The Argosy, Vol. 82, No. 3 — page 29: what you’re looking at

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

SHIPS OF STRIFE. Plainly, the second mate bore important news. Long Rube came over the side like a monkey, and beckoned Forrester to the rail. The two mates stood in low-voiced conversation for a brief moment, then Bower tumbled down into his boat again and pulled for shore. To the surprise of Blake, Forrester sent ~ a hail forward for him. “How much fo’c’s’le talk have you heard, Dude?” asked the big mate, when the two stood together at the rail. ‘You got some idee what we’re after?” “Some,” admitted Blake, eyeing the man keenly. ‘Not much.” ‘All right. Howard’s the skipper o’ the John Foster, yonder. He’s got a girl aboard. The girl is after the wreck of a ship sunk some’eres between here and Aus- tralia. Steelfist is after it too, see? But we don’t know where the wreck lays, an’ prob’ly the crew o’ the Foster does—they’ll know where they’re bound for, anyhow.” Blake nodded quietly. “The Ol’ Man is goin’ to come aboard later. Crew’s goin’ ashore. You an’ me go ashore to-night, see? We got a scheme on what’ll work. But you talk turkey right now, Dude. Do you stick with us or not? You’re no liar, an’ I owe you a good turn anyhow; say yes or no, and either way goes as she lays with me.” “T say yes,” returned Blake, his gray eyes steady. “Good for you, bully! Then don’t go ashore with the boys, that’s all.” Accordingly, when all the crew save an anchor-watch got shore-leave that after- noon, Jack Blake remained aboard. But he was less quiescent in mind than in body. “That girl is going to have her hands full,” he ruminated, kicking his heels on the fo’c’s’le head and idly watching the John Foster. “I’ve constituted myself her unofficial guardian—hm! I don’t know whether I’m a blame fool or a knight er- rant, but it looks to me as if I’d butted into a chance to be of some use in the world!” His quiet acquiescence with Forrester’s instructions—which must have come from ' Marshall via Long Rube—had certainly been his best plan of action. Steelfist, in the talk which had come to Blake as he lay in the lazarette, had mentioned the possi- bility of kidnaping the girl; Forrester had just now hinted at a scheme to get one or more of the Foster’s crew aboard. 403 Blake laughed softly to himself. “And I don’t even know her name, un- less it’s Peabody! Well, Steelfist Marshall is going to find that I didn’t sign articles to kidnap girls, anyhow! That’s sure!” What he could do was by no means clear to his mind. From all he knew, the John Foster had no suspicion of what the rival ship was after, and Steelfist Marshall seemed to be keeping out of sight ashore. Therefore, the girl was without warning, seemingly. To send her a note was impossible until he could ascertain her name. Even then there were difficulties in the way. His best line of action seemed to be to get word to some one aboard the Foster, warn him, and then await future events. Having deter- mined this much, Blake went below and turned in. He soon fell into a quiet sleep. He awakened hungrily at four bells, and climbed on deck, to find the town and ship- ping twinkling with tiny lights, and the sky out past Barber’s Point shot with crimson- purple in the sun’s afterglow. _ Barely had he obtained a bite from the galley when a hail from aft apprised him that the skipper was aboard. “Dude! Lay aft here!” Jumping to the order, he found Marshall and Forrester by the poop ladder. “Ain’t very chummy with yourself, I s’pose?” began Marshall. ‘Rouse out the lamp-trimmer to keep the first anchor watch. Then you an’ Mr. Forrester go ashore—that is, if you’re feelin’ fit and able.” There was an edge to the last sentence which caught Blake’s attention. “Quite so, sir,” he replied, and went for- ward. So he was to be made useful, eh? Blake resolved that if it was a case of kidnaping, he would be useful in more ways than one —especially if the girl was concerned. To his surprise, Forrester appeared a moment later with an old suit of clothes over his arm, and tossed them to Blake. “Put ’em on, Dude—you’ll look better, mebbe.” “What are we going to do, sir?” asked Blake, obeying with a feeling of satisfac- tion. “Have a little scrimmage, me son! You an’ me an’ Long Rube, an’ some o’ the rats. The girl I spoke of has gone to a hotel, so the Foster’s layin’ up for a day, anyhow. COPMICLOOOKS (E@)