Adventure Magazine Cover, November 10, 1924 — page 169: what you’re looking at

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

Eight Seconds “T found it on the floor,’ cut in Breen. “Oh, I see. By the way, who has the key to that clothes Jocker in the sleeping room?” “T have. In my hip pocket. If you want it, take it out.” The little captain took the key from Breen’s pocket and put it in his own. “Lock him in the after storeroom, Mr. Tenny,” he said, motioning Breen to go ahead. Breen and the mate went down the ladder, and Captain Mac walked toward the bridge. Halfway he stopped, turned and tiptoed back, and halted in the shadow of a ventilator. He saw Coleman come out on deck and look cautiously around, and go to the battery box abaft the wireless shack. The youth bent down, put the key in the lock and turned it, then lifted the lid. He took something out, closed and locked the box, and went hurriedly into the wireless room. Captain Mac stepped softly to the nearest porthole and looked into the room; and for some time he stood there with an expression of pity upon his lean face. CAPTAIN MAC came on the bridge at eight bells—midnight. ‘How many miles has she logged since noon, Mr. Scott?’’ he inquired. “Seventy-four, sir,’’ answered the second mate. “H’mm—that’s eight knots, and we should be making nearly ten. That’s by the patent log?” “Yes, sir. The horizon was hazy at sun- down; I couldn’t get Polaris for latitude. We’re making ten knots by revolutions.” “Ves, I know; but we can’t depend on revolutions this trip; the ship’s not loaded properly—too much drag. I think we can depend on the log, however; it has never failed us yet. Suppose you call up the engine-room and tell ’em to let her go seventy-two revolutions per minute.” ““Seventy-two—very well, sir.” “Now we don’t know where we are,” said the captain as Scott made the entry in the logbook. ‘‘We’re probably a mile or so farther to the west’ard than we ought to be, but we can’t be sure.” He entered the chart room, then called to the second mate: “T’ll be here on the settee, mister, if you want me. Keep your eyes peeled ahead.” 167 “Ves, sir.”’ Mr. Tenny’s weather forecast proved a good one: the sky was heavily overcast; in addition, the northeast breeze had fresh- ened toastrong wind. It was not a storm, nor had the wind come up without warn- ing; for the trade wind, though boisterous at times, is an honest, steady wind and, as a rule, changes its moods in a deliberate and leisurely manner. Before it a solid mass of gray and black clouds moved across the sky, and long, heavy seas pounded upon the Hawk’s forecastle head with monoto- nous regularity. It was nothing to worry about, as the ship was in no danger as long as she was under control with plenty of sea room; merely a fresh wind, a heavy sea, and a cloudy sky—a “‘dirty”’ night. Two o’clock dragged around, and Mr. Scott rang for coffee and sandwiches, and whatever else the steward might have left out for him. He ate his lunch under the weather-cloth, then fell to pacing to and fro again, pausing now and then to duck to the lee of the dodger as the rattle of wind- blown spray warned him that an unusually high sea had broken over the quarter. Three o’clock came, and after what seemed an age to the tired and sleepy second mate, one bell—a quarter to four; and he took the wheel and sent the wheelman to call the mate. Then, when the wheelman returned, he went into the wing of the bridge, threw his arms over the weather- cloth and stood gazing ahead. It was certainly messy -there ahead, thought young Mr. Scott. Never before had he seen such a thick, black, low-lying cloud bank. It lay directly in line with the ship’s course and was coming nearer. Perhaps a squall—no, if it were a squall it would not be holding its position so steadily; it would be going off to westward. It looked like— By George, it must be—it was! Now he could see White Cay, and broken water, standing out of the murk. “Hard a-starboard!” he cried. ‘Hard down, Malley, hard down—quick!”’ Scott ran to the chart room to kick on the door; but he had just drawn back his foot when the door swung over and Captain Mac, his cap on the back of his head and his coat half on, stepped out. ‘“‘What d’you see, mister?” he snapped. “Land ahead, sir. It must be——’” “Watling. Of course! You’ve got her hard a-starboard? Right. Let her run off Comicbook © 5}