The Argosy, Vol. 82, No. 3 — page 31: what you’re looking at

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

SHIPS OF STRIFE. at the table with his huge shoulders bent forward and his two fists closed, and who was glaring steadily at Bower like a great mastiff awaiting the moment to leap—what hint of familiarity lay in that massive vis- age? Blake’s thoughts leaped back to a fog-shrouded night—and in a flash he had it. Here was the man whom he had seen with the girl at the Custom House on that momentous evening! ‘“Who’s that with Bower?” he asked in a low voice, threading his way through the maze of tables beside Forrester. “Them?” the mate chuckled. ‘Why, Slick Howard o’ the Foster, 0’ course! That red-headed merman with him is Bingham, his mate.” Blake had no further time for reflection. Events moved fast. As the two entered a hush had ewe over the crowd; then the Marshalls had sent up a roar at sight of Blake following to the officers’ table. Men of both parties, who had hitherto contented themselves with exchanging compliments in general, began to edge in toward the center of the room. Whatever reason Bully Forrester might have for inviting a fo’c’s’le hand to drink in company with Howard and Bingham, that action could have but one result. Every man present ‘knew it, save Blake himself, and Blake was quite conversant with the general state of affairs. Also, he noted that the faces of Howard and Bingham were, if possible, even less conducive to confidence than those of Mar- shall and his officers. It was with a thrill of alarm that he faced the men to whom Mary Peabody had entrusted herself. Then they had reached the officers’ table. “Take your fo’c’s’le rat away from me, Forrester. He smells a little worse than you do.” Captain Howard’s voice was cold and steady; he sat massively and unmoving, save that his right hand had closed on a bottle-neck. The hatchet-faced mate grinned sourly and shoved back his chair. Long Rube Bower gathered his long legs beneath him and rested both hands on the table, ready to spring. Over the long, smoke-dim veranda closed down a sudden hush that was strained and tense. “Friend o’ mine, Cap’n Howard,” warned Forrester slowly. ‘Good enough for any company I keep. Dude, what’ll you have?” For a moment Blake looked into How- 405 ard’s small, slow-moving, biting eyes, and realized as he did so that here was a foe worthy to meet Steelfist Marshall. Then his clean-lined features broke into a smile, and his gray eyes struck down at Howard as his quiet voice bit through the hush. “Tl take a glass of milk, thanks.” The long veranda leaped into riot. As Howard flung his bottle, Bower knocked it away and flung over the table. Before the bottle struck the floor every sea- man in the place was engaged, mobbing around the four smashing officers. Blake found himself in the thick of. a weaving maze of hairy fists flailing on him from every side. All his skill and agility were called into play to keep his feet as the Fosters rushed him; he fought away, Fancy Harry bored into the group, and the general _ mélée separated into individual combats. Finding himself left with two bull-like Sou’easters to handle, Blake managed them in a cool-headed, scientific fashion. A wild yell swept up, which told him that his ship- mates had restored him to place again. “Lookut the Dude! Wow!” “Plaster ’em, Dude!” roared Fancy Harry, who, table-leg in hand, was mowing a swath through the hurly-burly. Smiling, Blake put the second Sou’easter to sleep with a rocking left, and whirled to give his aid to Forrester. The four officers were slugging toe to toe, however; at the same instant there pealed up a wild yell that rose shrilly over the fracas. “Police! Clear out!” A chair flew up and smashed the electric light cluster in a crackle of glass, and the lanai was plunged in darkness. Blake felt himself borne back by the furious stampede, crashed into the flimsy rail of the veranda and went down to earth with a splintering crash. Two figure stum- bled over him, and he caught a hurried word almost in his ear. “Meet me at Waikiki—Jap place!” It was Howard’s voice, and as the figures vanished Blake caught Bingham’s reply. “Right-o! Dll be there—” Squirming to his feet Blake dashed head- long into the shrubbery and gained the street. He had a glimpse of white-clad po- licemen, and slipped away cautiously. “What are Howard and Bingham doing at the Japanese Inn?” he thought, knowing the resort well. ‘I guess I’d better beat them to it and see what I.can see. If they prove to be the right sort Ill tip ’em off COMMUC S 0)(0 0) f (C@)