Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Description: Albert Richard Wetjens (1900-1948) ran away to sea at 14, travelled widely, and turned to writing adventure stories in the early 1920s. He wrote for both the low-paying pulps (Action Stories, Adventure) and the high paying slicks (Colliers, Saturday Evening Post); he continued travelling, visiting Australia in the mid-1930s as a now celebrated author. This collection, prepared for Mobil Read Library by Terry Walker, includes stories from both pulps and slicks. With thanks to Matthias Kaether for some of the pulp stories; the others are from the Australian National Library on-line newspaper res

PEARL HUNGER
and other adventures
in the South Seas

Albert Richard Wetjen

1900-1948

2021

Contents

1: Value

2: Pearl Hunger: A Novelette

3: You Can't Explain These Things

4: Captain Typhoon (aka "Red Typhoon")

5: Trial by Typhoon: A Novelette

6: Trapped

7: Inconsistent Man

8: The Fortunes of War

9: Terror Island

10: Davey Jones' Loot

11: The Devil's Sink Hole

12: Cannibal Isle

13: Gambler's Luck

14: Master

_________________

Albert Richard Wetjens (1900-1948) ran away to sea at 14, travelled widely, and turned to writing adventure stories in the early 1920s.  He wrote for both the low-paying pulps (Action Stories, Adventure) and the high paying slicks (Colliers, Saturday Evening Post); he continued travelling, visiting Australia in the mid-1930s as a now celebrated author.  This collection, prepared for Mobil Read Library by Terry Walker, includes stories from both pulps and slicks. With thanks to Matthias Kaether for some of the pulp stories; the others are from the Australian National Library on-line newspaper resource TROVE.

1: Value

Collier’s Sep 15 1923

Lachlander (NSW) 9 January 1924

STILL IT RAINED. In the distant mountains the cluttered snow of the long winter trickled into brooks that were swollen now to streams, into streams that were now rivers, into rivers that were choking torrents, swirling acres of dull water between low and crumbling banks.

And the rivers merged into one mighty flood at the last that roared under quivering bridges and tumbled by scores of rain-soaked Oregon cities and towns. On its breast it bore trunks of splintered trees, green boughs, dead dogs, cats, a few cattle. Houses and fences it swept along. Ruin it wrought on a hapless countryside. Fair valleys and plains were turned to marshes.

And still it rained and the snow melted.

Nor was the flood confined to Oregon. That winter the downpour had been exceedingly heavy. Many signs foretold its coming. All along the northwest coast men had heard warnings and had ignored them.

At Portland the swollen river continued to rise. Greater and greater masses of wreckage it brought down from the hills and byways. Grant Ensen, stout, grey-headed, red-faced, watched the river for three days after it started to rise. He saw  it creep higher and higher up the concrete piles of the Broadway bridge, near which structure the Webret was tied up. Then, on the fourth day, he put on his shore-going greatcoat, strode down the streaming gangway, waded across the wharf, and made his way to the foot of the Broadway bridge. There he caught a street car and went uptown. John Webret was in his office dozing when Ensen arrived.

"I want," said Ensen clearly, "some more hawsers. Also I want the best."

Webret woke up arid blinked. He rubbed his white hair with a bony hand.

"The devil you do," he said. "What for?"

"The river," Ensen explained, "isn't falling. It's still rising. The freighter Esperanz, two wharves ahead of me, broke her moorings yesterday and got badly smashed against a bridge pier before she was brought under control. I've got every hawser on the Webret out, but they ain't going to hold her very much longer."

"Nonsense," Webret snorted, sitting upright arid tapping on the desk with his thin fingers. His cold eyes snapped. "Nonsense," he repeated.

Ensen chuckled grimly. "You'll say that when you hear the old ship's at the bottom of the river or that you've a whacking good repair bill to pay."

"That's enough, captain. I bought you four hawsers last week when you   asked for them. I have since ascertained that very few ships carry more than you already have aboard. I can't afford to keep buying gear, and that's all there is to it," said Webret finally and with great irritation. "Times are bad. Cargoes are scarce. I frequently have to keep the ship idle for weeks for lack of business. You shouldn't kick. You still get paid."

"Ay, and damned badly paid at that. You're a fool, Webret, with your cheap ideas. Some day you'll find out. A man like you, that's a millionaire, begrudging a good ship her gear!"

"That's enough, captain. I've let you go farther than any other employee of mine. Good day."

Ensen flung a parting shot as he turned to go.

"I'll not be responsible if anything, happens to the Webret," he said.

"All right, all right," grumbled the white-haired ship-owner. "Don't keep harping about it. The papers say this flood's only a temporary affair. Did you see this mornin's Oregonian? It'll be all over in a few days. I'm not going to lay out a thousand dollars or more, just for a few days scare. I want value for my hard cash. Full value. I'll come aboard, maybe, this evening and look at the lines."

"Value? You'll get it. And just that. No more. All right. I'll show you the rotten junk your agent delivered when you get aboard!"

Ensen went out of the office, slamming the door behind him.

"Go on, go on," grumbled Webret to himself, looking after his captain. "Never did I employ a sailor yet that wasn't always crying out for new gear, new gear.  Do they think I'm made of, money? Why, old Crenny runs his ships at half the expense of mine."

Still grumbling, the old man dropped off into a doze again, disturbed by vague dreams and spasms of uneasiness when he remembered that the flood stalked abroad through the countryside.... Also he remembered that old Crenny lost on the average more ships of his fleet per year than any other ship-owner on the long coast. That remembrance woke Webret with a start and he swore resentfully.

IN THE gathering dusk Ensen kicked savagely at the three straining hawsers that ran out of the starboard quarter fair-leads and down to the wharf.

"See them? Three of 'em. And every one rotten. There's another two hawsers running out the port leads to brace her in. And they're rotten! I've got all the wire aboard out as a spring aft here and none of it's sound. There's enough stuff out to hold a battleship— if , it was any good."

"I don't know," insisted Webret, but his voice held a faintly doubtful note. He peered overside and shivered a little. "I don't know," he repeated. "It seems to me you've enough line out to hold this small ship."

"Small. She goes three thousand tons. And see how this blasted river's tearing along at a six or seven-knot clip. And them logs! See 'em twisting in the current? It just needs one to come battering our stern, and we either get a hole knocked in us or our moorings break and we go away down stream."

At the gangway head Webret shook hands and prepared to go ashore.

"I'll see to it, captain. Maybe I can pick up some usable hawsers—"

The big captain's snort of disgust was drowned by a noise like the report of a gun. Another report followed.

"What is that?" demanded the alarmed Webret, a sudden shaky feeling possessing him. He took a step down the gangway. He was in haste to get ashore. The uneasy movements of the deck, increasing alarmingly, frightened him.

Ensen caught his arm and dragged him back aboard despite his indignant cries and struggles.

"She's going," the captain said grimly, "and you with her! I'll let you see now what value you get for your outlay.

"Mr. Larkin. Get the men standing by! Man at the wheel! Switch on the navigation lights! The flood's got her."

"Come on the bridge," said the captain, and he dragged the unwilling Webret along with him as he went up the companion.

There was a snapping noise. A low rumble as of distant thunder mingled with the lappings and gurglings of foaming water. The Webret's decks heaved up suddenly. There came a distinct jar from aft. Then, with a sharp sidewise twist that flung all aboard to the deck, the freighter shot away from the wharf, her broken after hawsers swept on the flood, her for'ard hawsers still fast to the shore bollards.

There came another sudden twist as the fore hawsers held for a fraction of a second. Then the ship shot toward mid-stream and turned down river. The man sent to steer came pounding white-faced up the bridge companion and made for the wheelhouse.

Ensen's voice rose, and he shook the quivering Webret.

"There go your cheap hawsers! Let's hope the cracked propeller we've got holds better. Don't shiver, you blasted rat! You're likely to feed the eels to night. This flood'll carry us out to sea if we don't smash up before."

Webret's voice, rose too hysterically: "Oh, Ensen, why didn't you explain? I thought the hawsers— My God! That house! Ship! What is it?"

"Hard a'port!" roared Ensen as a twisting masterless wooden house boat shaved the freighter's black hull and went bumping along. Ensen breathed hard with relief. For a moment he had thought it was another vessel careering about in the darkness, another vessel like the helpless Webret. It was hard to see through the night. The lights on one of the bridges loomed ahead.

Gathering speed, the Webret shot under it, her masts barely clearing the lower steel span. The next bridge down the river had a lift span which was resting on the piers.

"Full speed astern!" Ensen clamoured on the engine-room telegraph. The answering jangle came back and the propeller thrashed with gathering speed...

"Starboard the helm !" the captain roared. Then to the harassed mate, turning out the crew for'ard.

"Mr. Larkin! Oh, Larkin! Can you hear me, man? Let go both anchors! For your life, man! Let go!"

"Let go, sir ! I hear!" roared back the mate.

The flood, born of the hills and the dripping sky, held undisputed sway. The freighter swept down river on the flood, riding before the crest of the freshet that had torn her from her wharf. Her rush was irresistible. The propeller was powerless to check her. Ahead of the Webret, like a red eye, the light that indicated the lift span winked in the rain. Shouts came faintly against the wind. The span was being jerked up with all the speed of the lifts to give the careering freighter free passage.

For a breathless moment the twin hooks caught the river bottom and checked the Webret. Then there was a dull cracking boom and the ship swung wildly round to port. When her rocketing stern was facing the bridge there came another boom and she broke loose and went on, turning again. She left her anchors and cables on the river bed.

Ensen's face was distorted with fury? His voice was thin and high. He was  shaking all over. His iron fingers ground into Webret's numbed arm. The ship-owner was half unconscious and hardly caught the drift of what the other was clamouring.

"There go your rotten cables!" the captain screamed. "I hope God doesn't deal as cheaply with you as you've dealt with this ship! Shut up whimpering ! You're getting value for your money, I tell you. Damned bad value, but all you've paid for! Come below!"

The ship-owner collapsed limply as Ensen started for the companion. The captain grunted and, heaving up, lifted the other on to his shoulder. Then he raced down the companion and so to the main deck.

THE LIFT SPAN of the bridge was about halfway up when the freighter struck and shot through. With the river at normal level and the span half-way up, the tall masts would have cleared by several inches. But with the river many feet above its normal level and with the Webret lifting and falling like a ship at sea, her superstructure was swept. The foremast bent viciously sidewise and backward, but did not break. The jar checked the ship for a moment and swung her broadside to the span. Her smoke-stack and mainmast went simultaneously overside with a clang, rigging and all being snapped clean by the sudden impact. The navigation bridge was cut from the lower bridge as though by a knife. Even the flagstaff aft was snapped.

Then the freighter was through and careering toward the lower river. By some miracle no one was killed. Most of the seamen were huddled on the foc'sle head when the impact came, too low down to be hurt. The cooks and stewards were in the galley amidships. The engineers and firemen were all below working like fiends to force up steam that the weak propeller might turn faster than ever before and so hold the ship against the torrent.

Ensen groaned as he dropped Webret to the deck and peered through the darkness at his ship. She was a wreck.

Masts, smokestack, bridge, wheel gone. He felt it more than her owner ever would, for he was a sailor and she was his home, almost his God. With an oath he bent and hauled Webret to his feet, slapping him to consciousness.

"Stand on your legs, you spineless worm, and look what your cheapness has done! That's value! If you can't be anything else, be a man at least"— as the ship-owner showed signs of collapsing again.

"I am," he gasped. "It's— it's my heart. Not so young as I was. Sorry, Ensen. Didn't understand—"

"Too late now. Mr. Larkin ! Are you still for'ard?"

"Ay, ay, sir."

The mate appeared out of the darkness.

The Webret shot past a half-submerged mass of wreckage, missing it by inches.

"Take the men aft, Larkin, and rig the hand gear for steering. The wheel's gone. The hand gear'll work the helm. We can't do much against this flood. She'll stay in the middle of the stream, I think, unless we hit something lower down. Thank the Lord, if we keep afloat we can't get hurt much more, with all our top gear gone already. Chips! Sound the well and see if she's leaking.

"What's that, Evans?"

A junior engineer had arrived breathless from below, the rain mingling with' the sweat and oil streaks on his face.

"Screw— Gone, sir," he said.

Ensen sneered as he turned, and his eyes sought the form of Webret near the mast.

"More value! See, your cracked propeller's gone to the devil! Cheap? My Lord, you're getting what you paid for."

Then to the astonished engineer: "Tell the chief to give me all the steam on the winches. And tell him to pray for his soul; He'll probably need to give it a good send-off before morning."

"Yes, sir. I'll fell him," said the engineer with a flicker of a grin as he thought of profane and tough McCulloch, the chief, down below. Then he disappeared aft into the night. The mate was already racing for the poop and the steering gear beneath it with the excited seamen trailing behind him.

Ensen was left with the bos'n, the second and third mates, the lamp trimmer and two boys.

"You take charge, Mr. Lansing. One of you boys stay by me to take messages."

The second mate vanished for'ard with his scanty crew at his heels. The carpenter hurried up, his slender sounding rod and line dripping in his hand.

"Three feet of water in the fore-holds, sir," he said. "Shall I sound aft?"

"Ay, better sound all holds. Must have strained some rivets during that smash up."

The carpenter faded into the darkness aft. Ensen called the boy who remained by him.

"Get the lamp trimmer, boy," he ordered. He seemed to have lost all his passion and rage now. His nerves were steady. His voice was quite calm. He stood with legs spread and arms folded, removing one hand now and then to gesture when he gave an order.

"Tell him to send all the lanterns he's got on deck. Fill them with oil first, though. Better get a couple of electric clusters aft too. The men'll, need some light to work by. Make it snappy now!"

The boy darted away. Ensen sighed wearily and flicked the rain from his forehead and his eyes. Then he folded his arms again. He peered sideways to where Webret stood, silent and shivering, by the short upright butt of the bent and twisted foremast.

"You're satisfied now, I suppose," Ensen said without heat. He spoke somewhat sadly. "You know now what trust you can place in your cheap goods. You can see what saving money does to a ship. You can't treat such things like you'd treat a house or a cart. Not when you have to fight the sea. For you can't fool with the sea.

"Your lines have failed, your propeller has failed, your anchors have failed. Now it's up to me. Only my seamanship stands between you and the, river to-night; Remember that. And while you're at it, thank whatever God you worship that my seamanship was not bought cheap. I paid for it. I paid dearly. I shed blood and tears to learn it, and I've given it the best years of my life. And I'll get value for what I've paid; I spent freely to know. I can rely on that knowledge. A man's career's much like buying cable, Webret. If he's cheap about it, he'll break when the test comes."

The ship-owner nodded. He stopped shivering and seemed to find some comfort in the captain's words. His white head bent on his breast. He started violently as the Webret cleared the last bridge with plenty of room each side, her ruined superstructure grazing the lower span and causing her to lurch sickeningly.

"I understand," said the ship-owner. "If— if we pull through this— I want you to make out a list of everything you want. Everything, captain. You shall have the best from now on. I— "

"Thank you, sir. Boy! Did you tell the lamp trimmer? You did, eh? Well, take those clusters aft!" The boy, who had appeared from for'ard staggering under the weight of two great bowl like lights with coils of insulated wire, murmured "Yessir," and started aft as directed.

"Stay here, Mr. Webret," went on the captain, "while I get some flares and light 'em in case a tugboat manages to get over to us. We're in the open river. We'll be all right as soon as the steering gear's rigged. Ought to get picked up at dawn by the latest if we don't beach somewhere before."

Ensen hurried away and Webret nodded again. He mumbled to himself and leaned against the mast at his side, drenched with cold sweat. But now he was not afraid. He felt a vast confidence in Ensen's seamanship. He somehow knew it could be relied on.

It was dearly bought. Through the long night that thought comforted Webret. It made him view his captain with a new respect. He knew that everything was all right. Not even a near collision with another drifting freighter could make him afraid again.

Ensen, was sound clear through. So was his seamanship. In that faith the, ship-owner waited the sun.

And the first of the pale light, breaking through the gray rain, showed proof to Webret of the faith he held. For the freighter was still afloat, and harmed no further, while a twin-funnelled bluff-bowed massive tugboat came shooting down on the flood behind her and the tug's captain was yelling for a line!

_____________________

2: Pearl Hunger

Action Novels, April, 1929

CAPTAIN JAMES TRAVERS roused himself with a mighty effort. He sat upright in his bunk sucking at the listless draught of hot air that drifted through the open porthole at his side. The sweat streamed from him in rivulets, his pajamas clinging to the flesh as the bathing suit clings to a swimmer just emerged from the water.

Propping himself up with one trembling arm, the captain ran his hand across his forehead, and wiped the salty drops from his eyes. His head was swimming, and the aching at his temples made him almost scream. But driven by a spasm of fierce energy, he struggled upright from the bunk. Once on the carpeted deck, he groped through the darkness. Across the cabin, in the draw of a tiny writing desk, was a blue-steel automatic— and the captain wanted that weapon.

The touch of the cool metal seemed to revive the captain somewhat. He breathed deeply and started for the door.

The dull hum from the jungle that fringed the shores of the great bay came rifting down through the open skylight to the ears of the sick man. He heard, too, snatches of song, the tinkling of lazy guitars and bursts of drunken laughter from the direction of the Plaza of Lorenço Marques, a riot of color and hectic pleasure under the sullen tropic stars. The dockside lay in the shadows of the cranes and the cargo sheds, lit only by a solitary hurricane lamp glimmering from the head of the ship’s gangway.

The captain flung back the half-open door and swayed into the saloon. He was forced to lean against the bulkhead as his heart commenced its passionate thumping again, and his eyes burned and throbbed. He could vaguely see the stars through the open skylight overhead, and even the dim tracery of the mizzen rigging outlined against the sky. There was a blaze of light in the dark saloon as a door was flung violently open and a burly, white-suited man came forth, his head turned over his shoulder. A shining nickel-steel revolver twinkled from his right hand, while his left tucked under his arm a black tin ditty box. The low-brimmed sun-helmet the man wore obscured his face.

Then the door slammed shut, and the man was gone, walking with stealthy haste up the companion to the poop deck, and so down the gangway to the wharf, where the shadows swallowed him. He did not see the captain leaning against a stanchion with his automatic leveled. Nor did he see the fever beat fold upon fold on the sick man till he dropped the gun and sank sobbing to his knees.

The burly white-suited stranger saw nothing and heard nothing as he went away to life and to safety. It was a long time before the captain got to his feet again. His face was streaming and drawn when he finally staggered to the door of the cabin from which the stranger had come. He opened it and looked inside.

What he saw stiffened him for a moment. His slack jaw came up feebly and every fever-racked muscle tensed.

“All right, Billy,” he whispered hoarsely. “All right. I’ll square....”

Then, without warning, the fever shook him and laid him low. He choked and slipped to the deck, and the world faded from his eyes.

When the second mate of the barque Wanderer came aboard after a riotous time ashore, he found his captain unconscious in the open doorway of the mate’s cabin, the mate stretched inside with his face kicked to a pulp and a bullet wound in his throat.

ELITA’S Hotel, standing near Mulinu’u Point, about two miles from Apia, was the centre of the intricate intrigues that on occasions swept the Islands to life. Was there a schooner sunk for the sake of the insurance, was there a fine pearl discovered, did someone want someone else’s wife or woman?

Melita heard of the thing sooner or later, and she heard as well the deep undercurrents that swayed each affair. She knew not only the results achieved, which everyone knew sooner or later, but she also heard the way the results were won, the causes behind and beyond, secret whispered things not for the average islander to understand.

To Melita came the big pearl buyers, the island traders, the schooner captains, and the freelance adventurers whenever they wanted information about some man or woman or matter. And if Melita did not happen to have the information on the tip of her tongue, she had ways and means of soon acquiring it. And for the services she thus rendered she exacted her due, each man paying according to his ability as judged by the shrewd woman.

She was the daughter of an island adventurer, one of those hardy Scotchmen who stormed the savage Pacific in the old days, and tamed it, somewhat, for the younger generation to rule. Her mother had been a Tahitian princess of the blood, and the runaway match between her father and her mother had been ideally happy for both. The Scotchman had died, as all men died in those days, violently, a spear passing through his throat in a long-forgotten fray on a long-forgotten island. The princess had gone after him into the Shadow with a broken heart soon after.

For Melita there was nothing left but the mission school in Apia, where her father’s friends accordingly placed her, and then forgot the whole affair. In her sixteenth year, possessed of all her mother’s glorious beauty, the girl had been courted by a notorious French adventurer who had finally induced her to run away with him, which she did, only to be stranded in San Francisco some two years later.

Her history from that time is uncertain. That she saw many people and places is known. She came back to the islands— her native blood made that inevitable— twenty-six, darkly beautiful, and with a refinement that was not to be learned in the home of the average European. Also she brought with her a fierce resentment of mankind that hid itself under a smiling exterior like the leopard’s claws hide under the velvet pads.

She had started the hotel, and she had in time become the pivot round which the island life swung. Her fame ran far and wide, and with it the fame of her beauty. All island roads led to Melita. If one spent long enough at the hotel, one would sooner or later meet everyone worth meeting between America and Australia.

The island traders even made it a practice to purposely miss the tide of an evening, and thus be forced to anchor off the Point for a few hours before they could run into Apia. Not that the hotel was a place for the common sailor-man. There were such places in Apia itself. No one less than a ship’s first officer was allowed inside. Melita’s hotel, like Melita herself, was select.

2: A Bribe Refused

ONE night an unwelcome guest climbed the pathway of the Point, and stopped at the top to light a cheroot. His fat body was glowing with the unaccustomed exertion of toiling up the slope, and his breath came in short, painful gasps. His height was perhaps five-feet ten; and what with his paunch and his heavy shoulders he looked a formidable man.

He was Steinberger, the owner of the brig Atlantis, and one of the biggest pearl buyers and traders in the south. Off the Point his brig was even then laying and swinging at anchor, while her officers cursed their employer at holding them up on the voyage while he went to visit a woman.

The beefy German waited until he had in some measure recovered his breath, and, mopping his brow with a white silk handkerchief, stepped up on the broad veranda of the hotel, pulled aside the heavy draperies that served as the house front in hot weather, and entered the big, dim-lit room beyond. In three tall braziers incense was burning, the heavy blue fumes shrouding the room and making one cough when entering from the clean night air. Soft mats, cushions of various hues, divans and colored rugs were scattered everywhere in profusion, nearly all occupied by white duck-suited figures.

The dozen or more ships anchored near Steinberger’s brig told where they had come from. Two native girls were plucking gently at some string instruments in a far corner shrouded in shadow, and others were moving softly about carrying trays or pitchers. All were dressed native fashion in girdles, beads, flowers. They wore nothing more.

On a great heap of gaudy cushions, in the centre of the room, reclined Melita. She was dressed in silk of some dark color, and her wonderful shoulders shimmered white beneath the soft glow from the dim lamps overhead. Half a dozen girls, each a beauty, reclined near, though one would rise now and then to execute some languidly given order. Several men were sitting cross-legged by the pile of cushions, out-doing each other in praises and spinning fantastic yarns of some outlandish adventures for the delight of the laughing half-caste. Other men were lying dreamy-eyed in other parts of the room, sipping drinks or bestowing their attentions on some minor star of the notorious hotel.

The big German picked a careful way across the littered room, and handing his cap to an attendant, he came to a halt before the cushion dais half seen in the red lamp glow. Melita flung some laughing response to one of the men who had caught her hand and kissed it. With nothing but her great eyes showing above her fan she faced the newcomer. The fan was instantly lowered.

“Why, it is Wilhelm,” she laughed gaily, and extended her hand to the other. With an attempt at gallantry the German removed his cheroot from his lips and stooped over the slim fingers, but before he could reach them they slipped from his palm. He stood up with a scowl, sneered at the assembled men about, and then looked insolently at the half-caste.

“I want to talk with you,” he stated, jamming his cheroot back in his mouth and his hands in his pockets. It was many years since Steinberger had left the Fatherland, and he spoke with no appreciable accent.

Melita looked bored, but she rose just the same. Steinberger was one of the hotel’s best customers, and she could hardly afford to offend him. His arrogant manner and insolent contempt for all women jarred on her, and some day she would send him away and bid him come no more; till then....

She shrugged and with a murmur of apology to the other men attending her she led the way to a room at the back end of the house, as exotically furnished as the big front room was. Steinberger closed the door behind him, and Melita sank easily onto a low divan.

THE room was small, but a cunning arrangement of mirrors gave it an appearance of vast dimensions. On two sides the walls had been removed, for the sake of coolness, and copper mesh substituted. On the inside of this mesh hung flimsy, cloudy draperies that effectively prevented any one on the outside from seeing in. Indifferently Melita waited for the German to begin. He pursed his thick lips, drew hard on his cheroot and breathed heavily. The butt glowed like an ember in the scented gloom, and then was obscured by the heavy smoke. The man could see the ravishing face of the half-caste turned to the floor and idly watching her little foot tracing circles on the rich matting.

“This is what, Melita,” commenced the German, placing his cheroot in a nearby ash tray and dropping to the divan beside her, one of his fat hands covering hers. “I have come here to take your sister away, marry her if you like. I want her, and I’ve got to have her. See if you can’t persuade her.... By the way, I’ve a present for you here!”

He dived into a side pocket, and brought forth a flat velvet case. Touching the catch he showed the woman the little rope of black pearls that reposed on their satin bed.

“For me?”

The German nodded and his piggy eyes narrowed a trifle. “Collected by myself. Took five years to match. Worth a few dollars, eh?” he chuckled; and then taking them from her hand he fastened them round her throat. She permitted him to kiss her once, and then she pushed him away. She did not care for Steinberger’s embraces— for any man’s embraces for that matter. Considering the fire she played with she got along very well without being burnt. Her beauty was such as to rather awe men.

“My sister?” she observed, as she patted the pearls into place. “Is she willing to marry you? Would my pleading make any difference?”

“She has a lover amongst her own people,” growled the man savagely. “Some flashy young buck working on a plantation near Apia, I fancy. I’ll break his neck if I ever catch him. Last time I offered to take her away from this she refused.”

“Of course,” observed Melita dryly, and reaching over to one side she struck a little gong. Almost instantly a girl appeared from the room they had just left. It was evident to Steinberger that the girl had been stationed outside the closed door. Melita always took precautions. She turned to the waiting man.

“Tia Kua, you say, Wilhelm?”

“Tia Kua,” he muttered savagely; and, rising to his feet, picked up the smouldering cheroot from the ash tray and puffed it to life again.

Melita gave a message to the waiting girl, who disappeared through some heavy curtains to one side of the room. Melita sank back on the divan, and eyed the flushed face of the man as he paced impatiently up and down.

“You are fond of women, Wilhelm,” she murmured, after a while.

The man came to an abrupt halt, sensing the contempt in her tone. He scowled and chewed on his cheroot before replying.

“What I want I get. If I take a fancy to a girl I’m not afraid to pay. You know that!”— with a meaning glance at the necklace that hung from her throat.

Melita made a little grimace behind her fan, and her laugh was very soft.

“You have not got me, Wilhelm.” The man’s eyes narrowed. He even laughed a trifle curtly.

“It is because I do not want you, yet. Some day I may come for you, instead of your sister.”

The half-caste’s eyes flashed in sudden anger, but she made no reply. The callous certitude of the man disgusted her. But he was one of the hotel’s best customers, and it would not do to check him. It was rather amusing, anyway, to hear him wallowing in his own conceit.

The heavy curtains rustled, and a girl stepped into the room, a girl over whom, had she been white, artists would have raved and sculptors sworn away their souls. She was not very tall, but her slender form was perfect, as was every little feature. She was dressed differently than the rest of the hotel girls, in a sort of yellow silk sarong, caught under the left armpit by a large silver brooch. Her tiny feet were bare, flickering to view under the sarong’s hem as she walked. Her hair was strongly scented and adorned with flowers. The only thing to mar her was the faint blue tattooing that ran from the finger tips to the wrists, and from the soft breasts upward to the base of the throat, but barely visible against the golden-brown skin.

Tia Kua was a full-blooded native girl, dark, passionate, lithe and young. Soon, in six or seven years, she would begin to wither and fade. But at the moment she was in the full glory of her seventeen years, a treasure of her sex. Though Melita was her half-sister— they both claimed the same mother— the difference between them was greater and deeper than mere lightness of color.

Steinberger went to meet the girl eagerly, his fat hands trembling and outstretched, a leer distorting his somewhat stubby features. Coolly the girl evaded him and approached Melita. For a moment the two women spoke together in the native tongue, Melita questioning and the other replying and shaking her head. Then the half-caste turned to the waiting German.

"No good, Wilhelm. She does not want you even if you marry her in the white man fashion. She is to be married to her lover the week after next, and they are both returning to their own country. Too bad. But you have a dozen prettier girls on your own island. Why bother about Tia Kua?”

The German swore harshly. He had conceived for the native girl, during his frequent visits to the hotel, one of those inexplicable passions that sometimes sweep men to the oblivion of everything else. As Melita said, there were many prettier native girls who would be only too glad of the chance to marry Steinberger. But perhaps that is why he did not want them, and did want the unobtainable.

He continued to swear.

“So she refuses, eh? I’ll take her, anyway!”

“Don’t get angry, Wilhelm. This is apparently one of the things you don’t get. Take your beating with good grace,” laughed Melita, with a touch of mockery in her tone.

With a snort Steinberger turned to the girl and commenced offering her bribes. The gifts he promised would have turned the head of any girl— would have turned the head of Tia Kua under ordinary circumstances. But just then she was in love with a pair of languorous dark eyes and a broad-shouldered, muscular body that worked on the plantations outside Apia. She shook her head repeatedly. Steinberger ended up by cursing her in German and English and bêche-de-mer, until Melita interfered with a flash of spirit.

“Get out!” she snapped. “If you can’t speak decently here, get out! And you’d better stay out. This is not your poop deck!”

With a snarl the German turned to go, but a sudden thought struck him. His eyes sought the black pearls dangling from Melita’s throat, and he held out his hand meaningly.

Calmly Melita unsnapped the little gold clasp, and placed the trinket in the fat hand waiting to receive it.

“So,” she sneered, and her voice cut like a whip, “that was a bribe. You must be mad over Tia Kua. Women will be your death, Wilhelm.”

Swearing beneath his breath the German stamped out of the room, and getting his cap made his way down the Point path to the beach, while the assembled schooner captains and mates in the big room nodded to one another and smiled significantly.

3: The Man-Hunter

THE next morning Tia Kua was missing from the hotel, and Steinberger’s brig was missing from the anchorage. He had come out of Apia the previous day, and was bound for some unknown destination. Not one of the schooner captains could or would say where. A grinning Samoan delivered a note at the hotel about two hours after dawn. With quick, nervous fingers Melita ripped open the envelope, and drew out the single sheet of paper it contained, a leaf from a notebook. In Steinberger’s sprawling hand was written:

“What I want I get! This time your sister; next time you!”

Melita’s face went white with passion. There were still four men in the big room who had not yet rejoined their ships, and she read the note to them. They laughed uproariously, until their eyes were wet and their sides ached. That was Steinberger’s way, they explained. Melita eyed them with disgust.

Had it been a white woman who had been abducted she knew that the captains would in all probability have hastened into Apia to inform the authorities.

But a native woman! A common native woman! Why, such could be picked up off a thousand and one islands all over the Pacific, and the majority of them were only too anxious to become associated with one of the all-powerful white men. Most likely the kidnapped girl had been half willing to go. The schooner men were a little puzzled, when they came to talk it over, why Steinberger should have gone to the trouble of abducting the girl at all. He must have been crazy over her. Then they shrugged their shoulders, and told each other that it was none of their business, but that it was a good joke anyway.

And they left Melita to her anger, while they went on board their ships to explain to grinning mates and supercargoes Steinberger’s latest folly.

Melita was nearly speechless with rage. She paced her room fiercely, her lips white and her eyes glowing. She refused to be calmed for a long time. That Steinberger— fat, greasy Steinberger— had defied her, treated her like a plaything that waited on his purposes, was intolerable. She who swayed the affairs of all the Pacific treated like a common native, her sister abducted to be Steinberger’s mistress!

But she could not move hand or foot to checkmate the German. There were admirers of hers, of course, who would at her word attempt to restore her sister, but there were only two or three actually powerful enough in the islands to attempt it with any hope of success, and none were handy. Melita could only wait and hope that Tia Kua was not being treated too badly.

TWO weeks later a strange ship beat up to the anchorage off the Point and hove to. Melita was frankly puzzled as she watched the beautiful streaming lines and the swan-like grace of the anchoring barque. The tide was yet high, and there was plenty of time to make Apia before it fell. The ship, too, was not a regular caller at the hotel. Melita did not remember ever having seen it before. Whoever was coming to see her was coming for that purpose alone, and not making just a casual call.

