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Title: The Cruise of the Pelican

Author: H. Bedford-Jones

Release date: February 3, 2022 [eBook #67311]

Language: English

Original publication: United Kingdom: Hurst & Blackett, Ltd

Credits: Al Haines


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CRUISE OF THE PELICAN ***







  _The Cruise of the Pelican_

  _By H. BEDFORD-JONES_


  _Author of
  "The Kasbah Gate," "Splendour of the Gods," etc._


  _London: HURST & BLACKETT, LTD.,
  PATERNOSTER HOUSE, E.C._

  _1924_




  Contents

  Chapter

  I. Boatswain Joe
  II. News from Nowhere
  III. Laying a Course
  IV. The Square Suitcase
  V. The "Pelican"
  VI. Outward Bound
  VII. Jerry Tells Something
  VIII. Miles Hathaway Talks
  IX. Unalaska Bay
  X. The Wreck
  XI. The Enemy Comes
  XII. In the Depths
  XIII. Pontifex Plans Revenge
  XIV. They that Take the Sword--

  THE CONCLUSION Outward Bound




The Cruise of the "_Pelican_"



CHAPTER I

BOATSWAIN JOE

Tom Dennis sat on a printer's stool beside a very dirty window which
dimly illumined his figure, and stared at the gloom surrounding him.
His rawboned face was dejected; his angular body slumped
despondently.  In his hand was a little sheaf of papers.

It was five-thirty in the afternoon.  Long since, the grist of
evening papers had gone through the big press; the rollers had been
washed and retired; the men had gone home.  It was Saturday night,
and the week's work was done.  So was _The Marshville Clarion_, as
Tom Dennis cheerlessly admitted to himself.

The high-school lad who assisted Dennis in gathering local items and
filling the columns of _The Clarion_ had not returned as usual from
the Saturday baseball game to write up his notes from a fresh memory.
Dennis had instructed him not to return until Monday--and not to
return then unless sent for.

Silence and the darkness of departing day lay funereally upon the big
back room.  Presses and stones and type-racks filled the floor.
Always dingy and dark, this room now seemed to feel the approach of
dissolution.  The smell of printing-ink hung upon the air like
incense strewn by dead hands.  _The Clarion_ had issued its own
obituary.

Tom Dennis suddenly moved.  To the dim light of the unwashed window
he held the papers in his hand.  They were bills.  Each of them was
stamped "Paid".  As he looked at them, Tom Dennis uttered a mirthless
bitter laugh.

"Paid!" he said, his voice ringing hollowly in the emptiness of the
big back room.  "Paid, by heavens--and not a cent to spare!  And the
bank holds a mortgage on this plant!  I can sell the typewriters for
fifty dollars; I'll have to do it to get out of town!"

The outer door, the door of the front office, banged, and there was a
heavy tread that ceased abruptly.  Tom Dennis paid no heed to it; he
sensed that someone had entered, but it was of no concern to him what
passed in the outer office.

"Done!" he said morosely.  "I'm done!  It's been the dickens of a
pull, this year has--and now I'm done."

He was right: he was done, and he knew it.


Every newspaper man dreams of running, some day, a paper all his own,
dreams of taking over some "small-town" paper, dreams of running it
his own way and indulging his own ideas of how a paper should be run,
dreams of wealth and fame in consequence.  Once in a thousand cases,
perhaps, the dream comes true.

Tom Dennis was at the end of his own particular dream.  A college
man, a star reporter on a Chicago daily, he had saved his money, and,
at twenty-three, had become the owner of _The Clarion_ in the sleepy
little town of Marshville.

A meteoric year had ensued.  Tom Dennis had gone to work to wake up
Marshville--and he had succeeded.  He had wakened Marshville to a
lively animosity, a deadly resentment that a stranger should come in
here and give advice.  Marshville knew that it was a sleepy, dying,
vicious, ingrowing little town--and Marshville wanted to be just that
kind of town!  So, when Tom Dennis tried to root out the viciousness
and decay, Marshville was angered.

Six months passed, and the last of Tom Dennis' money was gone.  He
mortgaged the whole property, lock, stock, and barrel, and went on
fighting.  He had gleams of success, and the letters of Florence
Hathaway had inspired him to renewed efforts, but now the end had
come.  He must either borrow on his personal credit, which was not
extensive enough to carry him very long, or else go under.

  "A smart Yankee packet lay out in the bay,
    To me way hay, o-_hi_-o!
  A-waiting for a fair wind to get under way,
    A long time ago!"


The voice--a musing rumbling voice--came from the outer office, and
it was a voice strange to Tom Dennis.  But he scarce heard the words,
or the swinging air.  His hand had clenched upon the sheaf of papers,
and his head had lowered.  Chin to breast, he was in the agony of
defeat; despite himself, despite his rugged features, slow tears were
groping on his cheeks.

Those tears were not for himself, not for the fact of his failure
here.  A year ago Tom Dennis would have taken his defeat with a laugh
and a joke, and he had not changed.  It was not self-misery which
drew those man's tears to his cheeks.

He was thinking of Florence Hathaway.  He had found her here in the
_Clarion_ office a year ago, a society reporter; she was then
supporting her slowly-dying mother.  Two years previously her father,
Captain Miles Hathaway, had been lost at sea somewhere in the
Pacific; the girl had brought her mother back to Marshville, the
mother's old home town, and there the mother had died.  This had been
three months after the coming of Tom Dennis.

For another three months, Florence Hathaway had stayed on with the
_Clarion_--largely for love of Tom Dennis.  Then had come the offer
of a teacher's position in a private school in Chicago, and she had
accepted the offer.

Not that Dennis wanted her to accept--far from it!  They had argued
it all out that night, under the willow trees by the river.  Her hand
in his, the girl had made Tom Dennis face a few hard facts.  She was
the rare kind who can make a man realize things.

"Tom, dear," she had said gently, "another year will see you firmly
established here in Marshville.  Until then we can't dare marry; it
isn't fair to you!  Get clear of financial worries first.  Not that I
care about the money, Tom, but I do care so much about you; and now
you're talking about mortgaging the paper, and it's bearing you down."

"And if I fail?"

"Then come to me in Chicago, and we'll start fresh--together."

"But why go there?  Stay here where you can help me most!  It's your
society stuff that does most good----"

"No, dear, Marshville hates you; you must conquer or be conquered,
and you don't know how terribly bitter Marshville can be.  It's like
any small town, Tom.  They're all against you now, and if I stay on
the paper, they'll be talking--about us.  Besides, I don't like the
place.  I want to be in Chicago a little while, mistress of myself,
enjoying a little bit of real life and real things.  I'll come back
to you here, or you'll come to me there, Tom, and----"


Now, as he sat in the dingy back room, Tom Dennis thought over these
things, and his pride revolted within him.  He could not go back to
his old job, admitting that he had made a failure of his paper,
admitting that he was good for nothing better than a reporter's job.
He could not go to Florence Hathaway--a failure!  He had tasted of
freedom, and now it seemed to him that a reporter's was a dog's life.
He would not go back to it.  He would not ask her to face it all,
even though she might be willing--

  "We didn't get a drink for seventeen days,
    To me way hay, o-_hi_-o!
  And nobody cared if she hung in stays,
    A _long_ time ago!"


Dimly the words penetrated the consciousness of Tom Dennis, roused
him slightly.  Who was in the outer office?  Well, no matter.  The
bank owned it now--tight-lipped old banker Dribble up the street, who
owned everything.

"It wasn't a fair fight, maybe," muttered Tom Dennis, sudden storm in
his eyes.  "They lied to me right and left.  The advertising
contracts were faked on me.  They tried to stab me in the back
whenever they had a chance--and they did it, too!  But there's no use
sobbing over all that."

He would have to leave town, of course--the sooner the better.  He
might as well take the evening train to Chicago and make his plans to
start afresh.  There was nothing to hold him here; everything was
paid, even to the interest on the mortgage.  The mortgage still had
six months to run.

"Why not?"  Dennis suddenly came to his feet.  "I can shut up this
coop, and they can't touch it for six months!  The property may
deteriorate, of course; mice will eat the rollers, and the ink will
dry up, and the presses won't be oiled--but that's old Dribble's
lookout, not mine!  I still have six months left!  A stroke of
luck----"

"Ahoy, matey!" billowed a voice.  "Ahoy, Dennis!  Where are you,
skipper?"

A monstrous voice was that, a roaring thunderous voice that filled
the dingy old back room with rolling waves of sound.  Startled, Tom
Dennis reached to the nearest electric bulb, switched it on, and
directed the light toward the door of the outer office.

There, standing in the doorway, he saw a surprising figure.  The
stranger was two inches taller than Dennis, who himself stood six
feet one.  Not particularly well dressed was the intruder--rough blue
serge, manifestly hand-me-downs, and a white soft shirt with
loosely-knotted cravat.  But the face--the face was the thing!

A peculiar face it was, for in it was emphasized the trait common to
most men.  Its left side was regular enough.  The right brow,
however, was uptwisted satanically; the right side of the mouth was
down-twisted in a leer.  Seldom had Tom Dennis seen this
dissimilarity between the two sides of a man's face so pronounced.
Aside from this, it was a massive strong face, lighted by two very
direct, piercing, predatory eyes of light-blue, and crowned by
flaming red hair.

"Ha!" said the stranger, coming forward.  "You're Dennis?"

"You're right."  And a sour smile twisted the lips of the newspaper
man.  "My name is Dennis, right enough.  You've got another bill to
present?"

The other halted, and stared at him.

"Bill?" he repeated.  "Bill?  Paying your bills, are you?"

Dennis laughed shortly.  "You bet.  I'm clearing out of here
to-night.  Well, how much is it?  Guess I can scrape up enough to pay
it; if not, there's a typewriter out in front you can take along.
Thought I'd cleared 'em all off, though----"

The stranger threw back his head and laughed.  That laugh was a
roaring billow of sound, as though the red-head were accustomed to
fling his laughter into the teeth of a singing gale.

"Ho-ho!" he cried boisterously.  "Slipping your cable, hey?  Gone
under, hey?  Another poor swab who can't beat the shyster law-clerks
and has gone under!  Well, do what I did, matey.  I was in the same
boat myself, oncet--and I run off to sea!  Strike me blind if it
wasn't the makin' of me!  Now, if you'll take my advice and do the
same thing----"

"What do you want?" snapped Dennis suddenly.  "I'm not asking for
your advice, my friend.  Have you business with me?"

"Aye."  The other came forward, hand extended.  His voice was
conciliating.  "Come, no harm done by a bit o' fun, matey!  None
intended, none took.  My name's Ericksen; they calls me Boatswain
Joe, mostly, though I've got a quartermaster's ticket in me oilskin.
I want a bit o' talk, if you have the time."

"I'm rich in time," responded Dennis.  "Take a seat."


As they shook hands, Dennis felt the palm of Ericksen to be horny,
rough with great calluses; but the thumb lay over the back of his own
fingers with smooth pressure.  A sailor, then, and one used to
handling lines!  That explained the odd snatches of lingo.  But what
was a sailor doing here, in the middle of the United States?

Ericksen eased himself up on a high stool, stuffed loose tobacco from
his pocket into a pipe-bowl and struck a match.  His piercing,
arrogant, light-blue eyes surveyed Tom Dennis with a comprehensive
scrutiny.

"I hear," he said abruptly, a cloud of smoke issuing from his lips,
"I hear you and Miss Hathaway are engaged to be married."

His voice was still conciliatory, rather bearing an air of a forced
whine, and it was entirely belied by those fierce predatory eyes.
Tom Dennis flushed angrily.

"What are you driving at?" he demanded.  "What have my private
affairs to do with you?"

"Don't flare up, matey," responded the other.  "I'm comin' to the
p'int, steerin' a safe course meantime.  'Keep an eye on your charts,
boatswain,' says the skipper, 'and look out for shoals among them
land-sharks.'  So I'm doin' it.  Of course, knowing the inside of the
country pretty well, comin' from Wisconsin way like I do, I'm able to
navigate better'n the others would be; but just the same, I'm mindin'
my wheel mighty close.  'No steerin' by the wind this cruise,' says
the skipper, and right he was."

This was all Greek to Tom Dennis.

"Well, what do you want with me?" he reiterated.

"You answer my question, matey," returned the other calmly.

"None of your business, then," snapped Dennis.

To his surprise, Ericksen only chuckled good-humouredly, and slapped
his knee as though at a good joke.

"I knowed it!  You are, right enough.  Goin' to Chicago to get
spliced, maybe?"

The hand of Dennis closed on a printer's key, but Ericksen interposed.

"Here, don't start no rumpus, matey!  You see, I got to know the
chart before I can lay my course.  Ain't that reasonable?  I got to
this here town this afternoon, lookin' for Miss Hathaway, and first
one, then another, tells me she's gone to Chicago, but they don't
know exactly where.  They said to come here an' find you, you bein'
supposed to know for private reasons.  Ain't that statin' it plain
and unoffensive?  That's me every time.  'Mind your jaw-tackle,
boatswain,' says the skipper.  'Be mild an' gentle.'  And I am."

The sailor grinned.  So cheerful and white-toothed was that grin,
that Tom Dennis felt impelled to laugh, but the arrogant, light-blue
eyes steadied him.

"You want Miss Hathaway's address--is that it?"

"Part of it, matey," responded Ericksen.  "Only part of it!"




CHAPTER II

NEWS FROM NOWHERE

Florence Hathaway was extremely astonished when, upon Sunday morning,
she heard the voice of Tom Dennis on the telephone, and received a
request to join him down-town for noon dinner.

"Come up to the school, Tom!" she returned.  "You can dine in hall as
my guest.  And what brought you to town?"

"Can't talk now, Florence.  And I'll have to refuse your
invitation--because we'll all three have to dine down-town.  Better
make it the 'Royton'; then we can have comparative privacy."

"All three?" she echoed.  "Who's with you?"

"A man who has news of your father, dear.  He's to join us at the
'Royton' at one sharp, but I want to see you for a few moments first.
Why not meet me at the Art Institute about twelve-thirty?  I'll be in
the Japanese Room.  Believe me, it's important!"

"News of--father?  Why, yes!  I'll be there on time, Tom.  Japanese
Room!"

So, at the hour when the galleries were totally deserted, Tom Dennis
was striding up and down in the Japanese Room, past the cases filled
with lacquer ware.  In his present mood of frowning meditation, his
features looked almost forbidding; they were strong features, rugged
with an uncompromising virility.  Looking at them, one could
understand how this man, unaided, had first worked his way through
college and had later gone to the top of an overcrowded profession.

On time almost to the minute, Florence Hathaway appeared.  Dennis met
her at the door, his hand to hers; a swift glance around, and he bent
his lips to hers.

"This way, dear!" he said, turning.  "There'll be no interruptions
then."

Together they made their way outside to one of the little balconies
overlooking the smoky park and lake front.  Brushing off two of the
chairs, Tom Dennis set them by the stone rail.

"What on earth is it all about, Tom?" asked the girl wonderingly.

"Me, first--then you," smiling he filled his pipe and lighted it.
Then he set about his tale, beginning with his own situation of the
previous afternoon, and passing on to the coming of Boatswain Joe.
He described his own hopeless case very bluntly and frankly.


Florence Hathaway did not interrupt him, but sat in silence, her eyes
fastened upon his rugged face, reading there the signs of his past
worries and failure.  They were fine eyes, those that dwelt upon him
with love and tenderness.  An artist might have said that they were
too large for her face, that their glowing brown depths held too
passionate a fervor, too calmly poised a radiance, to match her
almost colourless cheeks.  By no rule could Florence Hathaway be
adjudged beautiful; and yet Marshville had missed her more than all
its other absent daughters put together.

In her eyes, indeed, lay the brave and tender soul of Florence
Hathaway.  Frail seemed her slender, almost girlish body; yet one who
gazed into her level eyes knew that hers was an indomitable spirit--a
heritage perhaps, from that lost father whose iron soul had battled
the men and winds and seas of half the world.

"Then you've left Marshville for good?" she asked quietly when Dennis
paused.

"Yes."  He nodded curtly.  "The place will be shut for six months.
If I've not returned by that time, if I've not struck some lucky
vein, old Dribble can foreclose his mortgage and be blessed!  Of
course, I'm not gambling on striking it rich in a hurry; it's just a
long chance that still remains.  Well, now that's settled, let's get
on about your friend Ericksen.  You never heard of anyone by that
name?"

"No.  He may have known my father----"

"I'm coming to that.  Ericksen had come from the Pacific Coast to
find you--in person; mark that down as Point One, upper case!  Why in
person, when a letter or telegram would have fetched you?  Point
One--Query!  I don't like that fellow's looks.

"Point Two: he tells a very fishy sort of tale--namely, that your
father was not lost at sea at all, but was rescued----"

"What?" broke in the girl, leaning forward.  Again Dennis nodded,
imperturbable.

"Yes, if you care to believe it.  I don't!  He says that your father
was taken into Unalaska by some natives who had found him on one of
the Aleut islands--he was then down with something like what used to
be called 'brain fever'.  It left him quite paralysed.  He was taken
to Vancouver and is now in a sailors' home there.  Being paralysed,
barely able to keep alive, he has been unable to tell his name--mind
you, this is all Boatswain Joe's narrative.

"Ericksen, or some of his friends, saw your father there and
recognized him, and promptly took him in charge.  Do you get that,
Florence?  They have him in a house in Vancouver now, taking care of
him.  Point Two!  They are not philanthropists; why did they do this?
Why did they not communicate with the authorities?  Why do they send
Boatswain Joe to get you?"

"To get--me?" The girl's brown eyes shone eagerly.

"Yes.  Ericksen wants you to go and see your father, wants you to try
to communicate with him.  Why?  I don't know.  Probably your father
knows something that Ericksen or his friends want to know.  Well, I
suppose you'd go quick enough, if you believed the story?"

"Go?" she flashed.  "Of course!  To-day--now!"

"Ericksen seemed to think you might not," said Dennis dryly.  "He
offered me a thousand dollars to persuade you to go.  I refused to
give him your address; we came to Chicago together last night, and I
told him you'd meet us for dinner.  That's all.  Point Three, why did
he offer me that money?"

He was silent for a minute, then knocked out his pipe and swung
around to face her.

"Look squarely at it, Florence: there's something mighty queer in the
wind!  Point one: why did Boatswain Joe come in person to get you?
Point two: why are his friends taking care of your father?  Point
three: why do they try to bribe me to persuade you to go?  I don't
like it."

She gazed at him silently, frowningly.

"I can't answer any of those questions," she said at last, slowly.
"But if my father is alive, and in that condition--my place is with
him!  Let's leave it until we see this man.  He will perhaps have
some proofs to offer me.  He would have no incentive to tell such a
story if it were not true....  About yourself, Tom: what do you
intend to do now?"

He laughed shortly.  "I've scarcely thought about it, Florence; this
other thing has been on my mind all night.  But I know this: I'll not
let you go West in company with that sailor!  That's dead sure.  If
his story is really true, then I'm going along, somehow!"

He glanced at his watch, and rose.  "Time!  Say nothing definite to
Ericksen.  Listen to him and form your own conclusions.  Make an
appointment with him for to-morrow to give him your answer; better
make it for the 'Royton' again.  Make him agree to pay our expenses
West."

"You know I'll not take his money, Tom--on such an errand."

"I will, though."  And Dennis laughed.  "I'm down to thirty-four
dollars!  Besides, I want to see just how readily he'll agree to
shell out real money.  There's something queer about that crowd's
being willing to pay so high to get you to Vancouver!"

"All sailors are generous," said the girl softly.  "Perhaps some
friends of father's are behind it."

"They didn't telegraph you, did they?  Well, we shall see.
Anyway--draw him out!"

In silence they regained the corridors, descended the wide staircase,
and sought the street.  Presently they entered a deserted lobby and
gained the elevator running to the restaurant above.

When they stepped out of the car, they found Boatswain Joe awaiting
them, manifestly ill at ease, and obviously an object of some
suspicion on the part of the restaurant people.  Dennis, knowing the
head waiter of old, gained a quiet table in a corner and ordered
dinner.

He was covertly watching Florence, to see how she took to the seaman;
but she was plainly doing her best to put Ericksen at his ease.  Amid
these surroundings, he was anything but comfortable.  The linen and
silver, the table appointments, the orchestra, the general
surroundings--all abashed and discomfited him.  Tom Dennis grinned to
himself, for this was precisely what he had aimed at.


But Boatswain Joe was there for a purpose and lost no time getting
about it.  Florence Hathaway, too, was wildly eager to authenticate
the news of her father, and urged him to tell his story at once.  So
Ericksen, by the time the soup arrived, was into it full swing and
was forgetting his own awkwardness and the girl's presence;
bashfulness left him, and he told the story more in detail than he
had to Dennis--perhaps under the spell of those glowing brown eyes.

And Dennis, studying the man, realized that Ericksen was no fool.  He
had guessed as much from the twisted lines of the face.  Now, the
more he listened, the more Dennis felt that Boatswain Joe had been
well chosen for his present errand.  The man presented the story of
Captain Hathaway with a simplicity which carried conviction.

"So, ma'am, the skipper and the missus are takin' care of him," he
concluded.  "The skipper says to me: 'If the lady wants proof,
boatswain, you give it to her!'  So, ma'am, I got some pictures took
showin' all of us."

Ericksen took an envelope from his pocket and passed it to the girl.
She drew forth some photographs--and her face went white.

"Look here, Ericksen!"  Dennis leaned forward, his eyes gripping the
gaze of the sailor.  "There are some things we don't understand.  Why
did you come in person to find Miss Hathaway?  Who's your skipper,
and why is he taking care of Captain Hathaway?  Why are you spending
so much money on the project?"

The arrogant, light-blue eyes flashed suddenly--a flash of suspicion,
of anger.

"Sailormen don't count pennies," said the man curtly.  "Besides, the
skipper--Cap'n Pontifex--he used to know Cap'n Hathaway.  Friends,
they were."

"And he expects to get some information through Miss Hathaway?"

Ericksen's freckled features reddened.  His one satanic eyebrow
twitched upward.

"Aye, that's true enough; but what it is, ain't for me to say.  'You
mind your jaw-tackle, boatswain,' says the skipper.  That's all."

"Mr. Dennis will go West with us," said Florence Hathaway softly,
extending the pictures to Dennis.  "You will furnish expenses, Mr.
Ericksen?"

"Aye, miss."  In the light-blue eyes Dennis read a sudden avid gleam.
They were very dangerous, those eyes, very predatory and
unscrupulous.  "Aye, miss--here an' now."


The seaman drew from his pocket a small roll of bills and counted off
three fifties which he extended to Dennis.  The latter took them.
The eyes of the two men met and held; and again Dennis felt that
sense of enmity, of forced geniality, as though the man were
concealing a deadly hostility beneath a show of eager conciliation.
First Boatswain Joe had desired to propitiate him; now he desired to
propitiate Florence Hathaway.

Dennis shoved the money into his pocket, despite a glance of entreaty
from the girl.

The photographs numbered four; in each was shown a figure in a
wheel-chair--and the figure was that of Captain Hathaway.  Dennis had
seen other and older pictures of Florence Hathaway's father, and he
recognized at once that massive countenance, that giant frame, those
wide and unafraid eyes.  He looked less at this figure, however, than
at those others showing in the pictures.

One was Captain Pontifex--a man tall and thin, face cavernous and
pallid, with deep-sunk eyes and a curled black moustache.  Another
was that of Mrs. Pontifex--"the Missus", as Boatswain Joe termed her;
her face was indistinct, although her figure seemed very large.  In
two of the pictures Ericksen himself showed.  The only other figure
was that of a black man, quite indistinct, whom Ericksen described as
the skipper's mate, Manuel Mendez, a "black Portuguese" from the Cape
Verde Islands.  Tom Dennis returned the envelope to Ericksen.

"I don't want your thousand dollars," he said quietly.  "I've told
Miss Hathaway all you said to me, and your offer of a bribe; it is
not necessary."

Ericksen was quite unperturbed.

"Then, miss, I take it that you'll go?"

Florence smiled at him; and when she smiled, her frail features were
suddenly lighted as by warm sunshine.

"Meet us here for luncheon to-morrow, Mr. Ericksen, and I'll give you
my decision."

"Yes, ma'am--and if I may say so, there's a bit o' haste."

"Certainly.  If we go, we'll be ready to catch the limited at eight
to-morrow night."

"Couldn't ask no better, miss!" exclaimed the sailor.  "Shipshape
talk; that's what it is.  'If we go,' says you, 'we'll go on the
jump'--just like that!  Aye, all Bristol-fashion and trim!  I'm proud
to ha' met you, Miss Hathaway, and I hope you'll be able to get a few
words out o' your poor father."

Ericksen checked himself abruptly, as though he had said too much.
But he did not ask any questions concerning the money he had given
Dennis; and this, to the mind of Dennis was an unnatural and puzzling
fact, for Ericksen would hardly have handed over the money unless he
were certain of Florence Hathaway's decision.  The entire attitude of
this seaman was puzzling in the extreme.  His money carelessness
might be explained by the fact that Captain Pontifex was backing
him--but it looked queer.


