Adventure Magazine Cover, October 1911 — page 21: what you’re looking at

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

A Bit of Local Color A bell jangled somewhere in the inwards of our steamer and the engines slowed and wheezed complainingly. Ablack face along- side the Coston flame hailed us in Malay and the mate hurled questions across the shining waters. ““They’ve been boarded by pirates, sir, and want us to take off their wounded— that’s all I can get from him,” Mr. Jenkins, the mate, explained to our Cap- tain who had come from somewhere, clad in pongee pajamas and heel-less slippers, obviously disgusted at the breaking up of the monotonous routine. As the steamer slowed down, the smoke from the funnel dropped down on us and curled under the awnings, hot and strong with coal-gas and making us cough. “Ask the bally fool if he’s got any white men aboard. We can’t be bothered with turning ourselves intoa blasted hospital-ship for a lot of blacks!” growled the Captath. The mate made a trumpet of his hands and jabbered through to the man in the schooner who jabbered back. “Vick Foon and his gang cut ’em up, sir— chopped the head off the Dutch mate and left the master for dead with a bazaar door cut in his chest, but alive from what I make of the lingo.” IG jabbering. Yick Foon happened to be a Chinese pirate well known in those waters. He madea businessof waiting for pearlers and other small craft, and to be boarded by his gang of Moros, Malays, Chi- nese and other native renegades was as good as giving up life without a struggle. Yick OUR Malay crew set up an excited Foon never left anybody to tell the tale. We were in his front yard, for he made his head- quarters in some of the islands about us, but was never at home when a gun-boat called. ‘“‘Put a boat off and bring the whites off,”’ said the Captain. ‘‘ You better go yourself, Mr. Jenkins:’”’ He stretched himself and climbed wearily to the bridge. ‘Some local color,” I remarked to Miss Foote, while the boat went clicking away from us. “How lucky we are, only I’m sorry for those poor men.” Down aft we could hear Denhard telling the others at the rail about some former piratical raid of Yick Foon. ‘““Yes, sir,” he said to Presho, “I got it from one of the Chinks that they caught. 967 Was coming up from Torres Strait with a fortune in pink stones, when ” A deep-throated bellow came from the schooner, followed by the sound of blows. The boat was alongside and Mr. Jenkins and two sailors had gone over the side of the schooner, leaving two sailors in the boat. We heard Jenkins swear and—one, two, three, four, five—a pistol was fired five times, the reports coming regular as the striking of a clock! Black shapes rose from the bul- warks of the schooner. The men in the boat tried to push off, but the fiends in the schooner jumped down on them and we saw two bodies dumped into the sea. “Mr. Jenkins! What’s wrong, Mr. Jen- kins? What’s wrong aboard there?” shouted our Captain. . There was confusion aboard the schooner, suppressed yells, much running about the decks and clashing of long knives. Soon two boats pushed off and came toward us, one the boat we had sent, both packed with black men. “Mr. Jenkins!” the Captain yelled fran- tically, stamping up and down the bridge. ‘What the is wrong, Mr. Jenkins?”’ We watched the two boats race for us, wondering what it was all about and asking each other why Mr. Jenkins didn’t answer and relieve our anxiety. <A terror-stricken cry came from the starboard side of the steamer. I turned and looked across the engine-room skylight. A figure in white, which I recognized as the Malay chief stew- ard, came scrambling over the raised venti- lators. He drew in his breath with a hissing gasp and dropped over the rail. Then everything seemed to go topsy-turvy and a pleasant evening turned into a night- mare. A score of naked feet pattered past, and the native sailors scurried aft or jumped down the engine-room ladder, like a lot of children hunting cover in a game of hide and seek. A fire-door clanged musically in the stokehold below us. The Captain re- marked that he’d be , grabbed the en- gine-room telegraph viciously and made a gong below demand full steam ahead. His pajamaed legs tobogganed down the hand- rails of the bridge ladder and he landed at my feet on all fours, after the manner of a schoolboy sliding the bannisters on his way to breakfast. ‘““What’s up, Captain?” I asked. Miss Foote was clinging to my arm. CO EloOOLKS C©