Argosy All-Story Weekly, October 7, 1922 — page 18: what you’re looking at

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

164 An arm reached downward to its fullest extent through the porthole, and grasping Rutledge’s hand, twisted the torn slip of paper from it. The fog, again unobstructed, filtered in, beading the unnatural pallor of Rutledg’e face with its dampness, and touching with its sensitive feelers the thin line of blood that spilled slowly down across his forehead. It was the end of the northeast mon- soon—that bitter, dreary breeder of things that are strange and beyond the knowledge of man. CHAPTER II. THE DIRK. T precisely ten minutes after four Har- ris, the second mate, consulted the dial of his watch, compared it with the clock in the wheelhouse, announced in- dignantly to the waves at large: ‘‘ Strike me pink if he ain’t a bloomin’ genius at it!” and spat across the dodger. Save for the raucous blare of the fog signal shredding the silence with monoton- ous regularity, it was abominably still—un- earthly. The China Queen seemed to fail in motion, to pulse restlessly within damp layers of dismal obscurities. At fifteen minutes after four Harris whistled sharply for the sailor on watch, and crossed to the head of the ladder. After the usual delay an engagingly youthful face materialized out of the fog and floated up- ward toward him from below. ‘“‘ Sir?” inquired the face. “ Be good enough to suggest to Mr. Rut- ledge that eight bells were struck exactly fifteen—ezghteen minutes ago.” “Yes, sir.” The face placidly melted from view. Harris resigned himself to a further en- croachment on his “watch below.” This wasn’t the first time that the mate had been late in relieving him, by no and many means. It was irritating, annoying. As for fif- teen, eighteen minutes—and it would prob- ably stretch into twenty or twenty-five— this was going just one dash beyond the ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. pale. It was enough to turn a gentle-souled seaman into one of those Russian creatures who ramp about tearing people’s hair out by the handful. The thing was piracy pure and simple. For the moment the mate ceased to be a human being as far as Harris was con- cerned. He had been transmuted into a coughdrop. Wouldn’t he, Harris, get even though, when he got his ticket! He’d be a “ bucko ” mate for your whiskers! He’d pull a few linger-longers to a fare-thee-well and then some, and you could bet your bottom peso on that! A hasty clattering up the latter pro- duced a vision of the sailor on watch de- veloping along the bridge with startling speed, much like an over-exposed plate. ‘“‘'He’s been bitten.” Harris solved the phenomenon at once. Such an exhibition of haste was unnatural. T4 Sir! Pb) “¢ Well?” ““He’s like dead, sir!” Harris snorted. “*. ‘“‘ Did you rush up here to tell me that Why didn’t you wake him up?” ‘‘He’s bleedin’—been hit on the head somethin’ awful ’n knocked for a goal— yes, sir!” ‘“* What’s this? Who? ‘* The mate, sir.” “Where is he?” Harris became efficiently alert. “In his bunk in a heap.” “Told the captain?” ‘* No, sir.” “Tell him! And get MacDonald to re- lieve me at once!” He hurled this addi- tional command after the evanescent figure of the sailor. Harris stared hard out into the fog, as if seeking to wrest asolu tion from it. Rutledge struck down. Bleeding. Two weeks more to China. And, rising above all else, the spectral conviction that the matter was not the re- sult of an acciident, but of deliberate intent. When that sort of thing broke out at sea, you never could tell. No, you just never could tell. How?” comiclbooolx C©