Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 129: what you’re looking at

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

THE ISLAND OF “Valentine! That’s not my name—” Again the scornful smile. ‘“‘ It’s as good as any other name for your kind. It’s the name I prefer to know you by. And what- ever the name, you are the shark I’ve caught this time! I am not taking you to Colum- bia, since you ask me.” ‘“ But you agreed—”’ ‘That was merely my bait to attract a shark, Mr. Valentine—” “Will you please stop calling me that? My name is—” “T don’t care what your name’is. And stop talking. I don’t care for your re- marks.” Tom Francis sprang up to find himself staring at a small nickel plated pistol she had produced with the skill of a prestidigi- tator. He wondered if he was dreaming, yet knew this was a strange reality. He heard himself say sharply: “ Put that away!” “« Steady! T will—” ‘Are you crazy? Put that gun away! And head this boat for Columbia—” She shook her head. “Up helm, you hear! I’ve got to catch that steamer—I must get there—” “ You'll not get there—until I’m through with you. You'll go to Walrus Island—” ‘Where? What is Walrus Island?” A short laugh mocked him. “ You! You, asking that!” For just a moment Francis began to think it was he who had gone mad, Or had all the world gone mad? He was blinking and gasping. Then, because he was used to acting quickly, his hand shot out to seize the threatening weapon. The motor boat was rocking crazily. He was struggling with a woman who had the strength of an active man while their craft swung into the trough of a roller and its crest slopped over the gunwale. It was a moment of insanity. They fought in silence, without apparent reason, with extraordinary passion. The crack of the pistol ended it as definitely as a period. Francis slumped back onto the cockpit As you were! I can use it— DOUBT. 919 bench holding his right hand before him stiffly and staring at a flesh wound that dripped bright red blood over his whipcord trousers. The girl instinctively grasped the tiller and righted the boat on its course, even before her free hand went to her disheveled hair. She had lost her felt hat and the brown locks fell in ripples about her shoul- ders. Her voice roused Francis. ‘“ Tie a hand- kerchief around that hand—better, let me tie it. It’s not done any harm. Just through the fleshy part of the thumb.” He found himself holding out his hand to be properly bandaged. “If you don’t mind,” he said, ‘‘ I would very much like to know what all this is about?” “You will know—when you meet my father, Foster Reed, on Walrus Island!” Francis groaned. His head was spinning with the absurdity of these startling hap- penings. But until they left the motor boat tied to a landing and went ashore on Walrus, seven miles at sea from Hope, he learned no more, {V. Tue island rose steeply in a rocky ledge about which the Pacific rollers broke with continuous thunder. It was possibly a mile in extent in either direction, partially wood- ed with cypress and fir. : That strange young woman, Natalie Reed, marched Tom Francis ahead of her, like a prisoner, toward a house near the beach. It was an unusual dwelling. At first glance it appeared to be a charm- ing bungalow in the pretty, adaptable Cali- fornia style. A second look showed it had never been finished. The sides were bare where the carpenters had stopped shingling. Some of its windows gaped to the weather, innocent of glass. They approached it by a path along which a few dispirited gera- niums and nasturtiums grew in wild neglect, The whole place had the air of a home be- gun with wonderful intentions and sudden- ly abandoned to despair. Francis noted that the ground near by had been plowed for planting, but little of CoOmiclbooksS.se© nn