A boat dropped from the barque’s near side and sped across the intervening water to the shore. Presently a man came up the winding pathway. Even Melita, who was used to all sorts of men, caught her breath sharply. For this man was not the usual shipmaster. He was not gray and a little bent, with the flesh of the neck lightly grooved into squares and lines. He did not lag in his step, nor did the long climb seem to affect his breath very much. He was young and tall, and well worth looking on. Unlike the usual island shipmaster, he was dressed in a thin uniform of blue serge, with the gold braid of his rank on the cuffs, and a gold ship badge in the center of his blue peaked cap. The cap itself was perched far back on his head, exposing a thick crop of wavy gold-brown hair, and a face as tanned as that of any kanaka. A pair of laughing blue eyes held Melita’s for a moment, and then hardened a little.

The man rested one hand on his hip, and with the other removed his cap from his head. He bowed a trifle.

“Is this the house where Melita lives?” he asked pleasantly enough, though there was that in his voice— a suppressed hardness— that showed he was a man used to command.

Melita was curious. The stranger interested her. She had never seen him before, and she thought she had seen every shipmaster in the Pacific. He looked clean, too, which was more than most of the men she knew did. He was more of a man to like the sea and the sun and the stars at night than the perfumed rooms of the hotel, or some easy amour with native girls in their own villages. He glowed with health, and his lips were firm, which showed that drink had not got him under control.

Yes, Melita was curious.

“I am Melita,” she said. The man raised his head and smiled, replacing his cap. He came forward a pace.

“May I speak with you alone? My name is James Travers— Captain James Travers. I command and own the barque Wanderer, laying out there in the roadstead.”

Melita waved away her attendant women, more curious than ever, and motioned the stranger to sit in the swing chair on the veranda beside her. The man nodded and came forward, seated himself carelessly and, crossing one leg over the other, held his knee with clasped hands, rocking to and fro the while.

He eyed the woman seriously, and with not a little interest. He had heard her spoken of from China to Australia. She was a character.

“I am looking for a man,” he commenced abruptly. “His name is, or was, Brietmann, and he is, or was, half owner of the brig Hamburg, registered at Cape Town. Except that he’s big built and inclined to be fat I can give no description of him. Two years ago in Fu Chow the port captain of one of the big lines informed me that a man named Brietmann had been fined the year before for dangerous sailing while anchoring near other ships. From Fu Chow Brietmann took papers for Apia with the intention, it was said, of going on the island trade. I was told you were acquainted with every shipmaster and trader in the Pacific. Can you help me?”

Melita withdrew her eyes with an effort from the man’s face, and conned over in her mind a list of the men she knew. She was silent for so long that the man sneered and, reaching in his pocket, drew forth a piece of wash leather. Unwrapping it he held before the woman’s gaze a magnificent ruby that sent blood fires dancing and leaping in reflection in her eyes.

“I’ll give this to know,” he said, thinking she was reckoning what the information would be worth.

Melita looked at the ruby, and put out a hesitating hand. Then her eyes grew hard. The sailor, watching keenly, laughed a little, guessing what she was thinking.

"YOU can take it. No condition attached, except that you give me the information I need. I just want to know where Brietmann hangs out. No one knew in Suva, no one knew in Papeete. Do you know? I shall not say who gave me the information, if that is what’s worrying you.”

Melita slipped the stone inside her bodice with sudden decision. It was a princely reward. “I can’t think of anything or anyone right now,” she said frankly. “I may later on. There are several big, fleshy men who own brigs in the islands.... But come inside and try my tea. I had it shipped from Yokohama.... Unless you’d prefer whisky?”

The sailor hesitated. He looked down the slope to where the barque lay at anchor, rising and falling to the swell. He looked to the sky away to windward.

“Good wind blowing, and I hate to lose any of it,” he muttered to himself. “I’m sailing for Calloa light, to pick up a cargo there,” he said aloud. “Nitrates for England. I can’t waste much time.”

Then he looked at Melita, and his decision faltered and died. She was beautiful, and even a man who does not care for women cannot but admire beauty. Besides, she was the famous Melita, and the sailor was more than half curious to probe into her mentality a bit to see how she came to be so. He stood up from the swing chair abruptly, removing his cap.

“I’ll take tea,” he said, his voice a little more mellow than it had been.

The experienced Melita smiled a little to herself. She could see the sailor was growing interested in her. She was a new type to him. He, who had sailed far and wide, had battled with wind and water and men, was naturally inclined to be carelessly at ease with all women. He had them classified into two great classes— the thoroughly lost and the thoroughly saved— and each class was as bad as the other. But Melita defied classification. He remembered that men had told him that she had never been any man’s since the break-up of her girlhood romance with that early French adventurer.

He grew frank as they sat cross-legged in the now deserted big room and drank tea together from tiny fragile cups, with the fumes of the incense wreathing about their heads.

4: Vengeance Trail

"I NEVER met a woman quite like you, Melita. Most women who enter this— this sort of thing”— he waved an expressive arm around— “are apt to become coarse. You dress with taste, you talk with an accent that was learned in London, if I am not mistaken, and you have the manners of a wise old society matron. I conclude you have traveled and mixed with good people.”

She nodded absently, her eyes on his corded throat, wondering what it would feel like to the touch, warm and throbbing with life, probably rippling as it moved with the muscle-life beneath the clear skin. She had forgotten to be languid and indifferent.

“Then what are you doing here? You can’t be broke and unable to get away. If you are, that ruby will put you on your feet.”

Melita roused herself with an effort, and tapped him on the lips with her fan.

“My friend, you are encroaching on the secret places of the heart. And why should I worry you with my story? It is the usual and the sordid. A young girl, something of a fool, her head turned by flattery, and a man who had no honor. What men have?” she sighed, and was silent for a while. “Rest assured I have reasons for staying here and playing with the fools who come.... Take care, my friend, it is not good to know Melita too much.”

She finished with a light laugh and looked at him. He nodded seriously, and then grinned.

“The fruits of vengeance, eh? Well, I’ll tell you. I believe I’m immune from heart-break, and I don’t believe I have a soul to wreck.”

Again Melita knew a sudden desire to touch the corded throat and run her fingers through the wavy hair. So strong was the impulse she leaned forward a little, and then caught at her lower lip with her teeth. Travers was busy lighting a battered briar pipe, and when he looked up, noticing nothing, the woman had recovered herself. But she was shaken inwardly. She had never met a man who affected her so.

“Perhaps you would like to look around,” suggested the woman, “while I write you a list of the brig owners and captains I know of. The name Brietmann is unknown to me, but—”

“It is possible my man has changed his name. He had cause to,” put in the sailor grimly.

Melita nodded. “That was what I was thinking. Perhaps one of the brig captains I know may be your man. The name Brietmann sounds German. There are five Germans who own their own ships. But I’ll give you a list. You can make further inquiries as to the length of time each has been in the islands. That’s something I’m not acquainted with. Pardon me!”

The sailor nodded, while the woman went off to find a pencil and paper. Left alone in the big room, Captain James Travers whistled softly to himself. He grinned as he wandered round, inspecting the braziers, quaintly moulded, and the pictures that hung here and there on the walls.

Presently he came to a sort of sideboard set in a corner farthest from the veranda, which could be seen through the curtains that served as a house front, and were tied back in the day time. The sideboard was a long affair of mahogany, richly inlaid and carved, with drawers below the serving shelf and a large square of beveled looking-glass above.

There were whale’s teeth, purple with age; shark’s backbones, polished and varnished and worked into the form of walking sticks; a small whale’s vertebra; pearl shells, and other shells of all sorts and colors; a piece of fossilized wood from far-off Guinea; native spears and other weapons; necklaces of babies’ skulls, and many other curios the admirers of Melita had brought from the Shining Paths to swell her collection. But what drew the sailor’s attention, what wiped the grin from his face and the warmth from his eyes, was the sight of a neat, bright nickel steel revolver placed in a far corner of the shelf, half hidden behind a monstrosity of a devil-devil mask from Fiji.

SLOWLY the sailor removed his pipe. He did not feel the hot bowl burn his hand. Nor did he hear the swish of skirts as Melita came softly behind him and started as she caught sight of the reflection of his savage face in the glass. His free hand went out and picked up the revolver, and he turned it over and over in his palm. Finally he held it muzzle down and looked at the initials carved on the bottom of the butt. He started violently as Melita touched his arm and swung round.

“What is it?” she asked curiously.

“Who gave you this?” he demanded savagely, his lips drawn back from his teeth. He rammed his pipe in his pocket and caught the woman’s shoulder. “Tell me!”

Melita looked at the bright weapon, and then wonderingly at the sailor. “That was given me by Steinberger,” she said steadily. “He told me it had a history. I never found out what.”

The sailor let go her shoulder with a bitter laugh, and slipped the revolver in his pocket.

“History? Yes, it has a history.... Where does Steinberger live? Where can I find him? Who is he in the islands?”

“Steinberger is a big trader and pearl buyer. He owns and commands the brig Atlantis.”

“With a Medusa figurehead and scroll work all down the forefoot?”

Melita nodded, her eyes wide with dread.

“All right, go on.”

“...and has a trading station at Funafuti Lagoon in the Ellice Islands.”

“That’s enough for me,” said the sailor with an oath, and he strode toward the veranda, his face flushed with passion.

Melita ran after him and caught at his sleeve.

“Sit down for a moment. There’s something I want to say.” Her voice was cold and commanding. She, too, had a temper. The sailor halted, looked down at her, hesitated, and then slowly returned to the cushioned dais where the empty tea cups still stood. He dropped moodily down on crossed legs and picked up his cap. He had forgotten it before.

Melita sank beside him.

“I presume this Brietmann you spoke of is Steinberger,” commenced Melita abruptly, her fan resting on the sailor’s arm as though to hold him still. “I don’t know what lies between the two of you, but I can guess that Steinberger’s been up to some more of his deviltry.... Will you do something for me for the information you’ve got, in place of this ruby?”

She brought the red stone to light and slipped it into the angry sailor’s palm. He looked at it stupidly for a moment, and then back at the woman. He commenced to say something, but changed his mind. He waited. “Will you?” the woman persisted.

“Depends what it is,” the sailor muttered. “What is it? Yes, I’ll do it. Do anything out of gratitude for the information.”

“Then listen!” And Melita told the other how Steinberger had abducted her sister. Melita could use language that cut like a knife, and the story she told was not pretty hearing the way she put it. The man almost forgot his own trouble. He saw the point at once.

“You want your sister?”

Melita nodded, and leaning back she opened her fan and slowly waved it to and fro. Her own cold passion had exhausted her. The sailor looked at her and then held out his hand.

“That’s a bargain,” he said curtly. “Steinberger will have no use for women after I’ve seen him. If your sister is alive, you shall have her back. Expect me any time. Good bye!”

He rose to his feet, jammed on his cap, and with a brief handshake was gone, leaping from the veranda in his haste and running down the pathway to where the boat lay waiting to take him aboard his ship.

The clank of the anchor cable came up to the hotel through the breeze, and one by one the barque’s sails were hoisted. In two hours she was hull down and sailing fast. Melita dropped to the cushions when the sailor had gone, and she cried— she who had not cried in years. In her heart strange forces were stirring— forces that had lain dormant since her first lover had kissed her over the mission wall in Apia.

Then, after a while, she rose and went out on the veranda to watch the barque running from the coast and from sight. Then she cried again and wished she were clean. Who was she to dream of love?

It was not till nightfall, when the lamps were lit and the schooners from all the Pacific began to drop anchor off the Point, that Melita found the ruby Travers had left among the cushions.

She wrapped it tight in its wash-leather bed and snuggled it close to her heart, torn with fears for the safety of the man she had only known for a brief hour. Not one of the captains guessed what was passing in the mind of the woman who laughed a little too freely, and who seemed to be in such a cynical mood when they jested with her that night.

5: Outward Bound

CAPTAIN JAMES TRAVERS sat in his saloon beneath the poop deck of the Wanderer, and smoked in thoughtful silence. Occasionally he would unclasp his hands from behind his head and, removing his pipe, blow a cloud of smoke up at the lamp that swung uneasily in its gimbals directly above his head.

Now that the first hot rage and exultation of his discovery had died, the sailor was very much at his ease, in spite of the uneasy pitch and chop of the deck as the barque lifted herself over the somewhat short swell and snorted into the trough and into the teeth of a brisk wind, for she was now close-hauled. His coat was flung over the bunk that stood against the after bulkhead, his cap was perched on a large inkwell that stood on the table, and near it his feet rested and were crossed. He was tilted back in a swivel chair, and his eyes were dreamily fixed on a point that certainly was not in the saloon.

He had been sitting thus, reflectively, since the soft-footed Jap steward had removed the supper things and retired to the pantry, half hidden by the butt of the mizzen-mast that ran down through the forward portion of the poop deck.

Travers was worried. He could not forget Melita. It was preposterous he should so persistently remember a woman he had seen for scarce an hour. He had sailed to Samoa expressly to meet a half-caste adventuress, whom, so men had told him, had knowledge of every sailor in the Pacific at her finger tips. Travers was usually distrustful of such women, on his guard against them when with them, and he had disliked the idea of enlisting the half-caste’s services. But the chance of picking up Brietmann’s trail, three years old from Fu Chow, had been very alluring, and the debt he had to pay for the death of the one-time mate of the Wanderer was long overdue.

And because of these things Travers had run across the sea to Melita. And he had found not the coarse-lipped woman he had expected, but a passionate, cultured woman, albeit a bitter one. Toward him she had softened somewhat. He could think of that without conceit. For he had not tried to make love to her, to name conditions for his gifts. He was feeling strangely softened toward her himself. She must have had a hard life, and the world was, after all, a rotten place for a beautiful woman. They rubbed against more of the dirt than their plain sisters. They drew men, and the worst kind.

Melita was beautiful; there was no doubt of that. And her skin was as fair as any white woman’s, for all her native blood. Not a trace of the kanaka in her, except for the big, dark eyes. It was her face Travers had been seeing for so many years, since he had been old enough to dream of romance. Such a face had disturbed his sleep time and again. The ideal woman! Every man has his ideal woman, and the face of Travers’ ideal was the face of Melita.

Known her for an hour? He had known her for years! He sighed. He supposed he was in love. And he thought of the daisy-encircled cottage that every sailor thinks of when he thinks of marriage and love. The sea had been a hard mistress, but if she had led him to his woman the service had been fully repaid. He remembered, too, that men had said she had been no man’s woman since her return to the islands. Why should not the two of them start again, together? He smiled whimsically, and with sudden decision swung his feet off the table. He was a creature of impulse to a very large extent.

"BOY!” he called lazily. The soft-footed Jap steward appeared after a while, and stood before his captain. “Send the mate down here.”

Without a word the steward padded away to the poop deck above, and presently the clatter of shoes on the companion that led from the saloon announced the mate’s arrival.

He was a gray-haired man, very much tattooed about the hands, with a wrinkled parchment-like skin that gave the impression of great age, or a long time spent in the tropics. He was tall and very thin, and the corners of his big mouth drooped in a melancholy fashion under his fringe of moustache. He had once been the commander of a famous liner, but drink and recklessness had brought him down to take any job that offered among the trading ships of the seven seas.

Travers had picked him up in Sydney when he had been broke, and had given him a chance to get on his feet again. He was a wonderful navigator, and knew most seas like a book, wherefore he was a useful man to have aboard.

“Ever heard of Steinberger, Everett?”

The mate thought for a moment, and, removing his cap, scratched his somewhat bald head. He frowned.

“Seems I have. He’s a trader or something in these parts, sir.”

“Yes, that’s so. We’re going to visit him. Mark off the course to the Ellice group, Everett; and then make Funafuti Lagoon.”

“Yes, sir.” The mate turned to go, replacing his cap.

“Oh, Everett!”

“Sir.”

The mate hesitated with one foot on the companion and turned half around. “I’m thinking of getting married!”

“Married?”

“Yes. Just thinking, you know.”

“Oh, yes, sir.... Is that all, sir?”

“That’s all.... Say, Everett, see if there’s any book in the chart room with the marriage service in it, will you?”

“Very well, sir.” The mate whistled to himself as he went upon the poop and faced the battering wind. He wondered. Travers grinned to himself, swung his feet on to the table again, and went on dreaming.

6: Captured

STEINBERGER was at home at Funafuti. The Wanderer swept into the great lagoon, and came to anchor about a quarter of a mile from the shore. The Atlantis lay beached some half a mile away, and a crowd of natives were busily engaged in scraping from her hull the foot-long grasses and the clotted barnacles from her scanty keel. Travers looked at the brig through his glasses and swore harshly.

“Medusa figurehead and scroll work all down the forefoot,” he muttered. “Breitmann changed her name, but he couldn’t change her markings. Swine!”

The mate came from for’ard after letting go the anchor, and crossed the poop to his captain.

“Going ashore, sir?”

Travers nodded as he dropped the glasses back into the rack. He felt in his pocket to make sure he was armed.

“Lower away the port boat. And, Everett... if anything happens to me, you’ll find a letter in my room that’ll tell you what to do.”

The gray-haired, wise mate looked at his superior sharply.

“Perhaps you’d like to take some of the men with you, sir,” he suggested. “They like you well enough to stand by you.”

Travers shook his head. “This is a private quarrel, Everett. I’d rather not have witnesses.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” And the mate touched his cap and turned obediently away to see that the boat was lowered.

The beach was a thing to wonder at, a magnificent sweeping curve, nine miles from tip to tip. Among the groves of coco-palms that fringed the sand could be seen the huts of the principal village. A few frigate birds were lazily sailing above the lagoon. Other life, except for those careening the brig, there was none. Funafuti brooded drowsily beneath the hot breath of noon.

Leaving the boat waiting in the shallows, with orders to push on if he did not return within an hour, Travers walked along the path that led to the trader’s house set in a grove of jack-fruit trees, that themselves nestled among a denser grove of palms. His face was set and ugly to look upon, and his right hand rested inside his pocket gripping something hard and cold. He was still dressed in the light blue serge he affected, disliking the white duck most ship’s officers wore, and his peaked cap was still set back on his head, exposing the wavy hair.

Clear to the door of the trader’s house Travers went, and with a thrust of his foot swung it open and entered, to find himself in a high-ceilinged room, large and square, with native mats on the floor, an iron bed with the usual mosquito drape in one corner, large square holes in the walls in place of windows, and other doors leading to rooms here and there.

A tall, slender girl was busily engaged in cleaning a large bore sporting rifle to one side of a plain deal table, on which lay cloths and various bottles of oil and jars of grease. She looked up startled as Travers entered and placed her finger to her lips. One of Steinberger’s numerous wives, Travers thought, a trifle grimly.

She was a beauty in her way, olive-skinned, big-eyed and black-haired, like most of the island women. Travers politely lifted his cap, though the action was not usual with natives. Sympathetically, he noted the black bruises on the slender wrists, and the angry red weal across the bare breast. It was too plain that Steinberger still remembered some things about his Fatherland.

With a murmured greeting the girl rose from her knees, and again placing her finger to her lips glanced across the room, part of which was hidden from Travers by reason of the open door.

Travers closed the door and looked around. Steinberger was hunched up in a long cane chair, dressed only in his pyjamas and snoring gently. A two-days’ growth of beard colored his pink, big-pored face, and an empty “square-face” bottle on the table near the oil bottles showed how he spent his time. His hands were clasped across his swelling stomach, and his double chin rested on his chest.

Travers looked at him long and intently, for he had never seen the face before, and he could not tell after all the years whether the heavy shoulders were the same that he had seen in the saloon of the Wanderer that night of fever, death and of anger in Lorenço Marques, Delagoa Bay.

Travers savagely kicked the sleeping man’s shins, while the native girl moaned with terror. She expected the stranger to be annihilated for his presumption. With a tremendous start the sleeping man awoke. He sucked in his breath sharply, brushed a fat hand across his eyes, and scrambled to his feet.

Travers was an inch shorter than the German, and he seemed completely dwarfed.

Steinberger glared.

“Who the blazes are you? Did you kick me?” he demanded wrathfully, half raising his hand. Travers gritted his teeth, and jammed the muzzle of the revolver he had been nursing into the German’s paunch.

“Keep your confounded mouth shut and sit down,” he grated harshly. “I want to talk with you. My name’s Travers— Captain James Travers, brother to William Travers.”

Steinberger collapsed back in his chair as though he had been shot. In his agitation he swore in German, and started suddenly to tremble.

“Gott in himmel! I...you... why, are you...What do you want?”

Travers lowered his revolver and stepped back a little. He drew up a chair and sat down, his eyes never leaving the German’s face. After a moment, during which nothing could be heard save the quick breathing of the men and the low moaning of the native girl, Travers laid down the revolver on the table at his side.

Steinberger snarled and turned his head.

“Stop that whining! Gott! Get out of here!”

The native girl shrank back against the wall, but did not speak. Steinberger turned to Travers again. His thick lips were working frightfully, and his fat hands gripped and let loose of the chair arms alternately, the cane squeaking as it was so kneaded.

Travers laughed— not a pleasant sound to hear.

“I need not ask if you are Steinberger,” he commenced. “But the time I want to talk to you about is a time when you went by the name of Brietmann. Remember it?”

THE other man controlled himself with an effort, and a crafty gleam appeared in his eyes. The chair arms squeaked under their kneading.

“What are you talking about? Are you mad? Brietmann? Who is he? I am Steinberger, and anyone in the islands will vouch for me.”

“So you deny you were once known as Brietmann— Brietmann who had a half share in and sailed the big Hamburg, the ship you now call the Atlantis?”

“Of course I am not Brietmann! I’m Steinberger, as you’ll find out when I have you arrested for pulling a gun on me in my own house.”

“Then perhaps you will explain this,” said, Travers softly, his eyes narrowing to slits. He motioned towards the nickel-steel revolver on the table. “You’ll find the initials ‘W. T.’ on the butt.... No, you needn’t try and look. You’re not getting your hands on that gun.... ‘W. T.,’ you understand? You gave that gun to Melita, boasting it had a history. It has. It’s going to have a further history. It’s going to kill you!”

“Donner und blitzen! You are mad!” In his excitement the man forgot his carefully cultivated English. “Vat for you want to kill me? Vat do I know of your brother?—did you not say he was your brother? I mean— Himmel! ... Why you look so? Dis is a plot— vat you call a trap, eh? Melita send you to get her sister, an’ you make up this excuse. Vat do I know of Travers?”

“Sound like an innocent man, don’t you, Brietmann? That night you came aboard the Wanderer, thinking all hands were ashore except my brother, I was lying sick with fever in the next cabin. You didn’t know that, did you? If you had you’d have come and killed me.... You stole my brother’s wife, you swine, and then you had to come and try to get the little money Bill was saving for her. You have nerve all right, Brietmann; I’ll say that. To come and tell Bill you had ruined his wife and wanted her legacy from her father. You banked on Bill being a cripple, didn’t you?... Lucky for you I wasn’t on my feet that night— and you knew you were the stronger man.

“So you mocked him, and then you robbed him, and when he tried to fight for his honor’s sake you knocked him down and kicked his face. He would have shot you, but you were too quick. You shot him instead, with his own gun. There it is— on the table, Brietmann. Sure it has a history.... By God, I could kill you with my naked hands!”

Travers had half risen to his feet in his rage, quivering with passion, his hands opening and closing, his lips drawn clear back from his teeth.

The German rose too, quaking, and shivered back. But his voice blustered and pleaded.

“Ged oud of here! You’ll hang—you’ll hang for it if you kill me. Mein Gott! I call and twenty men run to kill you!”

The native girl crossed the room and laid a restraining hand on the German’s arm. Her big eyes were soft and appealing, and she spoke in a gentle tone, not understanding the forces at work within the two men. It was apparent she loved the shaking man; such is the strangeness of women.

Steinberger shook her off with a snarl, and caught her across the mouth with the back of his hand. Like a whipped dog she crept away, a dumb wistfulness in her eyes, her hands covering her bleeding lips.

The incident steadied Travers, and he straightened with a short laugh. He motioned to the German to sit down, and himself resumed his seat.

“I’m not ready to kill you yet, Brietmann,” he said. “I want to tell you first how I’ve trailed you, port to port, sea to sea, for seven years. I found Mary, my brother’s wife, deserted in Australia just two years after you’d stolen her. She was nursing your child then; you’d left them to starve. How many women you’ve wrecked since then I don’t know. But I wager the count’s long. As to hanging, there isn’t a jury in the world that would convict me. You know it, and I know it. You’ve got to face it, Brietmann, and try and go out like a man. Seven years I’ve followed you, and the trail ends right here. It started in Africa, and ends in the islands. I think that’s all. Say your prayers.”

The Germans’ hand crept nervously to his throat. He licked his lips and choked a little. The sweat poured from him in streams as the liquor he had gone to sleep with died within him.

“Mein prayers?” he whispered hoarsely, rising slowly to his feet again. He looked monstrous in his loose pyjamas. Travers rose with an air of finality.

He stretched out a hand for the revolver, and then the German sprang.

With a cry like a wild beast he came forward, his great hands reaching for a throat hold and his knees driving for the stomach. Without any great haste Travers stepped to one side and sent the huge, flabby body across the room with a smashing right-hand blow. Steinberger crashed against the wall, and shook the hut to its foundations. He slowly picked himself up, bruised all over and panting with the fear of death. He glanced up wildly, and the oaths fell from his lips in a continuous stream. Then Travers raised his revolver— the revolver that had shot William Travers seven years before— and prepared to do what he had come to do, what he had crossed the world for, without compunction and without haste. He took aim.... A cold muzzle pressed into the nape of his neck, and a harsh voice spoke: “Easy, sonny, easy. Put ‘em up!”

STEINBERGER wiped his bloody lips and laughed as he scrambled to his feet.

“Keep him there, Walters, till I get him tied,” he wheezed breathlessly, and lumbered groggily off into a corner, where he cut a fathom or so of line from a coil of halliard standing there. Coming back he securely tied the raging Travers hand and foot.

Then, knocking him down, he beat a tattoo on his ribs with his naked foot, and ground his face into the matting of the floor until the skin was off and the blood ran from the nose. Travers caught a glimpse of the man who had held him up, a sullen-faced, skinny individual with a heavy black beard and watery blue eyes. From his stained white uniform evidently an officer of the Atlantis. He was grinning with amusement as Steinberger tortured his captive. The German bent and slapped Travers’ face.

“So, Melita give you the gun, eh? And I suppose she told you about her confounded sister and me?  I’ll get that——! I’ll break her now.... You, I’ll see you later!”

Travers kept his teeth together to prevent him crying out, and the hot rage within him flamed and leaped. He wished he had shot the German and not waited to talk. He scarce gave heed to Steinberger’s words about Melita’s sister, for he had well-nigh forgotten her. But the mention of Melita herself, of getting even with her....

Travers squirmed and writhed and tugged at his bonds. Steinberger laughed triumphantly as he straightened up and wiped his forehead with a hand that still trembled.

“I’ll bring Melita here, and you’ll see us married native fashion. Then I shall get rid of you and your talk of Bill Travers.”

Steinberger bundled his prisoner into a back room and locked him in, after a few parting kicks. Then buckling on his holsters, after dressing himself, he went down on the beach, talking energetically with Walters, the black-bearded officer, and planning the next few moves ahead in the game that had suddenly broken upon him.

7: “I am Tia Kua”

TRAVERS lay and ached in every limb, and wondered what was to happen next. He cursed himself for being such a fool as not to let Everett and some of the men guard his rear while he talked to Steinberger. He had been confident of his strength, too blind with his own passions to plan coolly, and this was the result. Himself helpless, and Steinberger off to abduct Melita as he had abducted her sister.

He cursed as the sound of shots drifted through the open window. He guessed that Steinberger had found the waiting boat in the shallows. Would he kill every soul aboard the barque? There were no more shots, and for a long while there was silence, broken only by the lisp of the surf and the roar of the wind through the swaying palms. There was nothing left for Travers to do but wait, and waiting is hardest of all. A murmur of voices came to the prostrate sailor’s ears after a while, and then a body of men came up the path from the beach and stamped into the next room. There were two heavy thuds and a groan, as some bulky objects were lowered to the floor. Then the party stamped out again with a few coarse jests, and the sound of crunching steps on the coral sand of the path died away. Travers strained his ears toward the next room and caught a muttered oath. He sighed with relief. He would have recognized Everett’s voice anywhere.

“That you, Everett?” he called softly. There was silence for a moment.

“Yes. Is that you, sir?”

“Aye.... Are you hurt?”

“No, not much to speak of. Was rushed by about a dozen kanakas and handled pretty rough. They laid out the boat’s crew, and came aboard in the boat. I cut loose with a gun when I saw what was happening, but they were too quick.”

The mate cursed bitterly again, and Travers could be heard writhing about the floor. “I suppose you’re bound hand and foot?” said Travers hopelessly.

“Yes, sir.” The mate ceased trying to loosen his lashings. “Stevens is here, bound as well. He’s had a crack over the head, and is still unconscious.”

“What have they done with the crew?”

“Last I saw of them was swimming for the beach. The big fat man ordered them pitched overboard. He seems to have taken charge of the barque. Is that Steinberger?”

“That’s the man.... Say, I’m sorry you fellows are being dragged into this mess.”

“O. K., sir. It’s all in the day’s work.”

No more was said. Travers and the mate bent every energy to trying to free themselves.

After a while the captain gave up and relaxed, breathless and sweating, his wrists bleeding from his struggles. A faint cutting noise caught his ear. After several attempts he jerked to an upright position and listened, his eyes roving round the bare-walled room.

Then he caught sight of the thin knife blade moving in and out through the wall that separated the room from one farther back in the house. After a while a sort of slot had been cut in the soft wood, and then a slim brown hand appeared and wrenched off large splinters, enlarging the slot until it was a considerable hole, large enough to crawl through. A brown body appeared and, after some trouble, squeezed into the room.

A native girl crossed to the astonished and wondering Travers. She placed her finger on her lips and knelt down, so that her mouth was against the man’s ear. He felt the tickle as her lips moved. It was evident from her quivering that she was very much afraid and that she did not know Steinberger had gone. It was also evident she had had dealings with him, for her arms and breasts were bruised, as those of the girl Travers had seen on first entering the trader’s house.

“I hear him say Melita send you. I am Tia Kua,” she whispered, and then the sailor knew a vast relief. He grinned as much as his shattered face would allow, and nodded at his bonds.

The girl fumbled with the knots in the signal halliard, and in a few minutes Travers was free. He rose to his feet, stretched his arms above his head, felt himself tenderly all over, and then patted the girl reassuringly on the shoulder. Ignoring her pleas for quiet, he then kicked down the door of the room that confined him, and quickly released Everett.

It was some time before the two of them could restore the unconscious Stevens to life, but eventually they managed it, and prepared to leave. They searched for weapons, and found plenty to their satisfaction.

Travers came across a wallet of paper money in a drawer and handed it to Tia Kua, telling her to keep it as some sort of compensation for what she had been subjected to. Then all four of them went out on to the veranda and started down the path to the beach.

They had not gone more than a dozen yards when they met Walters, the black-bearded officer of the Atlantis. He had been left to watch the prisoners, and was not dreaming of attack. Rather he was anticipating a fine time alone with Steinberger’s girls and private stock of liquor. He looked up as he heard the sound of men’s shoes on the sand, and the cigar he was chewing dropped from his suddenly slack jaw. Then he came to a halt with a start. His hand went to his holster.

“That’s the blighter who swiped me with a belaying pin,” muttered the second mate thickly, still groggy from the terrible blow he had received.

Pushing Travers aside, he fired before the other man had time to draw his gun. He dropped like a sack of flour, limply and as heavily, and lay still.

Travers turned him over with his foot and noted the neat hole in the center of the forehead.

“No need to have finished him,” he commented indifferently, and went on. There was no sign of the Wanderer in the lagoon. Travers climbed a tall tree and gazed around on the horizon. The barque was running swiftly before a north wind, and only her tops’ls were visible over the sea rim.

After a long look Travers came down to the sand and rejoined his officers.

“Steinberger’s taken my ship,” he said quietly. He looked at Everett, Everett looked at him. Then both men turned and looked at the brig beached for careening half a mile away.

“We could launch her in a couple of hours, sir,” suggested the mate.

Travers nodded and tested the strength of the wind with a wet forefinger.

“We’ll take her. She can’t sail as fast as the Wanderer, but with this wind she won’t lag far behind.”

Followed still by Tia Kua, the three officers went down the beach to where the Atlantis lay.

8: Man-Battle

IT was night when the brig dropped anchor, some little distance from Mulinu’u Point, after the long run south. The lights of three or four schooners, a long, rakish-looking barquentine, and a barque that was plainly the Wanderer, shimmered through the night haze that hung over the roadstead. Three other ships were beating up from the east, and it was evident that Melita would have a full house before dawn.

