Argosy All-Story Weekly, October 25, 1924 — page 94: what you’re looking at

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

84 “Tf you do not hear my whistle, you will make sail, stand out for the bay and re- turn to Deux-Sevres—where you first shipped with me.” “That I will not do, sir!” “You do refuse to obey then?” Cam- eron asked, quickly, sharply. ‘‘ There’s no time to lose in this argument.” “T refuse, sir, to sail home and leave you on that lugger. If I don’t hear you, it’ll mean you’re dead. Ain’t no call to obey the orders of a dead skipper. When I sail out’n this bayou I sails with you aboard— or with your body. One or the other!” He added, thrusting out his hand: “ You may lay to that, sir—here’s me hand, s’help me God!” Cameron gripped the hand. Doubt was dispelled. He could not lose. The cock- ney was already paralyzed with fear. If he saw a man coming out of the black bayou water, dressed as an ancient pirate, there could be no combat. “You'll hear my whistle, mon petit!” Cameron concluded with a final grip at the wiry little fist. ' The boy stood by, while his master di- vested himself of his top boots and jacket. Accoutered then in nothing more than a blouse, a pair of dungaree jumpers, and the red bandanna about his wounded forehead, Cameron was ready for his attack. Tim Holloway watched him. Cameron could not dive in—that spectacular begin- ning was denied him. He had to crawl into the water from the mud beach precisely like an alligator, dragging himself along until he had water enough to float. One or two strokes churning up phosphorescence, sent him out in the open stretch. Here he kept both arms under, swimming an easy side stroke. The boy could see his head moving off towards the lugger, dwindling to a dull black spot, leaving a wake on the smooth ebony surface, in which there was an almost imperceptible touch of light. From where the boy stood, half hidden in the reef grass, the anchored lugger was clearly visible. The boy’s dilated eyes could easily discern the diminutive figure of the cockney Dorset, huddled up against. the bulkhead of the cabin. The black sil- houette was visible now against the back- ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. ground of the bulkhead, then as the craft swung out at its mooring, against the back- ground of the moonpath. Huddled though it was—as if the wretched man were cling- ing for warmth against bulkhead and deck, it was restive—restive enough so that its movements could be seen across that misty moonlit expanse. Tim Holloway could see a head, thrusting out at the end of a long neck, like a turtle’s from the bundle of dark rags—peering athwart the taffrail now toward the chateau, now down the reach; now aft, now forward towards the mast, beyond which the cry of a marsh bird had broken weirdly into the silence. Cameron — as the boy estimated — had halved the distance of his swim. The turtle-like silhouette shook itself, stood up in the cockpit taking on the partial semblance of a man—grotesque, long- necked. A drink would have calmed that perturbed spirit. But that was forbidden —and the smell of rum clings to the breath. His master and persecutor who had laid down that law, would be jealous of its ob- servance. A smoke would do—that at least could be indulged in secretly. The other three renegades were well out of sight. In- deed, they had probably already reached. the end of the inlet and were disembarked, picking their way through the swamp oaks and mangroves. Cameron was now out of sight. The water was a jet-black plane as devoid of variation in tone as the top of a teakwood table. The boy could only judge his posi- tion by time. He must be within a few yards of the boat. His stroke was probably gentler now, so that he could glide along without a sound. That last part of the swim might take time—not because of fatigue, but because of the danger. ‘Tim Strained his eyes. The silhouette on deck had again fallen—like a formless shadow cast by something hovering overhead— against the bulkhead. It was facing aft— the little knob on the end of the long neck bobbing this way and that. Tim Holloway’s eyes sharpened. The lugger was broadside to him—the moon on its quarter. The light coming from beyond. Tim could see the outline of the craft—a squat ugly thing with a snub nose, a mast COMMICLOoOokKs (C@)