOOKS (C@)