Adventure Magazine Cover — page 157: what you’re looking at

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

The Fenceless Meadows “T want to make a voyage with her,” she said. Dowser, seeing her letter, wrote another. ‘Keep her on foreign charters as long as vou can. ‘The girl is forgetting the deep water.” Dowser was mistaken. Keach time the bark made port and news of her came, Nance was eager to know whether sne were upon the homeward passage yet. Whenever she was reported from sea, and her position given, Nance figured the date when she might be due in. There came a letter from Tattersall, after he had been three years out from Portland, saying that he was chartering her at a high freight for San Francisco direct. Six months later a telegram came, and Nance receiving it, took it to her father. The bark had been a long time at sea— meeting the full fury of August gales off the Horn, and Dowser had been wondering what had happened to Tattersall. Now she was sighted outside the heads and was due in directly. Next day came a telegram from Tatter- sall himself. It said: “Tive weeks off Stiff. Six men lost.” Nance was all excitement. That night she came to her father’s room and, sitting on the arm of his chair, looked at the pictures on the wall—a full rigged clipper with her three skysails set and her lee railing awash in the sea; beneath her the Fancy Nan, with hands aloft stowing the royals as she came to anchorage. ‘‘Where’s she bound for?” asked the girl. “1’m not sure yet—might be anywhere,” replied Dowser. Nance laughed. “‘That’ll be fine,” she cried. sail for anywhere.” “We'll all go, won’t we, pa?” she asked. ‘““Maybe we will,” he said and tried to turn the subject. “T’d love to THE upshot of it was that when the bark went out through the Gold- 2: en Gate again she went with Dowser in . command; for Tattersall refused to go to sea with him a passenger. Moses was ‘signed on as steward’s mate; a position in- vented solely for him to fill. When the bark dipped to the swells upon the bar Nance stood upon the bridge, her long hair flying on the wind. 149 “‘“Give her the skysail, pa,’’ she cried. “Want to tip her over, girl?” replied Dowser. Nance laughed, clapping her hands, cry- ing— ‘““Give her the skysail, pa—let’s see what the Yancy Nan 1s made of.” Tattersall, on the bridge, grunted. ‘“‘Women’s out of place on a ship,” he said to himself. The bark was under royals, her lee rail awash, sprays flving across her deck, forward. The girl laid a hand on Tattersall’s arm. “Mr. Tattersall, we didn’t sail the old Nanette this way, did we?” she asked. Tattersall grunted. He did not know the girl could still see the old Nanette, the smoke wreaths whirling round her, the sea seething alongside, as they raced her, under three skysails, for the shore of Manga Reeva. Nance pleaded with him. “‘Won’t you give her that skysail?” she asked. Tattersall gazed at the weather to wind- ward, where the breeze whipped white horses across the windy sea meadows. The shore was fading from sight. Coming up astern was an outbound China mail boat, the black smoke belching from her funnels. His eye glinted as he watched her sharp bow plow the furrows. Dowser caught his eye, questioning. Dowser blew his whistle and the second mate ran aft. “Give her that main skysail,” said the owner. The Fancy Nan tossed a spray across her foredeck, dancing to the piping wind. Smoke belched from the funnels of the China mail. Dowser, watching her, grinned. Tattersall stared at her, frowning. For- ward the hands said: “The old man’s a cracker on. We’re going to make a passage.” They crouched under the rail, watching the steamer, making bets upon the time they’d be to Queenstown. Men told of fast runs of old clippers, muttering about stuns’ls and bull-whangers. “The Marching King made it to Sydney in sixty days,” said one. ‘““Aye—an’ old Barford spilled her over on the very next v’yage; an’ down she went wi all hands,” said another. Dowser’s whistle sounded along the decks shrilly above the wind’s piping. ‘“‘Check the weather braces in a trifle— just a trifle, sir,” he said. CONMIC DOOKS (©