Adventure Magazine Cover — page 44: what you’re looking at

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

42 wave of refuse he shivered; he died in anticipation the death of the Thousand Slices. He continued screaming, banging, kick- ing, wondering whether he could risk mak- ing for the ladder, whether it would be bet- ter to bang on the hatches. To reach “the ladder he would have to chance being flung headlong. Suddenly his knees closed on some long, light object; he dropped a hand and caught up his fiddle case. It was open, sliding to and fro in the hold, empty of everything save the fiddle and the bow. Backed against the bulkhead, he ran his two hands over the fiddle, slipping the bow between his teeth. Both seemed undamaged, except that the E string was snapped. With an inspiration he flung his bow on the other strings, playing anything—-strathspeys, jigs, reels, fragments of jazz, in one wild appeal to be heard. He did not know how long he played. To hold his fiddle steady he had to play it under his chin, not Judique fashion against his waist. He was not playing music; he was flinging horse-hair against cat-gut, scraping for volume, for noise, double-stop- ping, arpeggioing three strings at once try- ing to make that fiddle a siren of his dis- tress. The loose ends of the E string got in his way; one was tickling his neck; he stopped to tear it clear when he thought he heard voices. He knocked and kicked at the bulk- head again and then started playing his loudest when once more something tickled his neck. Something got between his fin- gers on the finger board. He remembered the rat he had seen run up the hawser; that hold was full of rats and mice. The Lwiza carried no guard on her cables. He flung the bow on the strings; they screamed under his ears. Things were climbing up his legs, creeping through his hair, soft, fluffy, tickly things that brushed his ears—he roared to be delivered from that hold. -A voice answered; the hatches were being opened. Donald saw the rusty steps of the ladder reeling under the light of a lantern from aloft. Dropping his fiddle, he made a leap for them. Above him was gray day- light, a crowding mass of black faces and rolling whites of eyes, and behind them the gold cap of Cope, the master. “Stowaway!” shouted Cope. ‘Thought Adventure so. Now, you crazy niggers, get sense. Back to that wheel.”’ The steamer took a terrific roll; Donald had to cling to that ladder like a fly on a ceiling; water came inboard, and a splash came down the hold. “On deck, you!” shouted the master to him. ‘“Can’t keep the hatches off in this sea. Back to the tiller, one of you. Can’t you see it’s a man, not aspooke Say some- thing, you below; tell these fools you’re not a ha’nt.” “Take the wheel and keep her head on,” cried Donald as he climbed like a man on a lee ratline in a capsizing ship. As Donald came closer to the light held» by a trembling negro the man give a scream; the others howled with him; he dropped the lantern, and the whole gang ran forward squealing. ‘“‘Come on deck and show yourself; they’re loco!”’ cried Cope. ‘“‘Can’t leave that lantern burning in the hold,” shouted back Donald, who had looked below and seen the lantern flicker- ing dangerously among that loose rubbish. He recovered it in a minute, easily keeping his footing now he had light. He climbed on deck, and Cope shrank from him with an exclamation of horror, pointing to his clothes. Donald saw he was covered with crawling tarantulas. ‘“‘Brush them off and take charge of this bucking tub,” said Cope. ‘Thank —— you’re a sailor and a white man.” Donald looked for something with which to brush off the spiders. “Take my cap,” said Cope. Donald took the cap and flicked the hairy horrors into the scuppers. “Keep it and wear it,”’ said Cope. “You be master. I can’t handle these niggers. The mate’s drunk. He hit his berth as soon as we got in open sea and left all tome. All I know is fancy yachting; this job needs a sailor man.”’ Donald ran up the bridge to curb the im- potent rolling of that undirected hull; the bareheaded yachtsman followed him. ‘“‘“Gimme a course,’’ demanded Donald. “Mate said sou’west by south was safest till this hurricane blew out.” Donald brought round the bows that were prodding the sky on a different course every second. “This ain’t no hurricane,” he said; ‘ a breeze. just Funny kind of sea, though. MICLOOOK C@ inn