Adventure Magazine Cover, March 20, 1925 — page 99: 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 evidently a repeating rifle of heavy caliber, but the man behind it shot at random; Dugan was lost in the shadow of his cats. Lead thudded against the hull and the timber of the machines but no shot even came near him. No blocking at all shot too high, four inches of it sent the chain too low, so therefore but one block went under the next machine to be discharged. It should sweep the deck but it didn’t. He must have severed one rope a bit ahead of the other for the chain went wide of the mark. Carefully he leveled the fourth weapon; carefully he drew the knife across the strained rope. The chain howled and whistled; glass tinkled and wood groaned | as the iron links struck squarely against the front of the pilot house. But never a man on the tug raised his voice; never a rifle spoke in answer. Among his engines of destruction lay Dugan, wrinkling his forehead in _per- plexity, twisting his lips into queer lines in his wondering. ' Where in —— were those men? were they doing? So lost was he in thought that he hardly noticed the moon sinking into a bed of clouds in the west, so that he could no longer discern more than the outline of the tug. A great fish splashed water, seemingly about midway between the vessels, yet somewhat southward of a direct line be- tween Dugan’s position in the waist and the Henry B’s bow. A very queer fish, too. It swam slowly, just under the surface, for several yards; then it broke water again; sank again, and the movement of its body “was vaguely traced by the weird greenish glow of phosphorescence about it. Another fish, and another. Then Dugan O’Day cleared his forehead—all but laughed. He knew now what sort of fish they were! Men, of course, from the Henry B. Going to come around the Black- fish and surprize him! Probably each had a pistol; a slight immersion in salt water wouldn’t by any means prevent the firing of one, provided the ammunition was of first quality. Oil! That was the thing. More oil. The tide had started out; it would spread the stuff toward them. But no, that wouldn’t do. They’d escape by diving un- til the wall of flame had passed. What in 81 Lead, then—and the saints be thanked for the dimming of the moon which had brought out the phosphorescence and en- abled him to see them in the water! He glided along the deck, face set grimly, a pistol in either hand. No killing, of course, if he could help it, although doubt- less the swimmers had orders to dispose of him as they saw fit and feasible. Very calmly he leveled the pistol and fired at the foremost patch of greenish fire. The bullet splashed a foot ahead of it, and the man dove deeper. “Lively, my lads,” muttered Dugan, “or tomorrow the sharks will get lead poisoning, Will you be going?” He punctuated his unheard remarks with lazy discharges of the revolver; two more bullets skipped from the water’s surface a yard or so from the nearest swimmer. Suddenly those men in the water seemed to realize how plainly their position was marked; as suddenly they turned for the tug. But they forgot that under water they would be safe from the bullets, which at the angle would glance off the surface. Making no pretense of coneealment they swam frantically back the way they came to the sheltering lee of the Henry B. And two guns of his three Dugan emptied in hastening them along. 7 The boom of the heavy weapons had not yet ceased echoing when they were gone. A faint breeze stirred the fallen mainmast where it balanced over the bow- sprit. Another breeze seemed to rock it gently—and that time Dugan noticed that the water was unruffled. Straining his eyes he could barely make out a dark lump on the mast, a lump which seemed to be vaguely moving. There could be no doubt of what it was; one of the men, he knew, had gained the bow of the Black- fish before he noticed their movements; had climbed to the mast by the trailing lines. Blood heated Dugan O’Day’s blond face and rattled-his usually level head; blood of anger, hatred of the cool, insolent daring of the man. A fool, he was, and all the men of the Henry B. were foals, to risk so much for salvage which would not net them over eight er tem thousand dollars, ship and cargo both. Only long afterward—for each man who knew the reason had shared in the illusion, ' and hated te speak of his felly—did Dugan CORnNIECLO© (©