From the fires along the beach it was apparent that a sort of dance picnic was being held for the pleasure of the men of the sea and the world. Half a dozen red glows dotted the sand, and the sound of singing drifted on the breeze.

To escape the festivities Travers landed some distance below the hotel and climbed round the back of the long, low building. Here Tia Kua took charge and led him down a dark, cool passage to the big room in the front of the place. It was practically deserted, the majority of the men preferring the revelries of the beach, under the stars, to the stifling languor of the inside, though four of the older men were in evidence near Melita's dais idly smoking long cheroots and talking in low tones together.

Of the half-caste there was no sign.

Tia Kua slipped across the room to the heavy curtains that screened Melita’s quarters. She listened at the door, and then beckoned to Travers. The four men near the dais watched this byplay with growing interest. Many strange things took place in Melita’s house.

Parting the curtain, Travers stepped inside and laid his ear against the door, Tia Kua tensely clutching his arm and listening, too. Steinberger’s voice was loud and arrogant, and he was evidently repeating some old argument.

“I’ve got this little knight-errant of yours, m’dear, and I’ve got your little sister. You want them back, both of them. All right. You come with me and we’ll call it quits. I’ll even marry you. At the mission, if you will.”

“Wilhelm,” Melita’s voice was pleading and very soft, and Travers thrilled and tingled to his fingertips, “I’ve never had much happiness, and this man.... He already means so much. I had hoped.... But you would not understand. I am not a bad woman.... You would only tire of me in a few weeks. Why not make a few people happy for a change? I—”

“I’ve heard all that already! You know my terms. Take them or leave them. Either you come with me, or I keep your sister and finish this Travers. I’d sooner do that, anyway. I don’t mind admitting that man is dangerous to me. But if you come I’ll let him go and give him back his ship. Hurry and decide. I’ve let you fool and argue with me for two solid days, and I’ve got to get back!”

There was a long silence, broken only by Steinberger’s heavy breathing. Then Melita whispered: “I have a little money, Wilhelm. If you—”

“I have money, too. I want you, not money. Come!”

“You will swear to let Travers go, and my sister?”

“H’m, seems you’re very fond of this— sailor!”

“I am.” There was a quiet dignity in the tone that quieted the German. It did not sound like the old Melita.

Travers set his teeth and kicked open the door.

MELITA was standing before Steinberger, nervously twisting her fan in her hands. The German was sitting on the divan and rubbing his palms together like a man confident of the outcome of his plans.

He collapsed like a wet rag as his astonished gaze fell on Travers standing in the dim red square of the doorway.

There was sticking-plaster and the stain of iodine on Travers’ face, and Steinberger boasted a huge purple lump on his jaw. Under other circumstances either of the men would have evoked a laugh.

Melita stared for one intense moment, and then collapsed to her knees and sobbed with relief.

Tia Kua ran to comfort her. Steinberger reached for his holster, and the sailor was on him like a flash, knocking the drawn gun from his hand and sending him spinning across the back of the divan.

The German charged like a bull when he had recovered his feet, and the force of his weight carried Travers until he fell with, a crash, the other’s two hundred and fifty-odd pounds of fat holding him down. The fat hands reached for the sailor’s throat, but he got his thumbs in the pig-like eyes and, with a curse, Steinberger reeled back half-blinded.

It was not pretty fighting. Travers was up and after his opponent immediately, pounding his ribs and working his face to a mass of purple bruises. He did not go unpunished himself. Steinberger’s weight and superior reach aided him. The German picked up a brazier and cut Travers’ head open, half stunning him and driving him to his knees.

Before he could follow up his advantage the sailor had staggered to his feet and gone into a clinch. The mirrors on the walls were shivered as the two men swayed all over the room. Finally they crashed into the divan and split apart, bloody and breathless.

They rested for a spell, teeth showing and eyes glittering with passion. The centuries and epochs of upward climbing from the primeval slime and forest had been for naught. The martyrdom of a million reformers was in vain. Here stood two men locked in mortal combat, unaffected by all that had gone before. They were the result of it all.

Travers was the first to recover. With quick, lithe steps he advanced and jabbed at Steinberger’s mouth. With a snarl they closed and for a while wrestled again about the room, stumbling over rugs and matting, low tables and cushions. The German swore continuously, but the sailor fought in silence. Blood flecks were everywhere. Then Steinberger ran his hand behind the sailor and, feeling the automatic reposing in the hip pocket, drew it after some difficulty.

Just at that moment Travers broke the German’s hold with a mighty effort and, lifting the huge body, pitched it into a corner. With a broken arm and collar bone Steinberger rocked to his knees and fired blindly.

Travers clapped a hand to his hip, realized what had happened, and then cast frantic eyes around for the gun he had knocked from Steinberger’s hand in the beginning. He could see it nowhere.

A bullet snickered over his shoulder and tore a hole in the copper mesh of the walls. Another clipped his neck. Dimly he heard Melita scream and then shout something. He gasped as a numbing, red-hot pang shot through his left arm. He pawed at the air.

This was the end. William Travers, his brother, would never be avenged, nor would Mary, the little wife.

For one vivid moment the mists cleared from the sailor’s eyes and he looked clear-eyed for his death. Steinberger staggered, panting, to his feet and sobbed with laughter. His sound arm rose and held the automatic steady. Travers closed his eyes and swayed on his feet....

There came a shot, then a fusillade of shots, and faintly Travers heard Steinberger choke. He opened his eyes and saw the German go down, fighting for breath, his chest a gory ruin where a soft-nosed bullet had mushroomed.

Melita cried out in a faint voice as she watched the blue smoke curling up from the muzzle of the nickel-steel revolver she had snatched up from the floor. It was the revolver she had given to Travers, the revolver Travers had knocked from the German’s hand in the beginning of the fray.

Travers stumbled forward. He was aware of a warm something flowing down his limp left arm, but he took no heed. He halted beside the dead man and looked down. He felt dizzy and very tired.

“That squares things, Brietmann,” he muttered thickly. “Billy’ll rest easy now. And may...and may God have mercy on your soul.”

Then he turned and saw Melita. Her eyes were wide with horror, and with one hand she held her handkerchief to her mouth. She had forgotten to breathe.

Travers swore feebly and crossed to the motionless girl. At his touch on her arm she shuddered and roused herself. The revolver dropped unheeded to the floor and, swaying against the man’s shoulder, she commenced to cry. Travers raised Melita’s face and kissed her lips.

“Melita!” he muttered thickly. “Let’s start again...together.”

Then blackness came and he fainted.

__________________

3: You Can't Explain These Things

Adventure Dec 15 1930

Sun (Sydney) 31 July 1932

THERE were just three of them under the awning that night, going down from Aden to Zanzibar. Captain Thomas was to transship for Beira to take the Willana home, since her master and mate were both dead of cholera: McGilvray had business in Madagascar; and little Bobby Towns was eventually to land at Mauritius to work for the sugar people. There were other passengers on board, of course, but they were sweating in their bunks, cursing the heat and cockroaches and keeping the steward busy making iced Tom Collinses.

The sea was dark velvet, flat as a table, and the big stars were so close they sent reflections across the water as do the lights of London River. Not even the creaking progress of the ship seemed able to create a wind, and the three men under the awnings sprawled in long cane chairs and felt their whites settle stickily against them.

"And there you are." said McGilvray. "It was nothing but luck. If we'd sailed on time, we'd have been in the channel when she blew up. Never had a chance. As it was the explosion flattened houses miles away. Imagine! A thousand tons of T.N.T.

"We dodged it only because a drunken man broke his leg and we were held up until the ambulance came. Delayed us half an hour. You can't explain these things."

"I remember the affair," said little Bobby, who was six feet four and drank more than was good for him. "In Halifax, wasn't it? In 1916. Ship carrying explosives collided in the harbour."

"That's right," agreed McGilvray. "And we were to follow her out. Had five hundred tons of the stuff aboard ourselves. As it was, we were still behind the headlands when things busted. Nothing but luck."

"Luck's right," said Captain Thomas.

"And that reminds me of something that happened in '17, during the War, too."

He unfastened another button of his shirt and clasped his hands over his ample stomach. A round little man he was, with a sandy walrus moustache and mild blue eyes. Tubby Thomas they called him. and the younger men laughed behind his back. Yet it was curious that the Line always sent him to take over when there was trouble.

"I was younger in '17." he said reflectively, "And a bit thinner. They hauled me into the Naval Reserve and stuck me aboard a light cruiser so that I could take orders from little boys of the regulars and show them how to navigate through ice... no matter... it's a long time ago." He sighed and flicked the sweat from the end of his nose. "Not that It's much of a story," he apologised, "but you were talking of luck. Anyway, we were on the Greenland patrol, looking for submarines and one thing and the other, and coming south for Home.

"The skipper was an old man, raised in the days when the Navy still had square-riggers, and they were debating the practicability of ironclads. Old shell-back type. You know! Rather do anything than sail on Friday. Throw a fit if he saw St. Elmo's fire at his trucks. Like an old woman. Superstitious."

Captain Thomas laughed as if the word reminded him of something else.

"Well, we had a black cat on board, donated by Lady Something or Other. The skipper got the willies over it, but the Lady was a personal friend of his, and he didn't like to throw it overboard or lose it when we were in dock. He'd never allow it on the bridge though, and if it happened to wander up there he'd chase it down himself.

"He did just that the day before we expected to get home. Kicked it off the bridge, so that it went chasing for'ard. I suppose the poor beast was scared. Anyway, the men were busy with something or the other and they had a hawser leading through a snatch-block on the deck.

"Just taking a strain, you know, and vibrating a lot. That fool cat made a dive to get under instead of going, over, and just then, the hawser jumped, and caught it, flattened it against the deck and broke its back.

"The skipper never said a word. Merely turned and went below, and when I followed him down a few minutes later he was lighting a stick of incense before a carved joss he'd brought from China when he was on station there. Big, grinning thing. He always figured it brought him luck. And so there he was lighting incense in front of it because the black cat was gone. He looked serious, too, frowning and worried.

"I asked him if I shouldn't set the clocks ahead an hour that noon. It was early summer, and they had the daylight saving system in England. We'd been keeping Greenwich time all the way down, and I thought it'd save a lot of confusion if we went into port with the clocks corrected to the shore. We had only about an eighteen hour run left.

" 'We'll do nothing further,' he snapped at me. 'Too many new-fangled ideas already. Leave the clocks alone until we dock.'

"I could see he was upset about the cat, and it may be he thought that to change the clocks would be bad luck too. Anyway, you can't argue with your skipper. So the clocks remained as they were.

"We went ahead through the rest of the afternoon and the night, never sighting a thing though we were right in the submarine zone; 'and then, just about seven-thirty five next morning, we got it— smack!— right in the quarter. It didn't sink us but it blew the wardroom all to splinters; wiped it out. Killed a steward, and that was all. We limped into port six hours late, and with a list that gave you a crick in the neck."

Captain Thomas paused and flicked the sweat from his nose again.

"And what's the point?" asked little Bobby Towns.

McGilvray grunted agreement and fumbled for a cigar.

"It's the time element," said Captain Thomas patiently. "If the skipper had let me set the clocks ahead, it would have been eight-thirty instead of seven-thirty when we caught that torpedo. As it happened, the wardroom was empty."

"Had it been eight-thirty, every officer not on duty would have been eating his last breakfast... Now, would you call that luck or superstition? Personally, I've always felt rather grateful towards that black cat."

__________________

4: Captain Typhoon (aka "Red Typhoon")

Action Stories Sep 1931

Sun (Sydney) 24 April 1932

THERE was nothing spectacular about Bradley's first appearance at Balata Island in the Torres Strait, tucked close to the uncharted coast of Australia.

He landed on the beach early one night, accompanied by his younger brother and, sending his dinghy back to his ship, thoughtfully surveyed the scene— a tall, lithely built young man of twenty-six, with shoulders broad enough to bulge his duck jacket, and a white-topped peaked cap set back on his fair hair.

The long row of bungalows, shacks I and saloons that fronted the beach was brightly lighted and noisy. On the beach itself drunken Kanakas quarreled. Laughter, oaths, music, shouts came from the bars.

"Tough it is," said Bradley's younger brother disgustedly. "I can't see why we came here and didn't go on to Sydney."

A ragged, grey-bearded man shuffled up to them, reeking of cheap trade gin.

"You'll be th' fellers that came in at sundown," he suggested in a half-whine. "Want t' give an old timer a hand?"

The elder Bradley tossed a piece of silver Into the beachcomber's palm and then lighted a short black cheroot.

"What's the best bar here?" he asked idly. "I want a drink, not rot-gut."

The beachcomber sniggered.

"You'll be going to Singapore Joe's then, up to th' end there. Skippers allus go there first and pay th' dues."

Bradley stiffened. "Dues?"

"Costs yuh twenty quid t' anchor off Balata Beach," explained the beachcomber. "Then you're all right. Stay here as long as you want, if you don't pay you can't buy no liquor nor stores nor water 'ere. And if you stick around you'll likely find yer boat afire one night or get something cold between your shoulder blades."

Bradley, shrugged. "Well, we'll see," he said, with a touch of irritation. "No one's going to hold me up."

His brother leaned close to him. "Don't forget what it is you want to know. Maybe we can find out and clear off at once."

They went on without any further words, and, coming to the largest and most pretentious of the houses that lined the beach, they pulled aside the rough curtain that covered the main doorway, opening from the verandah, and entered Singapore Joe's.

BRADLEY grunted, and a the waiter came up to them and guided them to a table, took their orders and went away.

The stout, sleek Eurasian came to the table, and, without asking, seated himself so that he laced the elder Bradley.

"You are new chums, yes?" he inquired in a soft purring voice, rubbing together slender white hands. He was a much larger man and a much more powerful man than he had seemed at a distance. His eyes were slanted a little, like aloes. His mouth was cruel beneath a stringy grey moustache. He had many expensive rings on his fingers.

"I am Singapore Joe," purred the other. "I am pleased to meet you, Captain—"

"Bradley," observed the other, and with a jerk of his head, "this is my brother, if it's any of your darned business!"

"I can see you are new... to Balata," he observed, smiling. "But I think you will learn, Captain Bradley. May I inquire how far you have come in that lugger of yours?"

Bradley shrugged.

"Shanghai, If it'll please you."

Singapore Joe's jaw dropped and he allowed open disbelief. "Shanghai?... In a forty-loot lugger?... All, but you jest, Captain. From Sydney up the coast, perhaps. Perhaps from Thursday Island. Perhaps, even, shall we say, from Macassar?"

"I said Shanghai!" drawled Bradley. "Are you trying to call me a liar?"

Singapore Joe stared at him for a moment und then slowly shook his head.

"You saw my messenger?" he said, his voice crisper. Bradley tossed his cheroot to the floor and ground it beneath his white shoe. "I met a soused beachcomber, if that's what you mean. Can't say I admire you choice of servants."

Bradley drummed on the table with his fingers and seemed amused. "I can dock in Sydney or London for less than that, but we'll forget it. If you want twenty pounds out of me, maybe you can have it... for information."

"Ah," said the other, "so you wish information. May I ask...?"

"Sure!" was the crisp reply. "What and where is Rewin Island?"

"I have heard of the place," admitted the Eurasian, smiling, "it is a legend, a myth, a place supposed to have been discovered by Captain Rewin, Captain Jack Rewin, nearly twenty years ago. But where..."

"All right!" Bradley shrugged again, "if you don't know, I'll inquire around, and if no one here knows then I'll go to Sydney." He seemed, and he was, indifferent. Bradley had that characteristic.

There was a short silence. Then Bradley cleared his throat and spread his hands on the table, palms up, laughing. "I haven't got twenty pounds," he said frankly. "Find someone who can tell me the way to Rewin Island and I'll be back inside a month and pay you."

The Eurasian sucked in his breath sharply. His face darkened. "I will give you just two minutes to get out," he rapped, "and ten to get off the beach. We need no more beachcombers at Balata."

Singapore Joe had half risen and laid a hand on the butt of the revolver stuck in his blue silk cummerbund. His eyes glittered malevolently.

"Anything wrong?" he growled from the depths of a tangled beard. Bradley's younger brother groaned and set his feet for an upward spring. He had never yet known his brother to back down from trouble. Singapore Joe was tight-drawn like a wire, staring at the still seated Bradley.

"Yes," he snarled, deep in his throat. "Yes, there is something wrong. Carson. Throw them out!"

The bearded man grinned, spat aside and came deliberately forward. He weighed fifteen stone, and there were knots of muscle in his arms and across his chest.

"Better git!" he suggested, almost amiably. "I ain't wantin' t' muss yer!"

"Take your hands off me!" Bradley grated suddenly, so suddenly that the man named Carson almost took a step backwards. But then he laughed and moved forward again, grimly confident.

Bradley was deceptive to look at, seated as he was. Carson dug his hard fingers into the other's shoulder, and than an amazing thing happened. Bradley's right hand shot upwards, gripped Carson's thick wrist. That seemed to be all, except that Bradley's shoulder heaved a little and he half rose from his chair. But Carson uttered a sharp roar of pain und went sideways, turned over in mid-air and landed on the floor with a crash that shook the building.

"I said," observed Bradley, unruffled, getting fully on his feet and hitching up his belt, "I said to keep your hands off me."

Carson rocked to his feet, his face convulsed, his right hand holding his left wrist. He glared at Bradley for a moment and then with an oath went for his gun. There was a shot, but only one. Carson's gun clattered on the floor and he stared, unbelieving, at his shattered and If bloody fingers.

Bradley slid his own weapon back into tithe holster and laughed, and curiously. it was not until he made that sound that anyone in the room was aware he had fired. No one, certainly, had seen , him draw the gun.

In a dead silence, except for the stupefied dull swearing of Carson and a few hysterical giggles from the Kanaka girls, Bradley, followed by his brother, backed to the door. He gave one final laugh as he dropped the curtain back in place, and that broke the tension.

"Don't go off half-cocked, Joe," said a mildly amused voice, somewhat musical and vaguely mocking. "Did I hear that tall one ask you for Rewin Island?"

Singapore Joe whipped about, his lips working. A slender, dark-haired dark-eyed man of medium height stood at his side, dressed in immaculate ducks, with a narrow blue silk cummerbund about his waist und an expensive silk tie holding his collar together.

Singapore Joe stifled a furious oath and lowered the hand he had raised to dash the other's hand aside. Even he respected Gentleman Harry, the dandy, the gambler, the gun-runner, one of the most feared men in all the South.

"He did ask for Rewin, yes, but what has that to do with my port dues? And his speech to me?"

The other laughed.

"Sometimes it is a wonder to me that you have lived so long," he observed drily. "What have you inside that head? What are port dues beside Rewin Island?"

Singapore Joe calmed himself with an effort. "What do I care for Rewin Island? Have you gone mad?"

"You seemed interested when he asked you about the place. I was watching you."

"I thought for a moment of the old tale... but that is a legend."

Gentleman Harry pulled the calmed Eurasian to a table and waved an airy hand at the still interested spectators.

"Show's over," he drawled curtly. "Hop it!"

There were some hard men in that room, some notorious and reckless men. but it is significant that not one questioned Gentleman Harry's words or resented his tone. He smilingly watched them all disperse back to their drinks and their tables, and then he turned to Singapore Joe.

"Do you think this Bradley wants to find Rewin because of a legend?"

Singapore Joe stared at his, companion, and a frown creased his sleek forehead.

"I begin to follow," he purred. "Perhaps I was too hasty."

"You're often too darned hasty," observed his companion pleasantly "Sometime someone'll plug you. But let that go, and listen to me. Old Werner's been in the Islands forty years and he'll know about Rewin, the whole story. Send for him."

Singapore Joe shrugged and, summoning a man, sent him to find Werner, the half-drunken beach-comber, who had accosted Bradley when he landed and who worked for the Eurasian.

He came after a short while, shambling, weaving a bit, chuckling to himself.

"I seen that Bradley feller hittin' it back for 'is lugger." he jeered. "I told 'im he'd better pay or get out."

"Sit down," said Gentleman Harry, smoothly. "Have a drink? Of course!... Now tell us what you know about Rewin Island. Wasn't there some old tale about a lot of loot buried there?"

"It's twenty years or more," he half muttered. "Haven't heard anyone talk of Jack Rewin since.... He went north an' dropped out of sight. Good man! Hard as they made 'em. Looted Raja Tualatin's palace in Tenimber. Long ago! Long ago! More'n twenty years."

Singapore Joe made an impatient gesture, but Gentleman Harry cautioned him to be still.

"Jack Rewin looted a Raja's palace, eh?" he suggested. "Then what happened?"

Werner blinked at him and his watery eyes grew cunning. "What do I get if I tell yer that? What you both up to, eh?"

Gentleman Harry laughed. "I'll give you six cases of gin for the yarn," he offered. "But make it quick."

Werner pulled himself together and drank.

"But the story," suggested Singapore Joe, with a quick hiss of impatience.

Werner blinked at him and cringed a little.

"Aye, the tale, Singapore. I suppose you mean of th' loot, what Jack got from the Raja's place…."

IN THE MAIN cabin of the lugger Claribelle Bradley poured himself a drink and surveyed his younger brother with a smile.

"You're not cut out for this sort of thing, kid," he said, not unkindly. "Once we get this deal over I'm packing you back to Shanghai. Old Waterson will give you your job back."

The other nodded moodily. "I'm no fighter," he admitted. "I wouldn't have come with you if I hadn't put all my savings into this tub and you needed a mate you could trust."

"I'm not forgetting you spent a lot more of your savings getting me out of that gaol," added his brother warmly. "You're a good egg, Bob. We'll be at the end of the trail soon. Rewin Island's no great way from here, from what old Rewin said."

"It's a pity you didn't get the exact location from him," muttered the other. "Saved us all this bother."

Bradley tossed down his drink and frowned. "There wasn't time, as I told you." he explained for the dozenth time. "The old boy was shot in the back by a warder just as we were getting into that boat you'd arranged to be waiting for us. He'd already told me about the stuff and where he'd ditched it, but he wus keeping the island to himself. You see, we figured on sailing together.

"When he knew he was done, he just was able to tell me that anyone who'd been a friend of his in the old days know the place, or to ask some of the old timers in Balata. I had to leave on the jump then."

He poured another drink and added, "I'll find the darned Island all right. It's the location of the loot that counts, and we've got that!"

"Are we going to Sydney now?" demanded the other. "You said we might find some old timers there if Balata was a blank."

Bradley shrugged. "Going to Sydney on what?" he said grimly. "We're busted. Took all you had to get the Claribelle and fit her out. I figured on calling here not only for information but to get some stores. Thought we'd be able to borrow on the old tub for them. But this Singapore Joe running the darned port makes it look tough."

He drank again and looked pleased. His brother shook his head wearily and sighed. He laid spent most of his life in a Shanghai counting-house until the reckless elder brother of his had very awkwardly got himself trapped poaching seals in a place where he had no business to be.

There sounded a dull thump along the lugger's hull and then a voice hailed the deck. Bradley hitched at his gun belt and laughed.

"If that's some of Singapore Joe's men telling me to get to sea, there'll be trouble," he promised. "Better come on up, Bob."

They went on deck together and discovered a dinghy lying alongside while one of Bradley's Chinese crew argued with its occupants, telling them he had orders to let no one aboard.

Bradley leaned over the rail.

"What th' blazes do you want?" he demanded crisply.

A suave, calm voice answered back. "Is that Bradley? Ah! Bradley! Are you interested in knowing where Rewin, Island is?"

Bradley stiffened.

"All right," he said, after a pause. "Come up, and don't try any tricks."

Three men came over the lugger's rail then. The first was Gentleman Harry, unruffled, cool, and, as always immaculate. The second was Captain Barrett. The third was Werner. Bradley recognised the beachcomber and was introduced to the other two.

His curiosity aroused now, he led the way back to the main cabin and sat his guests down.

"Let's have it!" he said, with his deceptive drawl. "What do you know about Rewin Island?"

Gentleman Harry lighted a slender cheroot and smiled. He was frankness and friendliness itself.

"I'll lay my cards on the table," he said smoothly. "I was in Singapore's place at the next table to you and I heard what you said. May I say I admire your marksmanship? And your nerve?

"I'll play square with you." he said gently. "I heard what you asked Singapore. You want Rewin Island. No one comes from as far as Shanghai wanting Rewin Island for nothing. I'm taking it you know something about Rewin's little affair some twenty years ago."

Bradley shrugged.

"What of it?"

"Just this. We'll find you the island if you'll split with us."

"Who's we?"

Gentleman Harry waved airily. "Myself, of course. My partner, Captain Barrett here. And, or course, my friend Werner."

"How much?"

"Half!"

"Give me the location and I'll bring your whack back here to you," Bradley suggested, his drawling voice amused.

Gentleman Harry shrugged.

"Now, is that reasonable?" he said softly. "We are men of the world, Bradley. This is the Islands, not New York or London. You can't do business that way. Take us along."

Bradley said, with his usual blindness, "I think you're a bunch of crooks, but I'll take one of you along!"

Gentleman Harry smiled at that, perfectly calm but inwardly hating the other.

ON the morning of the sixth day after they had left Balata the Claribelle lifted Rewin Island, a large rocky eminence some six miles long by four wide, half hidden by the tall headlands of the great bay in which it sat. It was densely forested and possessed several small bays and coves with sandy beaches, admirable for shelter and even for careening a ship.

Bradley surveyed the island through his glasses as they approached it.

"The south shore's what we want," he said.

Werner, sober for the first time in years, since they had kept liquor from him, was surprised.

"We always anchored on the east, th' shore side," he protested. "Best cove's there."

Bradley shrugged. "My directions were to head up from the south, pass a high reef to starboard and then get a line on a rocky outcrop bare of trees, lying about north-west. Rewin said there was a good anchorage in three fathoms about a cable's-length from the shore."

Gentleman Harry smiled.

"Anything you say, my deal Bradley. Anything you say!"

They came up to the island, made their course good, and anchored in three fathoms, exactly as the ill-fated Captain Rewin had stated. Bradley hitched at his cartridge belt and stared thoughtfully at the tangled mosses of Jungle that ran down to the sandy beach.

"You said something about natives being here, bad ones?" he inquired Gentleman Harry shrugged.

"Werner tells me the place is uninhabited. I said that as an argument for you to take us along."

Bradley's jaw tightened. The crisis was nearly due, he was aware. He ordered the dinghy to be lowered, and, although it was a tight fit, they all squeezed in and pulled to the beach. Bradley stepped ashore, looked about him keenly and then, seizing his brother by the arm led the way up into a little jungle-choked ravine from which a small stream ran out on the sand and made a slow way to the salt water.

"Now listen, Bob," said Bradley quickly and in a low voice. "As soon as we locate the stuff remember what I said. Don't take your eyes off any of them. Don't let them cut behind you. I've got a bad hunch we're going to get licked, but there's no sense making things easy for them. If you have to start shooting, shoot to kill!"

STRAGGLING along behind Bradley and his brother, Gentleman Harry and Captain Barrett were also talking, with Werner hobbling farther in the rear.

"If you see a chance, take it," Gentleman Harry was saying. "If we can get away with it we save Singapore's cut."

Captain Barrett tugged at his beard and nodded. "Then It's just you and me?"

"Just you and me," the other agreed.

"Werner?"

"Leave him with the rest."

"What'll you say to Singapore?"

"To blazes with Singapore! If we get away with it we'll never even see him. If we don't get a chance we'll go through with the original scheme. The Sea Thrush ought to be around by now."

Bradley had pushed through a tangle of vines and was in the jungle. He followed the course of the little stream for some distance, the ground rising all the time, and at last he came to a small waterfall, the stream dropping from the edge of a tiny rocky plateau.

"The old man was telling the truth," he observed to his brother, and then waited until Gentleman Harry and the others came up, his back to the rook.

"Any luck?" inquired Gentleman Harry pleasantly.

Bradley touched the ground before him with his foot.

"Dig here," he said.

Gentleman Harry met his glance and the two men stared fixedly at each other, neither moving.

"I should think you'd like to dig the stuff yourself," said the Gentleman softly.

Bradley smiled, and his voice assumed the quiet, deceptive drawl. "I've got a bad back," he said "So's Bob here."

The two men kept their glances set on each other. Captain Barrett stood to one side, fingering his beard and muttering to himself. Werner came wheezing up and flung down the shovel and crowbar he had been carrying. Gentleman Harry spoke to him without turning his lace from BradIey.

"Dig it up, Werner."

The old beachcomber stared around blankly for a moment, and then with an oath Captain Barrett picked up the crowbar and drove it savagely into the spot Bradley had indicated.

"I want t' get a look at the darned stuff!" he panted. Werner got hold of a shovel. Barrett unearthed a long-sunken rock slab and broke the earth beneath it. They dug furiously then, amid a tight silence broken only by their heavy breathing and grunting. They did not even look away when Barrett gave a hoarse cry of triumph and young Bradley whimpered with excitement.

"A box!" mumbled old Werner. "Tin box wrapped in canvas. Nearly rusted away at that."

"Wrap it in your coat, Barrett!" Bradley rasped suddenly. "We'll get back to the ship."

The words recalled Barrett to himself, and he looked up sharply, first at Bradley and then at his partner.

Gentleman Harry smiled a little. "We'll go back to the ship," he agreed, and in those words Barrett knew that Gentleman Harry had resigned one scheme entirely.

Bradley was too alert to be jumped. Barrett went first with the box Bradley and Gentleman Harry came next, side by side. Bob Bradley brought up the rear with Werner. Barrett took the box down to the main cabin and they followed him, all except Werner— who mumbled something about getting busy, and shambled away for'ard. Bradley did not even notice his departure, he was so busy with the others.

"Shall I open her?" Barrett demanded hoarsely.

"Sure! Let's have a look," said Gentleman Harry easily.

Bradley sensed that the other had relaxed, was no longer tensed for action, and he relaxed, too.

Together they set their hands in plain sight on the table and lowered their eyes to watch Barrett's clumsy operations. With eager fingers the bearded captain forced it open, lifted a fine silk scarf, now badly stained, and uttered a choking cry as his eyes fell upon the box's contents.

There were some gold coins, bangles and earrings, but the chief part of the loot consisted of jewels; emeralds, a few rubies, some all but ruined pearls and a considerable number of diamonds and pieces of carved jade. There were bracelets set with precious stones; necklaces of clear emeralds; some exquisite brooches of blood amber and at least a handful of other stones of indeterminate nature and value.

Gentleman Harry put out one hand and delicately lifted a large ruby that glowed like wine from a golden setting and must have been worth a small fortune.

"It was too bad Captain Rewin could not get back," he murmured, amused. "He could have done quite a lot with this."

Captain Barrett sat down heavily and plucked at his beard. Young Bradley pawed over the gems.

"Lord!" muttered the captain "There's a pile of oof there!"

Bradley's lips tightened.

"There is! We'll make a list of everything, then lock the box up until we get to port."

"To Balata?" inquired Gentleman Harry smoothly.

Bradley laughed. "Do you take me for a fool? We'll go to some port that's neutral for both of us. Maybe Macassar. Sell the stuff and split the money. That's fair, isn't it?"

Gentleman Harry laughed. "Anything you say, my dear Bradley. Anything you say!"

There was something in his tone— something confident, insolent, amused— that made the bigger man suspicious.

His clear grey eyes narrowed. He was about to say something when there came a slight bump, then another, and the lugger rocked sharply. Right through the soles of his shoes Bradley could feel her grinding and he jumped to his feet.

"What th' blazes!" he rapped. "We're aground!"

Gentleman Harry did not move. "Yes," he agreed pleasantly. "We're aground!"

BRADLEY went up on deck, urging Captain Barrett before him and leaving his brother to watch the jewels and Gentleman Harry. The lugger, which had been anchored in three fathoms when he had boarded her, was now resting with a slight list on a sandbank about two cables' length to port.

Bradley roared for his crew and ran for'ard. He saw at a glance what had happened. Someone had slipped the anchor cable and the tide had drifted the ship. Bradley suddenly thought of the old beachcomber, but he was nowhere to be seen. Probably in hiding. But why slip the cable? Had Gentleman Harry ordered that, to put the lugger ashore? Why? What sense was there in wrecking the lugger?

He stormed below to the main cabin again, after calling out to his brother to ascertain if everything was safe, and Gentleman Harry shook his head.

"No use in swearing about it," he remarked. "We'll get her off all right."

Bradley bit his lip and gave it up, although an inner voice warned him there was something in the wind. He had a list of the jewels and stuff made, locked the rusted box in his drawer and took the crowd of them on deck to aid in getting a kedge anchor overside

IT WAS getting late. The night was dark but starry and there was a warm wind from the west. Bradley smoked as he paced up and down the after deck. He was deadly tired, but he dared not sleep. Gentleman Harry and Captain Barrett were amidships, talking together with Werner, who had appeared as soon as darkness fell, but had not  yet ventured aft, as if he were afraid to face Bradley.