Something of these thoughts was troubling Tom Dennis as he left the
building with Florence Hathaway; they had parted with Ericksen in the
restaurant lobby, seemingly to the entire satisfaction of the seaman.
Dennis had already phoned for a taxicab, and as they went bowling up
toward the North Shore, the girl noticed his silence.

"Well, Tom?  A penny for your thoughts!"

"I was wondering what Ericksen's game can be--and who that Cap'n
Pontifex is!"

"I never heard of him.  Certainly father never mentioned him.  Well,
you're going to keep that money?"

"Yes.  It's fair loot from the enemy."

"Enemy?  But, Tom--surely you don't think Ericksen and his
friends----"

"I'm convinced that there's something back of it all, Florence,
something we don't know about!  And that it's nothing very good."

The girl laughed.  "Oh, Tom, you're delicious!  Well, suit yourself;
we'll go West to-morrow night--that is, I'm going.  You can only go
on one condition."

"Yes?"  He looked at her, suspicious of the twinkle in her eyes.
"What is it?"

"Tell you in a minute, dear.  Now, it's true that you've failed in
Marshville?"

"Absolutely and utterly."

"And you don't know what you're going to do?"

"No."

"It would be very foolish for us to marry, wouldn't it--especially
with poor father to be taken care of?  I have eight hundred dollars
in the bank--a little surprise for you dear; but we shall probably
have to stay West and get a fresh start.  And, Tom, it'll take a long
time before we get on our feet, won't it?"

He stared gloomily at the taxicab window, bitterly conscious that she
spoke the truth.

"Of course," he assented.  "I had no intention of coming to you, a
failure, and holding you to your promise, Florence."  His voice was
harsh.  "I doubt if I would have come, only that this other affair
brought me.  You're quite right.  It would be criminal for us to
marry, with only a few dollars in the world, and your helpless
father----"

"Hush!"  Her hand fluttered over his lips, and he promptly kissed it.
"Don't say that it would be criminal, Tom; it would only be foolish."

"What's the condition?" he insisted.

"I'm coming to that.  You admit, then, that in our present
circumstances we should play the safe game, wait until we get
established in the West, and until we get on our feet financially?"

"We ought to, of course," he nodded, storm in his eyes.  "It would be
folly to face poverty, to assume everything----"

"Isn't it very foolish to be in love at all, Tom, dear?"

"Not with you!  That's something nobody could help."

"Then this is my condition; and if you refuse, you can't go West!
To-morrow morning we shall be married.  We shall deliberately be
foolish--assume our burdens, have each other and make the best of
things!  Oh, don't stare at me.  Don't you think my love and
confidence and faith in you are supreme, dear?  They are.  We'll only
win by daring--so we shall dare everything!  And with each other,
Tom--we shall win!"




CHAPTER III

LAYING A COURSE

When the dinner was over, Boatswain Joe was in no haste to leave the
restaurant; but he returned to the table and ordered a drink, having
seen Dennis and Florence Hathaway depart.  As he had already paid for
the meal, giving the waiter a handsome _pourboire_, no objection was
made to his remaining as long as he wished.  He stated that he
expected a telephone-call.

Nearly an hour later, indeed, the waiter summoned him to the lobby.
Ericksen took up the telephone-receiver and said: "Aye, matey!"  Then
he listened.  Again he said: "Aye, matey!" and hung up the receiver.

He took the elevator to the street and briskly walked the two and a
half blocks to a down-town hotel.  It appeared that he was stopping
here, for he went directly to the desk, demanded his key, then
vanished in the elevator.

Fifteen minutes later a man inquired at the desk for Mr. Ericksen,
and was shown to the room occupied by Boatswain Joe.  This second man
was as peculiar in appearance as the red-haired boatswain.  He was
rather small, very dapper in looks, and wore a tight little moustache
on his upper lip.  His movements were swift, agile, extremely alert.
One would have said that he was a Frenchman, although upon entering
Ericksen's room he spoke in good English.

"Ah, Boatswain!  Well done, my friend; you described them
excellently."

Ericksen regarded him with a twisted smile.

"Then you followed them?"

"Certainly.  They went to a place on the North Side, a girls' school
where she teaches; presently he came out and walked to a
lodging-house on North Clark Street.  I followed him inside and
engaged a room adjoining his, which I shall occupy this afternoon.
He is on the third _étage_--what you call--yes, flight!  Upstairs."

"Good, Dumont."  Ericksen ran his fingers through his tousled red
hair.  "We've made quick work of it, eh?  Got here two days ago, and
ready to slip our cable to-morrow night.  'Move sharp,,' says the
Skipper; 'crack on all sail!'  And we've done it.  Hey?  You've got
your stuff all complete?"

Dumont lighted a cigarette and blew a thin cloud, nodding.

"All done.  Everything is to be ready for me to-morrow morning.  I
shall inspect it; then it will be packed in a special suitcase, ready
for the shipment."

"Good.  We're leaving to-morrow night at eight bells or thereabouts.
Get your ticket in the morning, and check the stuff on it.  Sure it's
what the Skipper ordered?"

Dumont inspected him with a sleepy cattish smile.

"Me, my friend, I make no mistakes.  Ah, that skipper of ours!  He is
a marvel, a great man!  It is not every man who can improve upon the
so-wonderful Dumas!  But this our skipper, he does so--pouf!  Like
that.  To him--it is nothing at all."

"I dunno about that there Dumaw," returned Ericksen.  "I used to know
a guy o' that name, a nigger mate on the _Columbia_ packet out o'
Singapore----"

Dumont chuckled.  "Worry not your so red head, my friend!  Now,
suppose you have the goodness to explain?  Who is this man with the
big body and the dangerous eyes?"

"Dangerous, rats!" Ericksen snorted.  "On his uppers, he is.  Ran
foul o' law-sharks an' got laid on his beam-ends.  He's suspicious;
that's all.  He and the lady are goin' to get spliced, see?  Or they
think they are.  His name's Dennis.  He means to go West with us."


The sleepy eyes of Dumont suddenly opened.  They became very black
and flashing.  His white teeth showed beneath his tiny moustache in a
smile.

"Oh, I see!  It is in that direction the land lies!  Well, let him
come.  Let our so-wonderful skipper take care of him!"

Ericksen shook his head.  "Nope.  Skipper says: 'Boatswain, don't you
bring no barnacles along!  Bring that young lady--and no barnacles.'
Skipper knowed what he was about; strike me blind if he didn't!  So
Mr. Dennis he stays here."

Dumont regarded his companion with an admiring air.

"Ah, you have the head, my friend!  You have not the looks, perhaps,
but the head----"

"What's the matter with my looks, Frenchy?" demanded Ericksen
suddenly, regarding the smaller man with steady eyes.  "Come, now!
Step aft an' speak it out, you!  What's the matter with 'em?"

"Nothing in particular--merely the general aspect."  And Dumont
cocked his head on one side in pretended survey.  Then he broke into
laughter.  "_Drôle_!  You cannot afford to fight with me, eh?  No.
And you know better.  Eh?  I have always desired, my friend, to get
my finger in that left eye of yours; it looks so devilish!  I always
wondered how the socket would look--if there were not a little devil
sitting there, _couchant_!"

Ericksen changed countenance suddenly, and sat back in his seat.
Behind those jesting words of Dumont's there lay a grotesque
speculation--an earnestness, even!  The dapper little man assumed a
frightful air, an air of abnormality.  One sensed that he spoke of
tearing out a man's eye with calm enjoyment, as though--as though he
had done it before this.

"You're right, hearty," said Ericksen, wetting his lips.  "Right-o!
No trouble in the after cabin, and there'll be none forward.  What
were we speakin' of?  Oh, yes!  Dennis.  Well, you go and occupy that
room to-night, and do your business to-morrow morning, then go back
there.  Dennis will mess with me an' the lady to-morrow noon, see?
You get me a scrap of his fist--or better, take a squint at it and
copy this here entry in the log."

Ericksen took from the table a paper bearing a few lines of writing,
on which he had been engaged when Dumont entered, and passed it to
his friend.  The latter scrutinised the writing, and chuckled softly.

"Oh!  For the lady, eh?  Ah, what a head you have!  It is wasted upon
you, my friend.  It should have gone with such intelligence as mine."

"You lay off them personal remarks, Frenchy," snapped Ericksen
suddenly.

"Aye, matey," retorted the other with mocking air.  "Well?  What
next?"

"You telephone me here right after noon mess.  I'll be able to give
you Dennis' afternoon programme then.  You've got to stop him from
taking that train to-morrow night--an' stop him hard!  Don't forget
to take all his money, either--strip him to the bone."

Dumont shrugged.  "What would you?  Here in Chicago are the police,
and I like them not.  It is not as if we were aboard the _Pelican_,
my friend."

"Oh, don't kill him," snapped Ericksen impatiently.  "Merely a good
stiff jolt that will leave him on his back a few days.  And do it at
the last minute, too.  'Take no chances, Boatswain,' says the
Skipper, 'and if there's any wind in sight, get your top-canvas
down.'  So do it at the last minute, and then get the train.  Have a
taxi waiting."

"All right."  Dumont straightened up.  "Let's go see a picture-show,
eh?"

Ericksen assented with a grunt.


Promptly at one o'clock on Monday, Boatswain Joe was waiting in the
lobby of the Royton restaurant, when Tom Dennis and Florence were
deposited by the elevator.  With a cheerful grin on his freckled
features, Ericksen approached them.

"Good day to you.  'Two bells,' says you, and two bells it is, all
shipshape!  It's fine and rosy ye look, ma'am!"

"Thank you, Mr. Ericksen."  And under his light-blue predatory eyes
the girl blushed as she shook hands.  "I've been shopping this
morning, and that always makes a woman happy, you know!"

They entered the breakfast-room, where the waiter, mindful of
Ericksen's tip, led them to a table by one of the front windows
overlooking the Art Institute and the sparkling blue lake front.

"Does it remind you of the sea?"  Tom Dennis motioned toward the blue
horizon, and smiled at the sailor.

"In a way, yes.  It looks like the sea down south, under the Line."

"You've been in the South Seas?" asked the girl quickly.  Ericksen
met her gaze, and seemed a trifle embarrassed.

"Yes'm, oncet or twicet.  I been whalin' with Cap'n Pontifex, you
know, all us whalers work off Lower California and across to the
islands 'fore going north--that is, we used to.  Nowadays things
change.  'There's no tellin' at all,' says the Skipper, 'what kind of
a wind is rising these days.'  And Skipper's right."

"You seem to like your skipper."  Florence laughed.  "Is he a nice
man?"

Ericksen's down-drawn left lip twitched as if in repression of a
grimace.

"Nice is as nice does, hey?  I reckon he's all right, Miss Hathaway."

"Oh, you mustn't call me that any more," said the girl calmly, and
held out her hand.  "Look at the present I got an hour ago!"


Ericksen's predatory eyes fastened upon the gold circlet.  His face
whitened.  Tom Dennis, watching intently, saw the man's lips open and
form a silent unspoken curse.  In the light-blue eyes he read a
message of astounded incredulity, of passionate anger.

"You--you've been an' got spliced!" Ericksen, speaking hoarsely,
looked at Florence.  His face changed suddenly.  He plunged to his
feet and extended a horny hand across the table toward Dennis.

"Strike me blind!" he ejaculated.  "Took me all of a heap, it did!
Well, sir, this is a surprise!  And only an hour ago, you say?
Congratulations, and may you always have a fair course and a bone in
your teeth; aye, and a good cargo under hatches!  Well, well--strike
me blind if I'd thought this was goin' to happen!  We'll have a
bottle o' fizz-wine, hey?  A toast all around--real weddin' dinner!
And to think o' me sittin' here with no present, nothin' but an
honest sailor-man's hearty good wishes to give--why, it fair breaks
me up!"

"Oh, we decided to make the trip West our honeymoon," said Tom
Dennis, with a smile at Florence.  "It was too good a chance to miss,
Boatswain."

"Then--then you're going, hey?  To-night?"

"Yes, Mr. Ericksen."  Florence nodded.  "And believe me, I'd sooner
have your good wishes than all the presents in the world!  Good
wishes mean lots more, don't they?"

"Sometimes, miss.  Ha--I mean, Mrs. Dennis--sometimes," assented
Ericksen solemnly.  "And to think o' you springing it on me that
way--why, it took me all aback, it did!"

So the "fizz-wine" came and was drunk with many toasts.


In the course of the luncheon it developed that Florence was to spend
the afternoon packing for the trip, and would dine at the school in
order to save time.  Tom Dennis, who had in view an endeavour to
secure orders for some special articles on the West from his former
newspaper editors, arranged to call for her in time to make the train
that night.

Ericksen insisted upon protracting the luncheon with a second bottle
of "fizz-wine" in honour of the occasion; afterward all three
departed, and separated at the Adams Street entrance to the "L",
where the newly-married couple said farewell to Boatswain Joe.

No sooner had they vanished up the stairway than Boatswain Joe made
all haste to his hotel.  He found no message at the desk; but when he
entered his room he found Dumont awaiting him.

"You--here!  What's up, Frenchy?"

Smilingly, Dumont extended him a note Ericksen seized it and examined
it with quick approval.

"It was very easily done, my friend," said Dumont, yawning sleepily.
"So I came here myself.  You seem to be irritated, eh?  What is the
matter?"

Ericksen gave vent to a full-blown curse.

"Matter enough!  Here that swab has been and married her this
mornin'!"

Dumont's brows lifted.  He uttered a long whistle.

"They are married!  Well, Cap'n Pontifex, he will not like that, eh?"

"Blast it!" snarled Ericksen.  "Don't you see what it means?"

"More or less," Dumont spat out the words with venom.  "It means that
the Skipper promised me the girl, eh?  And that now he will try----"

"You bloody fool!" roared Ericksen, smashing his big fist down on the
table.  "Don't it mean squalls ahead of us all?  Don't it mean that
instead of havin' her to deal with, now we have him too?  Don't it
mean that he's signed up for a share in old Hathaway's leavin's?  And
if we don't scuttle him, then he'll scuttle us!"

Dumont caressed his moustache, his dark yes narrowed and alert.

"_Mille tonnerre_!" he ejaculated slowly.  "You are right.  He is the
old man's son-in-law, eh?  Ah, but you have the head, my friend!  You
see the things, yes!  And her signature would be no good, eh?"


Ericksen rammed tobacco into his pipe and held his peace for a
moment, until the briar was smoking.

"Now," he said shortly, "that train leaves to-night at one bell?"

"Eight and the half," assented Dumont with a nod.

"He's goin' to call for her about eight bells, see?  He'll prob'ly be
in his room stowin' his dunnage bag about six bells.  You have to
scuttle him, Frenchy--all proper.  Open the sea-cocks and stand by
the ship till she's gone.  No mistake!"

"And the madame?" queried Dumont.  "Who will call for her?"

"I will.  And this here note you've written----"

"Oh, now I understand!"  Dumont chuckled softly.  "You have the head,
my friend!  Good.  I must scuttle this fellow, eh?  Well, it is for
all our sakes now.  And by the way, I have taken a compartment, so
that I could keep my eye on the suitcase better.  The Skipper said to
be careful.  I had to buy another ticket."

Ericksen merely waved his hand carelessly.  "You scuttle that swab,
Frenchy, and money won't cut no figure.  So you'll carry the
suitcase, eh?  Better send it down to the train ahead of you.  'Don't
get your lines tangled,' says the Skipper.  You mind that!  I'll
sleep with you in the compartment, eh?  All right."

"All right," assented the other.  "I'll send the suitcase down to the
train.  Now see, my friend!  Is it not humorous--what you call the
paradox?  In order to make our little venture legal, we must first
keel a man!  Is it not droll!"

Boatswain Joe thrust forward his head, and so terribly threatening
were his arrogant light-blue eyes that Dumont flinched a trifle.

"Never you mind your laughin'--it ain't time yet, Frenchy!  You mind
your course, d'ye see?  Fall off a couple o' points and things'll be
in a mess, see?  You mind your course!  You and me have big lays in
this thing.  If it goes through all shipshape, we'll have money.
Now, you let her head fall off and there'll be trouble, see?"

Dumont spread out his hands, Gallic fashion.

"My friend," he said softly, "there is no need for threats.  Me, I
know what to do.  Me, I shall do it, so!  But remember one thing,
you: on the train, you shall introduce me to the lady, so I shall
console her for the absent one.  Eh?"

"Agreed!"  Ericksen made an impatient gesture.  "You're a dago and
you can't help settin' your course by a woman, I s'pose.  But you
better watch out, Frenchy.  This here one is married."

Dumont smiled.  "I shall attend to that--to-night."




CHAPTER IV

THE SQUARE SUITCASE

Tom Dennis, in the meantime, was making some discoveries.

In the course of the afternoon he dropped in at his old newspaper
office with the object of seeing the boys and trying to get some
special assignments on the Pacific Coast.  In this latter endeavour
he was more successful than he had dared hope, for the editor
declared at once in favour of a series of articles on the Canadian
training-camps in the vicinity of Vancouver, and even spoke of
syndicating them.

Thus, when Dennis returned to the city-room, he was in hopeful vein.
Most of his old friends were still on the staff, with some new men;
he said nothing about his marriage, or about his failure in
Marshville, but stated that he had been called to the Pacific Coast
on unexpected business, and let it go at that.

Then Margate entered, and gripped his hand with a shout.  Margate was
the "big man", who covered political conventions and topics of
country-wide interest.  It appeared that Margate had himself just
returned from the Coast where he had been doing some big things with
the moving-picture stars.  Dennis retired into a corner with him, and
in the course of their chat casually inquired:

"I suppose you never heard of a sea-captain out there by the name of
Pontifex, did you?  It's an odd sort of moniker----"

Margate grinned.

"Heard of him?  I should say yes!  He's the only chap I ever heard of
who put it all over the motion-picture people.  Why, they're yelling
about it yet!"

"How's that?" asked Dennis in unaffected surprise.

"It seems this chap Pontifex owned an old whaling brig.  She was laid
up at San Pedro, in pretty bad shape, and the Greatorex people wanted
to use her in a couple of scenarios.  So Pontifex leased her to
them--savvy?  About six months ago they got through with her--and
then they discovered something.  In his lease, Pontifex had slipped
over a couple of jokers; they had to refit the old hooker from top to
bottom and make her ready for sea.  I forget how many thousands it
cost them.  I remember she was sent up to him at Vancouver, just
before I came East, and everyone was slipping the laugh to the
Greatorex folks at the way a whaling skipper had put it over them.
And believe me, the job was done right!  It takes a genius to manage
a stunt like that nowadays."

"Then you don't know Pontifex personally?"

"Lord, no!  What are you running down, anyhow?  Is he a pirate?"

Dennis laughed.  "I hope not.  I've heard some things about him,
though--good human-interest stuff for a magazine feature, if they're
true.  I'll look him up at Vancouver.  What's the name of his ship?"

"The _Pelican_.  Say, if you're there any time, look up my brother;
he's doing shipping stuff on _The Vancouver Mail_.  He'll be glad to
do the honours, and you might pick up some good dope from him."

When he left the office, Dennis sought the railroad office and bought
tickets for himself and Florence to Vancouver, obtaining a
compartment; the money which Ericksen had given him, with what he had
left of his own, proved quite sufficient.  Then, encountering Margate
and a couple more men from the office, he went to dinner with them.
At seven o'clock he was on the way home to pack.


It had not been a highly romantic wedding-day, he reflected, either
for himself or for Florence; but they would have a trip of four days
in which to make up for that.  The commissions for work at Vancouver
were a tremendous aid to Dennis, keeping him from feeling that he was
loafing on the job.  The money, too, would help.  And he anticipated
no particular difficulty in getting work.  He was one of the
well-known men in his profession, and a place would be made for him;
he was not a newspaper "tramp".  He was not one of the shiftless or
incompetent men-of-all-trades who seek the Coast as a haven of
refuge.  Already, in view of his unexpected marriage and the
all-impelling faith of Florence, he had risen above the despondency
induced by his Marshville venture.

He had obtained no information from Florence which could serve to
throw any light upon Ericksen or Captain Pontifex; she had been
entirely ignorant of what knowledge they wished to extract from her
or from her paralysed father.  Captain Hathaway's last ship, a
freighter named the _John Simpson_, had been lost while _en route_
from San Francisco to Vladivostok.  She had gone down with all hands
somewhere off the Aleuts, and with Captain Hathaway totally paralysed
since his rescue it was unlikely that her story would ever be known.

As Tom Dennis packed together his few belongings, with purchases
which he had made that day, he blessed the girl who had that morning
married him, and he swore savagely to himself that it would not be
for worse, but for better.  Not easily had he assented to her
proposal; not easily had he grasped her reasons for making it; but
now he realized the sheer truth which she had seen from the first.
There was no danger whatever that he would be unable to provide the
necessities of life.  True, heart-trouble, of which he had never
before been aware, had barred him from wearing a uniform; but this
disease was a remote danger.  His ability lay in his head, and he had
no doubt about his ability to win a fair living wage.  The paralytic
Captain Hathaway would be in some ways a burden, but one which Tom
Dennis cheerfully assumed.

"With faith in the future and in each other, we would have been fools
not to marry!" he confided to his suitcase.  "We'll pull through; and
we'll make a tenfold better fight for having each other!  I'm almost
glad that the old _Clarion_ went under----"

He did not hear his door open; nor did he hear the approach of a
swift catlike form from the doorway.  He did, however, feel the
draught from the open door.  He half-turned; but he turned only to
feel a crashing blow on the head.


Dumont stood over the prostrate figure, softly chuckling, and stowed
away the blackjack which had dealt the blow.  The figure of Dennis
lay motionless, arms outflung; his profile was visible against the
rug, and the eyes were closed.  His assailant eyed him for a moment,
then stepped to the window and drew down the blind.  A single
electric bulb lighted the room.

Dumont returned to his victim.  From his pocket he produced a
handkerchief folded and padded with cotton.  From another pocket he
took a thin flat vial of chloroform which he poured heavily over the
handkerchief; the fumes sickened the air.  Then he knelt, and put a
hand half under Dennis, feeling the heart.

"Good!" he muttered with an air of pride.  He spoke in French, his
voice low.  "It was a good job.  The bump on his head will not be
observed.  They will think it suicide."

And then sudden wild surprise and consternation convulsed his
features.  His left hand, beneath Dennis, was suddenly seized and
twisted by iron fingers.  Dumont, a startled oath on his lips, was
pulled forward off his balance and fell headlong over his victim.
Both bodies heaved madly.

Across the would-be assassin the big figure of Tom Dennis sprawled
heavily.  Dumont had been entirely taken by surprise.  Dennis seized
the handkerchief and clapped it over the face of his opponent.

The Frenchman fought.  He struggled viciously, silently, desperately;
he struck with fists and nails and knees, biting at the hand which
held the bandage across his mouth and nose.

"No use, my friend," said Dennis, speaking half-forgotten French.
"You didn't hit quite hard enough."

The convulsive struggles of Dumont, held helpless by sheer weight,
quieted into jerky movements.  Tom Dennis knocked away the saturated
handkerchief and turned the limp figure on its face.  He shook out
the handkerchief and knotted the wet linen about the wrists of
Dumont.  Then, weakly, he caught at a chair and pulled himself erect.

Dennis felt deathly sick.  That clip over the ear had been a shrewd
one, and in the closed room the fumes of the narcotic reeked from the
bottle which had spilled its entire contents on the floor.  Dizzy and
staggering, he groped his way to the window and flung it open.  He
knelt there, his head on the window-sill, bathing himself in the
fresh air.

"A near thing!" he muttered.  "A near thing!"

How long he lay there he did not know.  The sickness, the nausea,
passed from him by slow degrees.  He gingerly felt his head, finding
that the skin was unbroken; a lump had already risen.  His senses
were still aswim when at length he rose to his feet.


The Frenchman was senseless, but was probably in no danger.
Inspecting the man, Dennis remembered to have seen him entering the
adjoining room that same evening.  But what could have been the
motive of this amazing assault by an utter stranger, a fellow lodger
with whom he had never exchanged a word?  It did not appear to be
robbery, for Dumont was well-dressed.  The rugged features of Tom
Dennis grew hard and harsh as he gazed down, remembering the man's
words.  The chloroform had not been intended merely to knock him out;
it had been intended to kill him!  Why?

Stooping, he ran swiftly through the contents of Dumont's pockets.
He found an automatic, the bluejack which had struck him and a thin
keen knife.  He found a wad of yellow-backed bills, which he stuck
into his own pocket with a chuckle.  He found no letters, nothing
else at all--except an envelope such as is issued at railroad ticket
offices.  In this envelope were two tickets--one the return half of a
Vancouver-to-Chicago ticket, the other a one-way ticket from Chicago
to Vancouver; and with them was the Pullman ticket calling for a
compartment.  The date was of this very day, the train that upon
which Dennis himself was leaving!  In the envelope, also, were two
small brass keys.

Dropping into a chair, Tom Dennis frowned over these clues.  Could
the man have some connection with Ericksen--coming as he had from
Vancouver, and being about to return there?  Perhaps.  Dennis
suspected Ericksen, had suspected him from the first.  But there was
no obvious connection; there was no link of direct accusation.  Had
Ericksen been behind this assault?

