The Argosy, Vol. 82, No. 3 — page 73: what you’re looking at

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

SHIPS wrenched the knife free. It fell at Wicliff’s feet. Swift as a flash Marshall stooped, caught up the weapon and slashed down at the white figure of the girl. The stroke went home—in the shoulder of the Finn, who had flung himself desperately in between. “Ay pay ju oudt!” he screamed, rising. “Took out!” yelled Blake in warning. The maddened men were past all warn- ing, however. There was a sickening thud as Marshall’s steel fist drove home with aw- ful force and crushed in the breast-bone of the Finn. Sorely stricken, Ole staggered back, but his hand was tugging at the knife fastened in his flesh, and he tore it free. Then, with a sobbing cry of desperation, he flung him- self bodily at the skipper. Blake was dimly aware that Steelfist’s mad fury had drawn all eyes toward him, that the fight was hanging fire; but he, with all the rest, was watching tensely the two men who gripped each other to the death. Ole had fastened to Marshall’s throat, careless of blows; his left hand was sunk like a claw into the powerful neck of his erstwhile torturer, and he was growling like some maddened animal. “Blast ye—git away—” The labored breath of the skipper whis- tled from his great chest as he fought to batter his clinging enemy loose; more than ever did Steelfist Marshall resemble a wolf in that moment, as he drew himself up and back, striving to get free of those gripping, death-clenched fingers. Again and again his terrible steel hand crunched into Ole’s broken body. The Finn’s growl turned to a whining groan with the agony of his shattered breast—racking sobs burst from him. Yet he held on; all his vitality seemed concentrated into one intense spark, des- tined to bore through Marshall’s strength as a carbon point bores through chilled steel. The horrible, wordless struggle had swift ending. The Finn’s right hand came free of Marshall’s clutch, and the knife flashed to the skipper’s bent-back head. Death laid hold on Ole Kafban, and he fell under the last blow of the steel fist—fell like a limp thing, lying in a heap on the sand. For an instant Steelfist Marshall stood upright, plucking at his throat. A cry of horror broke from some one, and Blake echoed it. From the skipper’s mouth pro- OF STRIFE. 447 truded Ole’s knife-haft—the blade had gone true, through mouth to brain. With never a word more, Marshall went to his knees, and then fell forward on his face, dead. For one tense moment the watching men stood paralyzed, awed. A great scream rang out, and Marshall’s men went to pieces; they fled into the bush, up and down the beach, shrieking over that they had seen. Blake dragged himself forward. From the water came a sudden sound of oars, and a hoarse hail. “Dude—hey, Dude! It’s me, young Bos- ton! Want us?” But Blake did not answer. were dim to him, of a sudden; he heard Wicliff calling to the natives, and then found that which he had sought. He lay motionless, pressing the hand of Mary Peabody to his brow, thanking God that she had not witnessed that last horror. CHAPTER XVIII. ONCE MORE AFLOAT. | THINK that the only brave man in all this mess has been Ole Kafban,”’ said Blake, gazing at the shore. “So?” Mary Peabody took his hand in hers, smiling a little as she drew his eyes to her face. “No, Jack dear—I think you’re the bravest of all.” Blake looked at her in some surprise. In the three weeks which had elapsed since that terrible and memorable night, the girl had ever been the first to give to Ole Kaf- ban his meed of tribute. “Eh, Mary?” His gray eyes were puz- zled. “You know that isn’t—” “You foolish man!” and she laughed swiftly. ‘“Weren’t you brave enough to marry me this morning? Be careful! There’s Mr. Wicliff’s boat coming out—and all these men—”’ Blake drew back, smiling. ‘Sorry you married me, Mary?” She studied him for a moment, her eyes twinkling. ‘“‘No—not yet, sir!” She flashed down the ladder to the gang- way, as Wicliff’s boat approached. Blake turned, his eyes narrowing suddenly at a voice behind. “Mr. Blake—beggin’ your pardon, sir, does Mr. Wicliff sail with us?” It was a new Bully Forrester whom Blake eyed. Go NOOK All things — (C@