The Argosy, Christmas 1912 — page 97: what you’re looking at

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

AT FIVE The conch sent its blood-curdling shriek again through the shifting vapor, but the only reply was the medley of bass and treble screams from-the other dories. There came another puff of wind that shredded the fog and let in the dull, cold light from the leaden sky. Captain Bijonah looked around. At various distances upon the stirring sea were the seven other dories of the Rosan, and three miles to the south- west the schooner herself, with her four lower sails set, bearing directly away on the freshening wind. “ By the great mains’l,” cried Cap- tain Tanner, “he’s goin’ off an’ leave us with a nor’easter risin’! -Has the young idiot had a mad fit, I wonder? ”’ Tom Hodgkin spat carefully over the side of the dory and squinted at the diminishing schooner. “No, Bijonah, I don’t think he has,” was the reply; “but I calc’late you riled him up _ consid’able - this mornin’, and ye know Del was always a bay of sperrit.” Captain Bijonah looked blank and worried for a moment. “Ye don’t mean, do ye, Tom, that just because I rated him Del’s got ugly, and is sailin’ away out of pure cussed- ness when he can sense a gale?” “‘ Guess I do, skipper. I was afeard the boy wouldn’t stand both your con- science and your jaw forever,’ replied Tom blandly, which remark shows one of the privileges attached to being a man’s wife’s uncle, even though he is a skipper. Bijonah Tanner made no answer, for at that moment the graceful Rosan, heeling to the fresh wind, passed around the point of Painter’s Island and out of sight. . Il. “WHOEVER she is, weve got her this time sure!” First Officer Wilson, of the revenue cutter Penguin, took the binoculars from his chief and peered steadily FATHOMS. 83 through them at the sailing vessel just breaking from the edge of the fog ahead. “Right, sir, we have,” he replied. “She is inside the’ three-mile limit, and no mistake. Shall I ring for Mac Donald to drive her?” “Yes,” snapped the captain. “Tl go below now. Let me know when we draw up close.” “Aye, sir.” The Penguin was proceeding south some six miles off the Nova Scotia shore, her reported trip in that direc- tron a week before having been but a blind to cover a voyage north that Captain Ramsay hoped would be rich with American prizes. So far, how- ever, he had failed to detect one in British waters until the black - hulled witch that had just poked her long bowsprit out of the fog. First Mate Wilson rang the engine- telegraph until Mac Donald answered him. “Forced draft, chief,’ he said; “‘there’s a schooner ahead caught in the act, and if the old man doesn’t nab her he’ll nearly blow his brains out.” The blunt-nosed Penguin forged forward more swiftly to the increased thrust of her propeller and headed di- rectly toward the schooner farther in- shore. “ Drat that wind!” cried Wilson as. through the glasses, he saw the vessel heel to a fresh impulse that threatened every minute to dispel the fog banks. He consulted a chart. “She must have just come out from the southern end of Painter’s Island,” he added. “That proves her guilt beyond doubt.” Anathematizing the wind did not diminish it—rather the contrary—and Wilson, knowing his Banks lore. realized they were in for a steady nor’- easter. Consequently, with the idea of getting canvas off the fisherman without delay, he ordered a shot put across her bows, and presently the three-pounder barked peremptorily, the ball ricochetting a cable’s length in front of her, CoOMmicbook CO