Manifestly this assassin had two tickets so that he could occupy a
compartment alone.  Why?  For what purpose?  At this thought Dennis
went to his door, passed into the hall and went directly to the next
door--that of Dumont's room.  He found the room quite empty.  Upon
the bed was a small valise, but it contained nothing except linen and
articles of travel.

"Blamed if I can account for it!" muttered Dennis, returning to his
own room.  "This fellow meant to bury me; that's certain.  I'll keep
his money as fair loot.  About his two tickets and--hm!  I'd better
keep them too, and occupy that compartment occasionally.  There may
be something in it which will give me a clue.  I'll do it."

He glanced at his watch, suddenly conscious that time had been
passing.  He was aghast to find that it was eight o'clock--and the
train left at eight-thirty!


With a hasty ejaculation he caught up his suitcase, crammed it shut
and after a last glance at the recumbent assassin turned out the
light and ran downstairs to the hall telephone.  He was too late to
call for Florence now; she must catch a taxi to the station!

His first thought was to order a taxicab for himself; then he called
up the school where Florence had been teaching.  There ensued five
minutes--a frantic five minutes--of delay before a cool woman's voice
informed him that Miss Hathaway had departed some time before; a
gentleman had called for her.

Dennis demanded a description of the man, and recognized Ericksen.

When the taxi appeared, Dennis flung himself into the cab and thrust
a bill at the driver with orders to make the station regardless of
traffic officers.  He saw quite clearly, now, that Ericksen had
planned this attempted murder; there was no proof of it, but he
needed none.  What was the reason behind it?  This question maddened
Dennis.  Was Florence being abducted?  Such a thing seemed impossible
and incredible, outside a movie scenario.

When Dennis reached the station he had about three minutes left.  He
took the gate at a rush, showing his tickets hurriedly, and swung
aboard the nearest open vestibule of the train just as the porters
were picking up their stools.

He found that the compartment-car was up ahead.  Since he had his own
tickets, with that of Florence, she would certainly not be in their
compartment, but probably in one of the Pullmans.  So he started
through the train, scrutinising each seat as he came to it.

Two cars ahead, he came suddenly upon Florence, who was alone.  She
sprang up with a glad cry, and Dennis saw that she had been weeping.

"Oh--I knew you'd make it, after all, Tom!" she broke out, her hands
going to his.

Dennis stooped and touched her lips with his.

"All right now, old girl," he said, not bothering for an explanation
of her words.  "Where's Ericksen?"

"He just went forward to arrange about our tickets, he said."

Dennis beckoned to the porter who was approaching.  He gave the darky
the number of his own compartment and ordered Florence's grips taken
there; then he turned to his wife.

"Now, Mrs. Dennis," he said, chuckling as she flushed at the name,
"you go to that compartment and wait until I show up, will you
please?  I have a little business with Mr. Ericksen--and it won't
wait a minute!"

"Is anything wrong?  Your note--it said that you might make the
train----"

Dennis took from her hand a folded note and glanced at it.  Then he
thrust it into his pocket and patted her shoulder.

"I'll be along presently, dear.  No, nothing wrong!  I have some good
news for you, too--got some assignments out West.  I'll meet you in a
few minutes."


Leaving his grip and a coin with the porter, Tom Dennis rushed
forward.  When he gained the compartment-car, he consulted Dumont's
tickets and found that the latter had engaged Compartment Six.
Dennis went directly to this compartment and knocked.  The voice of
Ericksen bade him enter.  He threw open the door and stepped inside
the little room.

"Well!" Dennis closed the door behind him and stood, smiling.
"Expecting your friend, are you?  He's not coming, Boatswain Joe."

There was no doubt about it; Ericksen was hard hit.  He stared at
Dennis, his mouth agape, his light-blue eyes wide-set.

"Strike me blind," he affirmed, huskily, "if it ain't you!"

"You win.  What are you doing in this compartment?"

"Who--me?  Why, matey, I was lookin' for the skipper of this here
train, and I pops in here for a bit of a smoke, out of the way and
quiet!  And where might you have come from, matey?  I thought you
weren't coming along, this cruise."

"What made you think that?" demanded Dennis.

"Why, strike me blind!" stated Ericksen with energy.  "Didn't that
there swab give me your note sayin' you wouldn't show up?"

Tom Dennis was staggered by this defence.

"What note are you talking about?  The one you gave Mrs. Dennis?"

"Aye, that and t'other one!  Give 'em to me, he did, and said you
wouldn't show up.  The note said the same thing, and asked me to call
for Mrs. Dennis, see?  Well, I done it--and this here is the thanks I
get!"

"What kind of a man gave you the notes?"

Ericksen was sweating profusely.  At this question he screwed up his
eyes and bit on his pipe-stem in thought.

"Well," he answered at length, "a sort o' rakish craft, he was, with
little what-d'ye-call-'ems of moustaches, and looked like a dago."

That answered to the description of the assassin, and Dennis
hesitated under the impact of a sudden thought.


What if that Frenchman had not been an accomplice of Ericksen at
all--but an enemy, with some ulterior purpose at work behind his
actions?  There was as much in favour of this theory as of the other.

"See here, Ericksen!"  Dennis met the light-blue gaze with a frowning
level scrutiny.  "If your story's true, that same man who gave you
the fake message--for it was a fake--tried to murder me about an hour
ago.  He had a ticket to this compartment, and a return-trip ticket
from here to Vancouver in his pocket.  Do you know him?"

"Know him?  Not me!" asserted Boatswain Joe virtuously.  "Did you
give him to the police?"

Dennis laughed grimly.  "Worse than that.  Well, do you know of
anyone who might have followed you from Vancouver here?  Have you any
enemies?"

From Ericksen broke a sudden exclamation.  "Strike me blind!  If you
ain't hit it right on the head, you have!  Somebody has smoked out
the Skipper's game; that's what!"

"And what's the game?" snapped Dennis.  At this the sailor wagged his
head.

"Can't tell that.  'Mind your jaw-tackle, Boatswain,' says the
Skipper.  It's got to do with Miss Hathaway--I mean Mrs. Dennis--and
her father.  It ain't for me to say.  But there's money in it, and
somebody's smoked it out--strike me blind if they ain't!"

"Then why should that fellow have tackled me, instead of you?"

Again Ericksen wagged his head.  "Can't tell you that!  Didn't you
make the blighter talk?"

"He was in no condition to talk when I got through with him,"
returned Dennis, and the sailor sighed--perhaps with relief.

Glancing about, Dennis saw only one article of luggage in the
compartment--a small square suitcase, obviously new, and very well
made.  It lacked any mark of identification.  Beyond doubt it
belonged to the assassin.

"That was here when you dropped in for a smoke?" demanded Dennis,
pointing at it.

Ericksen surveyed the square suitcase with surprise.  "Must ha' been!"

From his pocket Tom Dennis produced the two small keys which the
assassin had carried.  He fitted one of them to the lock of the
square suitcase; it worked.  Meantime, Ericksen was watching him with
ill-concealed anxiety.

Throwing back the lid of the square suitcase Dennis saw that it
contained nothing except a small phonograph and half a dozen very
large records.  The labels on the records proclaimed them to be
grand-opera selections.  Frowning thoughtfully, Dennis closed and
locked the suitcase.

"I'll take this along.  You might as well keep this compartment,
Ericksen--I took that scoundrel's tickets; here they are.  You'll
find this place more comfortable than a berth.  And you needn't
mention to Mrs. Dennis what's happened.  It might only worry her.  I
fancy we've given your friends the slip entirely, eh?  Sorry I
suspected you at first."

"Oh, don't mention it," said Ericksen, wriggling a little.




CHAPTER V

THE "PELICAN"

The brigantine-rigged _Pelican_ was of but a hundred and fifty tons
burden; yet her royal yard stood athwart the sky nearly ninety feet
above the deck.  She was not a pretty ship, despite her snowy
cleanliness, but she was tall enough; in her 'midships stood the
brick try-works, with two funnels, where blubber was rendered into
oil; and she reeked of the whale-juice that had soaked her stout
oaken timbers these forty years.

As she lay at anchor in Vancouver harbour, well up toward the second
narrows, there were several peculiar features about her--peculiar,
that is, to the trained seaman's eye.

She was bound for sea; yet she was altogether too late to get the
spring catch off the Siberian coast; and if she went up into the
Arctic to fill her hogsheads, she would certainly be ice-bound that
winter, and few whalers were taking chances on being ice-bound those
days!  Then her crew had been all aboard for two days, and the
majority of them were Kanakas--both facts being unusual.  Why the
_Pelican_ was still hanging about the harbour no one could say.

This old whaler had none too good a reputation, even among her kind;
but this was chiefly because of her officers.  Manuel Mendez, the
black Cape Verde mate, was a strapping big man with a thin eagle-like
profile exactly like that of the mummy of Rameses--a great hooked
nose, and air of gentle refinement, and delicate lips.  Manuel Mendez
played the flute beautifully and was said to be a killer of men.

The second officer was an old man, forty years a whaler.  Mr. Leman
wore a fringe of white hair and whisker, stood six feet two and was
muscled like a bull moose; they said he had been known to take a
man's arm in his two hands and break it like a rotten stick.  His
face was heavy and flat, the eyes small and bright and deeply set.
His nose had been crushed and had a crooked twist

One of the boat-steerers, Ericksen, was gone from the ship.  The
other, like the mate, was a Cape Verde man; his name was a Portuguese
one, but he was called Corny.  The brigantine had no cooper, for a
wonder; her cook, like Ericksen, was absent.

The steward was a vicious little Cockney pickpocket who wanted to get
out of Canada before the draught caught him; the cabin-boy was a
green farmer-lad named Jerry, a moon-faced boy who had run off the
farm a month previously.  There was no one else aft.

In the forecastle were fifteen men.  Ten of these were Kanakas--merry
brown men who spoke their own guttural tongue and some broken
English, and like all of their kind were noble seamen.  The other
five were broken-down white men, scum of the city, who were kept
drunk and under hatches until the _Pelican_ should get to sea.

The ship was pervaded by a restless air--that is, in the after
cabins.  Up forward the Kanakas sang and worked light-heartedly, and
the five bums snored in drunken repose.  But aft all was different.
Restrained excitement, an air of suspense, much whispering and wild
speculating; thus the atmosphere seemed electrically charged.

Everyone knew that there was an invalid down below--a man in a
wheeled chair, a man who could not speak a single word or move a
finger.  Jerry affirmed he could eat, and could use his ears, but
little more, as his eyes also were somewhat affected.  Then, the
skipper's wife was aboard for the cruise; and when she came to the
deck, men smartened up--not because they loved her, but because they
feared and hated her.  She was known to all aboard as the
Missus--that was her title.

It was five in the afternoon.  Two bells had just been struck on the
brass ship's bell abaft the mizzenmast when the Missus appeared on
the quarter-deck.  Sea-watches had been set, and Mr. Leman had the
deck, Mrs. Pontifex was a strapping big woman with iron-grey hair and
a jaw like rock; her unchanging expression was indomitable and not
too sweet.

"No sign of that boat, Mr. Leman?" she demanded in a raucous voice
which held a distinct Yankee twang.

"No, ma'am," meekly responded the second officer.  "Train must ha'
been late.  Them trains often is, I'm told."

The Missus espied a Kanaka sprawled in the waist; half-leaning
against the try-works, he was asleep in the westerning sun.  She
strode to him and aroused him with a sturdy kick in the ribs.

"Do your sleepin' daown below, ye scouse!" she roared.  "This is no
berth-deck.  Yeou, Corny!  Who went in Mr. Mendez' boat when he took
the Cap'n ashore?"

"Six of the Kanakas, ma'am," responded the black boat-steerer.

"Hm!  Then they'll not run off.  All ready for sea, Mr. Leman?"

"All ready, ma'am."

"The minute yeou sight that boat, break aout the signal for the tug.
When the boat comes alongside, yeou tell the cap'n that we've been
ordered to shift anchorage.  That'll keep the girl and her fool
husband quiet, I reckon!"

"Yes, ma'am.  And then?"

"Cast off the tug aoutside the Lion's Gate an' lay a course for
Unalaska."

"But, ma'am--how about Frenchy?  We ain't got no cook 'cept him!"
Mr. Leman rubbed his fringe of whiskers in evident perturbation over
putting to sea without a cook.  "You know, ma'am, Boatswain Joe wired
about him gettin' left behind."

"Never mind 'baout Dumont."  Mrs. Pontifex's lips set in a grim line.
"He's got his orders, and I wired money to him.  He'll go to Unalaska
by steamer and wait there until we put in."

"And who'll do the cookin' meantime?"

"I will.  Naow yeou get hove up on that hawser, so's yeou can jerk up
the hook in a hurry."

Mr. Leman hastened forward, bawling orders as he went.


Now, if there was one thing in particular for which Tom Dennis was
not in the least prepared, it was for the reception which awaited him
at Vancouver.  He had anticipated a seaman's cottage in the suburbs,
a protracted stay at an hotel or boarding-house, and so forth.

Instead of this, upon alighting from the train he found himself and
Florence shaking hands with Captain Pontifex to whom Ericksen
introduced them with much delight.  The "Skipper" was not, to the
suspicious eye of Dennis, prepossessing in appearance.  His curled
black moustache, his swarthy cavernous features, his alert dark eyes,
were all well enough; but the moustache concealed a cruel and bitter
mouth; the features were high-boned and sharp; and the eyes were of
the heavy-lidded type--the eyes of a master of men, the eyes of a
Hindenburg.

First impressions were almost effaced, however, by the polished
cordiality of Pontifex.  He was a man of education, of intense
personality, and he was at some pains to make himself agreeable.
Florence's first question was for her father.

"We have taken him aboard the _Pelican_, Mrs. Dennis; he seemed to
miss the salt air, and the lease on our cottage was up," responded
Pontifex.  "This way, please--I have a taxicab waiting!  I have a
cabin all ready for you aboard ship, and Mrs. Pontifex promised to
have a bang-up dinner at six sharp; so we've just time to make the
ship.  If you'll let me have your trunk-checks, Mr. Dennis----"

"But Captain, we can't impose upon your hospitality!" interrupted Tom
Dennis.  "It's mighty good of you, but----"

"Nonsense, my dear chap!"  Pontifex laughed and seized his arm,
impelling him, toward the cab.  "It's a great pleasure, I assure you!
Of course you young married folks will be glad of solitude after you
get settled down with the old cap'n, but--I suppose Ericksen told you
the business we had in hand?"

"Ericksen told us nothing," returned Dennis.

"Good for the Boatswain!"  Pontifex laughed again.  "I warned him to
keep a close tongue.  Well, suppose we pass up business for to-night,
and in the morning we'll get together, eh?  The directors of the
company will be all aboard then; you'll be our guests for a time."

"What company?" interjected Florence.

"Ah, that's the secret!"  Pontifex bowed her into the cab, his white
teeth showing in a smile.  "A surprise for you, madam!  It was odd,
the way I happened to pick up your father--poor man, stuck away in a
sailor's home, unable to tell so much as his name!  You know, we were
always pretty good friends, Miles and I."


Tom Dennis found his suspicions fading, and his first dislike of
Pontifex was lulled to rest by the man's vivid personality.  Pontifex
had character, plenty of it, and like all strong men could make
himself greatly liked or greatly hated almost at will.  He appeared
to be a good-humoured, masterly sort of man, heartily loving a joke,
and radiating an air of alert and genial manliness.  Dennis adjudged
him a good friend but a bad enemy.

"We hope that the shock of seeing you, Mrs. Dennis, will restore your
father's power of speech," went on Pontifex.  "For that reason we've
not told him----"

"But how can he be so paralysed?" demanded Florence quickly.  "Can he
hear, and not speak?  Why----"

"My dear young lady, the best doctors in Vancouver can't account for
it!"  Pontifex shook his head with an air of paternal solicitude.
"It's one of the freak cases of paralysis; but it's not at all an
unusual case.  He can move his eyelids slightly, his eyes perfectly;
he can eat and drink fairly well; yet his vocal cords are entirely
paralysed."

Without opportunity for further converse they reached the
water-front, and Captain Pontifex led the way toward the
landing-stage.  Tom Dennis had his own grip, a huge affair as large
as a small trunk, and two bags belonging to Florence; of these latter
the skipper had assumed charge.

Upon reaching the boat with its six merry Kanaka rowers, Manuel
Mendez was introduced by Pontifex.  Mendez made up for his broken
English by a wide grin, and assisted Florence down into the
stern-sheets of the boat, beside the Skipper, who took charge of the
long steering-oar.  Dennis climbed into the bow with Mendez.

After a short wait Ericksen appeared, a truckman helping him bear the
one trunk which Florence had brought; this was stowed in the boat.
Ericksen shook hands with Mendez, flinging a laughing greeting to the
men; the Skipper, standing, flung an impatient word at Ericksen, and
the latter turned to Dennis.

"I didn't see nothin' of that square suitcase, Mr. Dennis--the one
you took out o' that other compartment."

Tom Dennis laughed unconcernedly.  "Oh, that!  There was nothing in
it I wanted, Boatswain Joe; I gave it to the porter the first night
out."

Ericksen dropped his pipe to the wharf and stooped for it, with a
rumbling of low words which did not sound like blessings.  Captain
Pontifex changed countenance, then snapped a command at the boat
steerer.  His voice was suddenly metallic, piercing.

"Hurry up, there, Boatswain!  We've no time to dally around."

Boatswain Joe, looking very much like a dog who is about to receive a
sound thrashing, jumped down into the boat.  The bowman shoved off.
The oars flashed.  The whaleboat swung out into the estuary.


Tom Dennis entertained an uneasy feeling that he had been bodily
abducted--and laughed at himself for a simpleton.  Mendez pointed out
the _Pelican_ as they approached her, and from the other direction a
tug was crawling up to the brigantine.  As the boat drew under the
brown side of the ship, a flat white-whiskered face appeared above
the ladder; Mendez informed Dennis that this was the second mate, Mr.
Leman.

"Ahoy, Cap'n!" called Leman in unexpectedly stentorian tones.  "We've
been ordered to shift our anchorage, sir--port authorities.  Tug
comin' now!"

"Very well, Mr. Leman," returned Pontifex briskly.  "Pass a line from
the forward bitts and stand ready to heave up the hook.  Mr. Mendez,
will you attend to this luggage?  All ready, Miss--pardon, Mrs.
Dennis!  May I assist you up the ladder?"

If Florence entertained any shrinking from that steep approach, she
concealed it well, and with the aid of Pontifex was soon on the deck
above being introduced to the Missus.  Tom Dennis followed.  The
Missus gave him a mighty hand-grip, then turned to Florence.

"Supper's all ready," announced Mrs. Pontifex.  "I suppose, poor
dear, yeou'd sooner see your poor father first?  Then come with
me--do.  Cap'n, yeou make that man Ericksen wash his face and hands
before he sits daown to table!  And put a clean shirt on him."

Boatswain Joe was just then coming up the side, and heard the words.

"You hear?" snapped Pontifex.

"Yes sir," he responded meekly, and his freckled face looked rather
white.

Mrs. Pontifex departed with Florence, and Tom Dennis joined them at a
glance from the latter.  All three passed down the after companion.

In a wheeled chair set beside the stern windows of the cabin sat
Miles Hathaway.  He was not as Tom Dennis had seen him pictured, for
his rocky and indomitable face was half-concealed by a growth of
shaggy grey beard.  His hair, too, had grown long and was streaked
with grey.  He sat motionless, hands in lap.  His eyes, wide glowing
brown eyes like those of Florence, were fastened upon the three who
entered.


The meeting was pitiful almost to tragedy.  With a wordless cry
Florence ran to her father and knelt beside him, clasping him in her
arms, her head against his broad and massive chest.  The man sat
there unstirring, helpless.  His eyes seemed to lack the swift play
of cheek-muscles and lids which gives expression; yet, as those eyes
dwelt upon the upturned face of Florence, they seemed to dilate with
incredulous horror.

"We've brought your daughter, Cap'n Hathaway," announced Mrs.
Pontifex stridently, "and her husband, Mr. Dennis."

The eyes of the helpless man turned to Dennis and rested upon his
gaze.  The mouth of Miles Hathaway opened; he tried terribly and
frightfully to stir himself, to break the invisible bonds which held
him tied down--and he failed.  He could not speak or move.  Yet his
eyes, fastened upon the face of Dennis, seemed filled with some awful
and momentous message.

"I'm so glad we've found you, Father dear!" said Florence softly,
tears on her cheeks.  "Tom and I are going to take care of you
always, and if only Mother were here--she never knew that you were
alive."

Again the mouth of Miles Hathaway opened spasmodically, but he could
not speak His eyes were horrible to see, so dumbly eloquent were they
of the useless will of the man.  Tom Dennis could not bear the scene
further, and touched the arm of Mrs. Pontifex.

"Leave them--for a little while."

The woman nodded.  They left father and daughter together.  The
Missus led the way to the mess-cabin, where they found Pontifex
opening a bottle of wine.  Up above, feet were trampling the deck,
and the brig was heeling a trifle.

"A real dinner!" exclaimed Pontifex heartily.  "A real wedding
dinner, eh?  Mr. Leman has the deck, my dear, and he's called all
hands; so for once we'll have a quiet family meal, eh?  Where's Mrs.
Dennis?  Oh, with her father, of course.  A sad meeting for her!"

"Yes.  But for you, Captain Pontifex, there would have been none at
all," said Dennis warmly.  "We owe you a good deal----"

"There, there, don't mention it!"  Pontifex gave his curled mustache
a twirl, and his white teeth flashed out in a smile.  "We'll have our
pay, never fear, the Missus and I.  Talk it over in the morning, eh?
I suppose you're pretty familiar with your Dumas, Mr. Dennis?  Well,
well--a bother having to change our anchorage this way, but the port
authorities know their business these war-times, of course.  Well,
sit down."


The dinner was excellent--although, owing to the motion of the ship,
the dishes joggled more than a little.  Captain Pontifex made light
of it, explaining that they might not reach their new anchorage until
midnight.

With the coffee was served a liqueur, the most peculiar and biting
Tom Dennis had ever tasted.  The skipper stated that it was a queer
distillation made from flour and molasses by a Siberian Eskimo--quite
a rarity.  Perhaps it was this liqueur which made Tom Dennis most
unaccountably sleepy; indeed, he could hardly stumble off to the
mate's cabin which had been assigned him and Florence.  And as he
retired, he could faintly hear the roaring bellow of Boatswain Joe,
somewhere on deck:

  "She was waiting for a fair wind to get under way,
    A _long_ time ago!"


The last vague thought of Tom Dennis was a mental query as to why
Captain Pontifex had asked him if he were familiar with Dumas.  He
was to remember it later, also.




CHAPTER VI

OUTWARD BOUND

Upon the morning after the _Pelican_ stood out of the Lion's Gate and
headed southward, she was outside Cape Flattery and standing off to
the northwest, bucking and pitching and leaning over under a stiff
blow from the westward.

Captain Pontifex, although on this cruise he carried no third mate,
adhered to the custom of whaling skippers and stood no watches
himself except at times of necessity.  On this fine morning, however,
he was on the quarter-deck, talking with black Manuel Mendez.  The
steward approached them gingerly, for he was rather seasick.

"Well?" snapped the skipper.  "How are they?  Do they know we're at
sea?"

"Yes, sir, they seem to, sir," returned the Cockney.  "Mr. Dennis is
wery sick, sir.  The lady, sir, is not."

"Taking care of him, is she?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, steward, you give them my compliments, and say that I expect
them to appear in the saloon cabin at four bells sharp."

"Yes, sir."

"And, steward!  You might ask the Missus for a bit of raw blubber.
Eat it raw, steward, and it'll cure what's ailing you.  fat whale
blubber----"

"Yes, sir," said the steward faintly, his cheeks turning green.  He
fled in haste.

Black Mendez grinned delightedly.  "Dey'll be no good for fight,
Cap'n."

The skipper merely laughed in his throat, and strode to the companion
way.  He had changed overnight.  No longer was he under the shadow of
the land, under the hand of port and civil and military authorities!
No longer was he among the meshes of mankind's net!  Here he was the
master.  Here he was authority ultimate and supreme.  Here, on the
high seas, his word, and his alone, was law.  He only dictated; all
others obeyed!  He was the skipper.  He was absolute.

Something of all this showed in his eyes as he went below.  At the
foot of the ladder he met the Missus, rock-like and indomitable.  She
looked into his eyes and shrank slightly.

"At four bells," said Captain Pontifex curtly.  "In the cabin--with
him."

She nodded and looked after him as he swung away aft.  She was afraid
of him, but she was proud of him--was she not his woman?  She, of
whom all others aboard the _Pelican_ were in dread, stood in fear of
the skipper.


