Argosy, September 1955 — page 101: what you’re looking at

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

Y= ee av* 4 _ = s by bs . ‘ é E er = ay, £ ‘3 | + en Wedd, : BOTH WATCHES OF THE HANDS 99 noticed with amusement, something distinctly alcoholic about the atmosphere. “ Well, well, well,” he said, “ who'd have believed it! ” He engaged both engines and opened the throttle. To the relief of the shivering passengers, the Silver Streak at last moved away and headed for the open sea. ? “You remember Brew, sir?” said Knocker. “ Acting P.O., now.” ‘“ Certainly I do. How are you, Brew? ” ‘“* Not so bad, sir. And yourself? ”’ Still ticking.” ‘‘ Putting in a bit of sea-time, eh, sir? ”’ said Knocker, winking. “Oh, you’ve not met Puddenead ’ere. Come ’ere, Puddenead, and meet the skipper.” ae The rating addressed as Puddenead came awkwardly from the corner of the wheelhouse, and shook hands. ‘* Pudney, ’is real name is,” explained Brewis, “ but ’e answers better to Puddenead.”’ “The lads told me about you, sir,’”’ he said, simply. ‘How did you know I was here?” asked Michael, when he had swung Silver Sireak’s bows round towards Collsea Point at the far end of the bay. ‘* We was on shore, like,” said Knocker, and got talking to some of the locals, down at one of them boozers on the front; and they sez as ow some bloke by the name o’ Hancock is run- ning one of the jolly-boats; and I sez, not Lieutenant Hancock, R.N.V.R., Lieutenant Michael Hancock, and one of ’em sez he thought as ’ow you mighta been in the Navy some time. And-so I sez to Brew and Pudden, ’ere what about a look-see, like, and have a basin full of busman’s ’oliday on the flipping briny. So "ere we are.” Michael felt confused. It was ten, maybe eleven years-since he had seen either of them, but they hadn’t changed at all. They must feel fairly contemptuous of his humble, precarious exist- ence, though he knew they would never show it. “Ain't you ’ad enough of it, then? ‘The sea, I mean,”’ asked Brewis. It was a difficult question to answer. He’d had enough of this ze side of it; of struggling through the summer on a few casually ots earned pounds, then groping through the winter doing odd jobs Ye at the boat-yard, or writing fictional articles for one of the yacht- ing papers about voyages he had only ever made in his desperate oe imagination. And yet, there was always something about the sea. “1 don’t think you can ever have enough,”’ he said. €¢ comiclbooks.com