He called his brother over.

"I've got to get some rest, Bob," he said flatly. "Stand right here by this chair and do us I say. Call me if anything happens. Get it?"

He was conscious of the voices of Gentleman Harry and others midships for a while; conscious that the Chinese were making an ungodly lot of noise for them, beating a tin can or something— to keep the devils away he supposed— and singing eerily.

What a wakened him Bradley never knew. Afterwards he put it down to that "hunch" sense of his and to his colossal luck. He was only aware that very suddenly his eyes were open and his every muscle alert.

He turned slightly and discovered that his brother had gone, and then he caught the sound of his voice midships, protesting, but, protesting half-heartedly. "No, I don't want a drink now, I've got to get back. If he wakes up and finds I've gone…"

Bradley cursed beneath his breath. The young fool had let them entice him midships. Gentleman Harry had probably called him, wanting to show him something or say something. What was that sound, so faint Above the small wind? Bradley got to his feet with a cat-like spring and it that moment things happened.

He heard his brother cry out. "You dirty crooks! Let me go!"

There was a choking cry after that, followed by a thud. The lugger rocked as something struck her side. There was a loud scrambling noise, and the low mutter of voices. The Chinese had stopped beating their can, stopped singing.

Bradley cursed himself for not being wiser They had been making all that racket for some purpose, to guide someone. He landed on the main deck in one Jump from the top of the low poop companion. Shadows filled the deck. He saw men pouring over the rail, and sparing time for a glance overside, noted two boats against the lugger's hull. He heard Gentleman Harry caution quiet.

"Come out, you rat!" he said coldly. "I'm awake!"

He fired as he spoke, emptying his gun. He saw men stagger and fall, and then a belaying pin sang through the darkness, and took him on the side of the head. He went to his knees and men poured over him. Lights blazed and whirled before his eyes, and with a last desperate instinct to survive, he dragged himself to the rail, hauling four or five men with him, shaking them clear and toppled over and into the cool water alongside.

He swam for what seemed hours, as in a dream, sick and dazed. At last, when It seemed he would have to give up, his feet struck sand and he was able to stagger and reel to the beach. He fell on the dry sand.

The first thing he was aware of was that the redness on the sky was not the early sun, but a pillar of tall flame licking upwards from the beached lugger. She was almost burned to the water's edge, and the rosy glow from her cast a light far across the water.

There was no sign of the boats that had come in the night. No sign of any ship. The beach seemed deserted, except for a dark huddle down near the water's edge. What had become of his brother he had not the least idea. He cursed himself for letting the boy come with him— cursed himself for ever taking Gentleman Harry and the rest along.

He drank from the little stream that ran down the ravine where they had gone to get old Rewin's loot. It was lighter by this time, light enough to see clearly. The flames from the Claribelle were all but gone. And the dark huddle Bradley had noticed down at the water's edge when he had first awoke now resolved itself into two men, one raised on one elbow, the other lying prone.

It was somewhat of a shock for him to discover that the man leaning on one elbow was Werner. The old beachcomber was a ghastly sight. His sodden shirt was stained red down the left side. His face was sunken and white beneath his whiskers, his eyes glaring as with fever. He was too weak even to speak at first, only stared at Bradley as if he would bore through him.

Bradley said nothing. The other figure, prone on its face, he knelt beside and turned over. They had got Bob after all. There was a knife between his ribs and his face was convulsed.

Bradley's head suddenly cleared. "How did you come here?" he asked quietly, so quietly that he was astonished at himself.

Werner stared at him, wetted his cracked lips. "They pitched me over," he whispered hoarsely. "Shot me and pitched me over."

"And you swam ashore?" said Bradley, beyond any astonishment now.

The other nodded.

"Who killed my brother?" asked Bradley, quite calm.

"Barrett stabbed him," the old man muttered. "They threw him over, too... He swam a bit then died... Drifted ashore… I found him not long ago."

"But why did they shoot you?"

Werner mumbled something. Then his voice cleared. "Didn't want to share with me. 'Fraid you might have friends and I'd talk... I'm tired."

"Whose boats were they?"

Werner rose on one elbow again, rallying the last of his strength.

"From the Sea Thrush… Singapore's barque."

Bradley was still for a moment, bent on one knee, staring into the old beachcomber's eyes.

"Singapore sent Gentleman Harry then, to see me?"

"It was Harry's idea first. Then Singapore and him fixed it that the Sea Thrush was to come to Rewin here. Get here ahead of you, fast sailer. They had a man on lookout on the headland of the bay yonder when we anchored.

"It was up to us to keep the lugger around until night and then the Sea Thrush's boats were to jump us...."

"Where will the Sea Thrush go?" asked Bradley quietly.

"Balata... Where else? They figure yer won't dare ever go there even if you're alive and get off Rewin. I got you figured different."

"You stick around an' there'll be a ship coming in some time. One of th' old timers."

He closed his eyes and seemed to sleep, exhausted. There was nothing that could be done for him.

THE first thing he knew was when he heard a voice, a rough, roaring voice, hailing him, and he looked up with a start.

A white-painted whaleboat was coming towards him, evidently from the remains of the smouldering lugger. Bradley stared and wondered if he were dreaming. A tall, muscular man, red-faced, arrogant and dressed In a white singlet, ducks and a sun-helmet landed from the whaleboat and strode up the beach.

Bradley saw a pair of keen blue eyes, an iron grey moustache, a mane of iron-grey hair.

"What th' blazes is wrong here?' the stranger demanded, or rather bellowed.

Werner opened his eyes, tried to rise again.

"Cassidy!" he jerked feebly. "I'd know that voice... Jim Cassidy!"

The grey-haired man started and bent down. "Who on earth are you?"

"Werner... what's left of 'im..."

The other straightened and shook his head. "The Werner I knew died on Balata... years ago."

The wounded man gestured his assent, smiling a little.

"That's right. Cassidy... Years ago."

Bradley moistened his dry lips. "Where did you come from?" he demanded.

The other waved a large hand. "Where the deuce do you think? I was over at the old beach on the east coast, careening. What are you doing here?"

Bradley felt something pluck at his leg and, looking down, saw Werner was trying to speak to him. He bent.

"That's Cassidy," Werner muttered. "One of the old timers ' 'E's all right."

Bradley nodded, understanding. This was one of the men who had known Jack Rewin in the old days. One of the captains who still used the island.

Cassidy was explaining in his bellowing way. "Got up this morning and saw ; fire way off across the island. Shoved the whaleboat out and came to look What's the story?"

Bradley told him as briefly as he could. Cassidy said nothing but brought his four kanakas ashore from the whaleboat. He gave Bradley a drink of brandy from a flask, and moistened Werner's lips with the same spirit. The kanakas carried the body of young Bradley up under the palms and buried him. Werner they laid in the boat. Bradley got in, Cassidy in the stern sheets beside him.

CASSIDY took Bradley on board, washed and dressed his wounds, rolled him in cool sheets and made him turn into his own bunk. In spite of himself the exhausted man slept, awoke to sip some warm broth and drink more brandy, and slept again. When he finally awoke It was to find the Redwing launched and afloat, and to hear Cassidy bellowing orders on deck. Bradley got up, dressed in some whites he found laid out for him, shaved himself, drank more brandy, and went up on deck Cassidy eyed him sharply and grunted.

"You look better. How's the head and the side?"

"Going good," said Bradley. "Where's Werner?"

Cassidy nodded aft, and Bradley saw a long canvas bundle laid on a grating near the sail.

"Died yesterday." said Cassidy quietly. "Told me the story. We'll bury him when we get to sea." He paused for a moment and went on. "Used to be a good man, did Werner. But he died on Balata, years ago, when the booze and Singapore Joe got hold of him."

Bradley nodded, understanding. For'ard the kanakas were hoisting the anchor.

"How long was I out?" Bradley inquired.

"Two days," Cassidy replied. "I'm going to Sydney. Take you along?"

"No," said Bradley. His voice was taut and metallic. Cassidy stared at him,

"Where, then?"

"Drop me at Balata on your way."

Cassidy snorted. "You got it in the neck going u with fellows like Gentleman Harry and Barrett. Stay away from Balata, or you'll get more. You're green in the South, so take an old timer's advice.

"There's only three men in the islands 'd land on Balata after going through what you've been through, and they're the only three who'd come back to talk of what they did to Gentleman Harry."

"I'd like to know their names," said Bradley "I expect to stay in the islands."

Cassidy shrugged.

"Well, I'm telling you. One of them's Big Bill Gunther. The other's Shark Gotch, a youngster like yourself, younger, I'd say."

He stopped and stroked his grey moustache.

"And the other?" Bradley insisted,

Cassidy faced him and stuck out a belligerent jaw.

"Jim Cassidy!" he bellowed.

Bradley laughed a little, very grimly. "You can make it four now," he stated. "Because I'm landing on Balata and I'm coming out alive."

Cassidy swore.

"Have it your own way. But Gentleman Harry's one of the best shots in the South, so is Singapore Joe. And you can't fight them both, let alone the whole darned Island."

Bradley's Jaw tightened. "You've been jolly good to me," he stated. "And I'll ask you just another favor, as man to man. Lend me your dinghy and a gun when we're off Balata. You don't have to run in the harbor. Give me 24 hours and if I'm not back, go on to Sydney."

Cassidy was amused. "It's not much you want," he suggested "Hold up my whole voyage and throw away a boat and gun because some crazy fool wants to commit suicide."

He eyed Bradley closer tor a moment, and something he saw in the narrowed grey eyes sent a chill through him. Ever an impulsive man, he suddenly made his decision.

"You're on!" he roared, slapping his thigh. "If you're fool enough to go, I'm fool enough to back you. It'll make a good yarn when I get back to Apia, anyway."

Bradley smiled, thinly and coldly He had lost his brother and he intended to give him a send-off such is the Islands should take about, for years

IN Singapore Joe's office there were four men. Gentleman Harry and Singapore Joe sat  at a neat baize-covered table, beneath a hanging tamp Between them, on the table was a rusty black tin box, the lid still closed. Leaning against one wall was a brutal-faced, clean-shaven man, one of  Singapore's captains, the man who ran the Sea Thrush, Singapore's big barque.

On a chair near the door that led into the main room, whence came the muffled noise of hilarity, sat a stalwart Chinese, half-nude his arms folded across his chest, and a gun thrust in his belt.

Gentleman Harry and Singapore were arguing. They had entered Balata roadstead only that afternoon, due to a squall crippling their canvas and a bad head wind that had held them back.

"There's only one thing to do," Gentleman Harry was insisting. "There isn't enough loose cash in Balata to pay for that stuff. We've got to take it to Macassar, or even Sydney."

"But who's going to take it?" demanded Singapore Joe. "Who can we trust, I ask?"

Gentleman Harry shrugged.

"We'll both go, then. But not on the Sea Thrush..."

Gentleman Harry did not finish. A slight gust of air had entered the room. The back door was wide open. Neither Singapore's captain nor the Chinese guard noticed it at first, but Gentleman Harry was exactly facing the door.

Singapore Joe looked at him sharply as he stopped talking. Singapore Joe whipped round, startled himself, now, and then he, too, grew rigid. The Chinese guard got suddenly to his feet with a sibilant oath. Singapore's captain braced himself against the wall, astonished.

In the doorway stood Bradley, dressed only in a shirt, in crumpled cluck pants, in rope-soled canvas slippers. His head was bare. His face was tight and drawn. His eyes were narrowed. And about his waist he had twin guns buckled. The first sound that came was when he kicked the door shut behind him.

"Well!" he said calmly, "Quite a pleasant meeting!"

His voice was as hard and cold as ice. He seemed to be standing negligently, his hands hooked in his belts. Only his eyes roved back and forth from man to man. Gentleman Harry slowly recovered, although his hands were trembling.

"I'll give you credit," he said at last, hoarsely. "You've got nerve, Bradley."

Singapore Joe sucked in his breath and stood up. "I do not think," he purred, "you will bother us much longer."

Bradley laughed, and as he laughed things happened. They thought he was off guard for a moment. Singapore Joe sprang sideways and drew his gun. Gentleman Harry moved quick as a snake, diving into his arm-holster. The Chinese guard and Singapore's captain were far behind them— not quick-witted enough to grasp the situation.

The room was suddenly filled with noise, the crashing vomit of guns. Bradley was firing from both hands— braced square, back to the door, his eyes grey slits and his face expressionless. Gentleman Harry knew even as he drew that he had met his match.

Singapore Joe never had time to raise his weapon. He died with a hole through his heart and his own shot tearing into the floor. Gentleman Harry had just got his gun clear when a bullet entered his right shoulder and another knocked the weapon from his hand. The Chinese guard went down with a hole in his forehead. The captain rocked back, hit in the left arm and the thigh. The room was filled with smoke and the acrid fumes of powder.

Only Gentleman Harry stood on his feet holding his shoulder, his face livid and convulsed, his lips drawn back from his teeth.

"You're clever," snarled Gentleman Harry at last. "Darned clever! But you won't have long to talk about it!"

"Where's Barrett?" Bradley rasped.

"On the Sea Thrush. Drunk when I left him," sneered Gentleman Harry. "If you want the man who knifed your brother, it's Barrett."

"I know," Bradley agreed. "And I'm letting you live so you can tell how you were licked by a green hand.

"Do you remember what I told you when we made our deal in the main cabin of the Claribelle? I told you that if you put anything over on me you wouldn't talk about it for long."

Gentleman Harry stared at him, fascinated in spite of himself, hating him.

"You'd better get me now," he snarled. "You won't have another chance, and I'll see you cold before you can leave the Islands."

Bradley laughed, an ugly sound.

"I'm staying in the Islands for a long time, so you'll have a lot of chances. But bullet wounds heal and I want to give you something to remember me by. I never did like your face, anyway."

He struck then, before the other man could dodge. Bradley's iron fist caught him flush on his handsome face, smashing flat the nose, splitting the lips, tearing open the cheek, and fracturing the jaw. Without so much as a look down at his face, Bradley stepped over him and to the door. He flung it back and entered the main room. Every face was turned towards him. He closed the door.

"Has anybody got anything to say?" he asked evenly. "Singapore Joe is dead."

A man who had ventured to peer into the inner office came stumbling out, choking.

"He's got 'em all!" he croaked, "Joe an' Harry and th' rest. Looks like a typhoon struck 'em!"

Bradley laughed aloud. "Thanks for the suggestion," he said.

Then he drew one gun and started firing. He aimed at the hurricane lamps and there was a stampede as they fell. Flames run over the floor. Bradley laughed again and stepped back into the darkness. He went down to the beach where he had left his dinghy. He launched her and pulled to three ships before he found the Sea Thrush. Then he tied his dinghy to the pilot ladder and climbed up over the bulwarks.

It was well lighted. Two white men sat there. One was Captain Barrett, very drunk and singing to himself. The other was a grim-faced, lean man in a grey flannel shirt and a pair of pyjama pants. He was not armed. Barrett had his gun on the table before him together with his cartridge belt.

"Barrett!" said Bradley quietly.

The captain looked up and suddenly sobered. He fumbled at his beard and then half rose.

"What in blazes do you want? Some of what your confounded brother got?"

He made a grab for the gun on the table, and Bradley waited until he had the weapon clear and levelled. Then he killed him before he could pull the trigger. There was a hard silence as the echoes of the shot died away.

Bradley turned his gaze to the second of the men, who was sitting rigid and astonished and badly frightened.

"I'm taking over, I'm the new skipper."

The mate seemed as if he would protest, but one look into Bradley's cold eyes convinced him.

He lowered his hands and shrugged.

"All th' same to me," he said. "Lift th' anchor, you said. Very well, sir!"

He had left the tin box of Captain Rewin's loot in Singapore Joe's office, left it deliberately. He felt he could not touch it now, since it had caused his brother's death. But he had the Sea Thrush. He knew, too, that he had made Island history. The kanakas for'ard were going to work, though complainingly, under the lash of the mate's scared voice.

All along the row of shacks and saloons on Balata Beach the red flames were racing. By dawn there would be nothing but a heap of ashes remaining of the worst port in the South.

THE Sea Thrush drew clear of Balata and rounded the point, heading into the open sea. Soon after dawn she drew close, very close to a schooner named the Redwing, lying hove-to and pitching gently.

Bradley hailed her and Cassidy, walking up and down and smoking a black cigar, obviously worried, stared across the blue water with astonishment, hardly able to believe his eyes.

"You got away, then, durn you!" He was unable to say more Bradley waved at him as the barque slid past.

"I've got a ship, too... See you in Apia, some time... and thanks! I'll return the dinghy then."

"Say, listen..." called Cassidy. "What the blazes...!"

"I've got a new name," shouted Bradley, the thought suddenly coming to him as he remembered what had been said in Singapore Joe's when one curious man had stumbled from the reeking, smoke-filled office that looked as if a great wind had struck it.

"What's that?" bellowed Cassidy, and the tall young man with the old face, laughed.

"Typhoon Bradley!" he said as the barque ran clear and out of hearing.

___________________

5: Trial by Typhoon

Action Stories, September, 1932

TYPHOON BRADLEY broke one of the unwritten laws of the Islands when he interfered. It was at Funafuti, toward the close of the pearling season. A score of ships were anchored in the lagoon. Half a hundred canoes and whaleboats dotted the surface of the limpid water. On the beach was a small city of tents, shacks, huts and lean-tos, such as always sprang up when a lagoon was being worked. Native women and children were scattered along the sand. White men sprawled here and there on the hastily built verandas. Pearl buyers from all the world rested in the shade and sipped their drinks. Typhoon Bradley was sitting with Chang, the Chinese pearl buyer, when it began.

First of all a slender native, or rather a half-caste from the look of him, came hurtling out of the bar door. He fell heavily on the sand and the next moment there was standing over him a burly, tall man with a ragged black beard and thick hairy arms. He seemed drunk and he wielded a short stock-whip.

“I’ll teach you, you nigger swine!” he roared, and the whip rose and fell. The half-caste writhed, tried to crawl away, was kicked back and at last resigned himself to whimpering and crying out, his head buried in his arms.

A small crowd gathered. No one said anything. A man had a right to punish his own natives. The Islands were not being tamed by prayers and good wishes. The South was raw and a man’s crew might at any time turn and rip him to shreds if they thought him soft enough. Typhoon Bradley drew on his cheroot and frowned a little.

“Who is he?” he asked quietly.

Chang shrugged. “The bearded one? A Captain Tench. Came in two days ago with that rakish bark over there. No one seems to know much about him. The thin, pockmarked man standing by him is his mate, I believe.”

The whip rose and fell, the bearded man swore viciously. The half-caste’s back was cut and raw, beginning to bleed. Soon his writhing and screaming ceased. He had fainted. Still no one said anything and no one moved. But the whip lifted and fell with sickening soft sounds and blood spattered the crowd.

TYPHOON BRADLEY got up, shook off Chang’s detaining arm and tossed away his cheroot.

“Don’t you think that’s enough?” he asked mildly. Captain Tench paused for a moment and glared at him.

“You mind your own damned business!” he grated. “The damned swine stole a belt out of my cargo!”

Bradley looked and saw the unconscious half-caste was still clutching a cheap, patent leather belt such as was used for trade in the outer islands, a thing worth, perhaps, two cents.

“Stealing’s bad when it gets started in a crew,” Bradley agreed, “but you don’t need to kill the man.”

“Shut up!” snarled the other and brought the whip down again with a vicious swish upon the unconscious man’s back. Typhoon’s gray eyes hardened and his six feet of lean muscle tightened a little.

“I said that’s enough!” he snapped. He caught the arm that held the whip, wrenched the weapon away and flung the owner aside.

There was a silence that could almost be felt. Men stared. Captain Tench choked with wrath. The veins corded in his bull neck and the blood ran red in his face.

“You!... damn you!” he choked.

Someone caught his arm. “Careful there. That’s Typhoon Bradley!”

Captain Tench hurled the cautioning hand aside. “I don’t give a damn who he is! He can’t tell me what to do!”

“Listen...”

“Get out of my blasted way!” roared Tench, and he charged, his great fists flailing and his head lowered.

Someone laughed. Typhoon Bradley was reputed to be the strongest man in the South and no one but a stranger would have been as big a fool as Tench.

There was a hard smacking noise and the bearded captain went sidewise and to the sand, sprawling a good six feet before he lighted. Typhoon Bradley rubbed his knuckles and waited.

Tench got up, shaking his head, undoubtedly surprised and sobered. He whipped ’round, cooler now, his eyes slits.

“Tough, eh?” he sneered and came in with the weaving gait of a practiced fighter. Bradley was no boxing man but he knew the rough and ready fighting of the outlands as few other men did. Even first-rate boxers are not always good fighters outside the ring, and champions have been known to be knocked out in a rough-house by men they could cut to pieces in a squared circle and under rules.

But Tench was good. There could be no mistake about that. He ducked Typhoon’s right hook and landed with a stinging left jab that would have sent most men to their knees. Typhoon took half a step back and smack! Tench staggered, almost fell and covered up by instinct. He made the mistake then of going into a clinch and Bradley got him under the heart with a right hook that nearly broke Tench’s ribs. Tench was game. He came back, landed a right jab, crossed with a hard left and left himself open. Typhoon laughed and put his body behind his blow. Tench’s feet left the sand and he was hurled twice his own length before crashing into the crowd and falling. He was out before his body hit the sand and his left ear was all but torn off.

“WELL,” someone drawled, “he’s pretty good. He hit Typhoon three times. That’s one above the record.” Someone else laughed.

Typhoon stared at his inert foe for a moment and thoughtfully rubbed his knuckles.

“You ain’t heard the last of this,” a voice said beside him and he turned sharply to see the thin, pock-marked man who was Tench’s mate. The man was snarling and obviously savage and his right hand kept clawing at his gun butt, as if he had a hard time to control himself. But you can’t shoot another man on Funafuti beach without giving him an even draw, and Typhoon’s gun-belt hung over the back of his chair near Chang.

“Are you proposing to fight too?” inquired Typhoon mildly.

The other licked his lips, breathed hard and then shook his head. “Not now, Bradley. But I’m Tench’s mate and I know him. He’ll get back at you some way. We’ve heard of you! Big guy in the Islands, eh? You won’t be for long.”

Bradley shrugged. “You’d better pick up the wreck,” he said indifferently, jerking his head toward Tench who was still unconscious.

The other glared at him, cooling off. “I suppose you don’t object if I take our man along too?” he asked sarcastically. Bradley glanced down at the now groaning half-caste and shook his head. “If he’s your man he’s yours. But I wouldn’t beat him up any more.”

“No?”

“That’s what I said.”

“And what would you do, big guy? Board our packet?”

“I don’t know just what I’d do but it wouldn’t be pleasant.”

“You’re not the damned magistrate here!” Someone snickered and Typhoon smiled grimly. “That happens to be exactly what I am. Appointed for the duration of the season.”

THE other’s jaw dropped. He mumbled something, backed off, then, calling sharply to several of his crew he saw standing about, he had the half-caste and Captain Tench carried down to the water’s edge and taken on board the bark.

The crowd broke up, some few men congratulating Typhoon. He merely shrugged and returned to his seat beside Chang.

It had been the first time that season he had ever had to interfere as a magistrate and then he had handled the matter outside of officialdom. When Typhoon Bradley held authority no one cared to cause trouble. And anyone who knows the wild, roaring days and nights on a pearling beach understands just how much that means.

“He’s bad, that Captain Tench,” said Chang quietly.

Typhoon nodded. “Damned bad. I wonder what his game is?”

“I have been wondering too,” said Chang drily. “I heard a short while ago that he has Gentleman Harry on board.”

“What?” Bradley ripped out, turning to stare at the Chinaman. “Gentleman Harry?”

For a moment he was tense and motionless. If there was one name that could jar the habitual calm of the man it was that of his old enemy Gentleman Harry of Singapore. They had clashed a dozen times. They had wounded and all but killed each other. It had been a blow of Typhoon’s fist one night on Balata Beach that had ruined the Gentleman’s then handsome features. He had, before that night, been called Gentleman as a term of admiration for his looks as well as his immaculate clothing. But after that night the term of Gentleman was used as a jest, and for that Gentleman Harry hated Typhoon Bradley with an intenseness that at times sent him almost insane. If Gentleman Harry was at Funafuti that meant trouble.

“I’ll look into this,” promised Typhoon grimly. “I’m responsible for the beach this season and no one’s going to pull anything if I can help it.... Come on in and let’s feed.”

They both got up and went into Boston Charlie’s for a drink and some food.

Outside the night fell swiftly over the vast expanse of the great lagoon and the lights began to twinkle out on the ships. Bonfires flickered on the beach. The Kanakas shouted and boasted and strutted up and down telling of their day’s diving. A tinny piano began to play in Boston Charlie’s, and native women slipped quietly in and out while the rattle of dice and the harsh voices of the game dealers cut across the smoke-filled air.

2: Trapped

IT must have been two or three hours after sunset when Typhoon finally left the poker game he had been sitting in, and after a few words to Chang went outside into the cool night air. He paused for a moment to stare up and down the line of shacks and then hitching up his cartridge belt he pushed his way through the throng and made for the water’s edge.

He was frankly puzzled at learning that Gentleman Harry was at Funafuti, and more than puzzled that though the man had been there two days he had made no attempt to come ashore. That meant he wanted to keep under cover. No one else in the lagoon seemed to know the Gentleman was present, and how Chang had found out Typhoon couldn’t guess. The Chinaman, however, usually knew a good many things others didn’t.

When Typhoon had bluntly asked him how he was aware of the Gentleman’s presence on Tench’s ship, Chang had merely shrugged, smiled inscrutably and said: “It is my business to know everything. That is why I buy pearls for Cartier’s and Tiffany. That is why I have been in the Islands twenty years and am still alive.”

Bradley shook his head. He knew Chang too well to doubt that his information was correct.

Then what did the Gentleman plan on doing? The season was closing in two days. Most of the pearls had been bought or were contracted for; so had the shell. Tench hadn’t brought any supplies to sell.... Typhoon had ascertained that. Nor had he claimed to be in need of supplies or water. He appeared to be some sea bully from northern waters who offered neither explanations nor courtesy.

Typhoon suspected something was going to break and it had worried him so much he had not been able to attend to his poker. He was magistrate for the season and he intended it should close with a clean slate for him.

He picked out a dinghy when he reached the water’s edge— as magistrate he could commandeer any boat he felt like, though for that matter no one would have argued with him— and getting in he pushed off and rowed himself out to Tench’s bark, the Wanderer.

There seemed to him to be a curious air of tension hanging over the night, a sense of something going to happen. He swore to himself and put his weight on the oars. He must be getting old to let such feelings bother him. He reached the Wanderer at last and was surprised by several things.

In the first place he could see in the starlight that she was riding to a short cable, almost up and down in fact, which was a curious thing for a vessel at anchor in a lagoon twenty miles long and with plenty of room to swing in. Second, her sails, which he would have sworn that afternoon were harbor stowed, were now loosened. Thirdly, there seemed to be an unusual number of men on board... and she carried a white crew Chang had said.

At night at Funafuti most of not all of the shipping save the anchor watches went ashore for a brawl. Typhoon hesitated.

The Wanderer had all the earmarks of a ship set for a quick getaway. Should he go back and gather a crowd to help him investigate or shouldn’t he? But investigate what? Nothing had happened so far. And apart from that he, Typhoon, had a reputation to consider. He wasn’t accustomed to going back for help. The strongest man in the South and the best shot in the Islands... excepting only Shark Gotch... did not rely on other men.

Bradley cursed and forced the dinghy alongside, catching hold of the pilot ladder and making fast.

SOMEONE leaned over the bulwarks. “Who the hell’s that?” “We’ll talk about that later,” Bradley said irritably. “Is Captain Tench on board?” “Maybe. But he ain’t receiving visitors. Come back tomorrow.”

Typhoon was already half way up the ladder.

“You ain’t boarding us tonight!” warned the speaker above. Typhoon reached the top of the ladder and a heavily built seaman in worn blue dungarees laid a rough hand against his chest. Bradley swore and pushed and the seaman went staggering. Before he could recover himself Typhoon was on deck. The seaman got up, swearing, and Typhoon saw he was wearing a gun belt, a strange thing for a common seaman.

“You gotta get out!” snarled the man, jerking out his weapon. “Orders is ‘no one boards’....”

He gave a yelp of pain as a hard fist smacked him under the jaw. Bradley took his gun from, him as he fell and contemptuously tossed it overside. He was immediately surrounded by a half dozen armed men, threatening and surly.

“I’m the magistrate for Funafuti,” he said coldly. “Do you all want me to arrest you?”

Someone laughed. “What a chance.”

Another voice spoke up and a man in a peaked cap, evidently the second mate, pushed forward. “Never mind the guff, fellers. This is Typhoon Bradley, ain’t it?”

“Correct!” said Typhoon stiffly.

The other gave a mocking bow.

“An’ you want to see Cap’n Tench, eh?”

“I do.”

“You’re quite sure you wouldn’t rather get back into th’ dinghy.”

Something warned Bradley but he hitched forward his holster and set his jaw.

“You heard what I wanted.”

The other hesitated. “You’re sticking your nose into something,” he warned. “What you doing out here anyway this time of night?”

Typhoon wasted no further words. He strode forward. A man tried to check him and went reeling from a back-hand blow. The second mate sprang forward to receive the flat of Bradley’s hand full in the face. There was an ugly under-current of oaths and Typhoon spun around, his gun out and his eyes slits. They were drawing on him, but the second mate’s snarling voice checked that.

“Let ’im go, fellers. The Old Man’ll be glad t’ see ’im anyway after what happened this afternoon.”

THEY drew back then and after a pause Typhoon bolstered his gun, turned and proceeded aft. He was angry, coldly angry. He was not used to being treated like that. He strode up to the poop, approached the main cabin scuttle and dropped down the companion, his eyes like ice.

There were four men seated around the table and drinking, three of whom he recognized. One was Captain Tench, his head swathed in bandages. One was the pockmarked mate. The third, Gentleman Harry, calm and smiling and malevolent as usual, in immaculate whites, his hair glossy black, a blue silk cummerbund about his slim waist and his terrible scarred face lemon-colored in the lamplight. The fourth man, a nervous, pimply-faced youth, Bradley did not know.

He faced the four, his face grim and his thumbs in his cartridge belt. Tench glared at him. The pock-marked mate swore sibilantly. The pimply-faced youth crouched lower in his chair and looked like a snake about to strike. Only Gentleman Harry seemed unmoved, unless the faint nervous twitching beneath his ears could be called apprehension.

“You see,” he said smoothly, waving a well-manicured hand. “You see, Tench. I told you he would probably be along if he heard I was aboard.” He smiled craftily.

The bearded captain struck the table with his clenched fist and ripped out a scalding oath.

“Damn you, Bradley! I never thought you’d have th’ nerve to board a ship of mine!”

“I’ll board any damned ship in Funafuti I choose,” said Bradley coldly. “I’m a magistrate and I’ve got that right.”

Tench got up, choking, and made a move for his gun. The rest got up, excepting the Gentleman.

Bradley stared at Tench. “I wouldn’t draw if I were you, unless you can shoot a lot better than you can fight.”

The Gentleman smiled. “For what are we indebted to this little visit, my friend?”

Tench kept his hand on his gun but did not draw. The rest watched. Bradley stared at his old enemy, his face like iron.

“You’re the reason, Gentleman,” said Bradley coldly. “I don’t want you around. This ship will sail at once, with you on board. The wind’s fair. The tide’ll be right by the time you reach the channel. So get out.”

“We are getting out,” the Gentleman assured him, smiling. “In fact we are getting out tonight as you suggest. But we did not expect to have the honor of your company, although I did warn Tench you might take a notion to come along.”

“Yeah, you warned me but I never thought he’d be damned fool enough to come here alone. Anyway we’ll handle him.”

Typhoon glanced swiftly about. He sensed that if he had not actually walked into a trap they were prepared for the eventuality of his coming. The Gentleman knew him and his ways; probably the Gentleman even knew that Typhoon knew of his presence on board the Wanderer. If not that the Gentleman was certainly aware that when Typhoon Bradley was around it was always best to take precautions.

“What’s the game?” said Bradley suddenly.

The Gentleman smiled. “A very sweet little game, my friend. But perhaps you had better throw your gun away first. There are four of us here. The second mate on deck had orders that if you should happen to arrive and be alone and insisted upon coming aft, you should. But right now there are two men covering the scuttle up above so you can’t get out. And there are two more covering you with Winchesters from the skylight.”