Captain Pontifex passed into the saloon at the stern, where the
helpless Miles Hathaway sat in his chair beside the screwed-down cot
that served him as a bunk.  Despite the hardness and the harshness
and the terror of the Missus' life, she was after all a woman; the
cabin ports were curtained with flowered chintz, the big gun-rack and
the little bookcase were also curtained; in the corner near the stern
ports was a heavy tea-jar lashed to the deck, in which blossomed a
huge scarlet geranium plant.  This geranium was the pride and joy of
the Missus, and the envy and admiration of all visiting whaling
skippers.

The skipper pulled up a chair in front of Miles Hathaway, stuffed
tobacco into his pipe, struck a match and, through the ensuing cloud
of smoke, fastened his keen dark eyes upon the staring gaze of the
paralytic.

"Well," he observed, "I've got 'em, haven't I?  Bit of a surprise,
eh?"

It seemed as though some fearful inner convulsion swept over the
helpless man.  His mouth opened slightly; his eyelids jerked.  But he
could not speak.

Pontifex laughed.  "Told you I'd make you talk, didn't I?  We're off
to sea at last, Cap'n, and I've got her aboard.  Also, her
husband--she'll be a widow early, won't she?  That is, if you're
still stubborn.  Well, I told you that I expected to go Dumas _père_
one better, by the aid of modern science; but, my dear Miles, we must
continue to stick to the old novelist a little while.  So you'll
kindly answer in the usual way when I ask questions."

For a moment Pontifex puffed at his pipe.  Then he took from the
table another pipe, filled it with tobacco, lighted it, and placed it
between the teeth of Hathaway.

"Now we'll have a friendly little chat over our 'baccy, eh?  Real old
sailormen, eh?"  He chuckled with horrible mockery.  "At four bells,
Cap'n, they'll come in here and we'll hold a meeting of the
directorate.  The Hathaway Salvage Company--how's that, eh?  Sorry
you're out of it.  Do you remember that time in Vladivostok, when you
met me on the street and cursed me back and forth for marooning those
deserters on an ice-floe?  Well, I told you then that I'd get even,
Miles.  And now--_she_ is at sea with me!  Good joke, eh?"

The subtle horror-gleam in the eyes of Miles Hathaway was
intensified.  His massive face purpled, then paled again under its
stubble of whitish beard.

"Bo'sun Joe slipped up in letting her get married," pursued Pontifex.
"But we'll need her signature and that of her husband--or we'll so
tell them.  Savvy, Miles?  We'll tell 'em that; we'll make it
convincing, too.  We'll make 'em quite certain that what we want is
their signatures and their help.  But you know better, Miles!

"Yes, you know better.  You know that I had to get the girl in order
to make you talk, blast you!  That's why I spent money getting her.
That's why I got her.  As for Dennis, we'll get rid of him later.  He
doesn't count."

Again Pontifex resumed his pipe, puffing it alight.  He spoke
smilingly, now--an ugly smile that curved his lips.  He leaned
forward with a swift intent question.

"If it's hard to use your eyelids, Miles, answer with the pipe.  Are
you going to tell me where the _John Simpson_ lays?"

Captain Hathaway sent a single spiral of smoke up-curling from his
pipe.

"No?"  Pontifex ceased to smile.  "We've tried torturing you, Miles,
and you're as stubborn a devil as I ever met.  Do you want us to
bring the girl in here and torture _her_--under your eyes?  Hm!  You
remember Frenchy, who put the irons to your feet?  Well--Frenchy has
spoken for her.  And Frenchy comes aboard at Unalaska.

"Now, Miles, if you give me the bearings of the _Simpson_, I'll put
you and her and her man ashore at Unalaska, all shipshape.  I give
you my solemn word on it, and you know my word means something;
whatever else I do, I don't break my word!  By the time we reach
Unalaska you'll understand pretty well how we're going to work on
things.  The day we hit Unimak Pass I'll ask you once more--and only
once.  If you refuse, I'll set to work on the girl--or Frenchy will.
You think it over, Miles.  You think it over hard, blast you!  Now
that she's here, I'm going to _make_ you talk!"

Pontifex knocked out his pipe and that of Hathaway.  Then he went on
deck.


In the meantime his good wife was visiting the Dennis cabin.
Florence, for all her slim frailness, was untouched by _mal-de-mer_,
and greeted the Missus smilingly.  Tom Dennis, sitting on the lower
bunk, managed a weak grin.  He was rapidly growing better.

"The steward brought yeou breakfast?" said the Missus, "Is Mr. Dennis
feeling better?"

"Quite, I think," responded Florence.  "Surely we're not at sea?"

Mrs. Pontifex nodded.  "Oh, yes, we're well aoutside Flattery."

"And what are we doing there?" demanded Tom Dennis in surprise.

"Making abaout nine knots," coolly returned the Missus, transfixing
him with her deep cold eyes.  "Never mind discussing it naow.  If
yeou folks will show up in the cabin at four bells, we'll talk it
aout!"

"But what does it mean?"  Florence, a little pale, laid her hand upon
the woman's arm.  Her eyes searched the rocklike features with
anxious pleading.  "Won't you please tell me?  There's nothing wrong?"

"Nothing wrong at all, dearie."  Mrs. Pontifex patted the girl's hand
and smiled a flinty smile.  "It means money in all our pockets,
that's what it means--aye, in yours, too!  So don't think too hard of
us for running off to sea with yeou young folks until ye know all
abaout it.

"And naow, dearie, I have to do the cooking, because that blasted
cook of ours went ashore and didn't show up again.  Taking care of
your poor father has 'baout worn me daown, and I know yeou'll be
willing to look after him a bit----"

"Of course!  I meant to speak to you about it before this!" exclaimed
Florence.  "If you'll show me----"

"Come right along with me.  He ain't much trouble, poor man, and it's
the least we can do to make him comfortable.  If there's anything
yeou want done, too, just call steward and tell him."

"We'll be back soon, Tom dear," said Florence, and departed with Mrs.
Pontifex.

When the door closed, Tom Dennis sat motionless for a moment, then
raised his head.  He slipped to the deck and stood upright, holding
to the bunk.  A slow smile crept into his chalky features, and
presently he stretched himself luxuriantly.

"Passing off!  I'm bad, but not near so bad as I might be," he
commented audibly.  "It's a good thing for me that I was raised on
the Maine coast, and know ships and the sea as well as anybody!  They
don't know it, however, and Florence won't tell.  Now, why the deuce
have they kidnapped us this way?"

Frowning he sipped some cold coffee from a pot left by the steward an
hour earlier, Then he went to his huge trunk of a grip, its
telescopic sides fat almost to bursting, which lay at the head of the
bunk.

He unlocked the big grip and opened it.  Then he discarded his shirt
and collar, the same which he had worn the preceding day, and slipped
into a grey flannel shirt which he took from the suitcase.  His tie
knotted about the collar, he returned to the grip and knelt above it.
Drawing forth some clothes, he threw them carelessly on the
floor--threw out more, until a pile of rumpled garments lay beside
him.  Then he produced a large flat package and two small ones.  He
opened these, disclosing six large phonograph records, a reproducer,
and a box of needles.  Then, from within the suitcase he lifted out a
small hornless phonograph itself.  He stared down at it and chuckled.

"I told Ericksen the truth when I said I'd given that square suitcase
to the porter," he reflected, as he fitted the reproducer to the
machine.  "But I didn't mention that I'd kept the things in the
suitcase."

Just why he had done this, Tom Dennis was by no means certain, except
that his suspicions of Ericksen had never quite downed.  It was very
curious that the sole baggage of the assassin had consisted of this
phonograph outfit.  Bo'sun Joe's interest in the matter was also
curious; his presence in the compartment belonging to the assassin
had never ceased to trouble Tom Dennis.  More than he cared to admit,
Dennis suspected that there was, or had been, some definite relation,
and by no means an unfriendly one, between Ericksen and the would-be
murderer.

And why had that man possessed nothing except this phonograph and six
grand-opera records?  Dennis wanted to try out those records.  He
strongly hoped that the labels might be a blind--that the records
might have some information to convey.  Did those records hold the
secret, then?

Dennis wound up the machine, inserted a needle in the slot, and set
one of the records upon the turntable.  To his complete and utter
stupefaction he found that upon the record was not a word; merely a
deep bass voice repeating the alphabet over and over in a slow and
distinct sequence!  After each letter "zed", followed the numerals
from one to naught.

One after another, Dennis tried each of the six records, patiently
listening to that maddening repetition of that alphabet.  There was
positively nothing else on them!


At length he glanced at his watch, found that it was nearly ten
o'clock, or four bells.  With no little disdain and disappointment,
he bundled the phonograph and records back into the depths of his
suitcase, and was just locking the grip when Florence entered the
cabin.

"Are you ready, dear?" she demanded eagerly, a spot of colour in her
pale cheeks.  "They're all waiting for us there in the cabin--and,
Tom!  It's a company!  The Hathaway Salvage Company!"

"And what does that mean?" asked Dennis smiling as he kissed her.

"They're going to tell us.  Are you better, dear?"

"Oh, I'm all right--able to walk, anyhow.  Forward, and solve the
mystery!"

Together they left their cabin and went aft.

In company with Miles Hathaway and the tall scarlet geranium in the
green-striped jar, they found five people sitting around the table.
At the head was Captain Pontifex, at the foot the Missus.  On one
side sat Mr. Leman, pawing his fringe of whiskers.  At the other sat
Ericksen, a satanic twist to his freckled mouth as he eyed Captain
Hathaway, and at his side the black boat-steerer, Corny.

For a wonder, Pontifex rose as Florence entered the room, the others
following his example.  The skipper indicated two chairs placed
beside Leman.

"Will you sit down, please?  I have the pleasure of introducing our
officers, except Mr. Mendez, who has the deck.  Mr. Leman, our second
mate; you know Ericksen, I think, and Corny.  This chair, Mrs.
Dennis--thank you.  I might add that we are the officers and
directors of the Hathaway Salvage Company of which I am president,
Mrs. Pontifex, treasurer; Mr. Leman, secretary--the other gentlemen
directors."

Dennis, feeling rather helpless and bewildered, sank into the chair
beside Florence.

"For our own protection"--the skipper twirled his moustache--"we have
been forced to maintain silence until we were at sea.  Were it known
that Captain Miles Hathaway were alive, a fortune would be lost to us
all; this one fact will explain many questions which may have
perplexed you, Mr. Dennis."

"A few things need explanation, all right," said Dennis.

"Conceded!"  The skipper smiled.  "I may add that we are not bound
for the whaling grounds, and we are not upon a whaling cruise, as
everyone has imagined.  For that reason we have shipped Kanakas
for'ard; they are faithful good seamen, and ask no questions.
Neither they nor the other fo'c'sle hands, of course, are in this
company of ours."

"And what is the purpose of the company, then?" asked Florence
quickly.

"It may be very briefly stated in one word: salvage!  Your father's
ship, the _John Simpson_, was lost at sea with all hands.  But the
natives who brought your poor father into Unalaska told a story of
having found him upon the shore of an island, doubtless one of the
Aleuts; and under the lee of that island they had seen a wreck in
water so shallow that her masts stuck out above the surface.  That
wreck was the _Simpson_.

"You may know that the majority of those islands are deserted,
waterless, good for nothing.  Not even a Jap sealing poacher would
observe the masts of a wreck, unless by chance he came to the spot.
We may take it for granted that the _Simpson_ has never been found.
Unfortunately, the natives who brought in Captain Hathaway gave no
exact location and disappeared almost at once."

Tom Dennis leaned forward.  "But why salvage a ship that's been
wrecked?  She's of no earthly good!  And her cargo will belong to the
owners."

"Not so.  She has been taken off the register!"  Captain Pontifex
showed his white teeth in a smile of perfect confidence.  "The point
is this, Mr. Dennis: the ship was lost while _en route_ to
Vladivostok, laden with supplies for Russia.  Those supplies
consisted of machine-guns almost entirely; of machine-guns and
ammunition.

"Water will not have harmed that cargo, Mr. Dennis--or if so, only
slightly.  I have taken pains to ascertain that the guns were so
wrapped as to be waterproof.  The value runs up close to a million
and a half of dollars.  The inference is plain, eh?"

Tom Dennis sat back, stunned.  The inference was plain indeed--a
million and a half to be had for the picking up!




CHAPTER VII

JERRY TELLS SOMETHING

As in a daze, Tom Dennis listened while Pontifex went on to explain
that Miles Hathaway alone knew where the _Simpson_ lay; that thus far
they had been unable to find a way to extract that knowledge from
Hathaway--just here the skipper's voice was very silky--and that they
counted upon Florence to hit upon some method of communication.

But, the skipper hastened on, this was not the real reason for
Florence's having been fetched in person.  She was the legal heir of
Hathaway, and also his guardian, under the present conditions.

"Of course," said Pontifex blandly, "we might have gone ahead and you
would never have known about it; but we don't do business that way,
Mrs. Dennis.  We want to be aboveboard and honourable in the matter.
We dared not thresh the thing out there in the harbour, for you've no
idea how curious shipping people are!  A breath of suspicion as to
our real business, and we'd have been lost.  So we simply ran away
with you--not a bad joke, eh?  Ran away with you to make your fortune!

"Well, to business.  Our proposition is that you sign articles with
us--Mr. Dennis also, since he is your husband and we want everything
shipshape--and we'll land you at Unalaska, there to wait until we've
turned the trick.  Of course, you realize that we're giving our time,
the wages of the men, the ship, and all the rest, to the venture.
We've talked over what's fair, and we think that the right thing to
do is to offer you twenty per centum of the gross proceeds of the
salvage.  Is that agreeable?"

Florence, her wide brown eyes fastened upon Tom Dennis, seemed to
await his decision in breathless eagerness.  He nodded, without
speaking.

Captain Pontifex produced a paper which must have been long prepared,
for it was typed, and handed it to Dennis.  The latter glanced it
over.  The writing was no more than an agreement to the terms as
Pontifex had outlined them: Dennis passed the paper to Florence.

"Pontifex," he said slowly, "you're white in this thing!  I tell you
we appreciate it.  Yes, I can understand a good many things now that
weren't clear to me before.  Your offer is generous.  It's eminently
square.  We're not rich, and if this thing goes through it'll mean a
great deal to us--and to the future comfort of Captain Hathaway."

Florence hastily signing the paper with the fountain pen which the
skipper had handed her, shoved pen and paper at Dennis, then leaped
to her feet.  An excited smile upon her lips, her great brown eyes
glowing with life and eagerness, she insisted on shaking hands with
everyone at the table.  Her slender frame seemed filled with a sudden
flame of vitality.

"You've made me so happy!" she cried, speaking then to Pontifex.
"Not the money, not alone what it will mean to us all--but your
goodness!  All of you!  Oh, if father could only tell you how he must
feel about it----"

She flung her arms around Mrs. Pontifex and kissed that lady heartily.

Up the craggy countenance of the Missus welled a slow tide of
crimson, which swiftly waned again.  Corny looked at Boatswain Joe
and grinned.  The deep-set, cavernous eyes of Captain Pontifex sought
the impassively watching face of Miles Hathaway--sought it with a
satiric gleam in their dark depths.  Then they returned to the girl.

"Duty is duty," he said unctuously.  "We've tried to do what's right,
madam.  The consciousness of having done right is a great stay in
time of trouble.  We----"

The words were cut short by an appalling scream which seemed to wail
out of the air overhead, At that scream a silence like death fell
upon the cabin.

Corny furtively crossed himself.  Mr. Leman's flat ugly face turned
quite white.  Ericksen flung back his chair and was gone with a rush.
Captain Pontifex leaped to his feet and followed Boatswain Joe to the
companion.  As he set foot on the ladder, the others crowding at his
heels, the brig heeled over amid a confused trampling and shouting
from above.  Florence cried out in fear.


Manuel Mendez was helping a Kanaka at the wheel, jamming it hard
down, bringing the brig slowly about; he was bawling orders, while
all hands were trimming sail.

"One o' dem lubbers fell off de royal yard!" bellowed Mendez at the
skipper.  He did not think it necessary to explain that, as a good
joke, he had sent one of the drink-dazed white hands up to the royal,
grinning delightedly as the poor devil shivered and clung in fright
above the swimming waste of water.  But another of the white men
forward had seen.

"It was him done it!" yelled the man angrily, pointing at Mendez.
"He shifted the helm to----"

Boatswain Joe's fist stopped the utterance, sent the man rolling into
the scuppers.

"Get out that for'ard boat, Bo'sun!" shouted Captain Pontifex, his
voice piercing the wind as steel pierces paper.  "Lively,
now--lively!"

Tom Dennis stood at the top of the companionway, his arm about
Florence.  Beside him stood the Missus, rocklike and silent.  Dennis
had caught those words from forward, and seen Ericksen's blow; he
stood grimly watching, his lips compressed.

Mr. Leman, with uncanny swiftness, joined Boatswain Joe at the
forward whaleboat.  It was quickly swung out and lowered, the Kanakas
tumbling into it, Leman and Ericksen following.  Behind, somewhere in
the tossing sea crests, was the black dot of a man's head.  Before
the boat was half-way to it, the head had vanished.  The man was gone.

"Be a little more careful with those men, Mr. Mendez," said Pontifex,
watching the whaleboat put about and return.  "We'll need 'em."

That was all.  No anger, no inquiry, no more concern over the death
of a man--the needless brutal murder of a man--than if that man had
been a wandering sea-gull.  Tom Dennis drew Florence below, hoping
that she had not understood.  But when he looked into her eyes, he
knew that she _had_ understood.

"Tom, I--can't believe it!" she said faintly, horror in her wide
brown eyes.  "He spoke as though--it didn't matter."

Dennis made light of the affair.  "Never mind, dear.  We don't know
all the circumstances, and of course the skipper can't blame his mate
in public.  It would hurt discipline.  Just try and forget it, and
not refer to it."

The girl shivered.  "I can't forget that awful scream!"

No further reference was made to the affair, beyond the skipper's
explaining, later, that an unavoidable lurch of the ship had caused
the accident.  But it was long before Florence could look upon Manuel
Mendez, when he joined them at mess, without changing countenance.
There was something dreadful in the grinning calm of the black
Portuguese.  His eternal good humour was ominous.

"We mustn't let little outside matters affect us," said Tom Dennis
that same night.  "The main point, Florence, so far as we're
concerned, is your father, and the way Pontifex and his company are
acting."

"I know, Tom, dear," she said.  "They've been very good."

He sensed a constraint in her air, but put it down to the accident.

Two days later, however, the inquietude within him, which had been
lulled to sleep by that meeting of the company, was awakened with
terrible swiftness.  He had been discussing with Pontifex how to get
into communication with Miles Hathaway, and the skipper professed
himself quite helpless in the matter, leaving it entirely to
Florence's ingenuity.

The lack of concern which Pontifex expressed struck Tom Dennis as
being unnatural, under the circumstances.  But a little later, as
Dennis stood in talk with Mr. Leman, who was discussing whaling
voyages, he squinted up at the sails.

"Better trim your yards a bit, hadn't you?" said Dennis
thoughtlessly.  "Looks as if you were losing a good bit of that wind,
Mr. Leman."

The mate started slightly.

"Where'd you learn so much about sails, Mr. Dennis?"

"Oh, I just picked it up," Dennis laughed.  "But if you're in a hurry
to reach Unalaska, I should think you'd trim sail a bit."

"Orders were to keep her as she is," said Leman curtly, and turned
away.

Dennis shrugged his shoulders.  It was none of his business how the
ship was run, and if Pontifex had reasons for not hurrying, well and
good.


Meantime, the silent and motionless Miles Hathaway sat in the cabin,
puffing sometimes at the pipe Florence filled for him, watching her
as she worked, with unmoving terrible eyes.  Tom helped her take care
of him, and always it seemed to Dennis that Hathaway was mutely
struggling to express something.  Once Dennis got out a chart and
attempted to locate the wreck.

"Watch my finger, Captain Hathaway," he directed.  "If I get 'warm',
as the kids used to say, open your mouth."

The effort was fruitless, for although Dennis traced his fingers over
the entire line of the Aleuts, Miles Hathaway remained unmoving.  In
the end, Dennis began to think that the man either did not
understand, or possessed a brain as dead as his body.  At times, too,
the paralytic was almost unable to open his mouth or to swallow.  His
lips had no independent motion.  To communicate with him seemed
impossible.

It was the third evening following the meeting in the cabin.  Tom and
Florence had put Hathaway to bed, and after bidding the skipper and
his wife good night, went on deck for a breath of air.  Mendez had
the deck.  Wishing to avoid the black mate, Florence led the way
forward to the lee of the brick try-works.  There Tom Dennis lighted
his pipe, and for a little they sat together in silence, under the
strangely soothing yet invigorating influence of the slapping sails
and the rushing foam-crested rollers that roared under the lee-rail.

Suddenly a figure appeared coming from aft, preceded by a whimpering
sniffle.  It was Jerry, the moon-faced cabin boy and he was
blubbering away with the subdued racking sobs of a boy.

"Hello, Jerry!" said Dennis.  "What's the trouble?"

Jerry peered at them and rubbed his eyes,

"The Missus whaled me; then he chipped in and kicked the back off'm
me, drat him!"

"What'd you do, Jerry?"

"Nothin' at all!" responded the boy defiantly.  "The mate sent me
down to clean his cabin, an' they didn't know I was there, an' the
door was open.  He says it's a hell of a note about Frenchy not
bringin' that phonygraft, and it was the best idea ever was, and she
says yes, maybe we'd better give the old son of a gun another taste
of hot iron.  He says no, there ain't no need of that, because we got
the bulge on him now and he'll talk in a hurry, knowin' she's aboard,
and it's all Bo'sun's fault for slippin' up and lettin' Frenchy slip
up that way.  Just then they heard me, and she whaled me and he
kicked me up the ladder.  Drat him!  I wisht I was off'm this old
ship!"

Jerry passed on forward, sniffling.


Tom Dennis stood very still.  He felt Florence draw herself up; he
caught a startled gasp from her lips; but he was thinking with a wild
sickening surety, of what the skipper had said.  Frenchy--and the
phonograph!

There was the missing link.  No use disguising the facts any longer;
no use trying to cover up what was only too obvious!  Frenchy--that
was the assassin; and Ericksen _had_ been in partnership with him,
there in Chicago!  And Hathaway would talk now that Florence was
aboard----

Tom Dennis shivered suddenly.  "Come, dear!" he said in a strange
voice.  "Come below.  I have something to tell you."

He felt that she was sobbing softly, and halted.  "What's the matter,
Florence?"

She only shook her head, and taking his arm accompanied him to the
companionway.  Dennis was alarmed by her attitude; upon reaching
their own cabin she threw her arms about him, a sudden paroxysm of
sobs shaking her whole body.  Dennis could obtain no response to his
queries for a moment, until the girl suddenly looked up into his eyes.

"I--I couldn't tell you before, Tom!  I thought perhaps it had been
the wreck, and all that," she said, brokenly.  "But poor father--his
feet were burned, and his arms--at least, I know now that the scars
were of burns!  You heard what Jerry said.  And father's eyes are
giving him a lot of trouble; sometimes he can't use them at all, and
it seems to hurt him when they're open.  I--I can't dare to think
that anyone would have deliberately hurt him----"

"Good Lord!" broke from Dennis.  "It's not credible!  Yet, if Frenchy
was my Chicago visitor--here, old girl, sit down!  I've something to
tell you.  I can't quite face the meaning of it--yet it's bound to
mean but one thing----"

He drew the wondering sobbing girl to a chair beside him, and for the
first time told her of his strange assailant in Chicago on the night
of their departure.  He connected up the links--finding Ericksen in
the man's compartment; the square suitcase and its contents--and now
the remarks of Pontifex about that phonograph, as reported by the
innocent Jerry.

As she listened, the apprehension and grief of Florence for the
helpless and seemingly tortured father began to be absorbed in the
deep significance of the entire affair.  She sat in frowning thought,
while Dennis drew from his memory the little things which at the time
he had scarce noted, but which now seemed so laden with
significance--even the strange unconcern of Pontifex over
communicating with Miles Hathaway.  At this last, Florence lifted her
head.

"I know--the same thing struck me, Tom.  I was talking about it with
Mrs. Pontifex to-day; she had the air of discouraging me in the
attempt.  Why?  Why don't they want us to communicate with poor
father?  It will be hard at best, because of his eyes; I'm going to
make up an eyewash for him until we can reach a doctor.  But why
their attitude?  Everything seemed so honest and so kindly at that
meeting the other day!  And when I kissed Mrs. Pontifex----"

"She blushed, by George!" snapped Dennis suddenly.  "And anything
that could make that woman blush--here, let me think!  Jerry gave the
whole game away to us.  The clue lies in what the skipper said about
your father talking now that you were aboard----"


He broke off abruptly, filled and lighted his pipe, and sat staring
before him.  Not for nothing had he followed the newspaper game.  Not
for nothing had he been one of the best rewrite men in Chicago!  He
had been trained in the business of making a whole cloth from
scattered scraps.

"Got it!  Listen here, Florence," he said suddenly.  "Pontifex found
your father, and either took him to a house, where those snapshots
were made, or to this ship--no matter which.  Face facts, now!  All
this goody-goody talk is bluff.  Pontifex was busy trying to extort
the secret of the _Simpson's_ position from your father, so he sent
Boatswain Joe to get you; and he sent that clever little assassin,
Frenchy, to get this phonograph that's in my grip--why, we don't
know.  But for some reason he wanted it, and wanted it badly!

