The Argosy, Vol. 82, No. 3 — page 45: what you’re looking at

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

SHIPS OF STRIFE. appearance eloquent of an overpowering fury. : “You better get your hook an’ pull out o’ here, Marshall!” he roared. ‘The first man o’ your blasted crowd to set foot ashore gets plugged—you hear me! And if I get my hands on that consarned Finn, [ll toast him over a punk fire. Pull out, my bucko, ~ pull out!” Steelfist Marshall seemed quite at his ease. He laughed—a grating laugh like the ~ rattle of bones. “Have you got your title to the island with you, Mr. Slick Howard?” he taunted. ‘When did you buy Fulai, eh? Sorry, but I got a matter o’ business here—private business, it is. As for pluggin’, you start somethin’. I ain’t a bit scared long’s you don’t come no closer.” His air of quiet raillery passed, and he suddenly leaned forward over the rail, his voice as rage-smitten as that of Howard. “Tl pull out when I’m good an’ ready, see? Now pull out yourself, you—” and he poured a flood of vile abuse at Howard. Every word was an insult, every phase stung like vitriol. Howard was beyond further speech; his massive features went black with passion. Whipping a pistol from his pocket, he fired on the draw; a tiny crackle of white splin- ters broke from the rail beside Marshall’s steel fist. The report was echoed instantly, how- ever, by the crack of an automatic in the left hand of Marshall. Howard’s weapon flew from his hand and splashed in to the sea, while Steelfist grinned. “T’ll learn you to aim straight in a few more lessons, Mr. Howard,” he jeered. “Devil sink you!” roared Howard, danc- ing in the stern-sheets and hanging on to his numbed hand. “It’s fight, is it? By jings, you'll have fight, blast you!” “Chase him off, Mr. Forrester,” and Steelfist turned forward. ‘You can spare a bit more of that ballast, I think.” : Forrester nodded. With a whoop of joy the crew caught the idea and flung them- selves on the pile of ballast. In five sec- onds rock was filling the air and all but filling Howard’s boat as well. From her gunwales zipped splinters, and an oarblade split, knocking the loom of the long ash up to the chin of the oarsman and tumbling him among his mates. Howard plumped down in his seat, trying to guard himself with his coat, and cursing his men 419 fluently as they made frantic efforts to pull away. And after them pealed a roar of merri- ment and defiance from the Marshall that wakened echoes from the headlands and the jungle-massed hill of the island. Since war had thus been- formally de- clared, Steelfist now saw to it that his ship was put in shape to guard against any move from Howard. With the mates driving all hands, the sails were furled harbor fashion, while an- other anchor was carried out astern and springs were bent to both cables. Then the ballast was ranged in heaps under the bulwarks, where it would prove efficient ammunition in the event of any attack from the Foster’s boats. Blake was the last man to remain aloft. On his way down he lingered for a moment in the maintop, from which altitude he gained a clear view of the deck of the Fos- ter. As he hung there watching, he saw a small, weazened Chinaman, evidently the steward, emerge from the companionway and cross to the gangway. The steward was bent nearly double under the weight of a small trunk. Following the steward came a figure which drew an exclamation from Blake. “The girl! And by George—she must be going ashore!” So, evidently, she was, since she disap- peared by the ladder over the side of the Foster opposite Blake. Howard was not in sight. The red-thatched Bingham stood lolling by the rail, watching the girl with half a sneer. A great relief surged through Blake, for he had feared a dozen things. The Foster seemed glad to be rid of Mary Peabody, he observed with no small satisfaction. Pos- sibly their plan had been to lift the treasure and then maroon the girl on the island; but whatever the reason, they seemed to offer no opposition to her leaving. A moment later Blake caught sight of the boat, shooting out from the Foster toward the white bungalow at the north end of, the lagoon. Probably, he thought, the girl knew something of the former missionary and in- tended to occupy the house; then so much the better! His eyes followed the slight, white-draped figure in the stern of the boat, wistfully enough. Ships, men, island, the very at- mosphere of brooding strife—all vanished CORMMICLOOOKS (C@)