The Argosy, Vol. 82, No. 3 — page 50: what you’re looking at

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

424 ‘Sure. Ju climb down dot cable-shain, an’ dond’t stop for notting! Yump—git oud’t, now!” Ole slipped off, evidently seeing no use in running more risks. Blake silently crept up to the windlass, finding the forward deck quite deserted. Crouching beside the hawse, he tied the bundle securely to his head; then sent a searching glance into the shimmering radi- ance of the lagoon to get his bearings. Once sure of these, he slipped down the cable without a sound, slid into the water and quietly struck out. Before he had gone ten feet he noted with a little shiver of alarm the flashing swirl of phosphorescence eddying behind him. Were a boat sent after him at this stage, he was lost! Eight bells tinkled out on the stillness, the strokes leaping across the rippling la- goon to wake soft echoes from the jungle and headlands. A moment later the Fos- ter’s bell also rang the hour, proving that Howard was awake. Neither ship had relaxed sea-watches; the feeling between them was too tense to permit either skipper to leave his vessel to the mercies of a single anchor-watch. While Blake knew, from the ease of his own es- cape, that some might congregate in the galley for a smoke and a game, he felt pretty certain that the watch from the poop would be keen enough. A moment later his surmise proved all too correct. He was nearing the black shore-reflection and was striking out in fresh confidence, when shouts rang out from the Marshall—shouts in which Blake caught the angry tones of Bower and the growl of the mate. Now, knowing that his only chance lay in getting ashore before a boat picked him up, he sprinted hard, careless of the phosphor- escence that betrayed him. Something “plutted” into the water by his head, fol- lowed by the sharp.crack of a rifle; desper- ately, he renewed his efforts, not daring to pause to allow the radiance to die away. A second shot echoed out, but he heard the bullet zipping through the trees. An- other few strokes, and the sand rose be- neath his feet; in ten seconds he was run- ning up the hard beach into shelter of the bush. There he paused, chuckling. The shots and cries had aroused the Fos- ter to swift suspicion, and over the still lagoon was resounding a wordy war which shall seemed to have sent out no boats. THE ARGOSY. in detail was less nice than clever. It was evident that there would be little sleep aboard either ship that night. Blake, who had put his pumps into the bundle, resumed them, took the revolver from the roll also, and pocketed it. Then he struck out along the beach to the north, careful to keep in shadow of the lantana fringe, and to watch warily for any sign of too curious natives. He saw no one, however, and the Mar- In ten minutes the light of the mission bunga- low gleamed through the bush above, and he cut straight up from the beach toward it. Now that he was within a few yards of meeting the girl who would not pass out of his thoughts, he felt unaccountably embar- rassed. The open veranda of the bungalow was flooded with soft light, but no one seemed to be stationed on watch. The cane screen, rolled up for greater coolness, gave Blake a clear view of the living-room interior. Two cane lounge chairs faced the door- way. In one sat the white-haired old mis- sionary, reading with untroubled features; in the other, engaged with needle and thread, was Mary Peabody. A lamp-bear- ing table between them completed the pic- ture, and Blake gazed at it with a lump in his throat. In neither face was there worry or trou- ble—the girl looked up to Wicliff with a word and a flashing smile, and the old man nodded placidly. Somewhat ashamed of his prying, Blake stepped up to the veranda, dripping water at every step, and stood in the open doorway. “Good evening,” he said quietly, smiling as he. spoke. “I hope that you’re still re- ceiving callers, Mr. Wicliff?” With a swift little cry of alarm the girl dropped her work, staring at the door. But, without surprise, the gaunt missionary rose and advanced, hand extended, as though to greet some well-known and very welcome visitor. “Good evening, sir, and welcome to you!” he said. As their hands met the two men looked each other in the eye for a mo- ment; and if there was admiration in the gaze of Blake, it was fully repaid in the piercing blue eyes of the old man. “My name is John Blake,” said the American quietly, holding up his bundle and tossing it to the table. “I’ve just come from the C. H. Marshall, and I’ve brought VOOLKS COMIC (C@)