"Ericksen did not want me to accompany you.  He called in Frenchy at
the last minute to put me out of the way--and Frenchy meant murder.
There's a salient fact!  How did Boatswain Joe slip up, as Pontifex
termed it?  In not bringing you alone.  They wanted you--alone!  A
second salient fact.  Why?  Pontifex has said it: in order to force
your father to talk!"

"But Tom!" broke in Florence quickly.  "Father can't talk!"

"All bluff.  Pontifex can communicate with him, somehow.  They simply
didn't want us to do so."

"But that's why they wanted _me_!  And then, my signature on that
paper----"

"More bluff!" flung out Dennis.  "They tortured your father--don't
shrink from it--and he would not tell the secret.  They got you
aboard and sailed, knowing that for your sake, to get you out of
their power, your father would give up anything.  I'm a mere
incident, an incumbrance.  They're not hurrying.  They want Frenchy
to reach Unalaska first and come aboard there.  I'd recognize him
again, which would spoil their game at this juncture."

"They don't mean to land us there?"  She spoke steadily, but her face
was pale.

"I doubt it.  They'll try to get rid of me there.  They may take you
and your father along, to be sure that they get the right position
from him.  The ultimate outcome would be probably of no danger to
you--they'd sell the salvaged stuff to Japan or Canada or China, and
would land you wherever they went.  They might even keep the signed
agreement--in part.  They'd give you enough money to make it
inadvisable for you to start any legal proceedings, as they have your
agreement to the terms, and you'll never know how much they get for
the salvage.  You understand?  If your father gives them the correct
position of the wreck, you are possibly in no danger."

"And you, Tom?"

Dennis grinned.  "They want me out of the way.  They think I'll make
trouble.  Well, I _know_ I will!  Don't you worry about me.  They'll
do nothing until Unalaska and the revenue cutter are left behind,
see?  And by that time, little Tommy will have spoiled their game."

"How?" demanded Florence, her eyes anxious.

"Don't know yet," said Dennis cheerfully.  "If I----"

"Tom!  What was it that Pontifex said to you about reading Dumas?
Why, I I know just what they got that phonograph for--oh, I wish I'd
known about it!"

"You do?  What?"

"Don't you remember in one of the Dumas novels there was a paralytic,
and they made him blink his eyelids twice for 'No' and once for
'Yes'?  I was thinking about it only this afternoon, and meant to try
it with father!  And those phonograph records, with the alphabet and
numerals on them--don't you see?  Play a record and father would wink
at the right letter of figure until he spelled out a word----"

"By George!"  Dennis stared at the flushed and excited girl.  "By
George!  You've hit it square on the head--and I never thought of it!
We'll try it to-morrow----"

Florence leaned forward, colour glowing in her pale face, her eyes
dilated by swift excitement and resolution, yet dominated by their
strangely poised radiance.  All her spirit shone in her eyes--all her
heritage of soul, her heritage of iron nature, tempered and alloyed
and refined to an almost dangerous degree by her womanhood.  Tom
Dennis gazed into her eyes and wondered, as he had wondered on that
memorable afternoon when she had said: "We'll only win by daring; so
we shall dare everything!"

"No, Tom!" she said firmly.  "Not the phonograph!  They must not know
that we have it, or they'll know that we suspect their whole game!
In the morning I'll corroborate your theory from father's lips--the
way that Dumas' story did.  We have two or three more days until we
reach Unalaska.  In that time don't dare give them any suspicion!
Watch everything; but say nothing.

"Before we reach Unalaska we'll formulate a plan of action between
us.  They have bitterly wronged us; they have lied to us; they've
tried to murder us.  And we'll fight them!  Do you agree?"

Tom Dennis laughed suddenly and kissed her on the lips.

"You bet!" he said deeply.  "We'll fight!"




CHAPTER VIII

MILES HATHAWAY TALKS

Close upon noon the following day, moon-faced Jerry was heading for
the after cabins, broom in hand, with intent to sweep up the mess
cabin.  Manuel Mendez, who had the deck, playfully whipped out his
sheath-knife, and pretended to dive for Jerry.  With a howl of
terror, the boy slashed the mate's shins with the broom-handle--a
wild blow.

"Leave go o' me, you nigger!" he howled, as the hand of Mendez caught
his collar.

"Who you call nigger?  Me?" demanded Manuel Mendez angrily.  "What
you t'ink dis ship be, huh?  You say 'sir' to de mate, queeck!"

One giant black hand encircling the boy's throat; Mendez laughed and
choked him until Jerry's face was purple.  Then, having heard the
desired "sir", Mendez flung Jerry at the companionway which swallowed
him from sight.

At the bottom of the ladder, Jerry perceived Captain Pontifex bearing
his instruments and going above for the noon observation.  Jerry
sidled into the nearest cabin and hid.  He knew that the Missus was
up forward in the galley, safely engaged in getting dinner.

Thus it happened that when Florence went swiftly to the stern cabin,
and Tom Dennis stood upon the companion ladder to give her warning of
any approaching danger from above, neither of them knew that
moon-faced Jerry was fearfully waiting and listening inside the cabin
of Mendez, the door slightly ajar.  And that cabin adjoined the stern
cabin.

"Father--can you wink your eyelids once for 'yes' and twice for 'no'?
Quickly!"

Florence stood before the immobile figure of her father, watching him
with anxious desperate eyes.  The eyes of Miles Hathaway winked--very
slowly, very slightly, but very perceptibly.  Was it chance or design?

"Have you given the position of the wreck to Captain Pontifex?"
breathed the girl.  Her father's eyes closed twice.  A sudden glory
shone in her face, as she realized that this was no accident--that
she was communicating with her father at last!

"You heard all that passed at the meeting here," she hurried on.
"Was he sincere in what he said?  Does he mean to keep his promises
to us?"

The eyelids of the paralytic fluttered twice.

"Have they harmed you?"

"Yes."

"Can we trust anyone aboard here?"

No answer.  Evidently Hathaway was not sure upon this point.

"Have they any intentions of harming me?"

"Yes."

"They have!  And Tom too?"

"Yes.  Yes."  Repeated, this time, manifestly for emphasis.  The girl
paled slightly.

"Will they harm us before we reach Unalaska?"

"No."

Tom Dennis began to whistle cheerily.  Florence, who had filled her
father's pipe, put it between his lips and held a match while he
puffed.  As she did so, the door behind her was flung open, and into
the cabin came Tom, propelling before him the cabin boy Jerry.

"Heard everything you said, Florence," said Dennis, surveying the
shrinking boy.  "Now, Jerry, what d'you mean by spying on us?  Who
set you in there to listen?"

"Nobody."  Jerry began to blubber.  "But that nigger Mendez kicked me
downstairs, and I seen _him_ comin', and I ducked in there.  I didn't
mean to hear nothing honest!  And I won't tell them, neither, if ye
let me go.  Don't whale me!"

"Lord, Jerry, I wouldn't hurt you!" said Dennis; but he frowned as he
spoke.  He looked at Florence and gestured helplessly.  If the boy
told--their game was done!

"Jerry," said the girl, suddenly stooping and kissing the gaping boy,
"do you like Captain Pontifex?"

"No, I don't!  I hate him!  And if we ever get anywhere, I'm going to
run away."

"He hates us, Jerry.  Do you want to go away from this ship with us?

"You bet, ma'am.  Can I?"

"If you don't say a word to anyone about what you just heard.  If you
do, Mr. Dennis and I will suffer, and you'll get no chance to run
away."

"Cross m'heart, ma'am."  And Jerry earnestly suited action to word.
A sudden excitement shone in his eyes.  "They've double-crossed you
all the time.  I know; I've heard 'em talk!  They're goin' to give
you to that man Frenchy, that used to be cook.  I never seen him, but
they talk about him lots."

"All right, Jerry," said Dennis hastily.  "Beat it before the skipper
comes back."

The boy fled.  Dennis looked at the flushed hurt face of Florence.

"Give me--to that man!" she said faintly.  "Oh!  It--it's
impossible----"

"Right, old girl--it's quite impossible."  Dennis made a gesture of
caution, as he heard the sound of steps from the passage.  "You leave
it to me, that's all.  I'm sorry you heard that, Florence; but it'll
be all right.  Better take that pipe from your father, or we'll
forget it.  Eight bells just struck and we'd better run along to
dinner."

The skipper entered, with a smiling nod and a twirl of his moustache.

"Unalaska day after to-morrow, if the wind hold," he announced, his
deep-set eyes flitting from face to face as if seeking secrets there.
"All's well?"

"All well and hungry, skipper."  Dennis turned to the door.  "Coming?"

"Not for five minutes.  I want to jot down these figures and work out
our position."

During the meal which ensued, Tom Dennis marvelled at the manner in
which Florence maintained her cool poise, with never a token to
indicate the terrific ordeal to which she had so lately been
subjected.  And little Jerry, his moon-face white and frightened,
served the table with an occasional adoring glance at the girl; the
danger from Jerry was palpably eliminated.

To dare risk further conversation with Miles Hathaway would be
unadvisable, Dennis realized.  Discussing the matter with Florence
that afternoon, he found all traces of excitement gone from her; she
was coolly alert, and much better poised than was Dennis himself.
Fury was so deep and strong within him that it was difficult for him
to restrain his passion; but Florence had become quite cool and
dispassionate.

"It is quite clear, Tom," she said quietly, "that we must get father
off this ship at Unalaska.  If the revenue cutter is there, you had
better interview the commander, tell exactly what has happened, and
have father placed ashore.  If the revenue cutter is not there, the
port authorities----"

"Will probably be too slow to act," put in Dennis.  "And there's
another thing--this ship has diving equipment aboard, with all things
necessary for the work in hand.  I want to go after the wreck of the
_Simpson_, Florence: I believe that Pontifex will be only too glad to
set us all ashore at Unalaska provided he could get the location of
that wreck."

"But he wouldn't trust father to give him the correct location.  He'd
hold us, or hold father, as hostages."

Dennis nodded, frowningly.  After a moment he rose.

"Dear, please go to your father at once, Tell him that it is
absolutely essential that he give Pontifex the correct location of
that wreck.  Tell him that I shall handle the entire matter in such a
way that Pontifex will ultimately get his just desserts; but for the
present it is necessary that Pontifex should not suspect us."

"And you, Tom?  What are you going to do now?"

"I'm going to see the skipper--I think he's on deck.  If your father
consents to do as I request, please call us at once."

Dennis hurried out to the companion way, and ascended to the deck.

Pontifex was there, indeed--tall and cavernous, caressing his curled
black moustache while he talked with Mr. Leman.  Dennis approached
them with his heartiest manner.

"Well, gentlemen, good news!" he said warmly.  "Do you remember,
Captain, mentioning Dumas to me when we came aboard?  That gave us an
idea, and I believe that Mrs. Dennis will be able to communicate with
her father.  In fact, I expect her to call us down there at any
moment to get the location of that wreck.  Pretty good, eh?"

Mr. Leman rubbed his broken nose.  The skipper gave Dennis a sharp
look, then forced a smile.

"Why, certainly, Mr. Dennis!  Very glad indeed to hear it.  The
means?"

"By Captain Hathaway's winking his eyes in response to certain
questions.  Simple, if we'd only thought about it, eh?  And, Captain,
Mrs. Dennis and I both think that when we reach Unalaska she had
better be put ashore there with her father.  She's rather worried
over his condition, and she'd be able to secure comforts ashore which
can't be had here."

Pontifex nodded absently.  His pallid features looked very uneasy.

"Then you'd go on with us?" he asked after a moment.

"Of course!" assented Dennis heartily.  "Don't you want me?"

"You bet we do!" returned the skipper fervently, his face clearing.
"We'll need every man aboard when the work begins."

"Good--then it's settled!" exclaimed Dennis.  "When do we make Unimak
Pass?"

"To-morrow night," spoke up Mr. Leman, and fell to discussing the
weather.


Five minutes later Florence appeared on deck, smiled and nodded
brightly as the two officers touched their caps, and approached them
with well-assumed eagerness.

"I can talk with father!" she exclaimed as though the discovery were
fresh.  "Come, down, gentlemen!  He knows exactly what I'm saying,
Tom, and winks once for 'yes' and twice for 'no'!  I asked if he'd
give us the exact location of the wreck, and he said 'yes'; so I came
to call you at once."

"Excellent, Mrs. Dennis!  I congratulate you," exclaimed the skipper.
"Mr. Leman cannot leave the deck.  I'll call Mr. Mendez as we go
down.  Well, well, Mrs. Dennis!  Your husband was just telling us of
the method of communication.  Quite ingenious, quite!  By the way,
have you seen Mrs. Pontifex?"

Mr. Leman, who entirely disregarded the conventional title of the
lady, sang out in quick response:

"The Missus is up for'ard in the galley.  Ahoy, Corny!  Pass up the
word for the Missus!"

So the word was "passed up", and the large figure of Mrs. Pontifex
appeared near the try-works as Florence descended the companion
ladder.  With the Missus at the end of the procession, the others
passed on into the stern cabin, the skipper knocking at the door of
Manuel Mendez _en route_ and commanding his immediate presence.

"Best do this all shipshape," suggested the skipper, when they stood
before and around the immobile figure of Miles Hathaway.  "I'll get
out a chart, Mrs. Dennis----"

Pontifex searched his chart locker and did not find the desired chart
until Manuel Mendez appeared, smiling his eternal and monstrous grin.
Then Pontifex produced a chart of the Aleutian Islands.

"Now, ma'am," he addressed Florence, "while I read off the figures to
your poor old father, you stand by to watch for the answers.  All
ready?  Good.  Let's take up the latitude first--easier to determine
the position that way.  Now, is the position north of fifty-four?"

"No," returned Florence almost at once.

"Hm!  That cuts out everything north of Dutch Harbour, eh?  North of
fifty-two?"

"No," answered Florence.

"Good enough, ma'am.  Now let's take up the longitude.  West from
Greenwich?"

"Yes."

"Between one seventy-four and seventy-eight?"

"No."

"Between one seventy-eight and eighty?"

"Yes!" exclaimed Florence.

"Getting warm, eh?" Pontifex spoke eagerly, a tinge of red in his
pale cheeks.  "Ah!  It's among that clump of islands south-east of
Tanaga.  Now, Mr. Hathaway, kindly follow my pencil from island to
island with your eyes, this way----"

The skipper slowly passed the point of a pencil from one barren rock
island to another.  A swift cry from Florence checked him; holding
his pencil, he gazed steadily at Miles Hathaway.

"Is this it?" he demanded, a sudden ring of steel in his tone.  "This
one--the most southerly of the rocks to the eastward of Kavalga?"

The gaze of one and all centred upon Miles Hathaway who for a moment
met the level gaze of Pontifex with unmoving eyes.  Then, slowly,
Hathaway signified "Yes".

A deep breath filled the cabin; but the tense attitude of Pontifex
did not change.  He held his eyes steadily upon those of Hathaway.
His voice came like a challenge, steely and commanding.

"Is that the correct position, Captain Hathaway--upon your word of
honour?"

"Yes," signalled Hathaway immediately.

Captain Pontifex turned.  He rolled up the chart and tossed it upon
the table.

"Hathaway's word is as good as my own--and that means _good_," he
said quietly.  "Now, Mrs. Dennis, am I correct in believing that you
wish to be set ashore with your father at Unalaska?"

"Yes."  Florence looked at him, smiling.  "I'll be sorry to miss the
salvage work, Captain Pontifex, but I'd like to obtain medical aid
for my father, and to care for him ashore in person.  He's more
important to me than any money, you understand?"

"Of course."  And Pontifex nodded.

The Missus was watching him in unconcealed surprise, while Mendez had
ceased entirely to smile.  This was their first hint about setting
anyone ashore.  Pontifex caressed his moustache and glanced at them,
his deep-set eyes ironic.

"Mrs. Dennis and Captain Hathaway shall be set ashore at Unalaska,"
he said.  "Mr. Dennis goes with us as their representative, to take
part in the work on the _Simpson_.  I think that concludes our
meeting."


Five minutes later, in the privacy of their own cabin, Florence faced
Tom Dennis, her hands on his shoulders.

"Dear, I had hard work to make father consent," she said quietly.
"But he yielded to my love and utter confidence in you.  Now tell
me--why did you do it?  Do you really mean to go alone with these
men, on this ship?"

Dennis filled his pipe, stooped to kiss her lips, then struck a match.

"I most certainly do, my dear.  The chances are a thousand to one
that the revenue cutter will not be in Unalaska Bay.  In that event,
you and your father will go ashore, while I shall sail with the
_Pelican_.  You'll take my big grip ashore, containing that
phonograph and records.  By this means your father can tell his
entire story to the proper authorities.  That will take time, of
course, and it will take time to summon the revenue cutter, even by
wireless.

"I believe that under the circumstances, I an oath can be
administered to your father in a perfectly legal manner.  You know
the position of the wreck.  With your father's story as a basis for
action you can go to work in a proper manner with the authorities;
whatever charges your father lays against Pontifex can be sworn to;
your own signature to the agreement with Pontifex was obtained by
fraud and deceit.

"You understand?  Do nothing in a hurry.  Give us a clear two weeks
in which to get this ship loaded with the salvaged stuff.  Then get
sharp quick action, file a libel, or whatever the term is to denote
an attachment of the ship.  Sue Pontifex heavily in both your
father's name and in ours, and claim whatever he has salvaged in your
own name.  We'll grab his ship and his salvaged stuff at one swoop,
see?  While that's going through the courts, we will gut the _John
Simpson_ of all that's left in her.  There's a newspaper man in
Vancouver named Margate; I'll give you cables to send off to him.
He'll doubtless be able to get backing and to charter some kind of an
old tub--and while Pontifex is in the courts with us, Margate will be
looting the _Simpson_, before the general public gets wise to where
the _John Simpson_ is lying.  See?"

The eyes of the girl were large with wonder-admiration, and delight.
Then fear struck into their depths.

"The plan is wonderful, Tom!  But you--in the meantime?"

Dennis grinned.  "Me?  I'll be jollying old Pontifex along; never
fear!"




CHAPTER IX

UNALASKA BAY

Unalaska--at last!

The tortuous, narrow and even precipitous passage, winding nearly two
miles amid the rocks, lay behind, and now the good ship _Pelican_ was
swinging to her anchor in front of the little town hardly more than a
village.  In the little bight was no other large craft, although
several fishing boats were rocking to their moorings.

The Arctic summer, intense and vivid as though to make up for its
brief duration, was at an end.  None the less, the breeze from the
shore carried a sweet fragrance of flowers, the little town was still
radiant with blossoming gardens, and all over the hills which lay
banked around the town there were patches of gay flowers and the deep
lush green of rank grasses.

With great care Miles Hathaway and his wheeled chair were lowered
into a boat.  Tom Dennis and Florence followed, together with Captain
Pontifex, who had proffered his services in securing a place of abode
for Florence and her father.  Once upon the dock, Dennis took charge
of the chair, and all three started up-town, Pontifex carrying
Dennis' big suitcase.

"Feels good to have the solid earth underfoot again," said Dennis.
"How long do you expect to lay up here, Skipper?"

"We'll go out with the tide to-night," returned Pontifex.  "I expect
to pick up a cook here, who was to reach Unalaska by one of the
island steamers, and I want to get our mail and papers.  If we can
get Mrs. Dennis comfortably berthed this afternoon, there'll be
nothing to detain us, beyond standing off her trunk."

"Besides," he added in a lowered voice, "I'm anxious not to let the
news slip out of what we're after.  Before we could get clear of the
island we'd have schooners dogging us.  In case Mrs. Dennis would
like any ready money----"

"Thank you, Captain, I need nothing," said Florence quietly.

Little Jerry had not been allowed to come ashore, much to the
disappointment of Florence, who had been bent upon rescuing the lad.
Dennis, however, had already formulated a plan of action, largely
because he considered that the boy's testimony would be of tremendous
weight in backing up Florence when she interviewed the authorities.

An hour later, with the afternoon half gone, Florence and Captain
Hathaway were snugly ensconced as paying guests in a cottage not far
behind the ancient Greek church.  Captain Pontifex had departed on
his own business.

"Dear, are you _sure_?"  In the security of her hired room, with the
immobile Miles Hathaway watching them from his chair, Florence sought
the gaze of Tom Dennis.  To him it seemed that her eye held a glowing
probe of fire, searching his very soul.

"Remember, Tom dear, that I mustn't lose you.  You're my one sure
strong anchor in the world; your love and you are necessary to me,"
she said steadily.  "So are you sure?  Are you sure that the best
plan would not be to stop here ashore and have Pontifex placed under
restraint--here and now?

"Are you sure that we had not best let the thought of money and
salvage go for the present, placing our own lives and safety first of
all?  Are you sure you can come back to me, my dear?"

Despite the brave soul of her, at those last words her voice faltered.

"Dear wife, I am sure," said Dennis simply.  "I shall play the game
safely, letting them suspect nothing of what I know, and before any
crisis occurs you will have acted.  Two weeks--remember!"

"And you think Pontifex will suspect nothing if Jerry disappears
to-night?"

"He would not consent to leave you and your father here together,
knowing that you can communicate, if he suspected anything.  He will
think that Jerry has run away, and will doubtless figure on picking
up the boy when he returns--he'll be too anxious to reach the _John
Simpson_ to bother about suspicions.  It has not occurred to him that
you would ask your father any questions out of the ordinary, and
certainly your father cannot tell anything of what has happened
unless asked.  You have the phonograph and records in that valise, so
go ahead and don't worry about me, dear.  I'll play my part."

"Agreed, dear."  She leaned forward and held up her face to his.
"Then let's leave father here, and go out to see the town; we'll
spend our last hours together, before you go, and you can arrange
about poor little Jerry."


An hour afterward, a grizzled old fisherman was listening to Tom
Dennis and shaking his head in stubborn negation.

"Not me, sir!" he affirmed with emphasis.  "I dassn't run around the
harbour without no light----"

"But your lantern might go out for five minutes!"

"Not mine, sir.  Besides, helpin' a feller escape from a whaler ain't
no jokin' matter!  Fact it ain't.  I'd like to earn the money all
right, but I dassn't buck up ag'in the law."

Florence gave her husband a meaning glance.

"Tom, please let me speak to him in private a moment!"

Shrugging his shoulders, Dennis walked away.  As he strode up and
down, he saw that Florence was speaking very earnestly, and that the
grizzled fisherman seemed very uneasy.  But presently the fisherman
grinned and nodded, shaking hands with Florence.  He had agreed.

"What on earth did you say to him?" demanded Dennis, as they were
walking away.

"Oh, I made it clear that he'd be doing a good deed--that's all."  A
ripple of laughter danced like sunlight across her face.  "Why, from
what you said, the poor man thought he would be compounding a felony!"

Dennis chuckled.  "I guess a man would be willing to compound
anything, if you'd smile at him and beg him to do it!  Well, you're
right about the good-deed part of it, and I'm glad it's settled.
Let's look up some supper ashore; then I'll go aboard ship."

The skipper had promised to send a boat ashore for Dennis; so, when
darkness was beginning to fall, he hailed the brigantine from the
dock, Florence at his side.  Five minutes later a whaleboat was
pulling in, with Ericksen in the stern.

"Good-bye, my dear, and God bring you back safely," said Florence
softly, as she kissed him good-bye.

Dennis answered with a reassuring smile.  "You've got my little
flash-light, haven't you?"

"Everything as planned, my heart.  Good-bye!"

Dennis climbed down into the boat which swept around and headed back
to the brig.  Florence stood on the dock, watching.  She exchanged a
final wave of the hand before the boat swept out of sight under the
counter of the _Pelican_; then she turned and slowly walked in to the
shore.

There, however, she remained, in the shadow of the long warehouses
already piled high with bone from other whaling ships.  Darkness
closed down upon the bay, and the lights of the little town began to
glimmer and gleam under the hills.  Out on the water the lamps of the
_Pelican_ showed red and white in the gloom.

Had the cook, Frenchy, come aboard?  Florence did not know.  She knew
that Tom Dennis was there, among men who indubitably meant him no
good; whether his would-be assassin had reached Unalaska in time to
join the ship, she knew not.  She waited, shivering a little, until
by degrees the red side-light vanished.  Presently the lights showed
green and white--and she knew that the tide was on the ebb, that the
ship had swung about to her cable.  There was a light breeze, but
strong enough to carry the brig to sea.


Suddenly a flare lighted up the forward deck of the whaler.  The
voice of Bo'sun Joe drifted over the water with strange sweetness,
joined by the voices of other men and interjected by the guttural
utterances of Kanakas trying to keep tune; while the clicking pawls
and the slowly shifting lights betrayed that the anchor was coming up:

  "We cracked it on, on a big skiute,
    _To me hoodah, to me hoodah_!
  We cracked it on, on a big skiute,
    _Hurrah for the Black Ball line_!
  Blow, my bullies, blow,
  For California oh!
  There's plenty of gold
  As I've been told,
  On the banks of the Sacramento-o!"


