Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 55: what you’re looking at

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

THE ROARING FORTIES. Baldy Brown, all did their part, as crimps in the furnishing of that crew. Captain Forbes, watching one boat load of inebriates being lifted aboard in bunt- lines, remarked to his first officer: “Looks as if young Gertridge is giving us the sweepings of hell.” “ ‘They’re a tough gang, all right, sir.” “Don’t give a damn how tough they are, as long as they are sailors.”’ The crew came aboard in various dis- guises. One appeared reeling down the deck in an old stove pipe hat, and swallow- tails. Feeling his dignity, he started for the captain’s cabin, but was straightway collared by the bosun. ‘Here, ye gentleman’s son in disguise, forecastle for ye, me hearty.” A bunch of damsels from Hanover Street came out with their sweethearts. They had stripped them of everything except the duds they stood in, and like blood-suckers, they hung on in hopes of still more pickings from poor Jack. Every kind of head dress, from black- ball cap to beaver; every kind of suit, from swallowtail to dungaree was represented in that motley throng. As the crew mustered on the forecastle head, a layman might have been tempted to inquire: ‘“Ts this a masquerade ball?”’ But for the trained eye, no clothes that were ever invented could disguise these men, their bronzed, weather-beaten faces, and sun-baked tattooed arms, with every swing of their bodies, betrayed them as sailor-men. What kind of sailor-men they they were, was still a question. Richard Dunbar was sizing up each man, while they in turn, were taking their gauge of him. Most of them, at first glance, de- cided that this slight built, fair-haired young man was easy. Mr. Pugsley, the second mate, a bluenose bucko, was recognized instantaneously. Whenever, and wherever an unresponsive cord was struck, Mr. Bucko Pugsley was there to hit first, and to hit hard. As fast with his feet as with his fists, he used both with unerring precision. Mr. Pugsley had nothing but contempt for the polite, soft-spoken first officer, who was half his age, and who, as he put it, 685 “ Didn’t have guts enough to rustle the bounce out of a soldier.” A half a dozen “ gents’ from Patch-Eye Curtain’s boarding house came aboard in a bellicose mood. They all camped on the main hatch, and refused to budge, while their leader, one of Satan’s angels from some deep sea hell, announced, loud-mouthed, that he would ‘“ cut the bloody tripes out of the first guy that started to give ’em any guif.” 7 In a berserker rage, Pugsley rushed the main hatch. All gave before him, except the loud-mouth. Pugsley was just about to pulverize him, when there came the flash of a deadly wea- pon. ‘““ None ’o yer bulldozin’ here!” growled the bad man. One step nearer and I'll split yer bloody skull.” Advancing threateningly, he pushed back a peak-cap, and there across his ugly brow, Pugsley beheld a most revolting scar, as though some one had branded him with a butcher’s cleaver. This hideous disfigure- ment was partly obliterated by a great spread-eagle tattooed across his entire fore- head. - Pugsley had heard of that hideous brand before, belonging to one Rip Kelly, a no- torious leader of a dockside murder gang. * D’ye know me?” “Yes.” “All right, stand fast.” Pugsley stood fast. This was indeed an embarrassing predicament for the begin- ning of a voyage. For one agonizing moment that deck seemed about as healthy as a cage of tigers breaking from the leash. A half a score of new arrivals, already black and blue from Pugsley’s boots urged Kelly on. No one knew what happened next, it came so softly, and so quickly. Richard Dunbar, stepping suavely along the main hatch, snatched the weapon and tossed it deftly into the sea. “Now then, my men, just go below where you belong.” The order was given in the soft voice of courtesy, but it carried with it the feel of iron in velvet. He, who had brooked Pugsley’s bull of GComicdooks.co