Adventure Magazine Cover — page 51: what you’re looking at

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

Two on the rail, his chin on his fists and gazed shoreward. It was a drowsy night. The surface of the bay, riffled by the faint breeze that came off the land, was a stretch of dark blue cor- duroy; a crescent of pale yellow moon just topped the mountains in the east; the sky was a shimmering mass of stars. A great fish broke water and rolled under the ship’s bow. Black Michael, whom the gendarmerie had released on his promise to return to his vessel, sat on the poop of the Gannet, and his cigar glowed in the night like a live thing. There was a shadow moving about down in the Hawk’s waist, and Mr. Downs smiled as he saw it. “One-Two Mac prowling around like a Jost soul,” he said to himself. ‘Never saw such a man for prowling. Little fellow must be lonely.” Captain Mac, with his inevitable cigaret, left the waist and came up the ladder to the bridge deck. He said, “‘Good night”’ to the third mate as he passed him on the way to his room. “‘There’s a boat coming out from the town, cap’n,” said the third mate, pointing. “It’s headed for either us or the Gannet.” The captain halted. Downs went into the chart-room and re- turned in a moment with a pair of large- diameter night glasses, which he put to his eyes and trained on the approaching boat. ““Headed for the Gannet, I think—yes, it is,” he said. ‘One man in it.” He paused, and then— “Big man, dressed in whites—there, he turned to look over his shoulder; he’s got a beard % “Please,” interrupted Captain Mac, hold- ing out his hand for the glasses. For a few seconds he gazed through the glasses at the boat; then, turning to Downs: “You may turn in, mister. You’ve put in a good day. I'll see that the second mate is called.” “Sir?”’? Downs, astonished, stood agape. “Turn in.” “Oh, I’m not so sleepy——’”’ “Turn in,” said the little captain, and he gave the third mate a friendly push toward his room. Downs went off, shaking his head. Captain Mac returned the glasses to the chart-room, left the bridge, walked forward through the waist, and climbed to the fore- castle-head, the point nearest the Gannet. Fools 4I The Hawk’s quartermaster on watch lay in the waist, curled- up beside a ventilator, asleep, as quartermasters on watch usually are. The captain cupped his cigaret in his hand and waited, silent and motionless. Black Michael had seen the boat too, and he left his chair and came to the schooner’s taffrail, where he stood with his wide- brimmed hat on the back of his head and the cigar screwed in the corner of his big mouth. “I’m watchin’ ye, Jem McClone,” rum- bled Black Michael as the boat approached. Jem McClone did not turn, he continued to ply his oars, but his answer came to Black Michael—and to Captain Mac, too, watching from the bow of the Hawk— “T’m comin’, ne’er th’ less, ye dirrty thafe!”’ The boat slid alongside and Jem stood up, his hands clutching an open port, his face on a level with the schooner’s deck. Above him, on deck, Black Michael bulked like a giant in the moonlight. “T’ve come for the stone,” said Jem, “and to settle things between you and me.” “T could kick your face in from where I stand,” said Michael, looking down at him; but even as he spoke, he was moving away to allow the other to come aboard. Jem made fast his boat and vaulted to the schooner’s deck. ‘And now, where is it?” he demanded fiercely: “Ye’ll not get it,” answered Michael. “I will unless ye’ve hid it away, ye skulkin’ dog!” Black Michael, his eyes blazing, strained forward, then he caught himself and stepped back. He took from his pocket a small chamois-wrapped object, stripped off the chamois and placed the object on the wheel- box. The imitation diamond glinted dully in the moonlight. He silently threw off his hat and coat, pulled his cotton shirt off over his head, slipped off his blue necker- chief, and the great muscles of his arms and shoulders bulged and rolled as he tightened his belt and bent to tie additional knots in the laces of his shoes. Prepared, he drew back his lips and grinned wolf-like at his brother. “T’ll beat ye with my hands this time, Jem M’Clone,” snarled Black Michael, “but the next time I'll shoot ye dead. Get ready!” Jem tossed aside his coat and hat. His fury made him clumsy, and he tore his shirt EO DOOK 1 @)