Meantime, the capstan chantey was being drowned by other voices--the
steely ring of Pontifex, the roar of Manuel Mendez, the shriller
tones of Corny and others as orders were repeated and the topsails
were set.  The confusion of voices became more pronounced.

"Hurry up with that royal!" came the voice of Pontifex.  "Leggo that
lee-brace and trim--hurry up!"

"Aye, sir!"

"Head-sails and spanker ready sir," came the voice of Leman.  "Anchor
a-trip!"

Then a confused medley of orders:

"Brace round them head-yards!  Cat your hook and shake out those
courses! ... Aft with that sheet, now.  Shake a leg! ... Bo'sun, haul
out that bowline!"

"Aye, sir!  Haul out the bowline!"


  Haul upon the bowline, Kitty lives at Liverpool,
    _Haul on the bowline, the bowline haul_!
  Haul upon the bowline, Kitty lives at Liverpool,
    _Haul on the bowline, the bowline haul_!


Breathless, Florence watched and listened.  Would Tom succeed without
trouble?  Would the plan, dangerous at best, succeed in getting
little Jerry safe ashore?  The ship's lights were slowly moving now,
moving toward the entrance of that winding, precipitous passage.
Captain Pontifex was in charge himself, for the passage demanded
sharp tacking and skilful handling; his steely voice carried back
across the light wind, across the silence of the northern night.
Florence strained her eyes into the darkness.  The time was at hand,
now.

"Ready about!  Down your helm, there!  Hard-a-lee!"  Florence could
picture the big spanker-boom hauled in, the head-sheets slackening
off; the lights showed that the brig was coming up into the wind,
"Tacks and sheets!  Maintops'l haul!  Round with them after-yards,
there!  Fore-bowline, let go an' haul!"

Not ten minutes were consumed in the manoeuvre, for the _Pelican_ was
smartly handled.  To the watching Florence, however, that ten minutes
seemed an eternity.  The voices lessened in the distance; the
whaler's lights became tiny glimmering points as she slowly slid away
and was gone.

Suddenly, down on the surface of the water, appeared a tiny
pin-point--a flash of light that was gone instantly.  It flashed
again, and again vanished.  From the watching girl came a deep
breath--a sigh of almost agonized relief, as the tension which was
holding her was swiftly relaxed.

After this, nothing.  The _Pelican_ was gone in the winding channel,
although snatches of song drifted back as Bo'sun Joe led the chanteys
that fetched her about on new tacks.  Over the water lay darkness and
silence; from somewhere back in the town a tiny phonograph lifted a
tinkling piece of band music into the night.


Florence walked out upon the dock, still trembling beneath the
nervous strain of those moments.  Five minutes passed--five
intolerable dragging minutes.  Then from the water she caught the
drip and splash of muffled oars, and she called out softly.

"All right, ma'am!" came the hoarse response.  A dim shadow loomed
up, and the voice of the grizzled fisherman continued: "Thought
better not to show no light at all, ma'am.  Ain't so likely to get
questions asked----"

"You got him?"

"Aye.  Can you give him a hand, ma'am?  The lad's mortal cold----"

Florence leaned down and gripped an icy hand.

"Golly, I sure thought my legs was froze!" came the chattering voice
of Jerry.  With all her surprising strength, the girl heaved; and he
came up beside her.  "Scared stiff, I was!"

"They've gone."  Florence turned and took the horny hand of the
fisherman.  "Thank you," she said simply.  "I think Mr. Dennis wanted
me to give you this----"

"Sho', ma'am, I don't want no money for that!" protested the other.
But Florence forced the money upon him, and, with a last handshake,
urged Jerry away toward warmth and dry clothes.

By this time the boy's teeth were chattering so that talk was
impossible.  Upon reaching her own cottage, where Florence had
already engaged a room for Jerry, she gave him a spare suit of old
clothes which Dennis had left for him, and left him to change.

"Be quick!" she exclaimed, as she departed.  "I want to know all
about it!"

"Y-y-yes, ma'am," chattered Jerry.

Ten minutes later, partially warmed and clad in dry clothes, Jerry,
moon-faced and sheepish, stumbled into the room where Florence sat
beside her immobile father.  The eyes of Captain Miles Hathaway dwelt
upon Jerry.

"Come here by the fire."  Florence set him in a chair beside the
oil-stove that warmed the room.  "Now, tell me!  Did everything go
all right?"

"Yes'm, I guess so."  Jerry grinned.  "That is, far's I know it did,
for _me_.  You see, Mr. Dennis, he told me what to do.  So just 'fore
they called all hands, I messed things up in the galley consid'able,
and the new cook----"

"The new cook came, then?" interjected Florence, a little pale.

"Yes'm.  Frenchy, they called him.  So him and the steward tailed on
the lines, with the rest, and the Missus, she was mad as an ol' cat
about the galley bein' messed up, and so she come to 'tend to it, and
I slipped down into the cabins and met Mr. Dennis.  He had the stern
window open, and he give me that electric lamp and a life-buoy what
he'd snaked down from the stern-rail after dark.

"So I got the life-belt 'round me an' clumb out the window and hung
on the line that Mr. Dennis had made fast, and waited till he give me
the word.  Golly, I was scared!  The skipper, he was right up there
over my head, and he was talkin' with Frenchy, and he says: 'There's
no call for you to get mad, Dumont.  You get rid of her husband first
like you'd ought to of done back in Chicago.'  And Frenchy, he says,
'Where is he?'  The skipper, he says, 'Down below I guess, but don't
do nothin' now because I figger on sending him down in a divin'-suit
when we get started to work.'  Then they both laughed, and just then
Mr. Dennis, he give me the word to swing off----"

"Had he heard them talking?" demanded Florence, white-lipped.

"Naw.  He didn't know they was talking up there at all; he'd been
standin' back from the window a piece, I guess.  I was scared they'd
hear him give me the word, but they didn't.  So I slid down into the
water and the ol' ship walked right away and nobody seen me.  Tell
you what, it was cold!  I flashed the light a couple o' times, then
the old guy give me a hail and come alongside and took me in.  Golly,
but I was glad!"

Florence sat motionless, a deathly pallor upon her face.  In the
boy's report she glimpsed utter and horrible destruction of all the
plans which she and Tom Dennis had built up.  The whole ghastly truth
had flashed upon her, through the words of Pontifex which Jerry had
overheard--and which Dennis had not overheard.

They would send Tom down in a diving-suit; and no one could tell what
had happened under the sea in the green depths!  Florence knew that
she would not dare to put through her share of the scheme, after
this.  She might succeed, but only after Tom Dennis had perished.

"Go along to bed, Jerry," she muttered, her lips white.  The boy
looked at her, and with fear upon his face, rose.  He stumbled away
and was gone.

Florence met the motionless dead gaze of her father.


"You know what it means, father?" she said, her voice lifeless.  "It
means that they'll murder him!  If I stop here, he'll be lost!  We
can't get the revenue cutter here before another week, because the
wireless station is closed down--the operator's sick.  We found that
out this afternoon.  And, father, Tom matters more to me than--than
anything else!"

The eyes of her father slowly moved.  "Yes!"

"No time for the phonograph now; I'll have to give up our whole
scheme of action."  Florence drew a deep breath.  "I'll have to warn
Tom, father; the only way to warn him will be to follow the _Pelican_
and--and do it openly.  I know where the wreck lies.

"That fisherman who brought in Jerry--I know where he lives.  His
boat has a motor, and he says he often cruises among the islands.  I
think he'll take me.  Anyway, there's no larger boat here than his.
I must see him to-night, at once, and arrange to get off in the
morning.  I'll see the authorities, explain about the phonograph, and
you can tell them all about it while I'm gone.  Perhaps they can get
help to us.  If that fisherman will take me, maybe we can get Tom
away before----"

She broke into low sobs.  She could see only disaster ahead--and duty
to the man whom she loved.  Suddenly she leaned forward, caught her
father's lifeless hand.

"Father!  You know all about this place, and everything!  Tell me!
Is there anything else I can do?  If there is, I'll get out the
phonograph now.  Is there?"

Slowly the lids of Miles Hathaway moved twice.  "No."

"And you think I'm right to go?  It's the only thing to do?  We'll
lose everything, for Pontifex will loot the wreck and be gone before
we could get back here and have the cutter after him.  But isn't it
the only thing to do?"

"Yes," said the eyes of Miles Hathaway.




CHAPTER X

THE WRECK

From Unalaska to the position indicated upon the chart as the
resting-place of the _John Simpson_ was, in the rough, six hundred
knots--nearly seven hundred miles.

When Tom Dennis wakened, the morning after the _Pelican_ tacked out
of the Unalaska channel, he found that she had, with the audacity of
all whaling ships, run through Unimak Pass in the dark and was now
tearing across the North Pacific at an eight-knot clip, with a stiff
south-easter rolling her along bravely.

Dennis realized full well that he must avoid all appearance of
suspicions having been awakened in him.  When at breakfast Mrs.
Pontifex remarked upon the blessed relief of having the cook aboard,
Dennis quite ignored the subject therefore, conscious that Ericksen
was watching him with keen and predatory gaze.

"And when shall we make that position, Skipper?" he asked.

Pontifex shrugged.  "If this breeze holds, it's a three-day run for
us.  Barring a dead calm, we'll be on the spot--let's see, this is
Saturday; we'll be on the spot Tuesday morning without fail.  Eh, Mr.
Leman?"

"Easy, sir.  Had we better overhaul that diving-tackle, sir?"

"Yes.  Break it out to-day.  Bo'sun Joe, rig up a derrick for'ard
to-day; chances are we'll be able to lay close enough to the wreck to
swing the stuff directly aboard, and we'll not want to waste time.  A
south-easter might lay us up on those islands.  Ever been diving, Mr.
Dennis?"

Dennis nodded.  "Twice.  Never at sea, but in Lake Michigan."

"Then we'll have a new sensation for you, if you like."  Pontifex
smiled cruelly.

"Bo'sun Joe and I are the only ones aboard with any experience, and
if you care to take a shift with us, we'll be glad."

"I'm in for anything that'll make me useful," said Dennis.  "You
think the wreck is still on the rocks where we can reach it, then?"

"We're gambling on it," returned Pontifex curtly.

The wind held, and the old whaler blew down the miles of westering
with every stitch of canvas taut as a drumhead.  That afternoon Tom
Dennis got a good straight look at the new cook--a most disreputable
little man, dirty and slouchy in the extreme.  Gone were the trim
mustachios, gone was all the natty air; but the man was the same who
had spilled a vial of chloroform in the Chicago room of Tom Dennis.
There was no doubt about it.

Dennis, however, said nothing; later, when Corny introduced the cook
as Frenchy, he shook hands and was very pleasant, and if Dumont
suspected anything, his suspicions were set at rest by Dennis' air of
careless non-interest.

Upon the following day the brigantine was still tearing along with a
swirl of water hissing under her counter.  Off to the north the
islands showed their mountain-tips against the sky, blue and
continuous as some distant mainland.  Talking with the mates and
boat-steerers and Kanakas, Tom Dennis was entertained with many
stories of those islands: how fox- and seal-farmers were scattered
through the group; how small launches cruised the entire length of
the island chain with impunity; how in time to come there would be a
thriving island population where now were empty stretches of land or
scattered communities of miserable natives.

And there were other and more ominous tales: tales of Boguslav and
Katmai, of islands that came and went overnight, of oil-soaked
whalers caught under descending showers of hot ash and burned to the
water's edge.  There were tales of seal-poaching, of poachers who
fought each other, of Yankees who fought Japs; and these tales verged
upon the personal.  Nods and winks were interchanged when Bo'sun Joe
told about "men he had known", or when black Manuel Mendez related
exploits of which "he had heard".  Tom Dennis gained some fine
material for feature-stories--but it worried him.  He began to
realize that these men among whom he had fallen were, so far as their
natures were concerned, no better than pirates.

Then, upon the evening of the second day, came the affair which
proved that all restraint was now loosed.


Darkness was falling, and having no particular longing for the
society of the Missus and Pontifex, in the stern cabin, Dennis was in
the waist near the try-works, listening while Corny spun a whaling
yarn to the watch.  The yarn was broken into by a sudden choking cry,
followed by an excited call in Portuguese.  The voice was that of
Manuel Mendez who would take the deck from Mr. Leman in a few moments.

At sound of the cry, Corny whipped out his knife and was gone like a
shadow.  Dennis was the first to follow, darting after the black
boat-steerer toward the windward side of the deck, whence the voice
had come.

An instant later, Dennis had turned the corner of the try-works.
What had happened he could not tell; but he saw the huge figure of
Manuel Mendez hanging to the mizzen-shrouds, groaning faintly.  Close
by, the insignificant little cook was facing the glittering knife of
Corny--facing it with bare hands.

Corny, growling savage Cape Verde oaths, leaped.  Swift as light was
Frenchy, darting in and out again, sweeping the knife aside, striking
catlike.  Corny staggered back.

At that instant Mr. Leman swept upon the scene, his grey wisps of
hair flying, his long arms flailing.  Frenchy, not hearing him, was
knocked headlong into the galley and fell with a tremendous crashing
of pots and pans.

"He keel Manuel!" cried out Corny, retreating from the second mate
and putting up his knife.  "He mos' get my eyes--ah, de poor Manuel!"

The giant figure of the bearded black fell limply.  Dennis retreated,
feeling sick; for Manuel Mendez had been stabbed with his own
knife--after his eyes had been gouged away.  Even for sea-fighting,
there was something horrible about it.

Later, Dennis came upon the steward and two of the miserable white
sailors talking near the forecastle scuttle.  The steward was
describing what had happened.

"Joked 'im, the mate did; chaffed 'im abaht some woman.  Bli' me!
Frenchy was hup and at 'im like this."  And the Cockney held the two
first fingers of his right hand forked and aloft.  "Tried to jerk at
'is knife, 'e did, but Frenchy hup an' took if first--ugh!  'Orrible
it was.  And now the Capting, 'e'll 'ang Frenchy."

Somebody guffawed in the darkness.

"Hang Frenchy?  Not him!  Frenchy an' the Skipper have sailed
together for years, they tell me.  Hey, mates?"

"You bet," came a response.  "Skipper don' dast hang _him_, I guess."

To Dennis it was rankly incredible; but it was true.  In the morning
Manuel Mendez, who would smile no more his white-toothed hungry
smile, was sent overside with a chunk of coal sewed at his feet; and
as the body was committed to the deep, Frenchy leaped to the rail and
sent a bucket of slush over the canvas.  An old whaling custom, this,
to keep the dead man's ghost from following the ship.  But Frenchy
remained untouched for his crime.  If there were any inquiry or
punishment, Dennis never heard of it.  The ship's routine pursued its
usual course, Ericksen being advanced to the position of second mate,
Leman to that of first mate.

One man aboard, however, did not forget the happening; and this was
Corny, the compatriot of the murdered mate.  More than once, Dennis
saw Corny's eyes follow Frenchy about the deck with a black,
murderous look.


These things, however, swiftly were forgotten in the rumoured
vicinity of the wreck; and since everyone aboard either knew, or had
guessed, the import of this strange cruise, the ship hummed like a
beehive with speculation and gossip.  At noon, with the remarkable
keenness which distinguishes whaling skippers, Captain Pontifex
completed his observations and then laid out a new course, stating
that it would bring them under the lee of the island at four bells in
the morning watch, at which time the brigantine was to be hove to and
await daylight.

Tom Dennis was the only one aboard, except Captain Pontifex and the
Missus who did not sleep by watches.  At dinner that night the
skipper broached a bottle of wine, and sent forward a tot of grog for
all hands; suppressed excitement ruled the ship, even the gentle
Kanakas breaking into wild native songs until suppressed by the
Skipper's order.  After an evening of much talk, mainly about the
various methods of raising sunken treasure, Dennis turned in.

With the morning came disenchantment.  Dennis had dreamed of gold-mad
sailors, of wild haste, of everything forgotten save the proximity of
sudden riches.  But once on deck he found things very different.  The
_Pelican_ was standing across the end of a barren rocky island; just
beyond and ahead of her was a long scooped-out depression in the
rocky shore, and in the centre of this depression lay the wreck of
the _Simpson_.  The seamen were attending strictly to their positions
and duties; there was no hilarious ring of voices, and everything was
about as romantic as a visit to a coaling-station.

But the _John Simpson_ was there--no doubt about it!

Her stern, apparently wedged in among a nest of rocks, stood up at a
sharp angle, the deck not quite awash but running down into the water
swiftly.  The aftermast stood a broken stump.  At some distance
showed the foremast, likewise broken.  Dennis turned to Pontifex and
the Missus who stood beside him.

"That foremast seems a long distance away," he said.  "Doesn't look
natural."

"Broke in two," vouchsafed the Missus curtly.  Pontifex nodded.

"That's it," he stated with conviction.  "Fore part lays in deep
water--eight or ten fathom, probably.  Look at her stern.  See the
water a-drip?  She's well covered at high tide: just now the tide's
out.  No wonder she broke!"

"Looks as if we'd anchor right close to her fore-hatch," said the
Missus.

Ericksen, with a whaleboat and hand-line, was engaged in taking
soundings of the position.  Suddenly a savage exclamation escaped
Pontifex who had been scrutinizing the visible stern of the wreck
through a pair of binoculars.

"Take charge, Mr. Leman," snapped the skipper, then lifted his voice.
"Corny!  Lower away--four hands will be enough to row us in.  Come
on, Mr. Dennis!"

As Corny's crew leaped to the falls of a forward boat, Pontifex
strode forward, his thin face murderous.  Dennis followed him in
amazement.

"What's the trouble, Skipper?"

"Come on," responded Pontifex snarlingly.  "I'm not sure yet--but if
it's true----"

Seeing that the Skipper was in no mood for questions, Dennis said
nothing further but followed into the whaleboat.  Four Kanakas gave
way at the long oars, and the boat began to slide landward.  Pontifex
studied the wreck through his binoculars a moment, then handed the
glasses to Dennis.

"Look at it--on the mainmast!"

Puzzled, Dennis focused on the stump of the mainmast.  High up, so
high as to be well beyond reach, he discerned a small object; it
looked like a bit of board nailed to the mast.

"Is that writing on it?" he exclaimed, lowering the glasses.

Pontifex nodded sourly.  "Probably.  We'll soon see."

Boatswain Joe's boat, which had finished its survey and was heading
for the ship, passed within hail.  Pontifex transmitted word to Mr.
Leman by Ericksen, ordering the _Pelican_ laid as close alongside the
fore-hatch of the wreck as the depth would allow.  Bo'sun Joe
reported that the fore-part of the _Simpson_ lay in nine fathoms,
with fair holding-ground for the anchors, and that the whaler could
crowd alongside her easily.

As their boat drew in, Tom Dennis could see that the stern of the
wreck must indeed be completely submerged at low tide; this was
attested by the barnacles and weedy growths covering the rails and
decking.  But it was the square bit of plank nailed to the mast which
drew his gaze and that of the Skipper.

"Ah!" cried Pontifex, with a furious oath.  "Look at that, Dennis!  A
painted sign!"

Taking the glasses, Dennis could indeed make out that the board
appeared to bear words or characters--and to his eye they were
Japanese.  At this query, the skipper swore again.

"Aye, the yellow scum!  They swarm around the islands, raiding
fox-farms and poaching or trading according as they dare.  One of
their boats happened along here, blast the luck, and saw the wreck;
posted a sign to warn off their own countrymen, and went for help.
They came at high water and didn't wait for ebb tide.  Notice where
that sign is, up there?  Way enough, Corny; we don't want to board
her."

The boat swung around on idle oars, twenty feet from the rocks that
held the stern of the _Simpson_.  Dennis scrutinized the board
carefully, then handed the glasses to Pontifex.

"It's tough luck, Skipper," he said quietly.  "To think that she lay
here undiscovered for over two years, then was found only a week or
so before we came!"

"A week?"  Pontifex stared at him with flaming eyes.  "How d'ye know
that?"

"Focus up on those nail-heads in that board.  They're rusty, of
course, but the rust hasn't gone into the wood around them--see?  And
the black paint on the board looks pretty glossy when the sunlight
catches it right."

"Right you are!" commented the Skipper with a growl.

"What are you going to do about it?"

"_Do_ about it!" Pontifex looked venomous.  "Fight, by the lord
Harry!  This is salvage.  Whoever can hold hardest, gets.  Let me get
the old brig anchored in here, and I'd like to see any dirty yellow
poachers pry my fingers loose!"

Dennis remembered the big gun-rack in the cabin, and said no more.
Rifles can be used for other purposes than killing seals and bears.

"We'll be all snug by breakfast-time," added Pontifex, watching the
_Pelican_ come slowly in as her top canvas fluttered down.  "Then
we'll set to work _pronto_.  We don't want a gale to catch us here,
either.  More likely to catch fog, anyway."

And the skipper made good his words.  Before seven bells were struck
at 7.20 that morning* the _Pelican_ was berthed alongside the fore
half of the _Simpson_ and all was made snug below and aloft.  Captain
Pontifex called all hands and made an address.


* Usually struck at this time so the relieving watch may breakfast
first.


"The Japs have been here, and they'll be back," he said curtly.
"There's salvage money ahead of everybody, men, so we're going to
pitch in and work day and night, watch and watch.  The day watches
will devote themselves to getting the stuff aboard, because a diver
can't remain down very long in this water: all hands will have a
chance at going down.  The night watches will stow the stuff below
and make a clear deck before morning.

"While we're lying here, we'll redistribute the watches.  Mr. Leman
and Mr. Ericksen will take the port watch, I'll take the starboard
watch with Mr. Dennis and Corny.  One man from each watch will be set
ashore--that high point of rock makes a better lookout perch than the
crosstrees--to watch for the approach of any craft whatever.  And
mark this, men!  If you don't report back to the beach when the
watches are changed, I'll come ashore and hunt you down with a
shotgun!  That's all.  The starboard watch will keep the deck."

Did the port watch go below?  Not yet!  Breakfast was a formality, a
hurriedly bolted affair; ten minutes later one of the four white
seamen was set ashore as lookout, and the Skipper fell to work.

"You'll mind the pumps my watch, my dear," said Pontifex to the
Missus.  "When I'm down, I'll trust nobody else to watch my air
supply.  Do you want to go down, Mr. Dennis?"

"You bet," and Dennis laughed.  "I'd like nothing better!"

A complete double set of diving apparatus was already awaiting them.




CHAPTER XI

THE ENEMY COMES

The water was cold--cold and clear and biting as ice.  To Dennis,
inside the rubber suit, it seemed as though he had been plunged
bodily into liquid ice.  Through the thick glass of the helmet he
could see the green translucence all around him, clear and empty and
shimmering with the sunlight from above.  For himself, as for the
other green hands at the work, he knew that a long submersion would
be impossible.

Darker grew the water underfoot as the light from above was diffused
to the greater depths.  Dennis had gone down from the quarter-deck of
the _Pelican_; this, according to the soundings, would bring him to
the sea-floor at the after end of the front half of the wreck.  He
could thus see whether the contents of the _Simpson's_ main-hold, aft
of which she had broken in two, lay piled upon the sea-floor between
the two sections of the wreck.  If so, the work of salvage would be
greatly hastened.  Pontifex, in the meantime, was exploring the bows
and fore hatch of the wreck.

Down went Tom Dennis into the depths, in a seemingly interminable
descent.  Suddenly a huge shadowy black mass seemed rushing at him
from below, and swift terror sent his heart throbbing; for he felt
very helpless.  Then he remembered--the wreck, of course!  The
regular "click-click" of the pumps, sounding down through his
air-valves, reassured and heartened him.  An instant later he stood
upon the bottom.

He wondered that there was very little growth or algae to obstruct
him, until he realized that what little algae he could see were
bending far over in the grip of a fairly strong sub-surface current,
which, combined with the intense coldness of the water, had a
discouraging effect upon marine growths.  The bottom was not smooth,
however, being extremely rocky and uneven.

The _Simpson_ had apparently broken just abaft the engine-room, and
the fore half lay with her sloping deck toward the shore.  Dennis had
come to the bottom close to her keel, and he was no long time in
discovering that spilled over the sea bottom lay almost enough cargo
to fill up the _Pelican_.

Having brought a line ready prepared, Dennis got the bight around a
packing-case plastered with barnacles.  As he was drawing it taut,
came a jerk upon his lifeline--the signal that his agreed "stint" was
up.  Having no wish to be crippled or laid on the sick list, Dennis
responded, and at once was hauled off the bottom.

His ascent was very slow, and of necessity; for a quick jerk up from
the depths would ruin any man alive.  The progression had to be
gradual and halting.

On the way up, it occurred to him for the first time that he was
literally in the hands of his enemies!

The moment he was in the morning sunlight again, Tom Dennis forgot
his uneasiness and laughed at the terror which had seized upon him in
the depths.  It was absurd.

He did not go down again that morning, however.


Dennis was nearly clear of his diving-suit before the Skipper's
copper helmet broke the water amidships.  Pontifex reported that the
bow plates of the wreck were torn out, and he had lined two cases;
these were brought in, together with that which Dennis had secured,
and were at once smashed open.  The two cases from the fore hold
proved to contain ammunition; that from the main hold, two
excellently packed machine-guns.

