Argosy All-Story Weekly, April 14, 1928 — page 98: what you’re looking at

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

236 gold is,” he said calmly. opinion he don’t even know that there is any gold. Think he’d of allowed his daughter to go ashore and sing in a bar? Not this Bible-thumpin’ old loon. We were crazy thinkin’ that. She did it on the sly. He didn’t even know she was ashore.” The negro and Brass could not find a flaw in this conjecture. Their mas- ter as usual was slyer than they. “Then it’s the girl,” Brass said. “Why didn’t you get it out of her? We’re wastin’ precious time!” “Now wait. All the time in the world. She’ll tell. But first I want to bear down on this lubber.” He faced the squat, grizzled little fighter. The other two men could not help wonder- ing what might have happened to the slim, stoop-shouldered mate if his mas- ter had not been handcuffed. “T’m goin’ to leave it up to you, Bartlett,” Swope said. “Tell that little skit in there to give up her gold. Otherwise we search the ship and get it anyway. But first you get heaved by the board. And when you're drown- in’ you can picture us sailin’ out to sea, with your daughter on board. She'll do some singin’ for us—eh, Slushy?” Slushy laughed a slobbering, thick- lipped laugh. “ Yas, suh, I dare say, suh! She'll officiate at the singin’, I dare say, suh!” The big black was standing at Swope’s elbow, directly in front of Bartlett. He still held the skillet in front of him as if serving the two ship’s officers a breakfast from the gal- ley. As he threw his head up in that Joud guffaw, Bartlett let fly a powerful kick, his boot catching the skillet like a football. The skillet and its contents shot up out of the black’s hands, and a shower of live coals spurted upward. They caught him on the chin like an uppercut; they spattered against his shoulder, spilled against the bulkhead, and fell scattering over the deck. The negro staggered back, howling. “Sits any ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. Brass sprang for the old. skipper’s arms, shoved him into a chair, while Swope stood aloof, chuckling at the scene. When Bartlett had recovered his breath he began to babble in a frenzy, - pleading, begging, praying to God, his voice raised until it seemed as if both he and the negro were trying to shout each other down. “ Don’t touch him now, Slushy, don’t go any closer,’’ Swope warned the cook. “It’s what you deserve.” He stepped in front of the giant black whose only one desire in his fury was to thrash the little skipper to a pulp. “ Beg her to tell!” the skipper was crying. “Say that I’m beggin’ her to tell! I’m beggin’ her to give you ev- ery cent she has, every grain of dust. It’s a thing of the devil—I never want her to touch gold again! Beg her to give it up—for her father’s sake! “Take it all, and get out. But don’t lay a finger on my little kid if you don’t want to rot in hell! Take every- thing, the last boat, everything on board. Take me; but leave my poor little kid!” Swope had accomplished his purpose. It was very simple. It was much sim- pler than resorting to the old-fashioned bull-headed method of torture. He knew perfectly well that a part of that scene could be heard in the next cabin. There was only the wood- en bulkhead between them. Just what the girl had imagined when she heard that howling and then the frantic plea of her father, Swope could not tell. Quite likely she thought her father was being given a taste of those coals. Yells of pain, men shouting, then the voice of her father begging that they take her gold, that was enough to bring her to terms. It had an effect beyond Swope’s an- ticipation. He went to the girl’s cab- in, unlocked the door, and she fell for- ward to her knees before him. “Don’t hurt him! Don’t.” she gasped. “ It’s over there—in that hogs- Gomichbooks (E@)