The Argosy, Vol. 82, No. 3 — page 42: what you’re looking at

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

416 “Hold on!” broke out the skipper, with an oath. ‘Nine hundred south—”’ Bending over the chart once more, Mar- shall caught up a pencil and scribbled down a calculation. He verified it, then flung down the pencil with an exclamation of amazed delight. “By Jupiter! Shouldn’t wonder if you’ve hit it after all, Dude! Here’s the point nine hundred miles south o’ Honolulu—see? Figuring your six-fifty sou’-west by south, we'd fetch Fulai!”’ Blake thrilled to the words. The skipper worked another brief calculation and leaped up. “Dude, we'll take the chance! The course from here is sou’-sou’-west, “bout twelve hundred mile. If it’s the right dope, and it certainly looks it, then by~ glory we'll lick the stern off that blasted Howard. by a week!” Marshall sprang on deck and gave out the new course. Blake went forward again, and in an hour every man aboard was con- versant with the news. Only then did Jack Blake fully realize that he had not only Steelfist Marshall to cope with, but Mar- shall’s crew as well. From the skipper down to the steward, avery man aboard was filled with thoughts of loot. Each watch yarned of treasure- trove and ‘easy money”; Fancy Harry and the rest of the older hands told of Bully Hayes and other famous characters by the hour. The only foremast hand who went about his work and said nothing was Ole Kafban. Blake had cherished hopes of appealing to Paddy Ryan’s better nature and Celtic chivalry, but soon saw that the little Irish- man was as mad as the rest about the ob- ject of the cruise. Reluctantly, Blake drew aside and stood alone, with the Finn for a weak anchor; he was none so certain of his own status that he dared endanger the position which he had gained. Steelfist Marshall was taking a long chance on heading for Fulai—a small coral island well off the steam routes. If all went well, they would reach the island in less than a week. Whether or not this was the spot for which the John Foster was aiming was another question. From the Finn Blake learned that the state of affairs aboard the Foster was much the same as on the Marshall—officers and crew bent on the one object of getting the treasure. That Mary Peabody was in any THE ARGOSY. present danger was most unlikely. The exact location of the wreck was probably her own secret, and would be so until the island was reached. After that, thought Blake grimly, the event would ‘lie largely with himself and with the finger of Fate. The days flew swiftly, while the C. H. Marshall boomed along steadily under the trades. Then, on the sixth morning, all lingering doubt and anxiety was settled when the lookout aloft reported the patched topgallant-sail of the John Foster in sight abeam, on a course convergent with that of the Marshall. For the first time in days, Steelfist’s rug- ged face gleamed in a smile void of ferocity. He urged the utmost from his ship and by nightfall he was close up with, and to wind- ward of, the John Foster. Howard, too, »was driving for all he was worth; it must have become apparent that the C. H. Marshall was bound straight for the same port, and that she had the heels of him. | All through the night the Marshall edged down on the Foster. Toward dawn the two ships were within hailing distance, and through megaphones of canvas there began an exchange of sarcasm, compliment and personality which made Blake trust that Mary Peabody was keeping well out of ear-shot. All hands were on deck, hanging to the rail and enjoying the exchange between Howard and Steelfist; and, every sail draw- ing a rapful, the Marshall slowly forged ahead of her rival. Then came a sudden yell from Forrester, in the bows. “Look out! into us!” No one had noticed how perilously close the two ships were; and, with his extra large crew, Captain Howard tacked his ship like a schooner. When Forrester’s yell pealed up, she was gathering way and bearing down with a smother of bow wave, aiming fair at the bows of the Marshall. “Weather braces! Right yer hellum, ye fool!” Steelfist followed his deep shout by leap- ing himself to the lee cro’-jack brace. His action blanched the faces of the oldest -sea- man aboard, and even Blake understood the desperate chance being taken. With the Foster foaming nearer, an omi- nous shape spitting forth jeering yells and By Gawd, she’s tackin’ EOPMNICLOOKS (C@