BRADLEY did not turn his head to look. It was an old trick to distract attention though he believed the Gentleman was telling the truth.

“Fair enough,” he said quietly. “But you ought to know me better, Gentleman. If you want me— come and take me.”

He jumped back against the bulkhead, out of line of the skylight fire, and his draw was fast as the strike of a rattler.

They had him trapped perhaps, had him cornered, but he never surrendered. He would go down fighting like all the Island pioneers went down, his back to the wall and his gun spouting flame. It would be a battle to the finish.

The Gentleman dived for the deck and missed death by the sixteenth of an inch. Captain Tench had drawn and was firing. Bradley’s gun ranged the cabin and the pimply-faced youth went down with a hole between his eyes.

It was nothing but sheer bad luck that Typhoon did not get every man present. But he only had time for three shots and then a bullet from the pock-marked mate’s gun, wide of the mark, ricocheted off one of the brass hanging lamps and grazed Bradley across the back of the head, stunning him as neatly as a blackjack could have done. He pitched forward and lay still and there was a silence in the main cabin save for the hard-drawn breathing of Captain Tench and the harsh whistling noise that his mate made between his teeth.

“Gawd, I never saw a man draw as fast as that afore,” said Tench, choking a little. “He’s killed the supercargo.”

Gentleman Harry got up from the deck and brushed his clothes. He was a little shaken. “I never thought the fool would fight,” he said harshly. “It’s bad enough if he gives you an even break but when he jumps you first it’s time to duck.” A respectful fear showed in his eyes.

“So I noticed,” sneered Tench.

The Gentleman’s dark eyes glittered.

“Tench!” he said crisply. “There are just three men in the Islands who can draw faster and shoot straighter than I can. Those three men are Larsen of Singapore, Shark Gotch and Typhoon Bradley. Would you care to dispute the fact?”

Tench stared at him for a moment and then wilted. He had seen the Gentleman shoot.

“Well, you did duck,” he said sullenly. The Gentleman nodded.

“That was common sense with Bradley shooting.”

The pock-marked mate swore. “Aw, what th’ hell are you arguing about? We plugged th’ swine, didn’t we?”

GENTLEMAN HARRY, his own gun drawn now, gingerly approached Typhoon’s prostrate body as a man might approach a wounded grizzly bear. He would not even stoop to see if Bradley was dead but made the mate do it. The Gentleman knew Bradley and once before he had shammed dead to advantage.

“Hell, he ain’t croaked,” said the mate disgustedly after a brief examination. “Just creased, that’s all.”

“Better finish him anyway,” grunted Tench, cocking the hammer of his gun. “Th’ swine butted into my business this afternoon and damned near knocked my ear off.”

“We won’t kill him,” said the Gentleman decisively. “At least not yet. He’s given me more grief than you’ll ever have, Tench, and I’ll get rid of him in my own way. Tie his hands and feet and chuck him into a spare room.”

The other looked puzzled.

“I don’t see why we don’t croak him now,” swore Tench.

“Because I say not!” rasped the Gentleman. “This is my deal and I’ll play it as I see best. The thing you want to worry about is if anyone in th’ lagoon has heard the shooting and wants to come over and look-see.”

“Another thing,” suggested the pockmarked mate sourly. “Th’ boats oughta be back.”

Gentleman Harry consulted his watch. His head nodded in agreement.

“That’s right. We’ve got to get out of the lagoon before the tide turns. I told that fool Limpy not to wait and clean-up if time got too short.”

Tench went upon the poop grumbling to himself and ordered two men below to bring up the supercargo’s body. The Gentleman saw personally that Bradley’s bonds were sound and aided to drag him into a cabin and lock him in. After that he too went on the poop.

3: The Cleanout

ASHORE things were happening, also, but so smoothly they passed unnoticed. Perhaps half an hour after Bradley had left him, Chang, still sitting at the poker table, felt a touch on his shoulder. He looked around to discover a hawk-faced man in worn dungarees standing beside him. “What is it?” he asked calmly. “Captain Bradley wants to see you,” said the man, his voice curt and businesslike. “He’s waiting down by the pandanus grove.”

“What...” Chang began but the man abruptly turned on his heel and vanished in the milling crowd that was arguing, drinking and gambling in Boston Charlie’s that night.

Chang frowned a little, stared at his cards, absently raised a bet and when the hand was done politely excused himself and went out. He wondered about the odd request.

The beach was dark save for the starlight, the glows from several bonfires and the shafts of light from the windows and doors of the pearling city. It was a place of dense shadows that shifted and moved as men came and went. Chang strode thoughtfully along until the last of the shacks had been left behind and he met no one save an occasional Kanaka hurrying from the village.

Typhoon must have learned something, possibly discovered the reason for Gentleman Harry’s presence at Funafuti. But why send for him to come to this out-of-the-way place?

Chang approached the pandanus palms suspiciously, his hand on his gun. He had thirty thousand dollars’ worth of pearls in the canvas belt about his waist, and men had been killed for less than thirty dollars on the pearling beaches. Funafuti had been singularly free from that sort of thing since Bradley had taken over, otherwise Chang would never have ventured into the shadows without at least half a dozen of his men at his back. He reached the first palm, peered into the blackness of the grove and called.

“You there, Typhoon?”

He sensed the danger even as it caught him. Something swished through the air. Chang ducked, drew and fired, the sound of the shot muffled by the wind-noise in the palms and the shouting and laughter back along the beach. A noose settled over the Chinaman’s shoulders, jerked tight. He lost his feet, crashed down and several men fell on him. Something crashed on his head and he lost consciousness.

“That’s one, Limpy,” someone grunted. There was a short laugh.

“All right. Drag him back a ways and tie him up.”

FIFTEEN minutes later Jack Cummings, buyer for Lascelle’s of Paris, busy examining four large pearls in a back room of Lascar Pete’s store, was interrupted by a hawk-faced man.

“Chang says he’d like to see you if you can get away,” said the hawk-faced man. “He’s waiting down by the pandanus grove.”

“Chang?” said Cummings, surprised. He swept the pearls into a wash-leather bag and looked at the stalwart native diver who faced him across the table. He finished his business hastily. “I’ll take them, Kinoo. One thousand dollars cash. You’re in debt for supplies four hundred. I’ll pay the balance in the morning.”

“Ai,” said Kinoo with a flash of betel-stained teeth. He lifted a hand in a sort of half-salute and went out.

Cummings looked around for the hawk-faced man but he had disappeared. He got up, went out into Lascar Pete’s main room and beckoned to Peira, buyer for a Papeete syndicate.

“Come along with me, Peira,” he said. “Chang wants to see me. Sounds like something’s up.”

They left the place together and walked down the beach to the pandanus grove where sundry things happened to them with amazing swiftness.

“He brought Peira along,” chuckled a voice as the unconscious men were examined. “That’s a stroke of luck.”

Altogether that night seven of the most famous buyers in the South were deftly knocked out and robbed, and in the riotous whirl of the pearling beach their absence passed almost unnoticed.

OUT in the lagoon the rakish and fast bark Wanderer slipped her cable and began to move silent as a ghost away from the rest of the shipping. Two whaleboats, filled with men ahead of her, were towing her. Two miles out the canvas was set and before the urge of a gentle wind she moved toward the channel. Behind her a stab of red flame suddenly spurted up from Chang’s schooner the Lotus Bud, followed almost at once by a similar red flame from Cumming’s brig the Hyacinth.

On the poop of the Wanderer Gentleman Harry chuckled.

“Neat work,” he boasted. “That’ll keep the whole beach busy for a while saving the ships.”

Tench growled something in his beard and felt tenderly of his torn ear.

The pockmarked mate hitched at his cartridge belt and swore sourly.

“It’ll be a near thing if they get after us in whaleboats,” he stated.

Gentleman Harry lighted a cheroot and laughed.

“I’ve got it figured pretty well. All we needed was a fair wind and we’ve got that. The tide won’t bother us yet and we ought to get out before it turns. Once it turns no boat’ll be able to buck it and no ship can clear the channel. By daylight we’ll be at sea, with twelve hours start anyway.”

Funafuti Lagoon, which is one of the largest in the Islands, runs twenty miles from the pearling beach near the native village to the only channel practical for deep-water vessels, and that channel is only practical at high water. An hour after high water is reached the passage is dangerous; two hours afterwards it is useless even for small boats.

Gentleman Harry had calculated things to a nicety, except he had not planned to make his clean-up until the following night. The presence of Typhoon Bradley and the fact that that night there was a favorable wind had induced him to act sooner than he had expected. At the three or four knot speed the Wanderer was making she would be several hours reaching the channel and clearing for the open sea. And she would just have time to scrape through before the tide turned. If pursuit could be delayed for only an hour after that the Gentleman was reasonably safe.

HE rubbed his hands together and walked up and down the poop with Tench. He was highly elated. He had pulled off one of the most spectacular raids in the history of the Islands; had made a laughing stock of Typhoon Bradley and was in a position to dispose of his old enemy for good. He could not resist the temptation to tell him so and he and Tench went down to the main cabin.

Bradley was conscious now, his head and one side of his face covered with dried blood and his limbs cramped from his bonds. He blinked in the sudden flood of light when Gentleman Harry opened the door of his prison and with Tench’s aid hauled him into the main cabin and sat him in a chair.

“Well,” he said coolly, although his head was throbbing as if it would burst. “You seem to have pulled off something.”

The Gentleman lighted a cheroot and blew smoke into Bradley’s eyes.

“I have,” he boasted. “I’ve cleaned out the beach.”

Typhoon stared at the little pile of canvas belts and chamois leather bags that lay on the table. He recognized Chang’s belt by the ornate embroidery. He recognized Cummings’ chamois sack, and Peira’s initials showed he had been cleaned too.

The Gentleman laughed. “Seven of ’em,” he sneered. “Two-thirds of the season’s output and the cream of the lot.”

“Clever,” admitted Typhoon evenly. “How did you manage it? Kill them?”

“Not at all. No need for that. Merely had ’em knocked out and tied up. Limpy Smith knew all the buyers by sight so I brought him along to handle the deal.”

Bradley nodded. Limpy Smith was a vicious little rat of a man, one of the worst characters of the pearling grounds, but one who gained his ends by cunning rather than by force. Bradley had wondered why he hadn’t shown up this season but this accounted for it. The Gentleman had got hold of him and used him. The beach was all but cleaned, no doubt of it, and all the verandahs of the Islands would tell the tale how Gentleman Harry had finally bested Typhoon Bradley.

Bradley swore under his breath.

“You can’t get away with it,” he stated harshly. “There’ll be a dozen ships on your track.”

The other shrugged. Captain Tench poured a drink and tossed it down with relish.

“We ain’t fools,” he growled. “We set fire to two packets so the others would be kept busy. And we’ll be at sea just ahead of the tide turn. That’ll shut ’em in for a while.”

IT was true. Bradley thought hard. From the looks of things the Gentleman would get away with it. If he wasn’t stopped this side of the channel there wouldn’t be a chance in a hundred of catching him. He had a big crew also, nearly all white men, and heavily armed. There’d be a bloody fight even if the pearling ships did overtake him by some miracle.

Typhoon groaned and the Gentleman laughed.

“I suppose you wonder why I’m keeping you?” he jeered. He leaned forward and with savageness struck Bradley’s face with his open hand, struck him again and again, his features convulsed and his eyes burning fire.

“Damn you, Bradley! I’ve got you now. You’ve had a long run, over ten years, and you’ve got in my way too many times. You remember the first time, eh? On Balata Beach. You smashed my face there. You’re going to pay for that, savvy?”

Bradley shrugged though he was white and tense. “Seems like you’re talking too much,” he said calmly. “Why not get it over?”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” the Gentleman sneered. “Yes, you’d like a bullet through your damned head, a quick death! But that’s too easy. I owe you too much. I’m going to watch you die slowly, see? Dying for days and days.

“When we’re at sea I’m going to tie you in a boat and trail you along astern. I’ll strip you so the sun can get at you. I’ll watch you go mad with thirst and hunger, watch you try to break free to throw yourself overside and drown. I’ll enjoy all that. Maybe now and then I’ll bring you alongside and dribble a little cold water on your chest, just where you can’t reach it. There’ll be a good many in the Islands who’ll thank me for all that. And maybe some time some skipper’ll pick up a ship’s boat with a dried-up mummy in it that was once Typhoon Bradley.”

He was insane, working himself into a fury. Even Tench stared at him with some amazement. Tench had no liking at all for their captive but he was rather appalled at the sheer ferocity the Gentleman was exhibiting.

“Bah!” snapped the Gentleman at last. “Let’s pitch him back in the cabin to think it over.”

He flung a glass of gin and water into Bradley’s face, so the shattered fragments cut his cheek and the fiery spirit made his eyes run.

“I’ll kill you for that!” he said between his teeth.

The Gentleman laughed, recovering his calmness.

“Your killing days are over,” he sneered. “Give me a hand, Tench.”

THEY dragged Typhoon back into the cabin again, Hung him inside, kicked him half unconscious and then left him to stare at the round circle of the open port where the stars shone big and flickering.

The Wanderer slipped along, the wind humming in her rigging, the level water of the great lagoon lap-lapping along her hull, and Typhoon’s eyes grew hard as flint in his drawn face. A fine end it would be all right, a fine end for Typhoon Bradley who had dominated the South for over a decade now.

His friends would revenge him, of course. Shark Gotch would scour the seas. Cassidy of Apia would set in motion all his vast interests. Jack Barrett would oil up his guns and lurk around Singapore. Sometime, somehow, Gentleman Harry would drop before hot lead to pay for this night’s work. He might of course fly to Europe with his winnings, but it was not impossible that death would follow him there.

Yet for all that comforting thought Bradley was bitter. To go out lashed in an open boat, to go mad with thirst and hunger while his old enemy watched and laughed and gloated. Bradley swore through tight teeth and struggled furiously with his bonds. In a few hours there would be no hope. Once the Wanderer cleared the channel and the tide turned he was done.

4: Typhoon Strikes

AN hour passed and then another. Typhoon gave up struggling with his bonds and lay panting and sweating on the cabin deck. He could hear the shoes of men on the poop above and sometimes caught the sound of their voices and a mutter of laughter as the wind blew into the open port. They were walking on the opposite side of the ship, which was the windward side, and that fact was fortunate for Bradley. Occasionally two of the men would drop below and there would follow the clink of glasses in the main cabin. But Bradley was not disturbed any more. He was just struggling to his feet with the idea of hoisting himself to the bunk for comfort’s sake, when a dark shadow appeared in the open port and there came a sibilant hiss. Bradley grew rigid.

“Who is it?” he said cautiously.

The shadow in the port, it was a man’s head, spoke rapidly in a combination of bêche-de-mer, English and Samoan.

“Ai, this is the man who was whipped today. I learned you had fought for me. I learned also you were here and I came as soon as I was able.”

Bradley suppressed an exclamation. He remembered the half-caste Tench had flogged over the theft of a cheap belt. He had completely forgotten the man was a member of the Wanderer’s crew.

“How’d you get out there?” he demanded swiftly. “What are you on board?”

“I am the steward,” the other whispered. “Be still. If you turn your back to me I will cut the ropes.”

Typhoon heaved himself to the bunk with a tremendous effort, rolled over and inched toward the bulkhead. He felt a hand touch him, searchingly, and then a keen knife sawed through his bonds. His wrists fell apart and he was free. A few moments he spent bringing some life back to his numbed fingers and then seizing the proffered knife he cut his legs clear. That done he took a deep breath and wiped sweat from his forehead.

“I am grateful, my friend,” he said simply. “You have given me a chance to die like a man... and perhaps to do even more.”

The other gave a little grating laugh.

“Keep the knife, master. I will unlock the door for I have stolen a key. And then you will kill Captain Tench for me.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” said Bradley grimly and the head vanished.

He hefted the keen knife for a moment, grinned and thrust it in his belt. He wasn’t a knife man but if no other weapon came to hand this blade would serve.

He thrust his head out of the port and discovered how the half-caste had reached him. Along the hull of the Wanderer ran a narrow beading about four feet below the scupper edge. By holding on to the scupper edge and resting the toes on the beading an active man could inch along and go right around the ship if he chose. Had the Wanderer been at sea, or heeling much to leeward the feat would have been impossible. As it was, however, she was on an almost level keel and there was little pitch or roll to her.

BRADLEY waited. He heard the Gentleman and Tench come below and take a drink. The Gentleman came to the cabin door and hammered on it, obviously in a jovial mood.

“Think of the open boat, Bradley! It’ll be a long, thirsty time before you croak.” He laughed and returned to the bottle.

After a few minutes the two men went on deck again. Bradley breathed hard and pressed his ear to the door. He heard a faint foot pad on the companion, and then a key slid into the lock, turned and was withdrawn. The door opened the merest crack.

“I was ordered not to come below while you were prisoner here,” muttered the half-caste. “And I am afraid. I go now.”

Bradley opened the door swiftly and grasped the man’s arm as he was about to make for the companion and get away. He gripped his hand. “You’re not quitting on me now,” he said shortly but quietly. “You have been a man tonight.”

The half-caste struggled for a moment, fearful that one of those above would come below, and then something about the white man’s steady gray eyes and strong jaw gave him courage. He drew himself up. “I will fight with you,” he agreed reluctantly and Typhoon nodded. The man’s spirit was almost broken but some trace of his fighting Samoan ancestors remained in him.

There was the sound of someone at the scuttle above and the half-caste gave a gasp and almost wilted. Bradley gripped him by the shoulder and dragged him back into the cabin.

They waited, crouched by the door. It was the pockmarked mate coming down and they could hear him discussing something with another man Bradley presently identified as Limpy Smith who had evidently engineered the shoreward end of the raid. They had several drinks before going on deck again but made no attempt to approach the cabin. It was evident those on the poop were taking it in turns to hit the bottle.

Limpy Smith and the mate went up at last and the main cabin was still save for the creakings of the hull and muffled water noises.

Bradley came out of hiding and listened. Up above they were idly walking the weather deck. Bradley slipped toward the companion and went up, silent as a ghost, the trembling half-caste at his heels. The poop was in darkness, and as the scuttle faced for’ard it was no task for Typhoon to crawl to the lee rail and then aft along the scupper. The main cabin scuttle, the skylights and a long locker that reached almost to the binnacle shielded him from possible discovery by those across the deck.

The half-caste came fearfully with him, his teeth chattering but by now more afraid to go back than to go on. Bradley hesitated when he could see the loom of the helmsman against the stars and the glow of the binnacle against the man’s white shirt. He could slip overside and swim for the beach and safety, he knew. His situation was desperate, armed only with a knife and alone, save for a shivering half-caste, against a large crew of hard-case white men.

At any other time Typhoon would probably have taken the reasonable course and got out, depending upon another meeting to give him his revenge. But he was magistrate of Funafuti Beach, responsible for the peace of the pearling season. He was Typhoon Bradley and he had to keep the record clean.

HE braced himself and waited. Gentleman Harry and Tench came to view, the tips of their cheroots glowing cherry red in the dark. They were laughing at something as they paused together near the binnacle to look at the compass.

“We’ll have to alter the course in twenty minutes,” said the Gentleman.

Tench agreed. “It’s not two miles to the channel. There’s an ugly shoal to the sou’west. We’d better make a big swing to clear it.”

“I guess west b’ north ought to do it,” observed the Gentleman. “We’ll wait until we’re abeam of Becke’s point before swinging.”

They turned and paced for’ard. Bradley heard them halt to speak with the pock-marked mate and Limpy Smith.

“We’re going below for a snort,” Tench growled. “Give us a shout when you’re abreast of Becke’s point.”

“Aye, aye,” said the mate gruffly.

The Gentleman and Tench went below. Limpy Smith and the mate came slowly aft.

Bradley waited. They turned and went for’ard again and then Bradley leaped, silent as a panther making its kill. His iron fist took the astonished helmsman on the jaw and the man fell on the wheel with a grunt. Bradley lowered him to the deck, searched him and cursed. While steering the man had evidently laid his cartridge belt aside, for he was unarmed. The sails began to shiver and Bradley caught the wheel as it started to run. He checked the ship, then reached down to haul the shaking half-caste to him.

“Can you steer?” he whispered fiercely.

The man nodded dumbly. Bradley thrust the spokes into his hands.

“Keep her as she goes!” he ordered. “And stop rattling your teeth!”

He slid into the shadow of the main cabin skylight and crouched again. Astern of the Wanderer he could see the red glow in the night sky that told him ships were still burning back off the beach there. There was no sign of pursuit but visibility was poor by starlight and there might be a dozen boats on the trail by now.

THE mate and Limpy Smith had turned and were coming aft again. They reached the end of the skylight and then the mate, glancing at the wheel, halted with an astonished oath. The half-caste steward’s sweat-dewed face was plain in the binnacle glow, convulsed with terror.

“What in hell...” began the mate and then something hit him and he went over and rolled into the scuppers.

Limpy Smith, wizened, vicious and rat-like gave a sudden snarl and went into action with surprising suddenness. That is, he dived instinctively for Typhoon’s legs. Bradley was a little off balance after swinging at the mate and he went down with a jar. Limpy Smith clawed for his gun and then he thought he had wandered into the middle of a cyclone. Steel fingers choked back his breath. His right wrist snapped and then he was flung the length of the poop to bring up against the for’ard taffrail with sufficient force to topple him over it.

Most men would have been killed but Limpy Smith had all the uncanny vitality of a cat. He landed on his feet, reeled, choked for air and then let out a yell.

Typhoon stooped over the pockmarked mate, secured his gun, hefted it with a little laugh and waited. He had teeth now and he was not known as one of the best shots in the Islands for nothing.

There was a pounding of shoes on the main cabin companion. Limpy Smith was screaming and shouting for the crew to gather. Gentleman Harry and Tench burst on the poop, bewildered at the noise and confusion.

Tench leaned over the for’ard taffrail.

“What th’ hell’s wrong, you fool?” he roared. “What happened?”

“Aft there!” screeched Limpy Smith, holding his broken wrist and hopping with pain and viciousness. “Aft there. Typhoon Bradley!”

“He got loose?” choked the Gentleman incredulously and he whipped round to face aft, his gun leaping to his hand.

“Stay where you are!” snapped Typhoon crisply. “I...”

The Gentleman sent a stream of lead into the shadows by the wheel and then ducked behind the scuttle. Tench opened up. Men came running from for’ard and the night grew vivid with orange splashes. The half-caste slipped a bowline over the wheel and dropped to the deck, quaking with awful fear. Typhoon shot three times, wounding two men, and then held his fire.

The noise died away as Gentleman Harry shouted: “Get overside, Bradley. We’ll let you swim clear!”

But Typhoon laughed. He knew what was in the Gentleman’s mind. The Wanderer was abeam of Becke’s point and it was time to change the course. He crawled cautiously to the unconscious mate and relieved him of his cartridge belt and then reloaded his gun.

The Gentleman was swearing thickly. Tench was cursing in his beard. The stars were beginning to pale and the dawn would soon be upon them. The Wanderer had to get through the channel right away. If she were delayed she would be trapped for another tide and pursuit would catch her.

Bradley set his jaw as he heard the Gentleman’s voice grow calmer. Orders rapped out. Men moved swiftly.

“I’ll give you just thirty seconds to clear out, Bradley,” said the Gentleman from behind the cover of the scuttle. Bradley’s only answer was to take a snap shot at the loom of a head. He missed and the next instant the firing was general.

NEVER before nor after was Typhoon Bradley in exactly the bad jam he was in then. The helmsman he had stunned was reviving and sitting up. The pock-marked mate was beginning to move. The night was fast disappearing and he had only his one gun to stand off a heavily armed crew of some two dozen men. They were already climbing up into the rigging to get shots at him. A veritable hail of lead swept the poop waist high so he could not rise.

He only grinned. He was fighting and he was glad. The old wolf was at bay.

Crouched and nearly flat he picked off two men as they climbed into the ratlines. His every shot told. A man who incautiously exposed a shoulder around the scuttle went backward with a hole in his arm. Tench was wounded in the left thigh.

Had the attackers used their heads they would have waited and counted Typhoon’s shots, and then rushed him while he was reloading. But they were too angry and excited. They did not dare to wait. The Wanderer was yawing badly but under the urge of the wind still going forward. Becke’s point was well past the beam. Ahead there was the roaring of breakers, muffled and dim as yet. To port were ugly shoals and the channel twisted between them.

Bradley turned his head and saw that the half-caste was entirely useless, gray from fear and crouched whimpering to the deck. Typhoon picked another man out of the rigging and then wriggled to the wheel. The stars were all but gone. The sky was a vast dome of opal white, steadily growing clearer.

Bradley glanced at the sails, glanced to windward and chuckled. He threw clear the bowline from the wheel, let it spin, checked it, let it spin again, all while he was lying almost flat beneath the leaden hail, protected only by the low poop houses.

Tench’s harsh voice roared out an oath. “He’s setting us aground!”

“Come on!” Gentleman Harry arose, mad with rage and reckless as he was enraged. He led the charge along the poop and Typhoon rose to meet it. His six-gun spouted flame and death.

Four men choked the port passageway with their bodies. Limpy Smith was shot by one of his own men in the excitement. The helmsman Bradley had stunned, revived now, got to his feet and blindly tried to take the lone wolf in the rear, to bring him down.

The half-caste, who had barely moved till this time, gained a sudden surge of courage, lunged upright and catching the helmsman about the waist carried him sprawling to one side. They both dropped, riddled in the leaden hail that was whickering past Bradley.

Bradley himself was nicked in a half dozen places and his left arm holed, but the wound was so shallow he never noticed it until afterward. He fired his last shot and saw the convulsed face of Gentleman Harry before him.

“Got you!” snarled the Gentleman and lifted his gun. He fired, but the bullet whined into space.

Bradley gathered himself and leaped, not at the Gentleman, nor at Tench, nor at any of the others who pressed toward him, getting in each other’s way. He jumped to the top of the locker, from there to the skylight of the main cabin, hooked back and open because of the tropical weather. He dropped clear through, landed on the main cabin table with a jar that took his breath, jumped from there to the deck and backed against a bulkhead, clear of the skylight opening, while he reloaded his gun with quick, cool fingers.

THERE was a perfect fury of noise on the poop above. It seemed to the excited attackers as if the ship had opened up and swallowed the lone man who had been facing them. Gentleman Harry was screaming. Tench was bellowing orders. The pock-marked mate was swearing in a thick, slow voice and demanding someone give him a gun. And in the midst of all this the Wanderer struck. Under the full press of her canvas she rammed into the soft sandy shoal Bradley had aimed her at, jarred once or twice and then slowly heeled to port and was still, the main-topmast going by the board with a crash of rigging and spars. On the poop Gentleman Harry had taken hold of himself with a tremendous effort.

“Lower the boats,” he said harshly, “We’ll have to chance it. Water and provisions.”

“Jump to it!” Tench roared, because now the full day had come they could see, far down the lagoon, the white topsails of a dozen racing ships.

“I’d like to get that swine first!” the Gentleman grated, staring at the skylight.

“No time,” Tench pointed out. “He might shut himself in a cabin and we’d be hours digging him out.”

“Dynamite ...” snarled the Gentleman.

Tench swore at them. “You’re mad. Let him go now! Those packets will be on us in an hour. We’ve got to get through the channel before the tide turns. We can’t wait.”

The men were milling in a panic. Their losses had been fearful. Tench, the Gentleman and the pock-marked mate plunged into the midst of them and hammered and kicked some sense into them. They slopped one boat in the water and the three leaders piled in, together with four men. The rest fought and quarreled among themselves to get the other boat lowered and panic swept them again. It was every man for himself.

In the main cabin Typhoon sensed what was going on and hesitated. He was sick and weak but there was still something to be done. He knew the Gentleman had pushed off. He found another gun in Tench’s cabin and charged up the companion steps.

The poop was deserted save for the dead. The survivors of the crew were laboring midships, striking each other and cursing. The Gentleman’s boat was half a cable’s length away, pulling for the channel, and Bradley swore. Then he acted. He landed on the main deck at one jump and swept against those left on board like the typhoon for which he was named. He knocked down two men with the barrels of his guns, shot another who drew on him and drove the rest to the boat falls in some semblance of order.

They made no more resistance. Covered with blood, his eyes like ice and his tight-lipped mouth roaring at them, they were quelled. He drove them into the boat when it was overside, jumped into the stern sheets, shipped the tiller and jammed it over with one knee while he glared at the frightened men.

Few of them had weapons now. They had discarded their Winchesters and what revolvers they had were empty from the fierce fighting on the poop. As in a mad daze they found themselves pulling at the oars. The mast was stepped and the sail hoisted. Heeling stiffly, the boat with a madman at her tiller, roared along after Gentleman Harry.

5: Lost Loot

TENCH looked around and swore.

“He’s gaining on us. He’s a devil. He ought to be dead and he’s chasing us instead, in our own boat with our own men pulling for him.”

“Get the mast stepped and the sail up!” rasped the pock-marked mate who was steering. Two of the men had to stop rowing to aid with the mast and guys and at first Bradley gained fast. But then the lighter loaded craft began to draw away again.

Typhoon balanced himself and fired. The range was long and the lunging of the boat made aim difficult but Typhoon could shoot. His first bullet whickered by the Gentleman’s head. His second splashed the water alongside. His third nicked the shaft of an oar but his fourth, fired as the boat steadied for a moment, blew in the back of the mate’s head. The mate moaned through dead lips. He fell forward, letting go the tiller, and the boat yawed wide, came up into the wind.

Tench cursed hysterically and jumped for the stern sheets. The oars brought the boat to the wind again but they had lost too much distance.

“We can’t make the channel now!” snarled the Gentleman. “Head for the beach. There’s fifty miles of brush and palms to hide in and anything can happen.”

Both boats turned for the beach, two miles distance, but with the changed slant of the wind the more lightly loaded craft was hard to manage under sail while Typhoon’s packet lay down to it and surged steadily forward. He gained, inch by inch, and he withheld his fire when he saw this.

Far down the lagoon the white sails of the pearling fleet were growing. Gentleman Harry began to shoot wildly but the jumpy movements of the craft beneath him made aim impossible.

Typhoon laughed to himself. The game was about played through. He had checked the Wanderer in her flight, beached her on a shoal. Now he had turned the retreat of the Gentleman. Even if he failed to get the pearls the others would get them, would scour the whole wide circle of the atoll and run every last thief to earth.

But in his heart Bradley wanted that honor himself. He was responsible.

DRIVING with wind and oars the Gentleman’s boat rammed into the shelving sand of the beach so hard it ploughed half ashore before stopping. The mast snapped off and fell, stunning one of the seamen.

Tench and the Gentleman and the other two stumbled over the gunnels and started for the fringe of the palms fifty yards away, where they might temporarily at least find breathing space and shelter.

Scarce half a minute behind them Typhoon’s boat beached with a jarring crash and Typhoon himself with a flying leap was in the shallows and ploughing for the sand. None of the men he had cowed attempted to follow him. They remained in the boat looking stupidly at each other, as in a dream, and watching the racing pearling fleet coming down the lagoon. They felt as if they had tangled with a buzz-saw and they had had enough.

A bullet runs faster than a man and Typhoon fired as he ran. He dropped one of the seamen with a bullet in the left leg.

Tench stumbled and fell over a fragment of coral rock and the others left him. The bearded captain turned snarling to face Typhoon, his eyes wide with terror and desperation. Bradley killed him as he passed, ignoring the bite of Tench’s shot in his thigh.

The race was nearly done then. The last seaman, winded, abandoned himself to fate, threw his gun away and cowered on his knees. Typhoon struck down at him with a gun barrel and went on.

He spun the Gentleman half around with a bullet through the left shoulder blade, and the Gentleman almost fell. He turned, his face convulsed with fury and pain, and he flung something almost at Bradley’s feet before he turned and ran again, wobbling badly.

Typhoon checked. A large bag lay on the sand. He picked it up, hefted it and laughed. The Gentleman had flung him the pearl loot in an effort to stop him. And it had stopped him.

Typhoon thrust the heavy bag into his shirt, tried to start running again and found his legs were trembling so much he dared not attempt a step. He lifted his gun at the fleeing Gentleman’s back but his eyes were misty and he could not see. He had gone through too much. He had used up all he had.

He cursed, pressed the trigger, but the bullet went into the sand not twenty feet ahead of him. He heard the Gentleman’s final bitter curse as that worthy vanished into the shelter of the palms and then, staggering, Typhoon turned to see the pearling fleet swinging up one by one and dropping anchor off the beach while the whaleboats were flung overside and raced toward him.

“All right, fellers,” he said wearily. “It’s all right. Nothing missing, I guess. I may be a hell of a magistrate but I figure the slate’s clean!”

They could not hear him, of course, and when they came running up the sand toward him they found him lying unconscious on his face, his guns still gripped in his hands, and the loot of Funafuti lagoon safe inside his shirt.

