The Argosy, Vol. 82, No. 3 — page 37: what you’re looking at

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

SHIPS OF STRIFE. “What’s the matter, John Foster? Afraid to hoist anchor for fear you’ll catch the gale that blew away last week?”’ The remark served its purpose of attract- ing attention. As Forrester turned with an oath and a snarl to “Shut up!” the Finn flung out his arms. Instantly a shout arose from the John Foster that startled the seabirds into flight —a shout of rage and vengeance. Before that shout died away the Foster’s topsail- yards were jerked aloft to an improvised chanty which evoked a howl of. rage from the Marshall. : “Oh, Steelfist’s dead an’ gone below— Oh, we say so—an’ we hopes so; Oh, Steelfist’s dead an’ he’ll go below; Oh, poor—ol’—man ! “ He’s deader’n the bolt on the fo’c’sle door— Oh, we say so—an’ we hopes so; Oh, he’ll never knock us dead no more— Oh, poor—ol’—man!” The John Foster was off. CHAPTER VIII. FACING A CRISIS. ROUSED by the shouts, Steelfist Mar- shall was on deck in two jumps. He took in the position at once when the clank-clank rattled from the Foster’s wind- lass, and her fore-yards were braced aback to pay her off as the anchor broke out. ‘What’s started the blame fool off?” he cried furiously. Then, catching sight of Forrester at the rail, ‘‘Man the windlass, you pop-eyed owl! Call all hands! Where’s Bower?” Forrester was taken aback. He stared at the Foster with mouth agape, then his eyes went to the Finn and back to: Blake, as if to piece together the parts of a puzzle. “What’re you staring at, you dumb im- age?” roared the furious skipper. ‘““Where’s Bower? Wake up!” “He went ashore at daylight,” growled Forrester. ‘Them three men ain’t showed up yet.” At this, Marshall broke into a storm of curses. Now a shout from the Foster an- nounced the breaking-out of the anchor, and her head paid off under the thrust of her backed fore-yards. A man ran aloft on each mast to loose the top-gallant sails, and her fore-yards came around handily to a runaway chorus, every All line of which reached the ears of the raging Marshall as the Foster gathered way and stood across his stern. “Oh, what shall he do with his drunken sailors, What shall he do with his drunken sailors, What shall he do with his drunken sailors, Early in the morning! ) “Way, hay, there she rises— Way, hay, there she rises! Hay! Whoop! There she rises, Early in the morning!” Sail after sail was sheeted home aboard the John Foster, and the liquid music of her bow wave burbled along her black sides as she rapidly drew nearer, leaning gracefully to the fresh air of the morning. At her weather rail stood Captain How- ard, bull-like and massive, his red features alight with leering triumph. He leaned out, holding on by the mizzen-royal back- stay, and directed a hail at the Marshall. “Stung, ain’t you?” he barked, his deep voice ringing clear. “The Finn ain’t no consequence, long’s we know where he is. Take him an’ welcome! So long, Cap’n Marshall! Hope your long an’ useless greaser finds them drunken sailors for you afore night!” Marshall leaped to the rail with a curse, and shook his steel fist at the passing ship. “You keep away and crack on, blast you!” he roared. “TI’ll find what I want from the Finn, and I’ll beat your bloody ol’ hooker yet!” “Finn don’t know anything,” came the derisive answer, as the John Foster pointed up for the reef entrance. At this instant a shout rang down from aloft. Paddy Ryan had been working on a broken ratline half-way up the main rig- ging. The Foster had run so close that he could get a clear view of her decks. “Hey, Cap’n Marshall!” he shouted down, flinging out an arm toward the other ship. ‘Git yer glasses! See if that ain’t Cutlip Sullivan roped up in the waist of her!” Marshall leaped for the mizzen-rigging, glasses in hand, and Blake lost no time in jumping with the rest for a view. The Fos- ter showed her stern, and the men were all but hidden, but a roar of rage broke from the Marshall. Steelfist slid down the topmast backstay and turned on the mate. “Who’s missing, Forrester? They got three men roped up, there!” COMIC MOOOKS (C@)