Adventure Magazine Cover, March 20, 1925 — page 95: what you’re looking at

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

The War Cats of Dugan O’Day the village on the mainland, which came afterward to be called Corlon; softening the harsh gray of its unpainted buildings and shroud-like nets on spreads into hazy purple wonder. But the three had no eyes for that. Warmed by food and coffee the fisherman had brought, in case there were hungry men, all the Celtic and all the Castilian love of the dramatic arose in Juan Alverez y Mario Patrick Dugan O’Day. Vividly he enacted the deception with which he had driven Dummy Johnstone and his crew of sea scum from the vessel; even more vividly he enacted the fight with the Cubans. But Dugan failed to explain that when he had felt the weight strike planking he had low- ered the line another two feet. A very false sounding—very! : Three pistols and a bare knife were in his belt; the bloody bandage swathed his blond head, and he strode the deck of the bark like any Kidd or Gasparilla—or any small boy playing pirate. No actor ever loved the limelight better than Don Dugan. Th spell of his acting permeated even the reticence of the stolid, mild spoken fisherman, and he stole a page or two from Dugan’s book of vaunting rhetoric. “I reckon you played a man’s part, mister,” he said, “but you won’t keep her.” Dugan abruptly stopped his striding. What heresy was this? Had he not saved the bark once by strategy and once by force? Would he not save her again if needs be? The fisherman arose, to give freer play to his rough eloquence. “She is a menace to navigation, this Blackfish, for her stern hangs out by ten feet into the channel. The channel here is very narrow; not more than a hundred yards wide. There is no room, you see, for as much as a skiff to pass. Or it may be that she is a derelict, adrift on the high seas. “And I reckon it don’t matter. Any court of admiralty will take the word of the tug captain who pulls you off and tows you into Port Tampa.” Squaring his sparse shoulders, stroking his beard, the fisherman climbed to the poop and peered down. Returning, he said: “She is in the channel by seven feet, which is enough. And it wouldn’t matter if she was in my garden. As long as a 77 steam tug can pull her off at any high tide she is a menace to navigation. And as she lays she is a mighty easy prize to salvage, mister, a mighty easy prize.” “This,” said Dugan reflectively, “is the coast of the civilized United States, where there is law and order.” “This,” said the fisherman, “I reckon, is the coast of Florida. Law and order ex- tend seven and a half miles around each city. After that the man with the most witnesses wins in court and the man with the most guts wins out of court. Possession, mister, is more than nine points on the coast of Florida. Unto them who hath shall be given, and unto them as ain’t got | But Dugan was not listening. “This,” he said presently, “is my ship and I have beached her for repairs. Does that make any difference?”’ “Tt might, if you can make Jupe Barnard and his kind believe it, but I don’t guess you could.” “Who and what,” asked Dugan, “is Jupe Barnard?” “Owner of the steam tug Henry B., and a wizened little rat. No boatman, either, and his crew is little better. He has salvaged more than one boat which didn’t exactly need it. Between times he’s a smuggler.” The bearded fisherman and his silent son departed at length, and Dugan was lost in thought. Occasionally he returned the hail of a passing small boat; occasionally he stowed a bit of plug tobacco in his mouth. And by noon he had it! Dugan was himself again, and jauntily he strode the deck. “Rats, eh, rats? Dogs and cats fight ?em. I have heard of dogs of war, but I shall make me some cats of war, because I have not heard of them and it is a good name. Dogs bark and run; cats spit and strike. War cats is the name!” War cats was the name. To this day, and it has been thirty years, the old men of the coast speak of the “War cats of Dugan O’Day” and not of “The wreck of the Blackfish,” as they speak of the wreck of the Mildred and a hundred other craft. His restless striding carried him by the stump of the mainmast, clustered around which were six drums of kerosene, rem- nant of the deck load of some two dozen drums For five minutes he stared at them. CORnNIECLO© (©