_________________________

6: Trapped

Collier’s Sep 14 1935

Australian Women's Weekly,  7 Aug 1937

CAPTAIN CARSTAIRS, better known through all the Islands as Wallaby Jim, was smoking a final cheroot on the poop deck of his barque Kestrel when it happened. It was late; the night was very dark. and it was uncomfortably hot. The Kestrel, under all plain sail, was slipping languidly round the southern tip of the Louisade Archipelago, with the loom of Rossell Island to the starboard, heading for the greater Sudest Island where Wallaby had to make a final call before heading back to Brisbane.

It was Wallaby's habit, every six months or so, to make a tour of his many trading posts and plantations, not only as an inspection trip, but also to pick up the more valuable items his men had garnered from half the South Pacific, and which his schooner captains did not care to have on board while they combed the Islands, some times for a year or more.

This present cruise had been even more satisfactory than usual, Wallaby was reflecting, as he leaned back against his weather taffrail, clad only in duck pants and a cotton singlet; and he smoked his cheroot with the calm satisfaction of a man at peace with the world and whose affairs are going well.

He had the cheroot about half-finished when his mate came an deck, a lean, sallow-faced man, almost as tall as Wallaby himself, and wiry enough, but without the master's spread of shoulder and the deliberate grace that always reminded men of a panther. He remained at the head of the cabin scuttle for a moment, staring towards the dark-hidden island, and then, giving a nervous hitch to his  belt, he came to where Wallaby was leaning.

"You need not have bothered to torn out, Walters," said Wallaby pleasantly. "I'll keep the watch until dawn. I don't feel like sleep."

Walters coughed and ran the back of his hand across his mouth.

"Yeah, I know," he said harshly. "It's too hot."

The mate stooped then, as if to adjust one of his rope-soled canvas shoes, and the next thing Wallaby knew was that savage hands had gripped his ankles, jerked him up and back, and he was falling head first into the water. He was too astonished to call out. He even retained hold of his cheroot as he went under, and be went deep.

By the time he had instinctively fought to the surface again, the stern light of the Kestrel was a hundred feet away and needing every moment. He choked out salt water and shouted, and even as he did so he heard, faint against the wind, the voice of Walters shouting too, or rather roaring some order for'ard. Obviously to drown any sound Wallaby might make.

Another few minutes and the Kestrel was too far away for Wallaby to be heard, and he subsided with a strangled oath. It would be a joke if the Islands knew, except it wasn't a joke. Wallaby had being caught off guard. The straightest and fastest shot in the south, the cool adventurer of a score of desperate undertakings, the man who had wrested a million and more from the welter of savagery, fever and death that men called the Islands. Pitched overside and disposed of as quickly and as easily as a greenhorn on a homing sealer with the crew on shares.

He trod water automatically until he had regained his calmness and mentally adjusted himself to his changed condition. He discovered he still retained hold of his sodden cheroot and he flung the limp mess away. Then doubling in the warm sea, while the lazy swells lifted him and dropped him, he rolled his duck pants to the knees so they would be less hindrance. He tightened his belt, carefully studied the few stars that were showing, and started a long, slow side-stroke towards Rossell Island.

He thought of many things as he slid through the phosphorescent sea. A little about his chances, a little about sharks, a little about old wounds which he knew would bother him before long. But mostly he thought about Walters, his mate, and the effrontery of the man in attacking him. Well, that could be figured out later. The main thing now was to save himself.

Walters, of course, must have felt pretty safe in throwing the Kestrel's master overside as he had. Otherwise he would have slugged him first, or doped him. But it was reasonable for Walters to suppose that Wallaby could not swim five or six miles to shore, and the odds were all that if he did manage that and the sharks didn't get him, then he would be smashed to pieces in the welter of the iron reefs. Yes, Walters could feel pretty safe, Wallaby thought. But it was a rotten way to go out, after all he had been through. Rotten. He might last until dawn. He might not. He set his jaw and concentrated on his swimming.

Two things saved Wallaby Jim that night and morning.

The first was that about an hour before dawn, when he was rapidly tiring, be ran full into a floating barnacle-covered log, still with branches at one end; toppled over in some storm and washed down some mysterious river. He grasped it thankfully, unmindful of the sucker fish adhering to it and the multitude of sea vermin that infested its length. He managed to hoist himself up and wedge himself in the branches, and then he half-slept for a while.

He was jarred back to consciousness again by the distinct darting of a sail, and raising himself up he saw the flood tide had carried the log close in towards Rossell and there, not fifty yards away, was the white hull of a little gig just going about. He yelled. The three occupants of the gig, two young Kanaka women and a white girl, stared at him pop-eyed, and then with a quick gesture the white girl jammed the tiller over and the gig headed towards him.

She was a sensible girl. She asked no question until after Wallaby had drunk the milk of two green coconuts and eaten a thick sash of cold pork pressed between slices of home made bread. Then she said:

"Were you adrift long?"

"Overnight," said Wallaby grimly. "Lucky for me you came along,"

"Oh, Tara and Manui... they're my personal girls... often go fishing with me early." She indicated a dozen or more big red snapper lying on the bottom boards. "I suppose," she eyed him steadily, even if a little nervously, with blue eyes. "I suppose you're from the Kestrel."

For one of the few times in his life Wallaby Jim was distinctly shocked. He stared at the girl and his Jaw fell.

"The Kestrel," he managed at last. "How did you know?"

She laughed shakily.

"I'm so glad. I... we came out this morning really to see... that is, I hoped there might be a chance."

Wallaby bent frowning, picked up the heavy bush knife lying by the green coconuts, slashed the top off one and drank again.

"May I ask who you are?" he inquired, wiping his lips.

"Myrna Lawrence," she said. "My stepfather runs the Carson trading post at Brills Inlet over there." She nodded at the near coast. "You... you must be..."

"Captain Carstairs," he gravely agreed "Wallaby Jim."

"Wallaby Jim," she said in a strained voice. "I'm glad. I thought perhaps he would have shot you or stunned you before throwing you overboard."

"Who?"

"Why, Mr. Walters. He's... he and my stepfather are partners. I don't know quite how, nor in what. Not in the trading-post. That is supposed to belong to me. It was my father's and he left it to me. But when my mother married again," she shuddered and stopped. "I think I'm glad she died. He's a devil. He won't let me go away. He runs everything."

Wallaby beat down the natural craving for a cheroot and considered.

"I think I'm beginning to see the light, Miss Lawrence," he said at last. "Your stepfather, Carson, and this Walters are partners. This was all planned. Even to getting rid of me here."

She nodded, keeping the gig tacking back and forth while they talked, as if she realised things must be settled before they landed.

"I used to hear them planning it months ago. Months ago. It was so cold-blooded.  I've known they've done other things, too, but I couldn't stop them. I couldn't stop them this time, but I thought I'd come out and cruise around a while and see if a miracle might have happened and you were still alive."

Wallaby nodded and leaned forward to press her hand.

"Haven't you any other relatives you could have written to or got word to, so they could take you away, or at least get this trading-post business straightened out?"

She shook her head.

"There's no one. Only," she flushed a little, "the Captain of the trading schooner Tamarack, and my step-father had forbidden him to anchor in Brills Inlet any more, after he found out we were thinking of getting married."

Wallaby smiled grimly and his grey eyes became twin slits of ice.

"I seem to have fallen into something interesting," he observed drily. "And I like interesting things. What did they plan to do with my second mate and crew, and what are they going to do with the Kestrel?"

She bit her lip.

"I believe the crew was to be enticed ashore and captured and sold to the hill natives. You know what that means. The Kestrel must be in Brills Inlet by now. Walters used to be a forger, and he's going to fix up the proper papers, saying you sold the ship to him. Then he's going to sell her and sell the cargo somewhere. I'm not certain of the details."

Wallaby frowned.

"I wonder why they didn't arrange to get rid of me before the Kestrel got this far," he mused.

She shook her head.

"I don't know. Perhaps they thought there would be trouble with your second mate and the men. But your disappearing here would give Walters an excuse to anchor in Brills Inlet. There would be no excuse otherwise, and I heard Walters telling my stepfather once that your crew would probably be hard to handle, unless things looked just right."

Wallaby nodded.

"Most of the men have been with me for years," he agreed drily. "And since my disappearance probably wouldn't have been discovered until the steward came to call me this morning, Walters counted on having the Kestrel almost at the inlet by that time, the men thinking it was by my orders. Well, we'll attend to all that."

She watched him with eyes that were suddenly bright and hard.

"What do you intend to do, Captain Carstairs?"

"Land me some place ashore near the trading-post, but out of sight," he said decisively. "Behave as though you knew nothing about me, but when you have a chance, smuggle me out a cartridge-belt and gun. Leave the rest to me."

"It won't be easy," she warned him. "Besides Mr. Walters and my step-father, there's a half-caste Chinaman named Lanton who helps with the post work and... other things. I'm frightened of him. He flogs his women sometimes, and you can hear them screaming..." She shuddered and stopped. "You think you can do anything against the three of them? Your crew won't be able to help, because it's all arranged for them to be shut up as soon as the Kestrel is in. She must be in now."

"I'll handle things," the white man promised grimly.

ON THE VERANDAH of the Carson bungalow at Brills Inlet, three men sat drinking in the cool of the young morning. There was Carson, a massive, dark, pock-marked man, still in his pyjamas at this early hour. His assistant, Lanton, a half-caste Chinaman, sat on one side of him, thin, vicious and hairless, naked to the waist. Walters, mate of the Kestrel, sprawled scowling in a long cane chair some distance away, and angrily swirled his gin round his glass. There had been some heated words.

"I tell you it wasn't necessary," he protested. "No white man could live through that surf, even if he did make the five or six miles to shore through the sharks. A Kanaka maybe... but a white man, no!"

"You ought to have stunned him or shot him first, anyway," Carson swore. "There's no sense in taking chances."

"If I'd tried to stun him or if I'd shot him, there'd have been an alarm. You don't know that crew. They think Wallaby Jim's about the next thing to Napoleon or something."

"The fact probably is, you were scared of him," Carson sneered. "Too scared to make a pass or try a gun."

The half-caste shrugged and looked up, his beady eyes glittering.

"Why so concerned about one man?" he demanded. "Even if he is Wallaby Jim. There's three of us, and we've got a dozen boys."

Carson glowered at him.

"It's all right for you to talk, Lanton," he blazed. "You've never met the devil! I have!"

Walters grunted a moody assent

He stood up and shook himself irritably. "Let's forget it. I tell you Wallaby's gone. We've got the Kestrel anchored in the inlet here; we've got the crew in the stockade there," he jerked his head towards a heavily fenced patch of ground round which armed native guards patrolled. "To-night the hill chiefs come down and we unload. Kill two birds with one stone. Get rid of awkward witnesses and cash in on the sale."

Lanton laughed a little.

"What do we care about the crew?" And he added, carefully, with a side-glance at Carson, "it's the girl that worries me."

Carson Jerked up and stared at him.

"Meaning what?"

"She knows too much. She guesses a lot more. Twice you've had trouble with her, keeping her from running away with that young captain of the Tamarack."

Carson swore.

"I put a stop to that," he said grimly. "A couple of the boys and me went over him properly last time he came here and we got him alone. And I told him if he came again I'd flog the hide of Myrna." He brooded a moment. "I'll tame that little devil yet," he added then.

Lanton laughed, half-sneeringly.

"You'd better marry her first."

"That'll all be taken care of as soon as this deal's finished. We'll be fixed for life with what we've already got cached away. I've got a buyer for the post in Samarai, a friend of mine who ain't too particular."

Walters hitched at his cartridge belt and began to walk nervously back and forth.

"I suppose I've got to forge papers for that deal too?" he said petulantly. Carson nodded.

"Why not? Her father left the post to her. You'll draw me up an assignment or something, turning it over to me so I can make the sale legal. Shouldn't be hard."

"Not too hard," Walters agreed. "But it don't seem to me you're giving the girl any sort of a deal, Carson."

"No!" the big man exploded. He glared. "You mind your own darn business anyway. I'm running this outfit. And I might tell you while we're at it that I don't like the way you look at Myrna."

"Now, now," said Lanton soothingly. "Let's get this business of the Kestrel finished first. You've got all the papers drawn up?"

"I've had 'em drawn up for days," Walters snapped. "I've got Wallaby Jim's signature down so good he'd acknowledge it himself. But we ought to have the second mate witness it, and I can't find a specimen of his handwriting. He'll be obstinate."

Lanton smiled thinly.

"I think a few lighted matches under his toes will make him change his mind. And the bos'n?"

"He's a bullock of a Samoan, mission-raised, but I copied his signature from a receipt I found in the skipper's desk. That's all O.K. No one's going to question the thing much anyway."

"Not the way we've got it planned," Carson agreed. "Well run the Kestrel to the China coast. Lanton says he knows the right people, once we're there. What d'you figure the ship and cargo's worth, Walters?"

The lean man shrugged.

"I'm no assessor. Plenty anyway. The pearls alone ought to bring twenty thousand dollars."

"All that for the nest-egg," gloated Carson, licking his lips. "And a ship for a clean getaway."

"What d'you mean, getaway?" asked Walters curiously. "Anything bad turned up since I've been gone? You seem mighty anxious to drop the post now."

"A Government cutter blew in a week or so back," explained Lanton smoothly. "Seems like our young friend of the Tamarack had dropped a bee or two into the official ear. The Resident Magistrate said he was coming back in six or seven weeks and that he'd want a full accounting for Miss Myrna Lawrence."

"Did Myrna get to talk to the R.M.?" asked Walters anxiously. "If she spilled..."

"Don't worry," Carson snarled. "As soon as we spotted the cutter, Myrna got a sudden idea she wanted to go up-country for a little hunting. She left a note explaining."

"She had to have something to show the R.M. in case he wanted to see her, or insisted on it," Lanton chuckled. "She was very obstinate for a while."

"Oh, I can handle her," Carson growled, and his eyes narrowed as he saw his white gig ground in the shallows of the inlet. "Here she is now. Been fooling around with her morning fishing again, I guess."

The three men were silent as the girl walked up to the bungalow, one of her native women behind her. She looked calmly along the verandah as she came up the steps, and would have gone Into the house without a word, had not Carson checked her.

"Where you been?" he demanded suspiciously.

"Where I usually go mornings," she said. "For a swim and to fish. I thought some fresh snapper would be good for dinner."

"I thought you took Tara and Manui both along," he said, flicking a glance at the stolid-faced Kanaka woman behind Myrna. Myrna shrugged.

"Oh, Manui wanted to go and see her sick brother in the village, so I let her off. Tara and I can manage the gig alone."

Carson grunted.

"All right. Get some grub ready. And if you've got anything to pack, get it packed. We're sailing from here to-night, as soon as I've finished a little business with the hill chiefs."

She stared at him, suddenly white. "Sailing," she faltered. "Sailing where?"

"China," he said harshly. "And that's all you need to know."

"But... but we cant leave here," she said desperately. "T-this is all the home I know. I was born here. The post belongs to me. My father," she choked and bit her lip. She was going to add that the young Captain of the Tamarack had promised to call for her again soon, and this time he would not be alone. Instead she nodded. "Very well," she said. Lanton looked after her with shrewd eyes as she disappeared.

"She's acting queer this morning," he observed suddenly. "No argument."

Carson grunted his scorn.

"Women are always queer," he stated. "Forget it. I've got everything under control."

But Lanton, disturbed by some inward warning voice, shook his head and after a while got up and strolled down to the beach where the gig still lay drawn up in the shallows. His keen eyes scanned the little craft carefully. He noted three fish spears, which was curious if Myrna had only taken one woman with her. He noted also in the jumble of footprints that blurred the dried sand-and-mud coating of the bottom boards one or two prints that seemed curiously large for women.

Lanton did not know. But he did have some very dark suspicions. He went slowly back to the bungalow saying nothing to his companions, and when later he saw Manui, Myrna's missing Kanaka woman, cautiously emerge from a taro patch back of the house and, after a quick look around, run swiftly for the kitchen door, he smiled twistedly and slid his sheath-knife along his belt so it was closer to his hand. He liked to take care of things himself, did Lanton.

TORMENTED by flies and crawling things, panting in the steamy heat of the jungle, Wallaby Jim waited all morning and half the afternoon in a thicket perhaps two hundred yards from where the Carson bungalow sat in the shade of the palms. He could see the topmasts of the Kestrel as she rode at anchor off-shore.

Myrna had landed him up the coast a way and sent Manui with him to guide him to his present hiding-place, but when she would herself be able to put in an appearance she confessed was problematical. Her stepfather and Walters, and especially the half-caste Lanton, were always suspicious of her, besides which she was the official mistress of the post and her stepfather insisted she look after him and the others, more often than not demanding that she wait upon them in person. Wallaby ruminated on these things, swearing when he thought of a cheroot, and thinking over the whole business.

He should have been suspicious from the first, he told himself. Bancroft, his faithful old mate, whom he trusted implicitly, had got into some sort of a waterfront brawl at Woodlark Island a week or more before, and had been so badly hurt that Wallaby had perforce to leave him in the hospital.

In the first place, Bancroft was not the sort of man who got into waterfront brawls, certainly not to the extent where he emerged with broken ribs and concussion of the brain. And Wallaby did remember someone mentioning to him, on the verandah of Steve's Bar at Woodlark, that it was funny that Walters should sign with the Kestrel when he had previously turned down two offers of berths on other ships.

One thing was certain now, anyway. It was all a well-laid plan. The Kestrel was a prize worth while, and Walters had obviously been planted at Woodlark to pick her up on her return trip, when she would be loaded. Bancroft had probably been put out of the way designedly, and the chances were worth it.

But just how Walters expected to get away with the deal, even allowing for forged papers and disposal of the crew, rather puzzled Wallaby. Why had the Kestrel been picked on particularly? Granted, she was a rich ship when homeward bound, but there were several ships almost as rich that called at Woodlark and pertaining Islands, and any one of them would have been safer to handle than the Kestrel.

It was late when Myrna came. Wallaby heard her ploughing through the brush and eased out of sight behind a koa tree until he was sure of whom it was. She was frightened, that was obvious, casting glances every now and then over her shoulder. She carried a filled cartridge-belt with a holstered gun; a package of food, a flask of water, and, blessed more than anything else, a handful of cigars and some matches.

She dropped her supplies with a thankful gasp and sat exhausted on the fallen log, while Wallaby tightened his belt and listened for possible followers.

"Everything all right?" he asked quietly. She stared at him and nodded, wetting her lips.

"I think so. But Lanton seemed to act queerly, as if he suspected something. He's been watching me all day. I've only just dodged him. And I saw him questioning Manui earlier, but I don't think she would talk."

He nodded and, after a drink of water, gratefully lighted a cigar. She gave him such details as she knew; the crew of the Kestrel imprisoned behind a stockade, some of them persuaded ashore by Walters with the promise of stretching their legs and getting a drink or two perhaps, while he inquired if the body of a white man had been found along the beaches. The rest of them had been taken by surprise when a boat-load of armed natives under Carson had come alongside. All done very neatly and without trouble. The hill chiefs would come after dark to close the deal.

"And as soon as that's finished, we're sailing for China," she added. And bitterly, "All of us."

"So he's clearing out," Wallaby commented grimly and frowned. "There must be some reason for the hurry. Any idea?"

"No," she said listlessly. "Unless... Bob... that's the captain of the Tamarack, is coming back soon and they know it. He promised he would. I don't know…"

She suddenly began to cry.

Wallaby paced irritably up and down the confined space of the little Clearing they were in, gnawing at his cigar.

"You mustn't risk your own life foolishly," said the girl. "Perhaps you can get away from this place and do something. I think—"

Then she screamed.

Some sixth sense had warned Wallaby even a fraction of a second before her scream began. He had become aware of a faint, very faint new movement in the thicket behind him that did not seem caused by the activities of small rodents, or land crabs or insects.

He spun round and ducked all in one motion, had a glimpse of a distorted hairless face and snarling lips, and then he was locked with a slender, wiry devil of a man who ripped up with a razor-keen knife.

Wallaby escaped being disembowelled by a fraction of an inch, for the knife slit the skin of his abdomen, soaking him with blood. But then his hand clamped on the other man's wrist and from there it was easy. The knife was forced back, back and in, and the attacker gave a bubbling scream and fell away, the knife-haft sticking out of his ribs. He turned and staggered, half-running towards the bungalow, mouthing inarticulate curses.

Wallaby swore and jumped for the cartridge-belt lying at the girl's feet, but before he could get the gun clear the other man had disappeared in the brush. Myrna caught his arm.

"It's no use," she moaned. "No use now. That was Lanton. He must have followed me here."

"You had better run. I'll... I'll try and hold them for a while."

Wallaby buckled the cartridge-belt about him, patted her shoulder and then calmly lighted a fresh cigar.

"If he gets as far as the bungalow I'll be surprised," he said shortly. "He was dying on his feet. You get back and carry on as if nothing was the matter. I'm taking over now."

"But..." He gave her a half push and there was something about his face that frightened her back to calmness. She said nothing further, but turned and ran.

Wallaby waited until the sound of her progress had gone and then hurriedly ate and drank, moving to a position some distance to one side and nearer the beach than the one he had been occupying. He hoped he had been right when he had told Myrna that Lanton would never reach the bungalow and his friends. But just in case, he must hurry and see. No time to plan now. Only time to act.

CARSON and Walters were both watching the house-boys carrying cases of stores, furniture and personal effects down to the beach when Lanton arrived. Carson had just been swearing because he was not around to help them pack, and when Walters suddenly ejaculated, "There's Lanton," the big man turned with an oath on his lips to reprimand his assistant. But instead of the oath he choked.

Lanton was just emerging from palms that surrounded the bungalow, weaving drunkenly, coughing blood and holding both hands to his breast. Instinctively both Carson and Walters dropped hands to their gun-butts and searched the palms behind the dying man, expecting a native raid such as sometimes happened.

"If those thieving, head-hunting hill chiefs count on getting our live-stock without paying," Carson grated, "they'll have a surprise." He roared to the armed guards about the stockade to stand ready.

"That's no native work," snapped Walters. "Lanton wouldn't have a head now if it had been."

Lanton fell within twenty feet of them, crawled along the sand, one hand dragging him like a claw, the other clutched to his wound. Hard-eyed and callous, his two companions walked towards him and stopped while the half-caste rolled over, turned up his eyes and tried to speak.

"What is it?" Carson demanded. "A raid?"

Lanton rolled his head, coughed blood, but only his throat worked as he tried to form words. Walters swore and looked at the knife.

"That's his own," he said, puzzled.

"Then what?"

Carson bent and roughly shook the half-caste.

"Talk, you fool! Who was it?"

Lanton coughed once again, tried again to speak, and then sank slowly on his side and died. Carson cursed

"I suppose he was down at the village fooling with the women again, and one of the men finally taught him something. With his own knife, too."

Walters shook his head and stood gnawing his lips.

"That doesn't make sense. Lanton may be a fool, but not that kind of a fool. He knew this was no time to start native trouble. It's somebody else."

He suddenly touched Carson's arm and pointed. Myrna could be seen for a moment as she slipped from between the palms and ran for the bungalow's back door. Carson looked at Walters.

"Do you suppose the yellow rat was chasing her and she got him some way? We'll see." He strode grimly for the bungalow, Walters at his heels.

The white men found Myrna in the house.

"Myrna!" snapped Carson harshly. She spun about, one hand to her throat and her eyes wide. That something had shaken her terribly there could be no question, and the dark suspicions leaped and blazed In Carson's brain. He glared at her, and then at the native women.

"Did you kill Lanton?"

"Kill... kill!" she breathed. "Oh, no, no!"

"Then you knew he was dead?"

"I... no."

"You lying little devil!" Carson grated. He caught her wrist and wrenched her towards him. "What were you doing back in the bush there? Who knifed Lanton? Tell me!"

He twisted her wrist until she was forced to her knees, moaning.

Then light struck him. This was a man's work, this killing.

Wallaby Jim! Myrna's morning cruise! Now he saw the whole thing.

"So you picked up a man at sea," he blazed at the white girl. "You dirty double-crosser. Who was it? Was it...." He licked his lips, shaken. "Was it... no, it couldn't have been. No man could have lived through six miles of sharks and the surf."

"I don't know who he was," Myrna said faintly. "We found him hanging on a log and we landed him up the coast. I don't know who he was."

Walters whipped round on Carson, and shook the whip he invariably carried.

"We've got to get it out of her hide, Carson. If it was Wallaby Jim we've got to get him if we ransack the whole island. If that devil's alive, we're none of us safe. You know that."

"I told you you ought to have slugged or shot him before you dumped him." Carson exploded. "You fool! Give me that whip!" He seized the whip the other man always carried.

He brought the lash down hard across the white girl's thin blouse, ripping it off and drawing blood. She wilted, but did not speak.

"Who was the man you picked up this morning?" raved Carson. "Was it Wallaby Jim?"

But Myrna had fainted.

Carson threw the whip to the other side of the room and drew back one foot to kick her, and then stopped.

"Yes, it was Wallaby Jim," said a calm voice. "The party's over, Carson."

There was a long hard silence. Carson and Walters stared open-mouthed at the tall white man framed in the kitchen doorway, and subconsciously they noted the heavy gun at his thigh. Wallaby Jim smiled, an unpleasant thing, and his eyes were like ice.

"I think I'm beginning to get it," he observed dryly. "Just in particular why you picked on me and the Kestrel, to make your clean-up. A grudge, eh? I've met you somewhere before, Carson, except you weren't Carson then."

Carson's eyes were vicious.

"No, confound you!" he spat. "I was Brent Owens six years ago, when you shot up Balata Beach. You burned my saloon and sank my schooner. And..."

"Shot you in the left shoulder, if I'm not wrong," added Wallaby. "I remember now. You were one of the head rats in the nest. So it was a grudge after all."

"Call it what you want. And get out. I've got a dozen armed boys within call."

Wallaby laughed, genuinely amused.

"It's not so easy as that, Carson, I've got a little business to settle both with you and Walters, especially Walters. I don't like my mates throwing me overside."

Walters backed a step or two as if to run. His face was beaded with sweat and was ashen.

"I'm not giving you a break," said Wallaby evenly. "I reserve that privilege for men."

He dropped a hand to his gun and the others watched him fascinated, too fascinated even to go for their own weapons. And then suddenly Carson's face lit in a relieved smile.

At the same moment Wallaby felt something hard jammed in his spine, and a clipped voice in mission-school English grated in his ear, "Still, white man. Keep still."

Wallaby half-turned his head and saw the broad, brutal face of one of Carson's armed guards, the head guard as it happened, come to report something to his master and accidentally stumbling on the critical scene.

Carson screamed, "Kill him, Sanda! Don't wait. Kill him now!"

And simultaneously both he and Walters went for their guns. For just a fraction of a second Sanda hesitated. It was always dangerous to kill a white man, and he was a little startled by Carson's screaming vehemence. That cost him his life.

Wallaby Jim did three things almost together, with the quickness of a cat. He dropped flat on his face, so that the carbine bullet scored along his shoulder muscles instead of breaking his back. Then he rolled rapidly to one side and shot upwards. Sanda's bullet, ploughing on, took Carson full in the chest. Wallaby's shot hit Walters under the heart and dropped him like a pole-axed steer.

Wallaby was on his knees then and the room was filled with the crashing jars of explosions. Carson was staggering, but shooting wildly, and Sanda was pumping frantic lead in all directions, his head completely confused. He toppled suddenly, and Carson, lurching forward with a last furious oath, fell over him riddled with lead.

Wallaby rose slowly and cautiously through the heavy-lying blue powder fumes, looked at the shaking form of Myrna, and then carefully reloaded his gun. He picked up Sanda's carbine, filled the magazine with shells from the dead native's bandolier, and, tight-lipped, padded for the front verandah.

The native guards about the stockade were in confusion. One or two were running for the bungalow. The others were milling about, shouting and undecided. Wallaby dropped to one knee, rested the carbine on the verandah rail and shot with care. The running guards dropped, rolled, and lay still. Three of those milling near the stockade crumpled. The rest scattered and began firing at the verandah, knowing only that something terrible must have happened to their masters and that death was seeking them out. Lead whined and flickered about the lone white man, and suddenly he laughed.

OVER the top of the stockade appeared a brown arm, then a leg, then another arm and leg. In fifteen seconds half a dozen of his imprisoned crew were running for the dead guards, had picked up their weapons, and were blazing away.

It was all over then in less time than it takes to tell. Not one of Carson's men escaped, and when Wallaby stood up and called, the jubilant crew of the Kestrel, headed by the second mate, came up towards the bungalow. Wallaby spoke shortly, without emotion, as was his custom, and gave specific orders. Then he turned and went back to the bungalow.

Myrna was in a chair in the living room, crying, her blouse slit down the back while her native women were dressing the livid marks of the whip. Wallaby laid a hand on her shoulder, soothing her, and she looked up.

"I'm leaving my second mate in charge here with a few men," said Wallaby gently. "I think you'd better come to Brisbane with me. Later you can decide what you want to do."

"Brisbane?" she faltered uncertainly. "But why...."

"Wasn't there a young man commanding the Tamarack?" inquired Wallaby smiling. "The chances are well find him at Brisbane. And if not, I'll locate him and send him there."

He left her smiling through her tears and went outside again. His second mate came up and touched his cap, waiting more orders.

"I sail at once," said Wallaby crisply. "You can attend to things here." And he made a curious characteristic chopping gesture with his right hand. "This business is finished."

_____________________

7: Inconsistent Man

The Saturday Evening Post 16 Nov 1935

Sun (Sydney) 19 Jan 1936

IT has been set down that no man is wholly bad; that no character can be utterly consistent.

The great baritone who beats his wife behind the scenes may use the proceeds from his glorious voice to support the humane society, and the most brutal gangster may have a genuine affection for his dog. All this is axiomatic, yet the exception still proves the rule. Until, I should add, the rule overtakes it.

I mean McKenzie. I thought he was the one and only entirely consistent man I ever knew. An individualist, if you like. Brutal. Ruthless. A law unto himself, and if he had any virtue at all, it was that he always minded his own business. That doesn't sound very bad, does it? But carry that idea to the extremes McKenzie did, and it can be pretty terrible.

They say that one time on the beach at Ponape he strolled calmly by while a drunken schooner captain beat a native woman to death. His attitude was simply that the matter did not concern him. On the other hand, he was sitting once on the verandah of his trading post at Mofala Bay when a half-starved beachcomber tried to steal a few yams from the garden patch, thinking no one was watching. McKenzie reached over for his carbine and drilled the poor devil clean through the hand. Nothing personal about it, apparently. I don't think it could even have occurred to him to be shocked, or thrilled or amused. He had no nerves. He was merely attending to his own business.

I wish I could say in advance that poetic justice finally levelled him. But I can't.

So far as I know, retribution never really touched him, and it is certain that he prospered. I heard of hint first a good many years ago when I was trading into the South Seas. The South didn't mean then what it does now— magistrates,  missionaries, police, wireless stations and cruisers running back and forth to see everything went just so.

In my time the South was tough. Half the sea wasn't charted, and if you escaped being wrecked on some unknown reef and came clear of the hurricanes, you still had to figure on a dozen or more malignant diseases and any number of blackguards like Bully Hayes and Bobby Towns, men who were little more than pirates and who would as soon loot you and slit your throat as take a drink.

Then, of course, there were the Islands, the most of them wilderness ten steps inland from the beach. And the war canoes came out itching for a fight more than half the time, instead of trying to sell you curios as they do now; while you were never certain when a peaceful trade palaver under the palms or on your main deck wouldn't turn into a general massacre winding up with a long-pig feast. What I mean, the South was hard, iron hard, and if you survived at all, you had to be hard, too. In a way that explains McKenzie, but not quite.

There was a story that he had been left an orphan at the age of eight, or nine, and had been impressed into service on the whaling ships even that young. The whaling ships could be murderously brutal, and perhaps that was where he learned to stand entirely alone.

His youth seemed to have been spent in the slave trade, and later in the gun-running expeditions of South America. He must have taken quite a battering, all in all, and much, perhaps, can be forgiven him. I don't suppose in all his life he had had a friend or known any real kindness.

In the South, at least, he was eminently notorious in a place and a time when most men were notorious. I might also say he was a legend. A big man, well over six feet, lean as a whippet and all whipcord and steel. He had red hair when I met him, touched with grey, and a face like a hawk's, all pitted with old pock-marks. They used to claim there wasn't a place on his body where you could put your hand without covering a scar, and that was true. I saw him stripped many times, and there were spots where even the incredible tattooing that smothered him was nearly obliterated with the terrible weals of tomahawk, spear and bullet wounds.