This was enough for Pontifex, who at once conjectured that the main
and after holds of the _Simpson_ had contained the bulk of the
machine-guns, the most valuable part of her cargo.  Corny at once
broke out a kedge, lowered it to the stern of his boat and hung it
there by a stop to the ring, then started off to the stern of the
_Simpson_.  Once laid among the rocks in the shallower water there,
the crew tramped around the capstan while Bo's'n Joe lifted "Windy
weather!  Stormy weather!" into a resounding chorus.

At last it was done.  The _Pelican_, all reconnaissance over, lay
snugly ensconced between the two sections of the _John Simpson_.  The
off watch went below, curiosity appeased by the barnacled unromantic
packing-cases; and Captain Pontifex fell to hard work, going down
again almost at once.

Dennis took charge of the after pumps, while the Missus herself took
the wheel of those in the waist.  The Kanakas, only prevented from
diving naked by the depth and the icy coldness of the water, were
eager to try the diving-suits.  As each man went down in turn, he
carried four lines, making them fast to as many cases.  Thus, despite
the brief diving spells, in no long time the cases began to come
aboard as fast as they could be handled.

When the watch knocked off at eight bells, noon, Dennis was amazed by
the number of cases which had come aboard.  He was dead tired, also;
the constant strain of watching the pump gauges and keeping the air
at exactly the right pressure was no light one, and at odd moments he
had tailed on to the lines with the other men.

"I see you're no greenhorn," commented Pontifex at dinner, with a
sharp glance at the hands of Dennis.  "Where'd you learn to keep your
thumb clear while hauling a line?"

"Oh, I've knocked around ships a little," Dennis laughed.  "Are you
going to stay in this position?"

"Yes.  If the Japs come, we're fixed to keep 'em off both ends of the
wreck.  Well, think you can go down again this afternoon?"

Dennis nodded.  "Sure!  I'm supposed to have a bad heart, but I
haven't noticed it."


As it chanced, however, he did not go down again that day, for during
Mr. Leman's watch the after airhose developed a leak which had to be
fixed, and the second apparatus was consequently out of business
until the following morning.  Pontifex, who took the first dog-watch,
kept the one suit hard at work, and all aboard were well satisfied
with results.

That night, by the light of a huge flare set atop the try-works, the
cargo was stowed.  Shears had to be run up over the hatchways to
handle the heavy cases, and the deck was not washed down until just
before the morning watch.  When Dennis came on deck at 4 a.m. the
ship was incased in so heavy a fog that the lookout was withdrawn
from the island.

"Dis fog, maybe she keep up a week," grumbled Corny, overhauling the
diving lines.  "If de Jap sheep come, den look out!"

The stern of the wreck, which had been hidden at high tide, was again
being uncovered.  So thick was the fog that Dennis doubted the
possibility of diving, but his doubts were soon set at rest.  Corny
and the skipper, each carrying lines, made a descent, and Corny
returned with word that it was a "cinch".

Pontifex was still down, and Dennis was preparing to get into the
suit as Corny vacated it, when of a sudden the voice of the Missus
bit out from the waist.

"Keep quiet, all hands!  Listen!"

Astonished, Dennis obeyed.  Corny, beside him, stood with hand cupped
to ear, slowly shaking his head.  Nothing was to be heard, The fog
was impenetrable.

"What did she hear?" murmured Dennis.  The Cape Verde man shook his
head.

"No telling.  But nobody don't fool _her_--ah!  Listen, queek!"

Dennis heard it then--an indistinct and muffled vibration, too slight
to be called a noise, which was felt rather than heard.  It came
again and again, an irregular sound.

"It's de sail," said Corny.  "De sail flap-flap in de wind--and
dere's somet'ing else goin', too----"

"A boat's engine!" exclaimed Dennis softly.

"Yeou, Corny!"  The Missus gave swift command aft.  "Call all hands
aft an' tell Mr. Leman to fetch the rifles.  Lively yeou!"

Meantime, she was bringing Pontifex aboard, manifestly against his
will, as the signal-line testified.  Dennis kicked out of the rubber
suit, getting clear just as Bo's'n Joe came up the companion way.  A
moment later both Leman and Corny appeared, each with an armload of
rifles interspersed with shot-guns.

"Strike me blind!" exclaimed Ericksen, pausing beside Dennis, and
listening intently.  "If it ain't them Japs--a schooner, likely,
beatin' up for the island under power, and all hands too lazy to take
in sail!  Aye, that's them."

"But it may be someone else," said Dennis.  "A fisherman, perhaps."

Bo's'n Joe gave him a look of pitying scorn from his uptwisted eye.
"You wait an' see!"


Rifles were served out to all aboard, Dennis among the rest, and by
the time Captain Pontifex was up and out of his suit, the ship was
ready for defence.  Pontifex heard the news without comment; a rifle
under his arm, he dispatched Corny to the crosstrees to keep watch
from there, and ordered Mr. Leman to stand by with a megaphone.

"Growin' closer, sir," volunteered Ericksen.  "Takin' soundings, she
is."

The skipper nodded.  The fog-muffled thrum of an engine was now
distinctly perceptible, while the slatting of sails told that the
approaching craft was not far off.  The fog was thick and steady
without a breath of wind to thin it out.

"All right, Mr. Leman," said Pontifex suddenly.  "Let 'em have it."

Instantly the stentorian tones of Mr. Leman, intensified a
thousandfold by the megaphone, blared out upon the fog.

"Stand off or ye'll run us down, ye lubbers!  Keep away!"

From the mist came a shrill thin yell of surprise, followed by an
excited jabbering of many tongues.  Clearly the visitors were of
foreign origin.  Then a shrill voice lifted in English amid sudden
silence as the thrumming motor ceased its noise.

"'Ello!  Oo are you?"

"Very good, Bo's'n Joe," said the skipper calmly.  "She'll be in the
centre of the fairway, most likely--about two points abaft our beam."

Ericksen lifted to his shoulder the shotgun with which he had armed
himself, and two smashing reports blasted into the fog as he fired
both barrels.  A shrill clamour of voices made answer, followed by
instantaneous and blanket-like silence.  Then came a single sullen
plunge, as of some heavy object striking the water.

"Ah!" remarked Pontifex, staring into into the fog as though he could
see through it.  "Very good, Bo's'n--you reached 'em.  They've
anchored, and they'll lie doggo until the fog lifts.  They know we'll
waste no bullets if we can't see them."

"Reached them?" repeated Dennis.  "You don't mean that Ericksen tried
to hit them?"

Bo's'n Joe guffawed, and Pontifex gave Dennis a peculiar smiling
look--a very diabolical look.

"My dear Mr. Dennis, that's exactly what he did.  And some yellow
beggar caught the pellets in his hide--in other words, got the hint!
They'll try no games until they can see what they're up against."

"But where are they?" demanded Dennis, giving up any expostulation.

"About six fathoms away, I should say--not more than fifty feet,
certainly."  The skipper glanced at Mr. Leman, who nodded
confirmation.  "They might be less than that, and we couldn't see
them, nor they us.  After the fog lifts--well, then there'll be fun!"

"They'll fight?"

Pontifex caressed his moustache and smiled softly.

"More or less--they'll try some deviltry on us first.  Lay out some
harpoons and shoulder-guns, Mr. Leman; we'll have a few tonite bombs
ready.  Corny, bring in those cases that I lined before I came up.
We'll get back to work directly."

Dennis saw no good in making protests.  There was no law here save
that of the strongest, and Pontifex was dead right in carrying the
fight to the enemy, aggression being nine points of fighting law.
Besides, Pontifex was manifestly enjoying the prospect, and just at
present Dennis was playing a waiting game and had no desire to bring
about any crisis.

There being no time for more workman-like methods, an anvil and a
cold-chisel were brought aft, with half a dozen harpoons, and two of
the hands were set to work cutting through the iron harpoon hafts,
just behind the spear-points.  Now, modern whaling is carried out
almost exactly as the New Bedford whalers did it a century ago,
except for a small brass cylinder fastened to the haft of the
harpoon.  In this cylinder is carried a tonite bomb.  Whether the
harpoon be flung by hand or be fired from a shoulder-gun, it carries
the bomb into the whale--and that ends the whale.

The points off the six harpoons, Mr. Leman made ready a couple of
shoulder-guns and loaded the cylinders of the harpoons with bombs.
As he observed, they might or they might not do much damage, but they
would make a big noise when they hit; and with this intent the
weapons were laid aside to be used in case of any aggressiveness on
the part of the enemy.  For the present, at least, the Japs seemed to
be maintaining a careful silence.

"Well, Mr. Dennis," said Pontifex at length, "I'm going to resume my
interrupted job; I guess I can lay a few more lines before quitting.
Who's going down on your lines?"

"Why, I will--if you think it's safe," returned Dennis.  "You're not
going to knock off work, then?"

"On account of that yellow scum?  I should say not!" exclaimed
Pontifex.  "Mr. Leman will do any fighting that's necessary while I'm
down; and the Missus will see to it that nothing fouls our lines.
But send someone else if you don't like the idea."

"Oh, it suits me," answered Dennis, knocking out his pipe.  "I dare
say there's no great risk, but it would feel sweet if the ship left
us prowling on the bottom, eh?"

Pontifex grunted and went forward, being swallowed up in the fog that
cloaked everything.

Having learned from Corny that the bottom was pretty dark, but by no
means unsuited to working, Dennis called the steward.  Although the
little Cockney was a viperous criminal ashore, he was a faithful soul
at sea, and Dennis had learned that he entertained a strong feeling
of responsibility while watching the pumps.

"Hi, steward!" he called.  "Come and give me a hand with this
suit--and bring a couple of Kanakas to run these pumps, too.  Corny's
busy with the lines."

"Comin' sir," said the steward's voice, and the Cockney appeared a
moment later.

Meantime, in the waist, Captain Pontifex was engaged in talk with the
cook, while the Missus listened.

"Now's the time, Dumont," said Pontifex, fondling his curled
mustache.  "Work right along aft until you get on his line, savvy?"

"_Mais oui_!" returned Frenchy, his black eyes glittering.  "But me,
I like not this _diable_ of a fog!  It will be dark under the water."

"So much the better."  And Pontifex smiled his cruel smile.  "So much
the better!  He thinks I'm going down.  Let the steward attend to his
pumps--and we'll blame the steward for what happens.  In this murky
water he'll not see you coming down there--you can get on top of him
and cut his lines and be off in a shot.  Are you ready or not?"

"Yes!" exclaimed Frenchy, reaching for the diving-suit.

"And watch out for the tide," cautioned the skipper.  "It's ebbing
strong and you might lose your bearings if you don't look sharp."

Frenchy grinned, and unstrapped his sheath-knife.




CHAPTER XII

IN THE DEPTHS

As the steward helped pull up the rubber dress about the body of
Dennis, he spoke in a low voice.

"Beg pardon, sir, but hit looks like you 'ad lost your knife."

Dennis glanced down at the deck where his paraphernalia lay.  The
belt and sheath were there; but the large knife, a regular part of
every diver's equipment, was missing.

"That's queer!" he said slowly.  "Hm!  Probably Corny lost the knife
and didn't notice it.  Better get me one from the galley, steward:
it'll take a carving knife to fit that big sheath."

"Yes, sir."  The steward slipped off into the mist.  The two Kanakas
stood at the pump-wheels, shivering in the mist and talking together.

A moment later the steward reappeared, carrying a long, keenly edged
carving knife.  He tried it in the sheath, and it fitted well enough.

"Werry good, sir.  All set!"

Dennis liked the little Cockney--he liked the man's thorough
responsibility in his job of watching the pumps.  But now, as he
helped adjust the back and breast-pieces, and buckled the belt about
his waist, he felt once more that in this work he was putting himself
in the power of his enemies.

He forced a laugh at the idea; yet it took a supreme effort to
conquer his imagination.  They did not want to kill him, of
course--but if they did, how easy in this fog!  But that was all
nonsense.  There was no question of murdering.  The very notion was
folly!

Dennis helped the steward adjust the big copper helmet, and the
Cockney screwed it fast into the neck-plate.  A moment later, Dennis
was climbing over the rail.  The usual diver's shot-line would carry
him straight down, and besides this, a ladder had been slung over the
stern to assist in the ascent.  The steward gave him the four lines,
attached to the rail at intervals which would prevent their fouling
after being attached to the cases, and Dennis slipped down into the
depths.

As always, the steady and regular clicking of the pumps sounded
through his air valves with reassuring effect.  Captain Pontifex had
not provided very up-to-date outfits, with telephones and electric
lights and other frills--for this reason no diving work could be done
at night.  The suits were good and dependable, however, lacking only
gloves to make them well adapted to this icy water.

Dennis resolutely dismissed all thoughts of possible danger, and
concentrated his attention upon the work in hand.

As Corny had reported, the water down below was clear enough for
work, but the lack of filtering sunlight made it gloomy, grey, and
obscure in details.  When at last Dennis felt his feet touch the
bottom, he was forced to stand for a moment and adjust his eyesight
to the altered conditions.  Presently he was enabled to descry
objects, and he moved toward the scattered and far-strewn heaps of
boxes which lay between the two sections of the _John Simpson_.

Dennis could see nothing of Pontifex at work below, but in the
present obscurity that was not strange.  Besides, the divers, from
waist and stern of the _Pelican_, kept as far apart as possible for
fear of the lines fouling.

Now, as he advanced, Dennis thought that he perceived a dimly moving
shape off to his left to seaward; but it vanished almost instantly.
It might have been some fish, he concluded, or a bunch of drifting
algae.  It was now hard upon noon, and the tide was fast on the ebb.

With the strange buoyancy which comes to the diver on the bottom,
Dennis took leaps, one after the other, with a boyish delight.  He
cleared no ground this way, however, and soon returned to the slow
progress afoot; there was too much danger of losing his balance and
burying his helmet in the ooze as he came down.


Presently he came to an upright crowbar in a heap of boxes, which
Corny had been using to pry loose each case in order to pass the
bight of a line around it.  Dennis found two loose boxes and made
fast two of his lines; but without tying himself to the pile, he
could not use the crowbar--his own buoyancy was too great.  So, to
save time, he passed on to some scattered cases ahead.

At this juncture, his remaining two lines fouled about his dragging
air hose.  When at length he got them extricated and clear, he had
great difficulty in maintaining his balance against the set of the
tide.  But at length he got the first line fast to a box, and with
the second line he secured another.

As he straightened up and grasped his safety-line to signal the
steward that he was ready to ascend, he observed a great shadowy mass
in the water ahead.  Accustomed to the gloom by this time, he
perceived that the mass was the after-end of the _John Simpson_,
reaching up through the water on a sharp incline.

He tugged at his line.  To his amazement he felt no resistance
whatever.  He tugged harder, more sharply--and the line coiled
snakily toward him.  At the same instant he heard a sharp click
behind his ear; the safety valve in his helmet had snapped shut.  His
air-tight hose and his line had been parted!

In this supreme moment, when he faced inescapable death, Tom Dennis
felt none of his previous fear.  His brain worked like a clock.

He knew that either from the stern above, or from the water beneath
he had been cut off and left to die.  He had been too slow--he had
failed to heed his inward premonitions.  And the sheer horror of it
was that he would not die for a comparatively long time.  There was
sufficient air in his helmet and in the bellying folds of his rubber
suit to sustain life for several minutes!

What good would this do him?  None!  What good would it do him to
reach the line he had made fast to boxes?  None.  This was no
accident.  The ends of his lines told him that they had been cut
clean, severed.  Those above would disregard any possible signals,
would let him perish miserably.  He could depend upon no one.  He was
trapped, helpless, murdered!

Then suddenly, Dennis perceived something in the water behind him.
He turned.

Not a dozen feet distant, another diver stood there, helmet turned
toward him watching.  Through the thick glass Dennis glimpsed keen
dark eyes, a gleam of white teeth; this was not Pontifex at all.
Recognition came to him, and a thin cry escaped his lips--Dumont!
Here was the murderer!

Dennis gripped his knife, half-minded to retaliate upon this assassin
who had cut his lines; for in the man's hand he dimly caught the
glitter of steel.  But, as Dennis tensed himself for the leap, he
checked the movement--another dim figure had appeared!


Amazement held Dennis spellbound, incredulous.  There had been but
two diving-suits aboard the _Pelican_; of this he was quite certain.
Yet here upon the sea floor stood three divers!

Dumont--for the second figure was manifestly that of the cook--stood
staring at Dennis as though inviting any hostile movement.  But the
third figure suddenly rose in the water with a great leap--rose and
threw itself forward, and went caroming down upon Frenchy, Then the
answer came to Dennis--a diver from the Jap boat!  Under shelter of
the fog, knowing themselves unseen, the little brown men had gone to
work!

And as he realized this, Dennis saw the figures of the two other
divers, plunging together upon the bottom, abruptly obscured from his
sight by a red mist uprising through the water.  With horrified
comprehension, Dennis realized that the murderer, Dumont, had been
taken unawares, had been caught in his own trap--had cut the lines of
one man only to have an unseen enemy spring upon him and stab him to
death!

Dennis turned, and with a wild leap left the red-smeared scene behind.

The whole affair, from the moment he had heard his helmet valve
click, had not taken twenty seconds, Already there had sprung into
Dennis's brain the comprehension that he had but one bare slim hope
of salvation--almost subconsciously he was aware of it, and almost
upon intuition he leaped upward through the water.  He leaped not
toward the _Pelican_, where he knew well that no help awaited him,
but away from her; he leaped toward the shattered and sundered
afterpart of the _John Simpson_.

Speed now meant life.  He could not reach the shore in time,
already--was it fact or imagination?--he fancied that his breathing
was getting more difficult, the air in his lungs hot and vitiated.
There came to him the horrible thought of a diver leaping about the
bottom of the sea, leaping in huge bounds of twenty feet upward,
leaping like a mad crazed animal until the air in his suit gave out
and he dropped head-foremost in the ooze.  It was a frantic thought.
Upon the heels of it something tugged at the trailing lifeline and
jerked Dennis down head first.

Knife in hand, he recovered his balance, thinking that the Jap diver
had pursued him.  But the trailing end of his line had caught in some
obstruction--nothing more.  With a sobbing breath of relief, Dennis
slashed away the line and bore onward with a high leap.

That bound gained the crushed decking of the _John Simpson_.  The
afterpart of the wreck lay upon a sharply inclined plane, its broken
forward end upon the bottom, the stern high in its nest of rocks.  Up
that sharp steep slope crawled Tom Dennis.

To maintain his balance and to keep any foothold upon the slimy
decking was difficult.  He clung to the rail with his left hand,
slowly working himself upward.  He dared try no leaping here, lest
like a rubber ball he fly over the rail with the seaward current and
drop; and if a diver drops thirty feet he is apt to be crushed all at
once into his helmet by the pressure--and it would not be nice.

"Can't take chances!" thought Dennis, then laughed inwardly at the
notion.  Take chances!  Why, he was basing his entire hope of
salvation upon chances of which he was totally uncertain!  It had
swiftly come to him that by gaining the after end of the wreck, by
crawling up her sloping deck to the stern, he would be out of the
water.  But would he?  How far had the tide ebbed?  He did not know.
He could not remember what time the tide had turned--whether the
wreck would be now uncovered or not.

Then there was the fog; another chance.  If the fog had only slightly
lessened, so those aboard the _Pelican_ could see stern of the wreck,
they would finish their work with rifles should Dennis emerge.  Thus
there was a double chance against him.  Should he find himself out of
water at the stern of the wreck, his only hope then would be that the
fog still held thick as ever.


His ears were roaring now, and paining with an ache that thrummed at
each pulse-beat.  The air was steadily growing worse; Dennis paused
to press more air up from his billowing suit, and gained momentary
relief.

It occurred to him that he still had one friend aboard the
_Pelican_--the steward.  His knife had been removed purposely; the
steward had noticed its absence; therefore, the little Cockney was
not in on the murder-scheme.  Dennis laughed slightly and turned
again to his task of climbing.

Dragging himself up that slimy steep decking was hard work, and he
cursed the tremendous weights that held him down; the buoyancy seemed
gone out of him with his weariness.  Then, suddenly, he came to a
dead halt, straining his eyes to look upward and ahead, and keen
despair went through him like a knife.

He had gained the after hatchway which was uncovered and yawned in a
black hole to his right.  Directly in front of him was the overhang
of the poop--an eight-foot wall which, owing to the position of the
wreck, deserved its name so far as Dennis was concerned.  It overhung
him; in order to go up the ladder in front of him, Dennis would have
to do it hand over hand, or not at all!

For a moment he paused.  Pains had seized and were racking him.  His
throat and lungs felt afire.  He knew that he could not last much
longer, and with a frightful effort he flung himself forward; the
knife, his sole means of escape from the diving-suit, he thrust down
into the sheath of his belt, trusting that it would remain there.

Gripping the stairs of the ladder, Dennis hauled himself up.  He
dared spare nothing of energy or effort now; he was staking all upon
one effort.  If he failed to reach the poop he was gone.

Strangling, gasping spasmodically for the air that burned out his
lungs, he came at last to the end of the ladder.  He got his head
about it; he could see the poop-deck there before him, and he writhed
desperately over the edge of the ladder.  With all his lightness in
the water, he nearly failed at that moment.  For one sickening
instant he felt himself going backward and down--then, heaving upward
convulsively, he somehow made it safely.  For a moment he lay weak
and helpless.

A spasm of strangulation forced him on.  He groped behind him for his
knife, found it, and pressed forward.  The water was lighter now--he
was near the top.  How near?  Unless the stern were clear of the
water, he would be lost.  There was blood in his throat; his nose and
ears were bleeding.  To his terror, he lost his balance and plunged
against the rail, nearly going over.  He gripped the rail and hauled
himself onward.


A frightful madness seized him, a convulsive gasping for relief, and
he was near to ripping asunder his diving-suit.  His frantic efforts
had exhausted what little oxygen remained; he could press up no more
good air from his suit.  Then, suddenly and unexpectedly, he found
that some horrible, deadly, agonizing weight was pressing him down.
He could see only the grey dimness around him; red specks were
dancing before his eyes; that awful weight was oppressing him, and
what caused it, he did not know, unless it were death.  He came up
against the rounded bulge of the stern-rail.  It was the end.  He
could go no farther.

"That ends it!" he thought despairingly.  "The tide hasn't ebbed
enough."

He fell forward, unable to lift the weight of that copper helmet, for
the oppression was crushing him down.  He could not make out what
that frightful weight could be, nor did he care.  He reached up with
his knife, as he lay there, and determined to end things swiftly.  He
refused to be longer tortured.

With a swift, reckless motion he ripped asunder the breast of his
diving-suit.

To his amazement, nothing happened.  No water entered.  Instead, came
a breath of cold sweet air that literally brought life into his lungs!

Two minutes later he was sitting up, sobbing the good clean air into
his body!  He saw then what had happened--what that awful weight had
been!  It had been only the weight of his own body and equipment.
Unknown to himself, he had emerged from the water into the dense
thickness of the fog.

He had won clear!




CHAPTER XIII

PONTIFEX PLANS REVENGE

"Strike me blind," observed Bo's'n Joe gloomily, "if they ain't gone
an' got poor Frenchy!"

No one else spoke for a bit.  Mr. Leman spat over the rail and stared
at the fog in the direction of the unseen Japanese ship.  The Missus
had gone to her cabin when the body was hauled aboard.  Captain
Pontifex stood looking down at the form, still incased in its
diving-suit; and his pallid cavernous features were venomous with
rage.

"I'd sooner have lost anyone aboard rather than Dumont--except the
Missus," he said softly.  "And to think they must have got him just
after he got Dennis."

"Aye," said Bo's'n Joe.

It was very evident how Frenchy had come by his fate.  Transfixing
his body, fastened so firmly within him that no easy pull would
remove it, was a long-bladed knife with shark-skin handle--palpably a
Japanese knife.

"Well," the Skipper turned away, "see that he's sewed up proper, Mr.
Leman, and we'll bury him shipshape.  Attend to repairing that dress,
too."

When the skipper had disappeared aft, Bo's'n Joe looked at Mr. Leman.

"What's the Skipper got on his mind?  He ain't goin' to stand by and
see Frenchy killed without doin' anything?"

Mr. Leman reflectively tugged his whiskers, and squinted down his
broken nose.

"Not him, Bo's'n--not him!  'Ready to work to-morrow', says he.  Just
wait till to-night, Bo's'n!  If something don't happen to them Japs,
I miss my guess.  Leave it to him and the Missus!  If this blasted
fog don't break, he'll show 'em a thing or two."

The _Pelican_ swung idly to her anchors all that afternoon.

It was easy for those aboard her to deduce exactly how Dumont had
come to his end.  The knife told the whole story.  The flurry at the
end of the lines, Dumont's frantic signal to be hoisted, all
explained perfectly that he had encountered a diver from the enemy
ship.  The Japs had diving apparatus, of course.

