Argosy All-Story Weekly, January 13, 1923 — page 178: what you’re looking at

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

SE TR Sur bop to Mis “sa eee eee m Sor Pee fie TBS eee : i ee ed Oe ete ee 640 ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY, - make a fine punch if we had some lemons and sugar.’ “<Tt ’d be all jake ef we hed a few o’ them green coconuts over our heads; they’re full o’ the best kind o’ canned lemonade,’ T tells him. “* Get up aloft there and heave down a few,” he orders. ‘¢ F ain’t no monkey to shin up thet bare trunk,’ I come back with. “*¢ Can’t a sailor go anywhere aloft where a monkey can?’ “*Ves, except where the monks use hands, feet, an’ tail, like they do when they pick coconuts,’ ‘““¢ Tf it wasn’t that I’m vice president of the Fat Men’s Club, and weigh three hun- dred and fifty pounds, I’d climb up myself,’ he sez, an’ tears come in his eyes ez he looked up at them coconuts. “ After I took three or four more drinks } must ’a’ got lit up a bit, fer I ain’t certain ez to jest what happened—I reckon I musta clumb up an’ got some nuts without know- in’ whether I was goin’ or comin’, an’ hed come down headfirst fer a windup. My shirt an’ breeches was all tore to pieces, I hed a lump on my head ez big ez a hen’s egg, an’ one shoulder was black an’ blue an’ stiff when I found myself *bout sun- down arm in arm with the commodore, ez we held each other up, both of us singin’ “We won’t go home till morning’,’ an’ kick- in’ the keg along in front of us toward the yawl, Mebbe ef we hedn’t sech a deck- load we could ’a’ carried {t on our shoulders; when we got to the beach we sung ‘ For he’s @ jolly good fellow’ before we got in the yawl. When I looked fer the divinin’ rod the commodore told me he’d left it stuck in the greund where we’d found the treasures of the Indies; then he hugged an’ kissed me an’ said thet when we went back to dig up the rest o’ the treasure he’d divide up with me fifty-fifty. I reckon his con- science was treublin’ him fer havin’ taken more than his share 0’ the heoch while I was knecked out. Anyway, I hed all I could carry, an’ then some. But we never went back. “When we came aboard the leak was calked an’ the Foaming Wave was ready for sea. We told the watch on deck thet ez ra the wind was raising to put out two anchors, an’ then we turned in. At about two bells a hurricane from the southwest woke us up. | “We made all snug, with our canvas furled and lashed an’ battened hatches, with all hands below decks, an’ hoped to ride it out where we was, but the hurricane kicked up what they call ‘a tidal wave,’ which is nothin’ more or less than the wind pilin’ the water up in front of it in an extra heavy blow like this one. Our anchors wouldn’t hold and dragged ez the wave carried us right over and across Rat Island, thet by this time was all under water. They held us a bit when we was about the mid- dle of the island like they’d found holdin’ ground, then let go an’ we was blowed out to sea. It looked ez ef we'd keelhauled a church when we histed ’em a week after- ward off Floridy. The port anchor was fouled in about ten feet of a steeple on one fluke an’ the other hed hooked onto the bell. It was a mighty high wave we’d rode fer sure. Both anchors hed us weighed down by the head so deep it was a wonder we hedn’t foundered. It took all hands at the capstan to hist the stabbard mud hook, an’ when we got it aboard there was a big iron pot full o’ Spanish gold ounces hangin’ on the flukes—we musta fouled it when we dragged across Rat Island. “ After we'd shook out our canvas the commodore ordered me to steer a straight course fer little ol’ New York. He allowed he was all fed up with life on the ocean wave, an’ callated to foller in the path of * his Jamented aneestors by startin’ a bucket shop in Wall Street, ez it paid better than their old-fashioned way of doin’ business. “When he paid us off, ten thousand dol- lars was my share ef the treasure over and above my pay ez sailing master. JF lost every cent of it the next week bettin’ on the races at Sheepshead Bay. I reckon the rest of my shipmates didn’t keep theirs very leng neither. Sailors ain’t savers, ye knew. “ But, fellers, in spite o’ the Flyin’ Dutchman an’ Davy Jenes I’m goin’ down to them islands agen. There’s millions buried thar in gold an’ hooch, an’ with a prohibition agent to help me, I’ll find the hooch anyhow, an’ the gold won’t be far: away, I’m tellin’ ye!” 10 A COMNICLOOKS (E@)