Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 20: what you’re looking at

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

646 tossed it aside. Mr. Grimpen extracted a handful of exquisite old lace from the heap . —a rebozo fit for the head of some Spanish infanta—and cast it over the door knob behind him so as to veil the keyhole. Satisfying himself now that his actions were known to his two companions only, Captain Jarvy shoveled his big hand into the chest again. It came palm upward, hold- ing a pile of coins—silver bolivars from Venezuela, five-peso gold pieces, glittering yellow balboas from Panama, gold argen- tines, escudos. The sight was glorious, bringing a flash to the skipper’s red eyes as well as to the pale blue eyes of Mr. Grim- pen. Tom Yarre still stood up, aloof. “ Escudos, be gad!” the sea captain cried in a hoarse whisper. “ And damned if there ain’t condors among ’em, too!” The skipper’s hand trembled—something unusual for him—as he looked at what he held. One of the gold condors fell from it, jingling. ‘“Sh! Steady there, captain!” Mr. Grimpen cautioned. ‘ Don’t Iet ’em know abaht this money. These lodging ’ouses, y know—” The skipper spread out a silk serape to deaden the sound of the silver which he poured on the table. The three men stopped their heavy breathing as he shov- eled out another handful of coins and poured them on the silk. When it jingled softly to a pile the men were aware again of their heavy breathing; of the loud buzz of winged ants; of the dull soft thud of a moth banging against the lamp chimney; of the whir of a bat up around Tom Yarre’s head. Then all sounds—or so at least it seemed —vere suspended as another handful of sil- ver jingled softly and merrily upon the silk. Other sounds seemed hushed because that one musical tinkle drowned everything else. When the last handful of coins was scooped out, the skipper turned the chest upside down, emptying it of dirt, chaff and little woolly balls of dust. In the heap of silver and gold coins there were a few crude jewels of an antique sort, which blazed with a somber garnet light. These were poked into a separate pile. The skipper then pro- ceeded to build little towers with the coins, ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. putting each according to its size, then measuring the little piles as a poker player takes a rough measurement of his chips. The mate, Mr. Grimpen, rested his thin long chin upon his folded arms so that his eyes were on a level with the glittering piles. He watched the proceedings, his head crouched, his pale eyes slanting upward and showing a large amount of the bulging, veined whites. He was precisely like an animal poking its nose over the edge of the table and watching its master at dinner. Breathing through his long pitted nose, Mr. Grimpen sounded as if he were purring. The vertical bars of coins were eventually gathered in two heaps. “‘ This here is mine,” the skipper decreed. “That ’—shoving over the pile to Mr. Grimpen—“ is yourn.” The two men proceeded to pocket their coins—the skipper stuffing his into a wallet, the mate pouring his into a small gunny- bag which he made fast to the broad leather belt about his waist. Tom Yarre watched this part of the scene with a quiet scorn. The other two were aware of a heavier breathing on the part of the big boatswain, and they felt that a pair of burning gray eyes were focused upon their backs. It was uncomfortable—par- ticularly for the mate, who was the nearest to him. Finally the boatswain took his cheroot out of his mouth and burst out: “ Say, look here, captain, I understood as how the contents of that chest was to be divided in three equal parts—those were the stoker’s dying words-—‘ equal parts,’ he said, ‘not forgetting my old friend, Tom Yarre, the bos’n!’ ” ‘There vou go. I knew it! He’s going to whine!” the skipper snorted. “TI ain’t fair,am I? I ain’t got the right to divide this stuff like I want to, have I? I’m a cheatin’, lyin’ swobheaded grafter, ain’t I? Look here, Mr. Grimpen,” he said, turning to the mate, “‘ I'll put it up to you. Am I fair? Am J just? Has this young sea-calf got any call to object to my methods?” ‘“ Sh!” the mate cautioned, putting a long gnarled finger to his lips. ‘‘ Let’s have no fightin’ abaht it. Of course, you’re fair, skipper. You allus was fair. You deserve ° COmicloooks (C@