Argosy All-Story Weekly, July 11, 1925 — page 44: what you’re looking at

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

as) 2 May pi fy A ~ FT Pe, hag? Wind: one rs ee J! Cory ats it Ae Re: . A fale "Tele Fy RRA ge inet S Sahat tae DP hatte at hy aes! —_ iy Af %: ZU, eee ne Re, $e ee are Pras a Oe. eee ny io | ‘ ie. A eh to" : Pi Li ive, « Pte eS ee “ me Ae) Petty gE . ‘y r ;- : . . . f ; 198 The young man peered through the gloom ahead and tried to visualize his coming sur- roundings; but he saw only a bare hill. “ Here’s where you git off!” announced the skipper. The young man’s quizzical blue eyes looked blank. “Oh! Is this the city?” “Naw; this is the suburbs. Every time we pick up a hayseed like you clingin’ on the keel of a catboat in the middle of the ocean, we like to land him in a place like this. It gives him a nice walk to town. Restores his circulation.” The skipper’s voice changed to a growl. “We don’t want any innocent people aboard here, any- how.” The passenger smiled ruefully down upon the wrinkled, gray store clothes which cov- ered his tall and well-knit body. His heavy tan boots were dried hard as rocks. “J’m plumb innocent,” he admitted, “but I’m not blind!” “Well, keep your mouth shut, That’s all we ask. Get outa here! I gotta go to work!” The wheel spun around. The ship swung, rolled, swung again, pitched. Bells clanged down to the little engine room aft. The ship halted and backed. The passenger stepped down from the swaying bridge and made his way to the base of the little stack where four of the crew were gathered—Dago Mike, Paule, Dutch Heiney, and Portergee Tom—pirates all, but friendly to a shipwrecked man. Tom jeered. “ You want we should send your trunk ashore, Steve?” Steve laughed, but the crowd grew silent and watched the approach of a sheer-sided hill which loomed high and then fell away. A light appeared in the curve of the cove. A raft or platform tossed near the light. The steam schooner’s anchor chain rattled out. Bells rang violently below decks. The wheelhouse window opened and the skip- per bawled tremendous orders. The crew descended toward the single cargo mast for- ward. Lanterns appeared on deck. A winch began to snort. “Get aboard the cargo, Steve!” bawled the skipper. “ Hang onto the lashin’s! We'll ‘swing you ashore!” <2 <P» i : —. 2 aS SP eww i. A i - ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. Steve ran down to the waist of the ship, where dark waters tossed just beyond the bulwarks. The cargo boom lowered. Ropes and tackles creaked. A hook shot down into a black hold. In time the hook returned with a large packing case which might have contained a piano. Steve got aboard. “ Good-by!” roared the skipper, “ After this keep in society. Let ’er go!” The rope tightened. Steve swung high over the bulwarks and then down to uncer- tain depths. The tossing raft rose toward him. His piano bumped, halted, and began to toss with it. He made a speedy series of jumps to shore, landing in the presence of four burly and hostile men grouped around a lantern. “ He’s all right!” came the skipper’s wind-blown voice, sticking to its joke. “ He got shipwrecked on his way into society.” A mighty hand came across Steve’s chest. * Nobody’s all right around here, mis- ter!”’ growled a husky voice. “ You stick here!” Then, through cupped hands to the ship: “ Wot did you land this guy for? Ain’t you got any sense?” “JT couldn’t let him drown!” defended the skipper. ‘Sure you could! Wadda you think you are—a Coast Guard cutter?” ‘“Aw, shut up!” snarled the skipper. “ You know better!” Steve looked about, striving to find, a way out of this place. He noticed a figure coming from the landward shadows. Be- yond him were vague white shapes like two square houses. The man came into the lantern light. He was chunky, smooth shaven, formidably hook nosed, and covered by a great gray coat of the latest mode. “Too many lights on that ship!” he snapped. “ What’s this talk about? Who is this fellow? How did he get here?” ** Came ashore on a cargo boom,” report- ed one of the toughs. Then, seriously: “ Do we croak him?” The hook-nosed man produced a cigar. His soft white hands trembled slightly. “No. No need of that, boys. I'll talk to him.” He turned to Steve. ‘‘ Who are ou?” ‘Stephen Kane.” Gomichbooks (E@)