Sullen resentment and fury filled the _Pelican_, from skipper to
meekest Kanaka.  All aboard had been wildly excited over salvage and
treasure; because of this fact, Pontifex had a solidly united crew
behind him in whatever he might attempt.  Frenchy had not been
particularly loved, but his murder showed that the enemy meant
business--and in defence of their treasure-trove the crew of the
_Pelican_ were only too anxious to fight.

As the afternoon wore on, the fog thickened rather than lessened.  At
the end of the first dog-watch all hands were called and Frenchy was
committed to the deep, with the usual bucket of slush.

Someone observed that there was no chance of laying the ghost of
Dennis in this customary fashion; within five minutes the remark had
gone through the brig.  No one cared particularly how Dennis had
perished, but everyone was superstitious in the extreme.  Mr. Leman
allowed an anxious frown to disturb his flat countenance, and even
the skipper, upon hearing the rumour, appeared disturbed.

"Not that I give two hoots for any ghost," he confided to the Missus,
"but it makes a bad spirit aboard ship.  Nonsense!  A ghost doesn't
come back, anyway."

"I've heard 'baout that happening," said the Missus gloomily but
firmly.  "And what folks believe in is apt to come true.  You mark my
words!"

"Then" and the skipper brightened--"they say that a death aboard ship
always brings wind--so we'd better get busy with those Japs before
the fog lifts!"

This latter superstition was equally well known aboard, and
predictions were that before morning the fog would be gone.  Within
another hour, however, everybody aboard was too busy to bother
further with superstitions.


When darkness began to fall, with no sign of activity from Captain
Pontifex, open grumbling began to spread along the deck, It was
silenced by the Skipper in person, who appeared and ordered two of
the whaleboats lowered.

"Mr. Leman," he commanded quietly, the entire crew listening tensely,
"you'll take command of one boat.  Lay aboard her six of those
oil-bags from the store-room.  Muffle the oars.  Take a compass and
mind your bearings.  Two of you men lay aft, here."

Two of the white hands hastened aft and followed the Skipper down the
companion way.  In five minutes they reappeared, struggling beneath
the weight of the pride of the whaling fleet---the green-striped
tea-jar.  It was minus the big scarlet geranium plant, and should
have been light; but it seemed most unaccountably heavy.

"Easy, there!" snapped the Skipper.

"Corny, reeve a rope through that block at the mains'l yard and sling
the jar into the boat--not Mr. Leman's boat, but mine.  Bo's'n, lay
down there and place her in the bow."

Ericksen seemed not to relish his task in the least, but he obeyed.
In ten minutes the jar was safely stowed in the other whaleboat; from
this boat all whaling gear was now removed, six oars alone being left.

"In with you, Corny," commanded the Skipper.  "You and Ericksen with
four Kanakas will row me out.  Mr. Leman, precede us very slowly;
when you sight that Jap, lay that oil on the water and then stand
back to pick us up."

He turned to salute the Missus with a chaste kiss upon the cheek.

"Good-bye, my dear!  You insist upon taking the third boat?"

"I reckon I can do as well as yeou," returned the Missus impassively.
"Good luck!"

"Same to you," answered the Skipper.

Six men were at the oars in Mr. Leman's boat, four more in that of
the skipper.  Mrs. Pontifex ordered the forward boat down, and the
five remaining men into her.  To them she handed rifles, then turned
to the trembling steward.

"I'm leavin' yeou to tend ship," she stated firmly.  "There's a
shot-gun beside the helm; if anybody else boards, yeou let fly!  No
telling but some o' those Japs might ha' worked araound by the
shore--but we'll give 'em something else to think abaout."

With that, she descended into her boat, compass in hand, ordered her
rowers to give way, and vanished into the darkness of the fog--not
following the Skipper, but departing at a tangent from his course.

The steward hastened to the quarter-deck, secured the shot-gun, and
perched upon the rail.

The Cockney was by no means lacking in acuteness.  He had been
cleaning up a muss in the stern cabin for the last half-hour; he knew
that this muss was the debris from several ammunition packets, broken
from the packing-case of ammunition that had been hauled in upon the
morning previous.  He knew that the scarlet geranium had been
transplanted into a keg.  He knew that this keg had previously been
full of gunpowder; he knew likewise that the skipper had laboriously
fashioned a fuse--and that the tide was now going out.


So as he perched upon the starboard taffrail and scrutinized the
blank fog, the steward had a fairly certain idea of what to expect.

"Gawd 'elp them yeller swine!" he observed reflectively.  "Skipper's
going to lye out that oil; it'll drift around 'em wi' the tide.
That's what 'e was w'iting for, the hold fox!  When the oil 'as got
hall haround that ship, skipper sends 'is boat at 'er.  Ho!  Then 'e
gets off in Mr. Leman's boat, first lightin' the fuse.  Then 'e
lights the oil.  Oil an' fuse--and then the jar o' powder--blime, but
'e's a fox, a ruddy fox!  Ho!  And then the Missus she takes a
'and--only I bet skipper 'e don't know as 'ow that fusee is dry!
Thinks it's wet as when 'e made it, 'e does!  Well, wait an' see----"

His reflections ended in a chuckle.  The steward, having no personal
anticipation of danger, cared not a snap what went on out in the
mist; in fact, he looked forward to a very enjoyable time.

The tide had turned, right enough, and was strongly on the ebb.
Rolling himself a cigarette, the steward stretched along the rail and
waited comfortably; he could feel the ship lift and tug and vibrate
as the pull of the tide-current swung her on the taunt hawsers from
stem and stern.  The steward watched the dim banks of fog with lazy
anticipation.  He was in the position of a front-seat spectator, and
was determined to have a good time.

Thus, being intent upon the fog, waiting for the first flare of
yellow flame and the first wild yell of alarm, the steward relaxed
all vigilance as regarded his own surroundings.  He was no seaman,
and when the _Pelican_ gave a queer little sideways lurch, he merely
shifted his position slightly and reflected that a wave must have
struck her.  Still there came no sound from the fog, no token of
flaring oil or fighting men.  The steward lighted his cigarette and
reflected that emptying the oil bags seemed to take considerable time.

It was perhaps five minutes later that a queer sound came from
forward--a sound not unlike the breaking of a lax violin string, but
deeper.  The steward did not hear it at all; but a seaman would have
known that somewhere a taut cable had parted.  When the brigantine
began to rock gently and evenly, the steward took for granted that
there must be a ground-swell or something of that sort.

Behind the steward moved a queer grotesque figure--a figure that
might have been some strange nightmare shape moving silently in the
darkness; a figure with enormous and bulbous head which rocked upon
its shoulders in monstrous and uncanny fashion.  The figure came to a
pause just behind the steward whose position was rendered quite
certain by the cigarette spark.

"Put up your hands!" snapped a voice suddenly.

The steward tumbled backward off the rail and plumped down on the
deck.  A faint howl of terror escaped him as he stared up at the
grotesque, horribly-shaped figure whose bulk was intensified by the
fog.  The figure stood over him, and a rifle poked him in the ribs.

"'Ave mercy!" howled the terrified steward.  "I'm a poor, innercent
man----"

"Oh, it's _you_!  Didn't know you, steward," said the voice of
Dennis.  "Where's everybody?  Get up, old boy--I'll not hurt you!"

But, recognizing the voice of Dennis, the steward could only emit a
horrified gasp.

"Don't 'a'nt me, sir!" he pleaded, folding his hands and getting to
his knees in desperate fear.  "I didn't 'ave nothink to do wif it,
sir----"

"Good heavens, I'm no ghost!" Dennis laughed.  "Where's the skipper?"

"Gone, sir," quavered the steward.  "Heverybody's gone."

"Where?"

"To fight that 'ere Jap ship, sir."

"You're all alone on board?"

"Yes, sir."

Dennis broke into laughter, dropped his rifle and seized the hand of
the steward, pulling him erect.

"Here, man, don't be afraid!" he exclaimed.  "I'm solid flesh and
blood.  But you'll have to unscrew this helmet--the thing's killing
me, and I can't get rid of it.  I've cut off the rest of the
suit--take hold, now!"


Dennis sat down on the deck.  Trembling still, the steward unfastened
the catches of the helmet and unscrewed the big tinned-copper globe.

"Oh, but that feels good!" sighed Dennis, "I could open the front
sight, but I couldn't get the thing off.  Now the corselet----"

A moment later Dennis stood erect, gingerly feeling his neck and
shoulders.  Suddenly he laughed again and seized the steward's hand.

"Shake, old man!" he exclaimed heartily.  "So they're all off
fighting the Japs, eh?  Mrs. Pontifex too?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you didn't know that I'd cut the old ship adrift--and that we're
outward bound with the tide?"

The poor steward gave a violent start, and stared around; but the
shroud of fog was too dense.

"Drifting, sir?" he uttered fearfully.  "And what'll the skipper do?"

"I should worry!"  Dennis chuckled.  "See here, steward--I know you
weren't in on the plan to murder me; your giving me the knife proved
that.  So we'll stick together, old man, and if we get out of this,
I'll see that _you_ come out on top.

"Well, after Dumont cut my lines, I got out on the stern of the
wreck, above the water; with your knife I got rid of most of the
diving suit, and managed to get ashore.  Two boats filled with Japs
came ashore about dark, not knowing I was there.  They landed,
probably meaning to attack the _Pelican_ later.  But I shoved out
their boats, and came aboard ship in one of them--got their rifles
too."

He laughed heartily.  "See here, steward--the Japs are marooned on
the island!  The Skipper is out attacking their schooner.  Meantime,
we're drifting out to sea, and--what's the answer?"

"Blime, sir!"  The steward gaped at him.  "It's mortal queer!"

"It will be--for somebody," said Dennis grimly.  "Now get me
something to eat."

"Yes, sir.  This way, sir."  The steward, still but half-conscious of
what had taken place, turned toward the galley.

At that instant a fearful yell arose from somewhere in the mist; a
yell that quavered up and died quickly.


The steward halted, gazing over the starboard counter; but the ship
had swung and was going out with the tide.  It was over the port bow
that a wild flare of light glimmered.  Dennis saw it and cried:

"The fools!  They've set her afire!"

"No, sir, it's the oil!"  Breathlessly the steward explained the
Skipper's plan of attack.  Before he had finished, the flare of light
widened into a broad stream, lighting all the fog redly.  With it
sounded renewed yells--shrill piercing yells.

Then, off to one side, broke forth a crackle of rifles.  That was the
boat of the Missus, cleverly pumping bullets at the Jap ship from a
wide angle.  Through this burst a volume of hoarse shouts, followed
almost at once by a single terrific detonation--the thunderous shock
of which sent the _Pelican_ reeling and shuddering.  The
green-striped jar had exploded.

After that one bursting, rending, shattering crash, a swift darkness
ensued.  Through this blackness pierced fragmentary glimmers as the
scattered and far-flung oil blazed up here and there, only fitfully
to perish again.

"Good heavens!" exclaimed Dennis, awed and astounded.  "Old Pontifex
got more than he bargained for in that bomb, or I miss my guess!"

The _Pelican_ was already past the scene of the explosion.  What had
happened there in the fog, could not be told.  Whether the enemy ship
had been shattered, or whether the whaleboats had themselves caught
the force of the explosion, could not be discovered.  All was silence
and darkness from that quarter.  But from far astern, lifted a chorus
of faintly quavering yells as the marooned Japs on the island
discovered the loss of their boats.  Save for this, all was hushed
and still.

"Well, steward," said Dennis in the silence.  "Let's get that grub.
I need it."

"Yes, sir," responded the steward meekly.

And the _Pelican_ drifted out upon the tide, swinging and heaving
gently to the slow swells that rocked up through the fog.  It was an
hour later that the first breath of air came--the wind which, as
sailors say, always comes after death.




CHAPTER XIV

THEY THAT TAKE THE SWORD--

A glorious sunrise broke across the ocean, lifting the island peaks
to the north into a sheen of purple-rose and gold.  Dennis wakened to
it--he had gone to sleep stretched out upon a blanket on the
quarter-deck--with a thrill of sheer delight in the golden splendour
overhead; then he realized that the steward was calling him, and he
leaped up.

The _Pelican_ with her canvas all housed, had been but little
influenced by the breeze from the north-west.  She had made leeway,
drifting a couple of miles from her late anchorage; having no glasses
at hand, Dennis could not tell whether the Jap ship still lay by the
island or not.

"There's a boat tacking down to us, sir!" rang out the steward's
voice from forward.

Dennis glimpsed her at once, and saw that she must be a
fishing-boat--a sturdy, bluff little craft which seemed to carry but
two people, As he looked, he saw her brown canvas flutter down; she
was coming from the north-east, and when her canvas was stowed she
headed directly for the _Pelican_.

"Got a motor, eh?" reflected Dennis.

He swung down the companion way and located the binoculars of the
skipper.  With these he returned to the deck.  Caring less about the
fishing-boat than about conditions at the island, he picked up the
latter point first; the steward had joined him and stood waiting for
disclosures.

There was no ship in sight, much to the surprise of Dennis.  Nor
could he make out any sign of life upon the rocky crags of the island
itself.  About a mile distant from the brigantine he located a boat
floating bottom-side up.  It was a whaleboat, and as it swung around
with the seas Dennis made out the figure two painted at its bows.

"That's the boat Mr. Leman took last night, blime if it ain't!"
ejaculated the steward, upon learning its number from Dennis.
"Nothin' else in sight sir?"

"No--hold on!" Dennis caught something adrift toward the north end of
the island.  "By thunder, there's another boat--she seems to be
standing out this way.  There's someone aboard her; they're getting
up a sail.  Seems to be only two or three of them----"

"That fishin boat is 'eading this w'y, sir," broke in the steward.
"Shall I pass 'er?"

"By all means," responded Dennis, and turned his glasses toward the
craft.

Amazement thrilled within him--amazement, and startled unbelief.  One
figure aboard her was huddled over the engine amidships and could not
be discerned; but in the stern, wonder of wonders, sat Florence!

There could be no mistake about it.  She was heavily wrapped in fur
robes, but Dennis saw her face sharply and distinctly--her pale eager
features, her brown eyes fastened upon the whaler, her fur-gloved
hand upon the tiller of the boat.  With a wild yell of delight Tom
Dennis leaped up, waving his arms, and he saw Florence wave back
response.

"It's my wife, steward--hurrah!" Dennis ran forward to aid the
Cockney.  "She must have come all the way from Unalaska in that boat!
Here, get your line ready by the diver's ladder in the waist; it'll
be an easy climb there.  Great glory, what a surprise!"

"Yes, sir," returned the steward, adding: "And werry lucky hit is,
sir, as she didn't get 'ere larst night!"

"You bet," said Dennis devoutly.  "Thank Heaven for the fog--it must
have prevented their trying to make the island!"


As the fishing craft drew in toward the whaler, Dennis recognized the
man at her engine--it was the same grizzled fisherman whom he had
hired to pick up Jerry.  The fisherman shut off his engine and came
in to the bow to receive the line which the steward flung; the boat
drew in beside the drifting _Pelican_.  Florence, rising stiffly, was
aided to the ladder by her bronzed helper, and a moment later Dennis
held her in his arms.

"What on earth!" he exclaimed, as she broke into mingled tears and
laughter.  "What brought you here, dearest?"

"You, Tom!" she exclaimed.  "Jerry told us that they meant to send
you down in a diving-suit and--and--oh, I'm glad we're not too late!
Captain Nickers has been a darling, Tom----"

Dennis shook hands with the fisherman, who grinned and eyed the ship.

"Looks kind o' fussed up, don't she?" said Nickers.  "Where's
everybody?"

Florence glanced around quickly.  "Oh!  Where are they, Tom?  Quick,
you must get away----"

"Take it easy," said Dennis, and pointed to the whaleboat standing
down the wind toward them.  "Where they are, _I_ don't know!  Lots of
things have happened.  So you came all this way to give me warning?"

"You bet," said Nickers.  "Say, Dennis, if I had a wife like you
have--by gum, I'd give a million dollars!  That run over here ain't
no cinch for a lady, let me tell you; but she stood watch an' watch
with me like an old hand--well, she's a wonder!"

"We had to," Florence laughed, flushing under the ardent words of
grizzled old Nickers.  "I was terribly afraid for you, Tom, and there
was no one else we could get--but tell us, what's happened?"

Dennis glanced at the approaching boat and saw that she would not
reach them for ten minutes.  So, dispatching the steward to make
ready some coffee, he gave Florence and Nickers a brief outline of
the situation, making light of his own peril.

"Where the Japs are," he concluded, "I've not the faintest idea.  And
I can't figure out what happened last night--where Pontifex and the
others went.  I don't believe he blew up the Jap ship, for I can't
see any signs of wreckings except Mr. Leman's boat.  Well, here's
this boat coming in.  What's that in her stern, Nickers?"

Having dropped his glasses in the excitement of getting Florence
aboard Dennis could make out only that the approaching whaleboat was
manned by three Kanakas of the _Pelican's_ crew, but in her stern was
a queer shapeless mass that looked strangely terrible.  Across the
thwarts forward lay two silent brown figures, inanimate and evidently
dead.  It was manifest that from this boat there was nothing to fear.

"Why, Tom!"  Florence caught Dennis' arm, a wild thrill in her voice.
"In the stern--it's Mrs. Pontifex."

One of the Kanakas stepped forward across the dead bodies of his two
comrades and bawled for a line as the boat's sail whipped down.
Nickers flung another rope, and the whaleboat came in beside the
fishing craft.  Then, for the first time, Mrs. Pontifex stirred--and
Dennis saw that her head was swathed in bandages.


The Kanakas, frightened and trembling at the appearance of Dennis
whom they had thought dead, came aboard aiding the Missus.  Their
story was a ghastly one.  At the first flame of blazing oil, they had
opened fire upon the Jap vessel, obeying orders previously given them
by the Missus.  But their firing had ceased with the explosion; it
had stunned them.  They had wakened to find two of their number
dead--and the Missus blind.

All that night they had lain rocking to the swells after vainly
trying to find the _Pelican_.  The Jap ship had gone.  They had heard
men swimming out to her from shore, and had caught the sound of oars;
then her motor had started.  It was very plain that the Japs had been
thoroughly frightened, and after picking up their men ashore had
turned and run for it.

Florence, meantime, had aided the groaning Mrs. Pontifex to get below.

To his queries, Dennis could elicit no response from the Kanakas
regarding Mr. Leman or Pontifex.  They had landed at dawn, but had
found the island deserted.  Seeing the _Pelican_ to leeward; they had
set out to join her, passing on the way the floating whaleboat.  They
identified it beyond question as Mr. Leman's boat.

The steward came up with pannikins of coffee during the talk, and now
broke into the discussion.

"Beg pardon, sir," he said to Dennis, "but I think as I know what
'appened, sir."

"You do?  Then out with it!"

"Like this, sir.  The skipper, e' myde 'is own fusee for that 'ere
bomb, and I seen 'im a-myking of it.  'E rolled it wet, sir, but 'e
myde it in the hafternoon, sir, and before 'e come to use it larst
night, the bloody fussee 'ad dried out, sir.  So when 'e lighted it,
why, it wasn't no fusee at all, but a regular train o' powder,
sir----"

Dennis turned away, sickened by the thought of what must have
happened.  The explosion must have taken place almost instantly--no
wonder Mr. Leman's boat was floating bottom upward!  Pontifex and
Ericksen and Corny and the others--all gone!

"Well," said Nickers phlegmatically, sipping his hot coffee, "all I
got to say, looks like old Pontifex got what he was fixing to give
other folks.  Hey?"

Dennis nodded and left the spot.  Getting coffee and biscuits from
the steward, he went to the after companion way; but at the top of
the ladder he encountered Florence coming up alone.

"I'll take this to Mrs. Pontifex----"

"No use, Tom," Florence stopped him, her face very pale.  "Poor
thing, she can't eat yet; Tom, she broke down in my arms--oh, I can't
talk of it!  The poor woman----"


Dennis forced a draught of coffee upon her, and Florence swallowed
the hot liquid.  It sent a glow of colour into her pale cheeks.

"So she's broken, eh?" mused Dennis.  "Poor thing--one can't help but
feel sorry for her, Florence, and yet in a way she deserved all that
has happened.  Look here, what are we going to do?  About ourselves,
I mean, and this ship, and the salvage."

He briefly explained what must have happened to Pontifex and Mr.
Leman, glossing over the event as much as possible.  But Florence
seemed not to hear.  She stood at the rail, gazing out at the purple
peaks to the north for a long while.  Suddenly she turned back to
him, a faint smile upon her lips.

"Tom, the first thing will be to straighten everything out at
Unalaska!  Before I left, I told the authorities everything.  They're
trying to get the revenue cutter, but we shan't need her now, of
course.

"We can charter this ship from Mrs. Pontifex--it'll give the poor
woman some money to go on--for a share in the proceeds of the
salvage.  Then we can come back and clear up everything in father's
old ship----"

"Agreed."  Dennis turned.  "Oh, Cap'n Nickers!  Think we can take
this craft into Unalaska with what hands we have?"

"Reckon we can," floated back the voice of the grizzled fisherman.
"I got a Master's ticket, and if I can't lay a course there's
something wrong with the Gov'ment!"

Dennis looked eagerly to Florence.  "We'll make him skipper--eh?  And
we'll give him a share in the profits, too----"

Her arms crept about his shoulders.  "Oh, Tom--we'll do _everything_,
won't we?  But you'll never leave me behind again."

"Not much!"  Dennis pressed his lips to hers, and laughed softly.




THE CONCLUSION

OUTWARD BOUND

Four months after Tom Dennis had vanished from Marshville, the dingy
and shut-up office of _The Clarion_ was reopened.  Dennis had
returned--and he had not returned alone.  The mortgage held by banker
Dribble was cancelled.  A new linotype machine was installed in _The
Clarion's_ dingy back room.  The first issue of the paper announced
that it was back again to stay.  And it stayed!

Also, some very good farms along the river were purchased by a
gentleman named Nickers.  Mr. Nickers announced that he was a retired
sea-captain and was now about to take up the profession of farming
Mother Earth--the dream of every sea-faring man alive.

Each afternoon at five minutes of two, Mr. Nickers would stride down
the street and enter the office of _The Clarion_.  The wide front
office was now divided into two rooms.  Mr. Nickers invariably passed
to the second room and entered, closing the door behind him.

One afternoon, however, he came slightly earlier than usual.  Tom
Dennis, who was in the second room, shook hands heartily.  In the
corner by the window that overlooked Main Street sat a man of huge
physique and massive features; this man was able to move only with
difficulty and by aid of a stick.  Miles Hathaway would never be the
man he had been, but at least he could get about.  Modern surgeons
can do much that appears miraculous to the layman.

Hathaway held up his big fist and exchanged a hearty grip with
Nickers; then he lifted a rugged booming voice in a shout that
rattled the plate-glass window.

"Jerry!  Where's that--  Oh, here you are!"

"Yes, sir," meekly responded a moon-faced lad, popping in at the
door.  He was clad in printer's apron and had a very dirty face, as
is the rightful heritage of every printer's devil who is yet passing
through the "type lice" jest of hoary memory.  But he was manifestly
a very happy boy.

"Strike four bells!" roared Miles Hathaway.  "And fetch my pipe and
tobacco."


Dennis beckoned to Jerry and whispered something.  The boy struck a
brass ship's bell of the regulation eight-inch size which hung near
the door--struck it one-two, one-two, as a ship's bell should be
struck, then vanished hastily.  He had barely gone when Florence came
into the room, with a smile and a kiss for everybody concerned--which
seemed to mightily embarrass Captain Nickers but not to displease him
particularly!

Florence started to speak, then halted as Jerry re-entered the room
bearing a tray with glasses and a long green bottle.

"Why, Tom!" she exclaimed quickly.  "You're not drinking?"

"We're all drinking to-day--and you'll have to take a sip at least!"
said Dennis, laughing.  He produced a corkscrew and opened the
bottle.  "News for you, Florence!  Now, Jerry, fill 'em all
around--and a specially big one for Cap'n Nickers!"

Wondering, Florence watched Jerry obey the order.  Then Tom Dennis,
lifting his glass, met her puzzled eyes with a gay laugh.

"Good news, Florence!  Two things have happened this morning.  First,
the other paper has offered to sell out to us--and I'm going to
accept their offer, running it as a weekly from now on.  That means
no opposition here.  And second, I've signed a whopping advertising
contract with one of the biggest agencies--it came in the mail this
morning.  Ladies and gentlemen, that means that from this time
forward _The Clarion_ is not only established firmly here in town,
but she begins to haul in the coin!

"I've made mistakes," pursued Dennis more soberly.  "I made 'em when
I was here before, and I've profited by them.  Beginning with next
Monday's issue _The Clarion_ dies for ever!  Beginning with next
Monday its place will be taken by _The Marshville Pelican_--and
here's to the new ship!"

"Hurray!" said Cap'n Nickers.  But Florence turned to her husband.

"And Tom," she said softly, "you'll have to find a new society
editor.  I--I'm going to stay at home after this and--and make a real
home for you!"

Of all those who heard her words Tom Dennis alone understood--and
perhaps Miles Hathaway understood also.



THE END



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  FISHER, KNIGHT & CO.; LTD.
  LONDON AND HARPENDEN









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