The Argosy, Vol. 83 No. 1 — page 133: what you’re looking at

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

THE STAR OF ADVENTURE. He had a life-preserver about him, but life itself was so nearly gone that there was reason for debate as to whether he was altogether dead or not. There was a jabber of a language more like Portuguese than anything else—the dialect of the Azores. The tin pan was applied to the blue lips of the man from the sea. The liquid, hot with both fire and alcohol, filled his mouth and throat. The hesitating heart was stimulated to take up its task again. “Tve still got it,” said the man. ‘An Englishman,” cried the members of the crew. “Or an American,” added the captain. He leaned closer. He himself spoke Eng- lish. ‘‘Hello, Bill,” he said. “All right?” “Ves, so long’s I’ve got—the star.” The stranger from the-sea was making a feeble effort to paw into his shirt, but his movements were hampered by the life- belt. With the belt still on him, they car- ried him back along the bulwarks to the tiny deck. There, they poured more rum and hot water into him as they began to strip him of the life-preserver and his clothing. Suddenly, the man who had been on the brink of death came to life. He had opened his eyes, clutching at the leather pouch that dangled from his neck by a sodden thong. “Vou don’t get it,” he gasped. The captain of the sloop knelt beside him. “We won’t rob you,” he said. “We're good. Who are you?” “Chanler Knowlton, of Bayou Lafarge, America.”’ “YT know America. I’ve been there. My boy, he’s in America. Many, many Azores children go to America. Good schools there. Portugal schools no good.” ‘Am I safe?” Ves.” “How far am I from France?”’ The friendly captain made a gesture that might have embraced the width of the hemisphere. From somewhere about the sloop they 123 had brought a ragged square of sail-cloth. It was as large as a blanket. They rubbed Knowlton down with this and wrapped him up in it. They gave him more punch. They fed him with a thick and creamy gruel of fresh fish. And, all the time, the man who had a boy in America sat at Knowlton’s side and looked at him with friendly eyes until finally the young fellow slept. As his sleep got sounder the captain of | the sloop put out his hand to the leather case. He deftly lifted it. He cast a look about him to make sure that he was not being spied upon by the members of his crew. He felt the weight of the thing in his hand. It was only gold that was as heavy as that, and he speculated for a moment or two over that first gesture of the Amer- ican to defend this thing, whatever it was. Once more his dark eyes came back re- flectively to the face of the man who slept. He shook his head. He put the leather case back. He drew it toward him again. There was no telling how this personal debate with his conscience might have ended, but before the captain of the sloop could decide it for himself there came a sharp cry from one of the men working at the nets. It was a cry immediately repeated. Through the morning haze from the southeast there came a dim, swift shape like a great fish swimming on the surface of the water. “A torpedo boat, Portuguese,” said the captain, looking up. He followed the comment by a hasty command to the members of his crew. Without changing his position, he reached over and covered the sleeping American’s face with a corner of the sail-cloth. The torpedo boat came up. An officer, from her little bridge, hailed the fisher- men through a megaphone. “Friends, have you seen anything of a man overboard hereabouts?” “A strange question, caballero!” the captain bellowed. He turned to the cook back of him. Gomichbook (C@