Adventure Magazine Cover, August 18, 1921 — page 163: what you’re looking at

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

Tackline’s Adventure and failed to return to the surface. The next man in line paused an instant, then dived deeply, and finally dragged to the ship’s side a pale, half-drowned Brady. Later, after his limp body had been rolled vigorously over an empty gasoline drum, Brady was called into conference by his division officer. ‘That wasn’t a very good dive you made, was it, Brady?” ‘“‘There sure seemed to be somethin’ the matter with it, sir—but I got there after all, didn’t I?” The officer tried to swallow a smile. “Well, after you ‘got there’, why didn’t you strike out and swim? Breath sort of knocked out of you, was it?” “Ves, I guess it was, sir. I don’t seem to remember much what happened after I left the deck. But—you see—it’s this way, sir— I never tried to dive or swim a stroke in my life before. But I saw all the other guys going over the side, so I sort of figured I ought to try to keep up my end—just do my part, for the good name of the ship.” The captain, hearing of the incident later, chuckled, “Well, in my day, that’s what we used to call a tackline trick.” The captain’s negro mess-boy over- heard the remark and told it to the ship’s cook. The cook passed it on to a friendly machinist mate, and he, of course, told every one else on board. ceased to be and ‘‘Tackline” Brady Cage ‘ : > ~J came into existence. And in many ways the nickname fitted him like a rubber glove. For in quartermaster lingo.a tack- line is that part of a flag signal which represents a space between words, a blank, a void, a nothingness. And that, in most respects, was Thomas Brady. In other ways the nickname was highly unjust. For, after all, he did possess a quaint, peculiar type of intelligence. For one thing, it was noticed that he could never be bested in a forecastle clash of wits. Dis- concerted? Baffled? Yes, indeed, but only for a moment. Then suddenly he would bristle and snap back at a jibe or sarcasm like an undersized Scotch terrier. And his reply was usually such that it crackled and stung as it sank home. In this scrappy, rough-and-tumble part of life, Tackline was well able to stand on two fect. But for a real knowledge of seaman- SO IN this way Thomas Brady 157 ship, for a fine distinction between the relative importance of admirals and ap- prentice seamen, for anything involving much judgment and discrimination, his mind was, after all, just tackline. For instance, he could see no sense in learning to take soundings of the depth of the water. “Tf you’re in deep water,” he once argued, “vou’re all right; and if you’ve got in where the water’s too shallow, it’s too late anvhow. So what’s the use of takin’ soundin’s?” “Aw, you salmon-head,” growled Jerry Dougherty, thoroughly disgusted. For, to Jerry’s way of thinking, a man might well be ignorant of history, know nothing of science and have to sign his name with an ‘X’, but if he could heave a lead he could make his way in the world. This, of course, was because Jerry was already a full-fledged boatswain, while Tackline was only third-class quartermaster. And Jerry was salty as a mackerel and knew it; while Tackline was a lubber and every one else knew it. “Tf you’d only have let me learn you,” continued Jerry, ‘you might’ve taken a few soundin’s before you got in such deep water with that spig dame, Margarita.” “She may’ve got me in a little over my depth,” retorted Tackline with a swagger, “but she sure left you high and dry on the rocks.” This remark pleased the forecastle greatly, for all of them often smiled among them- selves at Jerry’s ill-concealed love for the pretty proprietress of what was popularly called ““The Garden of the Gobs.”’ This eternal readiness to fight back, verbally or fistically, was probably what saved Tackline. For under ordinary cir- cumstances any one as thick as he would have been the butt of every forecastle joke. His life would have been one endless round of water-filled sea-boots and cockroached clothing. But Tackline throve in spite of his every handicap. And handicaps he had aplenty. In the first place, there was the matter of his personal appearance. As one of the sea-lawyers, bookworms, on board de- scribed him, he was certainly ‘‘a wart on the face of Nature.” A block or so away he surely wasn’t much to look at. He was short, and his white, circular cap constantly rode high on a crop of excelsior- like red hair. His low-cut sailor blouse C© Ebooks C© 5}