The Argosy, Vol. 82, No. 3 — page 51: what you’re looking at

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

SHIPS OF STRIFE. some things which Miss Peabody will, per- haps, be glad to recover.” The girl was staring at him with a look of puzzled recognition. As he smiled, wait- ing for her to remember, he noted that her eyes were deep brown, that she was rather a woman than a girl, and that in her bear- ing was a note of capability and efficiency which bespoke the blood of old Captain Peabody of clipper-ship days. She was well poised, thought Blake. “‘Why—” and the girl rose, putting out her hand, her eyes steadily on his, ‘“‘aren’t you the gentleman who—who did me a very ereat service that night -by the Custom House back in ’Frisco?”’ “T had that honor,” and Blake laughed as their hands gripped. “Unfortunately, I did not know about Captain Marshall’s steel fist until he made me painfully aware of it, and then shanghaied me—” “And,” broke in Wicliff’s deep, severe voice, ‘this is the man of whom I told you, Miss Peabody—the same who made that luckless but very gallant effort to save me from rough handling this afternoon. Sit down, Mr. Blake—I gather that you have swum ashore from the ship?” Blake, blushing, became acutely con- scious of his extremely disreputable garb and general appearance. “Tf youll be good enough to lend me some decent clothes,” he said, turning, “T’ll venture to ask your hospitality for some time to come. I’m afraid my late quarters are too hot to hold me—” “My dear fellow, I beg your pardon!” exclaimed Wicliff, taking his arm. ‘Excuse us, Miss Peabody! Come along, Blake; I’ve plenty of room here, and—hello! You’ve a nasty bruise there! Well, it can wait till we return.” Blake followed his host to a small, im- maculate bedroom, where Wicliff got out a razor and some white clothes. Despite the ragged bruise on his temple, in twenty min- utes Blake looked and felt like a new man; he was free, all the enforced humility of ordinary seaman was sloughed, and he was again the Jack Blake of old. Yet not the same, he realized as he in- spected himself in the mirror. His face was indefinably older and grimmer, set -in steadier lines, stamped with the seal of strife and hard living; it had gained in strength, if not in beauty, he reflected. Then, looking at his hands, he held them out to Wicliff with a laugh. 425 “T thought a few months ago that I had strong hands—but look at them now! Brine and holystones and tarred ropes com- bine to make a poor manicure, eh? By the way. I gather that you know Miss Pea- body’s story?” “Ves,” nodded the old man, gravely. “And I knew her grandfather twenty years and more ago, before his ship broke over that outer réef. Now—all ready?” They returned to the living-room and Blake, a smile transforming his _hard- chiseled features, walked up to the girl. “T feel like being introduced all over again,’ he laughed. ‘I haven’t been so presentable since the first time we met, Miss Peabody!” “Well, you certainly have changed in the last few moments,” she agreed, with a twin- kle of appreciation in her eye. Wicliff had gone to a large sandalwood chest and was bending over it. The girl touched the bundle, which lay where Blake had tossed it. 7 “Did you mean to say that this was mine?” she asked, puzzled. Blake nodded, unknotting the marline. “Ves—the contents of your suitcase. You see, Marshall kidnaped Ole Kafban at Honolulu. I was able to kidnap the suit- case on my own hook, and managed to keep its contents intact and out of sight. Your friend Ole is a mighty good man, by the way; it was owing to him that I got free to-night.” “I’m glad Ole is safe,” she answered, watching the bundle in astonishment as Blake unrolled it. “The poor fellow tried to be kind to me—though Captain Howard swore that he had stolen my suitcase and joined your ship.” Wicliff stood up and set a flask and roll of linen on the table. “Now for your head, Blake,” he said. “Sit down, and we’ll soon have you fixed up; meantime, you might give us an out- line of your story. There seem to be a good many things that need explaining—such as the revolver in your pocket, for instance.” Blake started. He had thought that he had transferred the weapon to his white coat without being observed, and the im- plied rebuke did not escape him. “That revolver may prove to be a good friend yet,” he returned, as he sat down. “Well, no matter. Here’s the gist of my yarn, Miss Peabody.” And so he related his experience, and (CO) OOOKS AUUG (C@)