The Argosy, Vol. 82, No. 3 — page 56: what you’re looking at

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

430 the native village where Mary Peabody was domiciled. When the native appeared with his supper of fish and taro wrapped in leaves, Blake turned to him with this re- solve. “Where’s Mr. Wicliff? house?” “He all ri’,” grinned the native with ex- asperating complacency. ‘“Miss’nary papa say you stop along here one time.” “Well, look see,” rejoined Blake. ‘You speak miss’nary papa that I’m coming to the house, savvy? Where’s Miss Peabody?” “White Mary all ri’.” | Blake grunted. Evidently he could ex- tract nothing. “Vou savvy bad fella down there?” and he pointed to the ships and lagoon. “Savvy all ri’,”’ and the native, with a erin, touched his shark-tooth spear. ‘We fix ’um. No ’fraid!” “Run along then, and be a good boy,” laughed Blake, his ill-humor unable to stand before the cheerful grins of the na- tive. “Speak miss’nary papa that I’m com- ing to the house to-night. I want to see him and Miss Peabody too. You savvy that?” “Savvy all ri’,” nodded the native, and with a flash of teeth turned about and was gone. Blake ate his. supper and then, lighting the pipe which Paddy Ryan had left with him, started off for the bungalow. He paid no attention to the warning which the native had conveyed. Wicliff, he considered, was striving hard to main- tain peace and probably wanted him safe out of the way. This, however, was by no means to Blake’s notion of the fitness of things. There seemed to be no danger for the pres- ent from either Howard or Marshall, and— the brown eyes of Mary Peabody argued away all objections in Blake’s mind. Upon reaching the bungalow, he found it dark and evidently deserted. ‘The place seemed almost unnaturally quiet. When he stepped to the veranda and called no an- swer came, and Blake wondered if there were any one on guard near by. “Well, I'll finish my pipe,” he reflected, drawing a chair near the steps and settling down. “If no one shows up by that time, I'll strike out for the village and see what I can see!” So, for a space, he rested in comfort, list- ening to the rustling and sighing of the He stop along THE ARGOSY. breeze in the jungle. Then, as he knocked out his pipe he stiffened suddenly at a voice which seemed startlingly close. ‘Watch them rats, Bower! you blasted skunks!” It was the voice of Steelfist Marshall. Before Blake could more than grip the re- volver in his pocket, he saw the dim, shad- owy figures of a half dozen men crowding from the path into the edge of the clearing. There they halted, vague in the starlight. From the lantanas came a whisper and a rustle. The men with Marshall cried out in swift alarm, and the skipper cursed vividly. “Arrows—the devil! What in hell—” “Look out!” sounded Bower’s voice quickly. ‘“They’re beatin’ it, cap’n! Git out o’ here quick, or we’re gone! Poison—” That word of itself stampeded them, and Marshall’s curses died out as he followed hastily. From the lantanas came a gut- tural ripple of laughter, though no figures appeared in the clearing. Blake chuckled, his tensed muscles relax- ing. Steelfist’s night raid had’ ended in blind panic, for it was plain that the arrows had done no harm; but Blake was now well assured that. the natives were keeping good watch. Curious to see the result of that panic, he stepped to the ground and strode off along the path to the beach. If Marshall were gathering his forces for a second effort, thought Blake, he could make himself use- ful. It soon proved, however, that Steelfist and his men had no stomach for such work at night. As Blake reached the edge of the bush and stepped out to the strip of beach he chuckled again at sight of the trail of phosphorescence left by Marshall’s cutter, which was heading for the ship at full speed. Delighted with the cool sweetness of the shore, Blake got out his pipe again and be- gan to fill it, walking along the fringe of lantanas. = “There'll be no more night raids from the C. H. Marshall,” he reflected. “And for to-morrow, at least, they’ll be busy div- ing. I wish I could get Ole ashore! Still, he’s not a fighting man, and these natives seem to be efficient enough in their own way—hello! What’s this?” At the water’s edge lay a mass of tangled wreckage—palms and bush, perhaps driven up by some storm from the reef or the Come along, EOPMICLOOKS (C@)