Just to give you an idea, let me tell you how he got his start— financially, that is— which enabled him to set up his trading post at Mofala Bay.

The way they told it in Singapore, it seems that, against all advices, a party of scientists cruising in a yacht insisted upon landing on a certain island in the Bismarcks, They were, naturally, very rapidly and efficiently converted into long pig, and the yacht looted and burned. This sort of thing was common for that particular island, but all the administration could do about it was to send along a warship, shell out a native village or so, which could be rebuilt in a couple of days, and after a few similar futile demonstrations, go back home.

The savages, of course, merely retreated into the thick jungle until the noise was finished, and metaphorically laughed up their sleeves. By and large, the Administration's attitude was— well, if, after our advice, you have to go and stick your nose into the tiger's den, that's just your bad luck.

But this yacht case was different. It seems one or two of the scientists were really famous, and there was a vigorous international Press demand that something be done about their demise. A punitive expedition into an unknown jungle, after an enemy that can seldom be seen, is always costly, both in money and men, but the inevitable warship was sent along and some genuine effort made to bring the savages to justice.

Three times, columns of sailors and marines penetrated the jungle, and three times what was left staggered back, sodden with fever and festering with wounds.

As a last desperate move, the commander In charge offered a reward of a thousand pounds to anyone who would bring him the island's paramount chief, dead or alive, to serve as an object lesson.

And that was where McKenzie first came to public notice.

He turned up, they say, paddling from nowhere in an outrigger canoe, dressed in ragged duck pants held up with rope yarn and with a bowie knife stuck In the waist. He boarded the warship and stayed long enough to make sure about the reward, requested ten days to get results, and thereafter disappeared.

Eight days later he was back with an incredibly evil-smelling, exhausted and badly-scared native, bound hand and foot. Who was identified, sure enough, as the paramount chief.

How McKenzie had done it, no one ever knew, but they say he was a mere skeleton of a man on his return and was literally laced with wounds, as if he had run the gauntlet of every murderous savage in the archipelago, which he probably had. In any event, he gave no explanation, collected his thousand pounds and, after dropping out of sight again for some months, finally appeared at Mofala Bay on the island of Tenrui, where he established a trading post.

This was in keeping with the man. The Island of Tenrui in the Solomons was a place so notorious for its climate and head-hunters that no white man in his senses would even have made it a landfall. But McKenzie did, and he stuck, though there were terrible tales of his forays and wars against the tribes before they left him alone, and then, the place being virgin, and so a trader's paradise, he prospered and made money.

I suppose McKenzie must have been settled for at least five years before chance brought me to call on Him. I was supercargo of the free-lance schooner Isabel at the time, and, as it happened, I had a bad attack of fever, combined with a couple of bullet holes in my leg— a little trouble from signing on raw savages at Ysabel— which made the skipper think it advisable for me to do my recuperating ashore. Mofala Bay happened to be the nearest spot inhabited by a white man, and so the Isabel put in there.

I can truthfully say that I had not the least desire to meet McKenzie, let alone stay with him. I had heard tales about him for years, and none of the tales was pleasant. But I had no choice in the matter. The Isabel was short of stores, she had sixty-odd newly recruited native laborers sweating in her holds, and her skipper was a crusty old man who simply did not want the responsibility of packing a sick man over half the South Pacific.

So we made Mofala Bay and we hove to. I was prepared for most anything, I can tell you, from a beetle-browed, drink-sodden ruffian to a suave, murderous devil who packed two guns and shot on sight. Well, McKenzie packed two guns all right, but the first shock I got was from something quite different.

He came out to us in a fine-built whaleboat almost before we had checked the schooner's way, and I'll take my oath that all nine of his whaleboat's crew were women! I tell you women, and that was something no one had ever known in the South before. More than that, it must have been something new, even for McKenzie, for that story was not known yet either in Sydney, Brisbane or Singapore that we had heard of.

Yet there they were, nine strapping women, dressed as male natives might have been, in scarlet lava-lavas, quite as powerful as men and trained to perfection. A naval crew couldn't have brought that whaleboat alongside more efficiently, nor tossed their oars as well.

McKenzie sat in the stern sheets, of course, dressed in a cotton singlet, duck pants and rope-soled canvas shoes. He had twin gun belts strapped about his waist, and across his knees he had a carbine. What was worse, he wore no hat, and he was the first white man I ever knew to go bare-headed in the tropics and live. He sat in the stern sheets and looked up at the Isabel's poop deck with the most expressionless, slate-colored eyes I ever saw.

"What the hell do you want?" was his greeting. Just like that. "What the hell do you want? I've just shipped a cargo and I've no stores to spare."

"It isn't that, Mr. McKenzie," said the skipper, and even he was subdued by the man's reputation. "But I've got a sick man I can't lug around. I'd take it right handsome If you'd put him up until I get back."

"I don't run a hospital," said Mc Kenzie. "It's only for five weeks or so," said the skipper. "I'll pick him up on my way back from Woodlark."

McKenzie apparently thought that over, and then he scowled. Unpleasantly.

"I don't care for visitors," he said at last. "And I'm a business man. It'll cost you a pound a day."

That jolted all of us. As a matter of courtesy, It was the Island custom to take in a sick man, even a destitute man, for a reasonable length of time without thought of payment. Most traders were even tickled to death to have the company. The skipper looked at me and then began to argue, but McKenzie merely grunted something to his women and the whaleboat began to shove off.

"Take it or leave it," he said indifferently, and the skipper swore, but capitulated. I know now that he was afraid I had cholera, and was genuinely anxious to be rid of me. So they lifted me overside, lying helpless on my mattress, and buck I went, to Mofala Bay with McKenzie while the Isabel filled and went about and vanished.

I was too ill at the time to take much notice of what went on about me. and certainly too weak to care. I do vaguely remember they slung me in a hammock on a reasonably cool, screened porch. A woman seemed always there, fanning me or fixing things, and several times I seem to remember McKenzie feeling my pulse and forcing bad-tasting liquids In my mouth. All this, I presume, accomplished in a cold-blooded manner to justify the pound-a-day charge. But that doesn't matter.

When I was conscious again and convalescing McKenzie fascinated me. Partly, of course, this was due to the mad stories In which he, had figured. Partly, too, I was genuinely afraid of the man. He simply wasn't human. His voice was never other than a monotone. His expression was in variably one of Indifference or con tempt. He had with him as an assistant a sallow-faced, hungry-looking Eurasian he called Baron. I don't know why, because I under stood that was not his name, and this man was as near to being McKenzie's shadow, silent, dark, obedient, as any man could well be toward another.

The way trade was carried on was a constant warning of the dark menace under which all white men lived on Tenrui Island. Right round McKenzie's bungalow and store sheds a space had been cleared, and it was kept so well cleared that from where the jungle ceased and the kitchen garden began not even a blade of grass had a chance to grow. Nor was there a single pebble left behind which an attacking savage might fantastically find cover. And just inside the outer circle, formed by the jungle on three sides and by the beach sand on the other, there was a circular row of whitewashed boulders, sunk flat with the ground. When the natives came to trade, which business started about seven o'clock in the morning, when it was cool, they left their weapons on the ground outside the whitewashed boulders. And McKenzie sat with a carbine across his knees and his twin gun belts buckled about him. Not for an instant did he go without weapons, and, remembering the reputation of Tenrui Island, I could understand why.

His women invariably were armed, too, and I noticed they were not of the same tribes as those on McKenzie's domain. I asked him about them later, thinking somewhat cynically, if naturally, that he was a sort of bluebeard. But that was one thing that apparently never interested him. Women. That is, as women. He had simply discarded the usual houseboys and trained a feminine following for reasons of efficiency, not to say safety. As he put it to me one day when he had been drinking heavily and apparently felt expansive:

"Yes, I know It looks queer, but it makes sense. Let me tell you. In these parts a white man's head is never very secure on his shoulders, and, like most traders, I've had my own boys jump me when they thought the time was ripe. It never bothered me very much, of course. It's the sort of thing you have to expect. But I had a bad session about two years ago, just before I started to get the women together, and they nearly got me.

"I was out in the whaleboat with a crew of Fly River boys. Ugly devils, you know. But I'd had them with me for some time and thought they were as reliable as could be expected. Well, we were making it around the Island here to visit a village where I had business, and what with head winds and currents, and so forth, it got dark before we arrived. I was dozing at the time, half out with fever, when the black devils Jumped me. They grabbed my guns and carved me up pretty badly, I can tell you, and one of them, catching me with the blade of an oar. knocked me over board.

"I guess they figured I was dead, and but for luck and a thick skull I would have been. As it was, I managed to get hold of the whaleboat's rudder, and I hung there for the best part of the night while the niggers tanked up on my trade gin and discussed how they were going to share the booty when they went back to the post and polished off Baron, my assistant. Pretty soon they got drunk, of course, and fell asleep. And then it was simple for me to climb back into the boat. I've never used boys since. And, I can tell you, women are just as efficient and a damned sight more reliable, Especially this crowd I've with me. Every last one of them was booked for the long-pig ovens when I ran across them and bought them clear. Some captured In raids, some just being disposed of by angry husbands or such. You know the way It is."

I looked at him for a long time after he had told me this, and then I said, with a queer, tight sort of feeling in my throat, "But those Fly River boys who were in the whale-boat. How did you handle them?"

"I had a sheath knife on me," he said, shrugging indifferently, "so I finished them off as best I could and heaved them overside."

Now, all this I believed. I knew the South, and I knew that if many of the tales about McKenzie were exaggerated, a lot of them were true. What I didn't believe was that the man could be so utterly machine-like. It just didn't fit in with the normal scheme of things, As I said in the beginning, It has been set down that no man is wholly bad, and no character wholly consistent. There had to be a flaw. Somewhere inside Mc Kenzie there was something, there had to be something, that was out of the groove of his life. He had to have feelings. He had to like something for its own sake and not for what It could bring him or how it would help him. It was just a matter of logic.

There was nothing, though, about the bungalow, and nothing about his relations with his women that gave a clue. He had no pets. Not even a parrot or a cat.

He treated his women as the master of an old-time clipper ship treated his crew. Dispassionately. Curtly. Like a god. I saw him once order Baron, his assistant, to flog a woman— six strokes of a ray-tail whip— because she had stolen a cheap patent-leather belt from the trade goods. Immediately after the thing was done, he dressed the wounds and ordered the woman to bed for three days. The completed punishment cancelled the crime, as it were, and she was in no way victimised when she returned to work.

Well, I could understand that. Kanakas appreciate impartial justice, and you can't stand a white man alone, on the verge of barbarity with out an iron discipline.

But McKenzie was not even angry with the woman. Anger Is a normal emotion, and he just treated the whole affair, as you might treat the capture of a rat that had been gnawing your floor boards. No, not even like that, because such a capture might give satisfaction.

"Still," I used to insist to myself, "he must have a gap somewhere in the armor. If he has suppressed the normal emotions, there must still be something that occasions a purely normal and unselfish gesture. But what?"

For days and weeks this bothered me, and I studied McKenzie— there being nothing else to do on that God forsaken island— as closely as a scientist studies an infected guinea pig.

And I saw nothing, I learned nothing. He was simply a machine. Even in his conversation with me he was interested solely in the last price of copra and shell in Sydney. The fact there were a couple of wars going on and that there had been an upheaval in Australian politics did not interest him in the least. Not even my sickness, which was, naturally, important to me, could disturb him. He earned his pound a day and that was all. And that was all I meant to him. He was strictly carrying out a contract.

It couldn't have been just the money, because I had heard tales how he had squandered small fortunes on the veriest gambles, like financing a wildcat schooner captain for a raid on the Japanese pearl beds, and betting five thousand Straits dollars on a turn of the card at Marco's in Batavia. It seemed that the world, as far as he was concerned, consisted only of himself surrounded by darkness. Well, never mind.

Things went on and I was looking forward to the return of the Isabel, when one day, or one morning, rather, there came racing in under sail a ship's gig. I was with McKenzie on his verandah at the time, eating a six o'clock breakfast, and it was one of those mornings, all faintly misty and dewy and cool, when you feel glad to be alive. I remember I was thinking just that when I spotted the gig as she altered her course outside the reel and headed for our beach.

It brought me to my feet with a sharp exclamation, for no one in his senses would expect to see a ship's boat come racing in when we were five hundred miles from the nearest port and the nearest white man; and the weather had been too settled of late to make a close-by shipwreck reasonable.

"Do you see that?" I demanded excitedly, "A ship's boat!"

McKenzie looked up from his fish curry and shrugged.

"I saw her when she rounded the headland fifteen minutes ago," he said dryly "What of it?"

I stared at him. He had not given the slightest sign of interest; and then I looked at Baron, his assistant. Baron smiled a little and reached for the fried bananas. That was all. We might have been sitting on the verandah of the hotel at Apia rather than where we were, where a strange ship's boat certainly meant trouble, if nothing else.

It got me. I sat down again, breathing hard, and poured some more gin into what was left of my morning's eye-opener. And in complete silence we waited while the gig was beached and two Kanakas and a white man came half running up toward us. I should say rather, that I waited. McKenzie and Baron went on with their breakfast and paid no attention at all.

It certainly nonplussed the white man.

He halted at the foot of the verandah steps and stared up at us, a young, hard-bitten man with a white-topped officer's cap set at an angle. That he had been in a fight was obvious, for there was dried blood on his torn shirt and a rough bandage about one arm.

"Well!" he exploded finally and with an oath.

"Which of you's McKenzie? I'm a stranger on this run. Are you all blind?"

McKenzie set down his fork and glanced aside.

"Just what is it you want?" he said shortly, in that expressionless voice of his. The other gaped a moment, controlled himself with an obvious effort, and then spoke through his teeth.

"All right," he grated. "I heard you were a cold-blooded devil. It so happens there's a barquentine being out off on the Lander Shoals thirty miles north of here. Ran ashore in the mist last night. There's half a hundred canoes swarming about her and there's two women on board—white women. I was told to try and get away and find you, so you might do something about it. And my name's Murdock, if it's of any interest."

"It isn't," said McKenzie, and picked up his fork again. Baron said nothing. Murdock looked at me, and I got mad.

"You mean you're going to do nothing?" I blazed at McKenzie. "With two white women stranded there and the worst head-hunters In the Solomons raiding the wreck?"

"It's none of my business," he said bleakly. "If these white women haven't sense enough to stay home, and if a man can't keep his vessel off well-known shoals, why should I worry?"

Murdock began to swear in a slow, thick voice, and I noticed that the palm of one hand rubbed down hard on his gun butt. His eyes were murderous, He had been through a good deal, you understand.

"Why should you worry?" I shouted. "Didn't you hear what this man said? You can't just sit here and let a whole ship be cut off with out making some effort!" McKenzie laid down his fork again, with a touch of irritation.

"I'd like it a lot better if you'd mind your own business!" he snapped. "I don't intend to try and fight half Tenrui Island. It'd probably be suicide, and in any case, I'm not antagonising my own customers. They're not doing me any harm. I'm here for trade, not to drag fools out of trouble. And I might add that's all the explaining intend to do."

"You rotten, cold-blooded rat!" Murdock said. "For two pins I'd blow your head off!"

McKenzie gave a thin, bitter smile. His gun belts happened to be hanging hooked on the back of his chair, but he reached, drew, and fired all in a motion so swift you couldn't follow It. Murdock bit out an oath and clapped a hand to his wrist, and the blood began to trickle through his fingers.

"Get back where you belong," said McKenzie thinly. "Men don't threaten me on my own beach. That was just a scratch. Next time you'll get it full centre. I don't give a damn if all the shipping in Sydney is being cut off. I'm not going to ruin my business, kill my own customers, if I can help it. Now get out."

Murdock was white as a ghost with rage and humiliation.

"You'll hear more of this, McKenzie," he promised thickly. "Some time and somewhere. The Mayfly will probably be wiped out all right, but I'm still alive, and I'll make your name stink from Singapore to Brisbane."

Murdock turned to leave, and then McKenzie's voice cracked like a whip, "What ship was that you said?"

"The Mayfly! You ought to know. We were to call here next."

McKenzie got up so suddenly his chair fell over as he jerked his gun belts from it and started to buckle them on.

"Why in hell didn't you say so?" he demanded. "The Mayfly! You mean they're cutting off the Mayfly. She wasn't due for two weeks yet."

"Maybe not," spat Murdock. "But we skipped calling at Suva this trip and made time. Now you've got that, you can go to hell!"

"Get the women armed and out!" McKenzie snapped at Baron.

The wind was working up and was fair for us, and we simply flew. I put a bandage round the bullet graze across the now astonished Murdoch's wrist, and I thought: "This must be the break. McKenzie's got something in him, after all. Those two white women being in danger got him, or perhaps the skipper of the Mayfly is a good friend of his. Yes, this must be the break. The man's human, after all."

We made the Lander Shoals just before the full heat of the sun began to broil us, and the situation looked sick, sick and hopeless. There was the Mayfly, heeled a little to port and stranded all right, and the water around was simply black with canoes filled with screaming savages who were pouring showers of spears and arrows on board the little barkentine. We could hear the riffles of carbine fire as we came up, and now and then the hard spat of a dynamite stick going off.

"I'll teach the swine," McKenzie grated as we came close. "Trying a thing like this!"

But it looked doubtful. Apart from McKenzie and the nine women on board, we had only Murdock, Baron, myself, and Murdock's two Kanakas. Fifteen hands all told. And there must have been close to a thousand natives swarming over the shoals, with more canoes coming constantly from the mainland.

My heart turned over, for once I agreed with what McKenzie had originally said. It was probably suicide for us to go in.

"We can't tackle that mob," I even ventured aloud, and McKenzie looked at me with eyes that were all a killer's, hard and narrow.

"I've told you before," he said harshly, "keep your mouth shut! I'll handle this!" And he did. I'll give him credit, and at the time I even thought it was magnificent. He was risking, as I believed, his life and all he had, to save the Mayfly, you see; to save the white women on board and uphold the prestige of his race. His race! But for anyone else it would have been suicidal, I was  certain it was, anyway, as we opened up. But I hadn't allowed for McKenzie's name, his terrible name, and the name his fighting Amazons had earned for themselves. More, than that, save for that once when he had fired at Murdock, I hadn't seen him shoot.

As I live to-day, we were no sooner in range than McKenzie stood up in the whaleboat with his carbine at his shoulder, and he picked off savages as you might pick off bottles in a shooting gallery. Even allowing it was hard to miss that mob of howling blacks, what with the boat lifting to the swells as we raced in and the range changing with every shot, it was a superb exhibition.

The women shipped oars and opened up. I thought at least we would heave to and keep out of arrow range, but no, Baron held us straight and we crashed into the outer circle of the canoes before someone dropped the canvas. One canoe we ran right over, and all around us were startled savage faces and uplifted weapons.

And that was where McKenzie's name came in. Sometime in the past he must have schooled them terribly. They no sooner got sight of him standing there erect and grim, his six-guns in his hands now and spitting death everywhere, than they turned tail to a man and fled. It was simply a wild scramble to get out of the way, to get ashore and into the jungle, and I'll swear that such arrows and spears as came on board us, giving us slight wounds, were accidentally let fly, released before McKenzie was recognised.

In twenty minutes there wasn't a savage in sight, except a few dead ones lying on the beach where McKenzie had dropped them, using his carbine again.

We ran alongside the Mayfly and boarded her then. Her skipper, a bearded and dignified man named Manners, met us at the head of the poop companion, grim-eyed and a little shaken. You could see he had been through a fight.

"I was wondering when you'd come, McKenzie," he said. "Even whether you'd come, knowing you. But I sent Murdock away on the off chance, while it was still dark, hoping he'd get through. I can't thank you enough."

"Never mind all that," said McKenzie, roughly. "Did you bring my stuff?"

"What stuff?"

"Ten kegs of eight-inch spikes I ordered the last time you were out," said McKenzie impatiently. "I've been waiting six months to start a new store shed, and I don't intend waiting six more while a lot of damned niggers play tag with my spikes."

There was a short silence, I think we were all jolted.

"Yes, I've got them," said the captain dryly. "But I was going to give you credit, for once— joining me on account of women being on board, even if you didn't care about the ship. I might have known better."

McKenzie flipped shut his guns and slid them briskly back into his holsters.

And I felt sick. I, too, had been giving him credit. The white man standing by his kind. The rift in the iron armor of utter selfishness. Something human at last. But he had made that mad race and that madder fight to save his kegs of spikes. That was all.

Murdock turned deliberately and spat over the rail. McKenzie hooked his thumbs in his belts and looked indifferently around.

"Yes, you should have known better," he agreed.

"Well, you can load the kegs into my boat. I'll know they'll reach home then. You don't think I'd interrupt my breakfast Just to help you?"

His voice died away uncertainly and then stopped. From the main cabin scuttle two women had emerged, the one buxom and grey-haired, still shaking from her experience, her face haggard. But the other woman was the one we all looked at.

Tall, young, clean-limbed, her head high and her grey eyes steady. A man's woman, if you know what I mean. In her free hand— she was helping her companionꟷ  she carried a gun belt she had evidently just taken off, and there were the back-spit powder marks of firing halfway up her wrist, while a strip of red-tinged bandage circled her brows. A woman for the islands.

"I believe you met my wife and my daughter Anne in Sydney," said the skipper offhand. "Two years ago, McKenzie.... Well, I'll get your kegs up and lower them overside. I suppose there's no use my asking you to help me kedge the Mayfly off. It'll be a job, even if the natives don't come back."

And then it happened.

Quite out of a clean sky, McKenzie exploded. He turned on the skipper, his face white with rage.

"You mean to tell me you were fool enough to bring Anne out here?" he roared. "Even if she persuaded you, you ought to know better! This is no country for a white woman!"

There was a shocked silence, until the astonished skipper managed, "I don't see that that should interest you!"

Anne Manners put in quietly, "But it does. We're engaged, you know. He positively forbade me to make the trip, when I suggested it."

The skipper looked dazed. We all looked dazed.

"But I don't understand," he stammered, staring from McKenzie to Anne.

"You ought to understand enough to keep your daughter in Sydney!" McKenzie raged at him. "I was retiring next year and coming to live there!"

He was shaking with anger, too. Not the icy, merciless anger he had shown before, but genuine human passion. He spun upon Murdock.

"Why didn't you say, in the first place, it was his wife and daughter the Mayfly had on board? We wasted time! You utter fool! They might have been wiped out before I got here!"

"Ralph," said Anne Manners quietly again. Just that, and it was the first time any of us knew that McKenzie even had a first name. He looked at her, drew a deep breath, and some of the color came back to his face. She was surveying him with a faintly amused smile, as one might survey a wayward child— if not altogether with approval, at least with understanding.

He flung a hard look round the circle or us and abruptly walked toward her, taking her arm. We heard him say, "I think we'd better talk this over, Anne. If you intend to stay, your father will have to marry us."

And then the two of them moved out of earshot.

We were all stunned. The consistent man. The man who labored only for himself, and who was not interested in women. He should have turned on his heel with an oath long since, and dropped back to his whaleboat, ready to shove off as soon as he had hiss spikes. And now this! Captain Manners himself sat down violently on a convenient bitt and wiped his forehead, looking incredibly dazed.

"So that was what he was always hanging round the house for, when he was in Sydney," he mumbled, looking at his wife. "And I thought it was to talk over the charter for the Mayfly!"

No one else spoke. No one else could speak. But I leaned back against the rail and started to laugh. The rule had finally overtaken the exception, and in all the world there was no such thing as a consistent man.

___________________

8: The Fortunes of War

Adventure May 1938

Smith's Weekly (Sydney) 18 Feb 1939

WHEN the current government of the somewhat unstable Republic of Marindella approached Munitions Ltd. regarding a matter of war supplies, Munitions Ltd. took several businesslike steps.

They ascertained first that a very healthy revolutionary movement was in progress in Marindella, and so demanded, and received, payment in advance and in gold. Then they rounded up five thousand rifles, ten field guns, fifty machine guns (mostly old stock), some two million rounds of ammunition, over a thousand tons of dynamite and other high explosives, several boxes of hand grenades, sundry poison gas shells, and, along with other such material, loaded the lot on board the Ivanhoe, which on behalf of the Republic of Marindella they had bought off a scrap-heap and registered under the Marindella flag.

That done, they crossed their fingers, looked round for someone crazy enough to take the ship to sea, and finally alighted upon Captain Bean.

"It's like this," said Munitions Ltd. "The officials at Bello Port will pay you a bonus of a thousand dollars as soon as you make delivery of ship and cargo. But we want no funny business. Do we make ourselves clear?"

CAPTAIN BEAN heaved ponderously from the office chair, rubbed his bulbous nose, and tucked his stomach back inside his belt.

"Very clear, gentlemen," he said heartily. "But you don't need to worry. Bulkhead Bean always delivers."

"We'll let that pass," said Munitions Ltd. dryly. "There will be a Señor Manuel sailing with you, probably he's on board now; the representative of Marindella, and an expert on explosives. He will take charge as soon as you arrive and will arrange your passage home."

Captain Bean went down to the waterfront, took a launch out to the Ivanhoe (safely anchored away from all decent ships and people), the red danger flag whipping at her halliards, and waddled to his cabin on the lower bridge.

"That outfit seems to think we're a bunch of crooks, Jed," he complained to his mate, who was sprawled on the settee. "Warning me of this and that."

"Maybe they've been hearing things," suggested the mate sourly. He was a tall, gaunt man, very solemn, and, surprisingly enough, Captain Bean's brother.

"Anyway it's a job," said Captain Bean amiably. "A thousand dollars bonus, Jed, and I got the double pay in advance."

He poured himself half a tumbler of whisky and took it without flinching.

"What with all that high-power stuff below I feel like I'm walking on hot eggs," the mate complained. He sat up, jerked his uniform cap lower over his eyes, and spat again.

"Even the deck's so damn rusty you put your foot through it if you step too hard. It's gonna be a funny trip."

"Now have a drink," said Captain Bean reasonably. "And be sensible. We needed a job and we've got one."

"Well, what about this Señor Manuel who's lucked himself aboard? Is he coming, too?"

"Ah yes," agreed Captain Bean. "I forgot to mention him. He's the expert Marindella's sending along with us, and he's supposed to know all about explosives."

"Anyway," said Jed, "I don't like that guy."

CAPTAIN BEAN very amiably let the matter pass, but was inclined to agree that he did not care for Manuel either. He was a young, swarthy man with annoyingly precise black hair and a wisp of black moustache. He was apparently some relation of Marindella's current president, and had an excellent opinion of himself. None of which would have disturbed the bland calmness of Captain Bean save for the fact that Manuel had introduced him to a new dice game called Biddoo and had deftly taken fifty dollars from him. And when Captain Bean lost money it was a matter of major importance.

"The way he rolled those dice!" he informed Jed. And he added, very seriously: "I don't think that man is on the level."

"Well," said Jed dryly, gnawing a fresh chew from a battered plug, "we'd better teach him poker. And use our own pack."

"That," Captain Bean had agreed heartily, "has all been arranged. We take the young gentleman tonight... But that can wait. I've been thinking, Jed. We've got a nice thing, here."

He eased his brother into the Ivanhoe's chart-room, doubled his own bulk over the chart table and picked up a pencil.

"Look," he said mysteriously, jabbing down on the chart. "Here's Barranola."

Jed stuck his hands in his hip pockets and spat into the chart-room sandbox.

"Barranola," he agreed sourly. "It's been there three hundred years. So what?"

"I used to know a man in Barranola," explained Captain Bean cheerfully, "who peddled guns up-country."

"Listen," said Jed wearily. "Do you figure any port's going to let us in with the load we're carrying?

"Use your head. Everyone knows by this time we sailed for Bello Port with a floating bomb. What d'you think wireless is for?"

"That," agreed Captain Bean amiably, "is what I've just found out." He fished a flimsy from his pocket and handed it to Jed. "Why not Barranola? The second mate (he was also wireless operator on the Ivanhoe) picked that up this morning. The rebels've won and Bello Port's in their hands. And where does that leave us?"

Jed almost swallowed his quid, choked, and handed the wireless back.

"You'd better ring up Munitions Ltd. and ask them," he said grimly. "If we run into Bello Port we'll be confiscated."

"Exactly," agreed Captain Bean. He blew his nose again and waved his red handkerchief. "I wonder what price dynamite's fetching these days," he murmured. "Better wireless Munitions Ltd."

"Didn't I tell you to tread light on them worn planks?" before you go off half-cocked," Jed insisted. "We don't want to get into any international mix-up."

Captain Bean frowned and fretted and complained, but finally sent a wireless hack, and Munitions Ltd replied in a hurry.

NO FURTHER BUSINESS OF OURS. SHIP AND CARGO BELONG REPUBLIC OF MARINDELLA GOVERNMENT. USE YOUR OWN JUDGMENT. SUGGEST CONSULT MANUEL.

"To hell with Manuel," said Captain Bean heartily. "I ain't got no owners and I'm sea-loose with a fortune. All we got to do now is to find a good war. Let's try Barranola first."

"Barranola?"

"Barranola?" inquired Manuel when he heard. "You said Barranola, yes?" He was quite mystified. "But we do not go that way."

"The rebels have won," said Jed solemnly, "in Bello Port."

"Won?" said Manuel, dazed. "Are you sure?"

Captain Bean handed him the wireless, and his swarthy face shone.

"Now all is so simple," he exploded. "Magnificent!"

"Eh?" said Captain Bean. "Simple?"

Manuel laughed and spread his hands.

"Of course," he said impatiently. "You did not think I would turn all this stuff over to the so stupid government? No! We would be met at sea by gunboats and all would go for the revolution."

"Hold on a minute," Jed put in. "I thought the president was your uncle or something."

"Poof!" said Manuel. "My uncle! What is that? I am of the revolution."

"And just how did you figger the gunboats would meet us at sea?" demanded Captain Bean, growing a little purple.

Manuel snapped his fingers.

"So easy. I read your course. I give the second mate a present to send a friend of mine a message in Bello Port. And then come the gunboats. So easy."

Captain Bean looked at Jed and shook his head.

"He was going to double-cross his own crowd," he said sorrowfully. "Can you imagine that, Jed? He was buying all this stuff with government money and then going to double-cross his own crowd."

Jed spat over the rail and stuck his hands in his hip pockets. "I never thought," he admitted, "that a man could sink that low."

"Bos'n," called Captain Bean sadly. "Put Senor Manuel in the spare cabin aft... the one that smells... and lock him in."

"Aye, aye, sir," agreed the bos'n.

He took Manuel by one arm and led him away, expostulating and quite bewildered. Jed spat across the rail again.

"It looks like Barranola," he said absently.

"Of course," agreed Captain Bean. "My friend there can probably use the rifles and such. We must sell them on behalf of the deposed government of Marindella. And possibly," he coughed, "remit to it." He coughed again, and added: "If we can find it."

NOW all this might have been well save that Captain Bean had overlooked one thing. Sending wires at sea, unless it be in code, is somewhat like shouting private information down a crowded street. Half a dozen operators, sitting by their instruments on half a dozen ships, picked up the Ivanhoe's message to Munitions Ltd., and also picked lip the report from Bello Port that it had fallen. In their turn the half a dozen operators, gossiping back and forth across the world, as operators will, passed the information on.

And the tale grew. By the time the latest Cunarder out of Liverpool had picked it up, the Ivanhoe had become a pirate ship, savagely roving the sea and a menace to all. Papers in Caribbean ports came out with startled headlines:

DEATH SHIP LOOSE!

or

VESSEL LADEN WITH HIGH EXPLOSIVES

AND POISON GAS SEEKING REFUGE!

or

DEATH SHIP HEADING FOR BARRANOLA!

The latter information escaped when Captain Bean got in touch with his friend at Barranola. A minor clerk talked too much and as a consequence the populace panicked. A grey-painted cutter met the Ivanhoe well outside the port and a nervous officer yelled through a megaphone, his language much to the point and sprinkled with purple oaths.

Barranola, in short, did not want any part of the Ivanhoe. She was forbidden to enter with her dangerous cargo, and if she persisted she would be shelled at long range.

CAPTAIN BEAN groaned.

"And I can remember the time when a cargo like this would have meant fat pickings from Vera Cruz to Rio. Let's try Nombre de Santa Juliane."

But that port wanted no part of the Ivanhoe either. She was a floating arsenal, in the charge of the infamous Bulkhead Bean, and any little spark might send her in roaring chaos towards the sky. No port on the whole coast, in fact, would admit her.

Jed was for dumping the stuff, but for a long time Captain Bean refused to listen.

"All right," he said at last, resigned. "How do you dump high explosive? I don't know anything about it. You try it."

"Not me," said Jed hastily. "I'm no expert. Better try Manuel."

"That might be an idea," said Captain Bean hopefully. "If you can talk him over."

"That might take time," Jed admitted, "after us throwing him in the brig because he was double-crossing the Republic. How about running into Bello Port after all? Manuel's pals are on top now, and he might not be too sore."

Captain Bean up-tilted the whisky, bottle again and brightened.

"Sure, go ahead, Jed. And see if he feels like poker. This time we'll lake him."

Two hours later Jed climbed to the upper bridge, pushed open the chart-room door and surprised Captain Bean surveying the Brazilian coast.

Jed grunted.

"Not thinking of trying the Argentine, too, were you?" he said unpleasantly. "Stick those charts away and come on down. Manuel's decided to forgive everyone if we make Bello Port and deliver the goods."

"And my bonus?" demanded Captain Bean. "Will he guarantee that?"

"I've got the best part of a bottle of brandy inside him," said Jed sourly, "and right now he'll guarantee anything."

"I am a gentleman," said Manuel, as Captain Bean offered his best cigars. "You have insulted me, no? But I understand it was your sense of duty."

He hiccoughed and bowed, and Captain Bean eased him to a chair.

"Certainly, certainly," he agreed. "Now, if you'll ring for the steward, Jed, and get another bottle of brandy, maybe we can interest Señor Manuel in a little poker."

Manuel tried to get up to how, but decided the effort was not worth it.

"I shall be delighted," he said. "Delighted."

And Captain Bean smiled, and patted his stomach. He was going to be delighted, too.

THE Ivanhoe ploughed up to Bello Port some days later, through an ugly quartering sea that shipped green water aboard every time she dipped, and Manuel, very sober and very voluble, had practically taken charge. He gave crisp orders as to nets and slings for the unloading, strutted on the bridge and generally made himself a nuisance.

Jed grumbled, but suffered philosophically. Captain Bean consoled himself with numerous bottles and skilfully manoeuvred Manuel into further poker games which were all very profitable. Manuel did not seem to mind. He smiled graciously and paid, and complimented the captain on his luck.

Which somewhat worried Captain Bean.

"He's taking the harpoons too easy," he complained. "As if he'd got something up his sleeve."

Manuel had. As the Ivanhoe clanked her rusty way into Bello Port he appeared on the bridge in a magnificent uniform, all hut smothered with gold braid and sundry medals. Jed spat and looked interested.

"Nice," he agreed. "Just like a drum major."

Manuel stroked his wisp of a moustache and smiled thinly. "You are speaking to Captain José Maria Esteban de Zamora Manuel, of the Marindella Civic Guard, who will command the city company when the new administration is established. And now I must ask you to hand over your personal guns and any other weapons. You will consider yourself under arrest until my good friend, General Espada, decides what must be done."

Jed looked at Captain Bean and Captain Bean blew his nose in his red handkerchief.

"So you're double-crossing us." he said sadly. "After all your promises. My faith in human nature," Captain Bean blew his nose again, "is badly shaken."

"Also, before my friends come on hoard," said Manuel smoothly, "you will be so good as to return the money you so cleverly won from me at your poker. I do not think the games were honest."

"I resent that," said Captain Bean with dignity, then let out a gasp as Manuel poked him hard in the stomach with a gun muzzle and deftly lifted his wallet from his hip.

"This is also the fortune of war," said Manuel regretfully. "And now comes my General Espada."

A BIG launch swerved alongside and after sundry important-looking officers had climbed aboard the Ivanhoe there came a white-moustached, pompous little man with a stomach almost as large as Captain Bean's, and a nose that was, if anything, slightly redder. He embraced Manuel. Manuel embraced him. And there were torrents of speech and many gesticulations. And finally the General shook his head.

"I should demand a firing squad," he stated regretfully. "But since you say these are your friends we might consider the jungle camp. Poof! We must teach even foreigners to respect the sovereign people of Marindella, for whom you, my dear Manuel, have set a so magnificent example."

"The danger is past, I have overcome it," Manuel declared, with a flourish. "Captain Bean, we will drink in your room. Your so good brandy. You are permitted to join us while General Espada inspects your papers and hears my report."

"That's damn kind of General Espada," grunted Captain Bean, and reached a ham-like hand for Jed's shoulder.

"Listen," he muttered. "And think fast. I ain't letting nothing like this get by."

"What the hell can we do?" said Jed gloomily. "The damn ship's lousy with soldiers."

"You listen and shut up," breathed Captain Bean. "I ain't serving no time in jungle road camps."

And then he whispered into Jed's ear.

Jed grunted, said somewhat absently: "Well, it's your funeral," and eased himself down to the main deck.

Captain Bean waddled into his room and produced his best cigars. The stewards brought a case of brandy and the party livened up.

"We must consider," said General Espada, after his second glass, "the unloading of the so welcome munitions. The dogs who oppose me are still lurking in the hills in force, but with these new guns I shall defeat them utterly."

Captain Bean blew his nose and waved his red handkerchief.

"You certainly feel good," he grunted mildly, and at that moment bedlam broke loose on the Ivanhoe's decks. Men shouted, some screamed, and then Jed eased to the cabin door.

"She's afire," ho said sourly. "Fore and aft. Some damn fool's started something."

"Lower the boats!" choked Captain Bean. "We've got to get ashore! She's liable to go up!"

General Espada dropped his glass and came out of his chair with an agility remarkable considering his size.

"Fire?" he croaked.

"Fire!" screamed Manuel. General Espada made a break for the door, followed by his staff.

Manuel clawed after him, but Captain Bean stuck out a foot and tripped him neatly. That done, he bent over with a grunt, deftly recovered his confiscated wallet, and then thoughtfully removed Manuel's too. Manuel was paying no attention. He was up and out of the door like a rabbit.

And Jed and Captain Bean had the cabin to themselves.

"Well," said Captain Bean amiably, "let's go see."

In less than five minutes there was not a citizen of Marindella on board. Captain Bean uptilted a bottle of brandy and took a satisfying drink. Bulkhead Bean was mad. The Ivanhoe's anchor came up faster than it had ever . come before and her whole hull shook as the black gang poured the power into the engines. She backed in the harbor and started to turn, and the frightened young second mate said: "What about the forts? They'll fire on us."

"To hell with the forts!" said Captain Bean, "if they blow us up they'll get the works, too."

The citizens of Bello Port had grasped the same idea, too, and were streaming for the hills, mingled with the army which was already in flight.

"See?" said Captain Bean cheerfully. He took another drink. "There ain't a bit of danger."

He must have been slightly foggy in piloting the Ivanhoe out of the harbor, for he very nearly ran her on to an ugly shoal in the very mouth, and there she canted and kicked up foul-smelling mud until her engines were stopped, while the thick smoke still rose from her decks. Jed came on the bridge and looked disgusted.

"And what now?" he demanded. "We'd better drop the boats and get to hell out of It ourselves."

Captain Bean consulted the brandy bottle for a while, and then shook his head. "No," he announced gravely. "We've got the Republic licked. No one's going to bother us, and in fact there's no one about."

Jed stuck his hands In his hip pockets and spat. "You're drunk," he said. And Captain Bean looked hurt.

"I may be mellow," he stated, "but I'm never drunk."

"Well," said Jed pessimistically, "it looks like there's a flock of people coming back."

IT did. Captain Bean rubbed his chin and had some apprehensions. The last time he had looked at Bello Port he had seen people and soldiers streaking away from it, but now, unless his eyes deceived him... as might he the case, considering the brandy.... there were a large number of soldiers streaming back. There were rifles squibbing and a lone, ancient-looking aeroplane was circling overhead.

Jed stared through the glasses and started.

"Say," he observed, "that flying orange-box is painted with the Republic's flag. I just wonder...."

And he turned the glasses ashore upon the soldiers streaming into Bello Port. Then he looked at his brother.

"I believe," he said, with a faint trace of awe, "you've done it. Them troops heading back, if their flags mean anything, is government ones. They don't know what the score is, apparently. They just saw the rebels pour out and they just poured in."

"Yes, I figgered on that," agreed Captain Bean. "Anyway, if I didn't I should have."

He took another drink.

Half an hour later the same launch which had but recently brought out General Espada slid alongside the Ivanhoe again, and a trim young man in immaculate whites came aboard.

"I am the secretary to the President," he informed Captain Bean very politely. "His Excellency would, be honored to meet you and to see that all the Republic's agreements are honored."

"What about my thousand dollars?" said Captain Bean belligerently.

"That," the other assured him, smiling. "I am sure will even be added to. Your presence in the harbor threw such consternation into the rebels that we were easily able to retake the town. The Republic is your debtor."

"It should be," observed Captain Bean. He suppressed a hiccough. "And don't I get extra for my fire?"

The young man stared, and a glimmer of comprehension came.

"Your fire, señor?" He waved a hand round at the still wisping smoke. "Was all this....

"What do you think?" snapped Captain Bean. "It did the trick. Cotton waste soaked in oil, stuck in buckets and ventilators and lighted, looks bad. Smoke every place and the crow yelling its head off. Why shouldn't Bello Port be uneasy? I'm damned if I ain't worried myself. Douse the smoke, Jed. The party's over."

The secretary to the President of Marindella grew pale with emotion.

"It was then, what you call the bluff?" he managed. "You are a very great man."

"That," said Captain Bean heartily, "has never been disputed. Jed, tell the steward to shake out my best uniform."

Jed spat thoughtfully and cocked one eye.

"So you're gonna see the President," he observed. "And you leave me here sitting on the dynamite."

Captain Bean took another drink.

"I am going," he said gravely, "to see a thousand dollars. And the dynamite's your job. What in hell do you think mates are for?"

And he went very grandly, if swaying slightly, down to his cabin to change.

______________________

9: Terror Island

Action Stories, October, 1938

THERE can be no doubt that Stinger Seave was a cold and ruthless killer. He had no nerves and no sense of humor. There must have been something warm in his make-up, however, because of his few but iron-hard friendships, and because of the affection and money and time he lavished upon Betty Stevens, she whom the Stinger adopted and who fell heir to all his immense fortune when he was killed on Manoa by Big Bill Gunther, his best friend and the father of young Gunther, whom Betty married.

The story of the coming together of Betty Stevens and Stinger Seave is one of the few in all the annals of the Stinger that reflects entirely to his credit. And it is one of the rare exploits that came to him out of his past, that mysterious dim past of which no man knew; those twenty-odd years of life at least that were his before he landed at Apia in the Islands, friendless, frail, unknown and broke.

This is the tale:

IT WAS SOME eight months after an affair at Sangata when the Stinger had rescued his three friends, Cassidy, Chang and Gunther, from the stockaded village of Suliman the raja. Cassidy had gone south to Apia and his business. Chang was in a Batavian hospital recovering from terrible hardships and tortures. Big Bill Gunther was with the Stinger and they had been on a six months’ trading cruise through the Java Sea.

The Stinger’s ship was foul with weed and barnacles, so he put in to the little island of Kebato, south of the Carimata Strait, for careening and overhaul, not caring to return to Batavia or Singapore until Sangata was forgotten.

The Stinger had wiped out a tribe and a village at that place and he had heard rumors that the Administration was looking for him to ask him certain questions. So he chose out-of-the-way Kebato for his careening and beached his ship there one hot December day.

They had been there nearly a week when Gunther and Seave decided on a hunting trip into the interior of the little island, leaving the work to go forward under the eyes of Seave’s mate, a man named Severn. They started on the trip, spent a successful day and, returning to the little bay where the schooner was beached, they halted on the edge of the jungle with exclamations of surprise.

Coming in from seaward, badly waterlogged, under jury masts and with decks littered with spars and canvas, was a small gray-painted schooner. Perhaps half a mile astern surged a big three-masted bark, under full canvas and overhauling the schooner by leaps and bounds. From the stern of the schooner eddied puffs of smoke and the two watchers on the jungle edge could hear the faint and far-away reports of rifles.

“Well,” said Gunther, hitching up his belt, “that looks like trouble. Wonder who it is?”

“Strange ships to me,” said the Stinger quietly, shading his eyes with his hand. “And, anyway, it’s none of our business.”

Gunther spat and grunted as they started down the sand for their own beached vessel. He knew the Stinger’s iron-clad rule never to interfere in anything that did not directly concern him. Gunther was differently made. If there was any slight trace of a prospective fight or excitement going on, he wanted to be in on it. But when with the Stinger he kept such feelings under control. One could not argue with Seave, could not plead with him or persuade him, and he ruled always with an iron hand on his own vessel, so there was no prospect of Gunther’s wandering off alone to see what was happening. In a somewhat surly frame of mind, then, Big Bill tramped behind the Stinger.

THEY reached their vessel, boarded her and started for the main cabin. Seave’s mate, Severn, asked the Stinger as he reached the poop, “Any orders, sir?”

“About what?” the Stinger wanted to know. Severn scratched his unshaven jaw and looked uncertain. Then he jerked his head toward the fighting ships, now well in the bay.

“I thought maybe we’d better arm the men, sir.”

“It’s none of our business,” said the Stinger coldly. “Trouble comes soon enough without looking for it.” He strode on past the mate, who grunted and went midships. Gunther said, “Well, say, Seave, you never know now. It might be someone we wouldn’t want to be caught unawares by....”

The Stinger turned and stared at him, his eyes a little icy.

Big Bill licked his lips and looked away.

The Stinger washed and changed. He sat down to the table and looked surprised to find no dinner ready. He struck the gong and the steward came bustling out of one of the cabins where he had been staring through a port.

“What’s the matter with you?” snarled the Stinger with a spasm of anger.

“Well, that first packet’s beached and her crew’s running up to the jungle, sir, and firing back,” answered the steward nervously. “Looks like a woman with ’em, too.”

“Dinner!” snapped the Stinger coldly. “And let me hear no more of it. Women have no business in the Pacific, anyway.”

The steward fled. Big Bill Gunther lighted a cigar and grinned.

“You’re sure tough, Stinger,” he said at last. “Damned if you don’t give me the creeps at times. How you can sit there and talk about eating when there’s bloody murder abroad, I don’t know.”

The Stinger shrugged but did not answer. The steward was a long time coming with the food, and when he did return the Stinger’s eyes were beginning to grow cold.

“I suppose the cook was too busy looking at the play-acting to get on with his work?” he asked icily.

The steward nodded and licked his lips. Just then Severn, the mate, came below to eat and the Stinger halted him with a crisp word. “Does the whole routine of my ship have to be thrown out because a lot of fools are running along the beach?” he demanded. “If this crew can’t mind its own business, I’ll have to take it in hand.”

“I can manage ’em, sir,” stammered the mate. “’Cause they’re interested an’...”

“That will be all!” said the Stinger. “Sit down.” They ate in silence. Occasionally through the open ports and the skylight they could hear the whiplike crack of rifles and the shouts of men.

Gunther and Severn moved uneasily in their chairs and ate little. Stinger Seave ate tranquilly and apparently quite oblivious to the fact that men were fighting and dying not a mile from where he sat. It was none of his business and he had no intention of making it his business.

As soon as they could reasonably get away, Gunther and Severn went up on the poop, Gunther rather shamefacedly buckling on his cartridge belt and revolver. The Stinger finished his meal, drank his coffee, lighted a cigar and settled back with a sigh to complete a book he had half read.

NEARLY an hour later, just after darkness had fallen and the firing and shouting had died away, Severn, the mate, came below and halted uncertainly at the foot of the companion.

“Sir,” he commenced nervously. Stinger Seave lifted his eyes from his book. “Sir,” said the mate, “there’s a man wants to see you. Got a woman with him. They’re from that ship.”

“What ship?” asked the Stinger, as if the news there was even another ship was completely a surprise to him. Severn nodded toward an open port through which was coming a vague, red flickering light against the background of the velvet darkness.

“She’s afire, sir. The schooner. The bark looted and burned her. This man’s wounded.”

The Stinger shrugged. “It’s none of my business,” he said irritably. “Will you never understand that I do not choose to be drawn into some trouble that is none of my concern whatever?”

“But the woman, sir?” pleaded Severn, his face pale because it was dangerous to argue with the Stinger. “There’s a party of men coming down from the jungle now with torches, looking for her and the man.”

Shoes sounded on the companion and Gunther appeared. The big man was visibly distressed.

“For God’s sake, Seave,” he choked, “don’t act like a cold-blooded snake! There’s a man on the beach wounded and there’s a woman with him. He wants to come aboard. This is your ship, Seave, and it’s for you to give orders, but if you don’t do something for the woman at least, I’ll quit you and join them.”

For a moment there was a tense silence except for the heavy breathing of Severn and Gunther. Stinger Seave stared at them both and blinked. At last he sighed, and lifted his brows in a manner that for any other man would have been slightly humorous.

“Gunther,” he said gently, “the way you run around looking for trouble, you should have been killed long ago. I’ll come and see what’s the matter.” He rose languidly, yawning, and stretching his arms, the book still held between the fingers of his left hand. He seemed very gentle then, very patient. Reserved and distant as he often was with Big Bill Gunther, sharply as at times he spoke to him, he yet held for him a very real affection. Seave knew that Gunther was quite capable of going down on the beach and protecting the wounded man and the woman from the party that was obviously looking for them. Big Bill was a fool that way. He went more than halfway to find trouble and excitement.

“By the way,” said the Stinger absently, as he turned to look for his cap and to lay down the book, “by the way, did you find out who the man is?”

“Carsen, sir,” blurted Severn. “Says he’s Captain Carsen of the schooner Arabelle!”

There was a crash as the Stinger’s book dropped to the main cabin deck. The Stinger whirled, his lips drawn back from his teeth, his face gray in the lamplight, his eyes icy with something very close to terror. Gunther and the mate fell back a pace as the Stinger’s hand flashed to his coat.

“Liar!” choked the Stinger, his voice thick. “You liar! I shot Carsen in Dawson City....” He seemed abruptly to recover his self-control, to realize what he was saying. He straightened, took his hand from his coat and wiped the sudden sweat beads from his forehead.

“My heavens, Seave,” choked Big Bill Gunther, alarmed, “are you ill?” With a tremendous effort the Stinger smiled. He stood rigid for a moment, then crossing to the locker did something he had never before done to Gunther’s knowledge— he took a stiff three fingers of whisky before meeting a problem.

“All right,” said the Stinger, gently, when he had done. “Get up on deck.” He pushed by the other two men and went up the companion.

Severn and Gunther, after a puzzled look at each other, stumbled up after him.

The stars were bright above. There was a cool, soft wind blowing from seaward. For’ard on the schooner’s fo’c’s’le-head some of the men were holding lanterns over the side and peering down. Quite close to the ship and advancing down from the jungle were red splotches of torches, sending flickering inky shadows before and behind a group of armed men. Far to port of the beached schooner, right at the water’s edge, the schooner that had been fleeing from the bark glowed with tongues of flame leaping around her stumps of masts. Astern of her showed the lights of the anchored bark and a few boats seemed to be pulling back and forth. With a slight straightening of his shoulders, Stinger Seave went down from the poop and along the main deck until he reached the pilot ladder swung overside near the foremast. Taking a lantern from one of the seamen, he dropped down the rungs until he stood on the sand, the, water washing about his shins. He looked up, before advancing, to peer at the two dim figures nearby, and he said to the anxious, puzzled Gunther, who was looking down at him, “Arm the men, Gunther.” Just that; no more. Gunther was old in the Islands and would know what to do.

EXACTLY what happened between Stinger Seave and the badly wounded and dying Captain Carsen and the woman will never be fully known. The woman—she was really only a girl of seventeen— was too hysterical to remember. Carsen never told and what few comments the Stinger made only reached the ears of Cassidy, Chang and Gunther.

Watchers say that when the Stinger approached the two drooping figures he held high the lantern so that the light fell on his face and the big, burly, gray-bearded man who was Captain Carsen took his hand away from his bloody side to flash it to a gun at his hip.

“They just seemed to stand there and snarl at each other,” said Gunther afterward. “I tell you the Stinger was as near to being afraid as ever I’ve seen him. He had the lantern held up in one hand and his other inside his coat. This Captain Carsen had his gun half out of his holster and was leaning forward, just like a killer. All his left side was running with blood and he could hardly stand, but he had the Stinger bluffed, I do believe. I heard him say, ‘So it’s you, eh? You always did turn up at the wrong time. If you draw I’ll kill you!’ Seave said something about, ‘Once being enough,’ and then Captain Carsen collapsed, pitched sideways to the sand. The girl flopped over and started to cry. Seave knelt down and I could hear him talking, but what about I don’t know. After a bit he yelled for some men to come and take the captain aboard and he helped the girl up himself. Captain Carsen died about an hour later.”

Once he had seen the two castaways safely on his ship, Seave turned to face the oncoming band of armed men with torches. He had Gunther by his side this time and about four of his own seamen, so what happened was plain. The leader of the band was a big fat man with drooping black mustaches and evil black eyes. He wore a cartridge belt and holster, carried a Winchester and was dressed only in a singlet and old duck pants.

“Well,” he said throatily when the torches revealed Stinger Seave, “who have we here? I’m Cap’n Maul and I’m looking for a girl that belongs to me and a man she got away with. Seen ’em?”

“No,” said the Stinger coldly.

“Liar!” The fat man became convulsed with sudden rage. “We’ve been chasing ’em through the jungle all the afternoon and we saw ’em make a break for your ship.”

“That’s too bad,” said the Stinger, blinking.

“Are you trying to be funny?” snarled the other.

“I’m never funny,” answered the Stinger. “And I think you’d better go.”

The other laughed at that and ran a contemptuous eye over the Stinger and his small band. He had with him about eight men and they were all rough, surly-looking characters and ready for trouble.

“Get out of my way!” snapped Captain Maul, thrusting out a fat hand and taking a step forward.

Stinger Seave did not move but he whispered icily, “Stand still!”

His blue eyes were frosty in the torchlight and the fat man, gazing into them, shivered for no accountable reason and reached for his gun. It was as if the Stinger was glad of the chance to go into action, as if some terrific shock had left him tingling and he rejoiced in this chance to let off steam. He was all the cold, cool killer. His hand was inside his jacket before the fat man’s gun was clear of the holster. Then there were six explosions— first one, then a slight pause, then a rapid tattoo of five.

The fat man’s gun thudded to the sand and he gripped a bleeding hand with a yelp and backed off. Two of his men who had lifted their rifles dropped in their tracks. Another staggered sideways and almost fell, but managed to regain his equilibrium and nurse a shattered arm. The other two shots nicked a fourth man because the wavering torchlight was deceptive in the Stinger’s eyes.

THE untouched survivors backed off and fled, dragging their dead and wounded companions, their flight hastened by two six-guns roaring in Big Bill Gunther’s hands as that bearded adventurer went into action with the excited shouting of a boy.

One or two of Seave’s seamen started to fire their rifles but the Stinger turned on his heel and snarled, “That’ll do!” as he reloaded his smoking gun.

He jammed it into the holster, then jerked upright as the fat man, halting perhaps fifty yards away in the darkness, roared back something about cleaning them out after a bit.

The Stinger merely shrugged at that and walked calmly back to the ship despite a few bullets that came whizzing back from the retreating party.

“Set a watch, Gunther,” said Seave as he went below. “Keep flares ready as usual for night fighting. We can’t launch the ship with the tide ebbing, so we’ll have to stay and wait a better opportunity.” It was more than an hour before Gunther tramped below, curious now to find out what it was all about. He discovered the main cabin untenanted except for Stinger, who was moodily standing by the table and staring at a piece of wash-leather holding a large pile of drab, gray-looking stones.

Of Captain Carsen’s body and the girl there was no sign.

“Well,” said Gunther, breathing heavily and mopping his forehead, “that was quite a scrap.”

“Sit down,” said the Stinger somberly, without looking up. “I want to tell you something.”

Gunther sat down, uncorked the gin bottle, slopped out a drink, tossed it down and remarked, “I’ve got a strong watch out.... Go ahead!”

“I’m a hard man,” said the Stinger slowly, fingering the drab stones. “I’ve led a hard life and I was raised in a hard country. It doesn’t matter where. Captain Carsen I knew... a long time ago.... He’s dead now, so we won’t discuss him much. From what I can gather, he was coming down from, his usual haunts in the North Pacific to try the South when he ran across some clue to a diamond mine. These things are diamonds.”

The Stinger dribbled the stones through his fingers. “Worth a fortune, Gunther. More than you’d dream....”

“Anyway, Captain Maul got wind of the mine or the stones, I haven’t learned which, except it was when Carsen was drunk. That was in some Chink port where Carsen was trying to sell some of the stones. Maul was a beachcomber there. He went and told a Jap named Hiroto, who owns that big bark yonder, and they agreed to loot Carsen’s ship.... The girl told me most of this before I got her to sleep.... She learned a lot from the Jap, who wanted her.

“Carsen got away... somehow.”

The Stinger paused for a moment to look at Gunther and the big man shivered because of the icy eyes.

“He always did get away somehow!” the Stinger snarled. Then, recovering himself, he went on. “Maul and the Jap chased them clear south to here, losing them sometimes and then picking them up again. Carsen was in trouble too much with the law to ask for aid. He had only a few men with him and did not dare chance a fight. But he kept ahead of the bark by some miracle and good seamanship and was trying to make Batavia, where he had friends, when he ran into a hurricane and was dismasted. You saw the schooner. She was sinking, and this island was the first land he’d sighted since the hurricane. He had to make it and chance a fight at last.

“Maul and Hiroto had too many men. They took the schooner and looted her and then burned her. There was a lot of diamonds hidden in her main cabin, so I understand, but all Maul got away with was these... a fortune, at that. He was desperate, and wounded by a rifle bullet. He took the girl with him, intending to shoot her at the last for fear of the Jap.

“That’s about all of it, Gunther. We’ve got to save the girl and stones. They’ll be hers now. Maul won’t go back without taking another crack at them after the long chase, and Hiroto, if the girl’s telling the truth, is too crazy for her to quit. We’ll fight until we can get launched and then we’ll make a break for the sea.”

BIG BILL GUNTHER sat and blinked and wondered.

“You seemed to know this Carsen chap,” he ventured at last.

The Stinger smiled his little frosty smile. “Yes. He’s dead now— kicked in just before you came. I knew him quite well. Too well. He taught me how to shoot. He is the only man I knew who was a better shot than I am, and as fast. If he had not been wounded he would have killed me.”

“Don’t talk about it if you’d rather not,” protested Gunther, who was burning up with curiosity but trying hard to remember the old Island tradition not to ask of another’s past. Stinger Seave shrugged and lines appeared in his face that Gunther had never seen there before.

“I never have talked of it,” he said slowly, and somewhat bitterly. “It’s an ugly tale. Carsen fell in love with the girl I was to have married. He was bad, bad as I am, and quite as much a killer. He took everything he wanted. He carried the girl away. I followed him. I found him in Alaska many years later. He had never married her, and she was dead, but he had a little daughter she had given him.  I shot him in a saloon in Dawson City. It was the first time and the only time I ever took advantage of a man to draw first. He was a better shot and would have got me. I thought I killed him. I had no regrets, but it was like a ghost to see him tonight, here of all places, so far away from the North. The girl is Betty Stevens. She was named after her mother.”

Gunther whistled and stared at the Stinger. Eventually he said, “Carsen must have been a notorious character, all right, if he was better with guns than you.”

The Stinger smiled again. “I told you he taught me. He was my father!”

“What?” cried Gunther, startled and shocked. The Stinger looked at him and held him motionless with his icy eyes.

“That’s all, Gunther. You will never speak of it again. Neither shall I. Betty believes her mother was married to her father. I shall adopt her and the Islands must not know.”

“No,” said Gunther, when at last he could speak again. “The Islands must never know. You can trust me.”

He got up and for the first and last time during their long friendship he gave a sign of his affection. He put his arm around the Stinger’s shoulders, squeezed him for a second, then walked for the companion to the poop.

Stinger Seave dropped to a chair and Gunther said afterward that he spent the rest of the night staring blankly at the pile of diamonds.

Neither the Stinger nor Gunther knew that Severn, the mate, had overheard most of the story through the open skylight as he kept watch on the poop, and though Severn did not talk much he let fall enough in the years that followed to give the Islands some idea of the whole story.

The real truth did not come out until Gunther killed the Stinger on Manoa, only to die himself of his wounds a few years later, when his son read his secret diary.

THERE was no attack that night, but when the dawn came it disclosed two boatloads of armed men grimly lying astern of the beached schooner and another party of men gathered on the beach so that the schooner was surrounded. Stinger Seave came on the poop when Gunther informed him of this and examined his foes through the glasses. Those to seaward were commanded by a Jap, evidently Hiroto. Captain Maul was with those ashore, his hand bandaged and a scowl creasing his fat face. The men were of mixed nationalities, Japs, Chinks, Latins and Anglo-Saxons, too evidently the scum of the Chinese waterfronts.

The Stinger’s position looked precarious. He had only ten men, all tough and used to fighting, it was true, but a pitifully small number against Maul and Hiroto’s thirty or forty. Gunther and the Stinger himself made an even dozen, or perhaps it should be said this made the odds even, for the Stinger alone was an army with his uncanny shooting and his unshakable nerve. Perhaps Captain Maul remembered that uncanny shooting from the night before, for as soon as the light was strong he waved a white flag and came down to the water’s edge to bargain.

“We don’t want no trouble with you,” he called to the Stinger, who stood near the main deck rail looking down at him. “You jest hand over the girl and the stones the old man’s got and you can beat it. The old man you can have.”

“He’s dead,” answered the Stinger coldly. “And I’m keeping the girl and the stones.”

“Don’t be a fool,” Maul urged. “I can wipe you out in a day. I can wreck your ship with dynamite so you’ll never get to sea, and pick your men off one by one. Better be reasonable.” The Stinger smiled his little wintry smile, then made an offer that caused Gunther to rock back and gape. It was the first and the last time the Stinger ever offered to compromise, ever gave way before a foe. But, as Gunther afterward realized, it was for the girl’s sake and not for his own that the Stinger did this, which in itself was remarkable, for the Stinger never considered anyone else’s safety or feelings. As he admitted himself, he was cold and ruthless, a killer to the core.

“I’ll make you a bargain,” said the Stinger to Captain Maul. “I’ve got two thousand pounds in gold in my safe below. I’ll give you that and my draft on Burns, Philp for three thousand more if you beat it. The stones belong to the girl.”

“Five thousand quid!” choked Captain Maul, his jaw dropping. “Say, who are you, anyway? There ain’t many traders got that much.”

“I’m Stinger Seave,” said the Stinger gently. “You may have heard of me.”

“Oh,” said Captain Maul and stared, unable to speak for a moment and wiping sudden beads of cold sweat from his brow. “So you’re Stinger Seave,” he whispered. He realized then how close he had been to death the previous night.

Stinger Seave’s reputation ran north and south and at this period it was something to conjure with. Five governments wanted the Stinger for crimes running from manslaughter to piracy, and Kanaka mothers scared their babies with his name. Even Maul, from the coast of China, knew of the man. He licked his lips and backed off slowly with a hoarse,

“I’ll see my partner about it. I didn’t know you were the Stinger.”

Gunther chuckled at Seave’s elbow. “I wish I had a rep like that. Turn ’em white and make ’em shake when they talk to you.”

The Stinger kept grimly silent. Captain Maul walked along the beach and hailed one of the boats. It circled around out of pistol shot, landed near where Maul stood and a short, stocky figure that was evidently Hiroto scrambled to the sand. Captain Maul and he talked a long time, Maul evidently urging something and Hiroto disagreeing.

“It’s a lot of cash,” Gunther said to the Stinger as they waited. “I’m surprised at you making the offer. Do you think they’ll accept?”

“They may,” answered Seave, unperturbed. “I don’t care particularly if they don’t. Hiroto wants the girl and he’ll hate like hell to give her up. Maul may persuade him.”

AFTER perhaps an hour Captain Maul returned down the beach and the boat pushed off and took up its old position.

“Nothing doing,” Maul shouted. “We want the stones and the girl, Stinger.”

It was noticeable that this time he kept well out of range and seemed very nervous.

The Stinger laughed softly, lifted his hand to show him he understood, then walked aft to his poop. Firing commenced almost at once. Lead whined through the rigging, spattered against the stout wooden hull. Gunther got the men well hidden behind bulwarks made by raising hatches against the rails, and the fight was on.

Stinger Seave quite coolly went below and Gunther for a moment wondered if he was mad enough to go on reading or sleeping at this time. He should have known better, of course, but the Stinger had broken so many precedents in the last day that no one could tell what he was going to do next.

Once in the main cabin the Stinger coolly loaded half a dozen repeating Winchesters, carried them to a spot near a port that overlooked the stern and, picking up one, commenced firing slowly and steadily.

It was nothing but a slaughter, of course. The morning was bright and sunny, with the light in the eyes of the boat crews and the Stinger was completely hidden. He riddled one boat so that it began to founder, then riddled the other. He picked off four men before the rest jumped into the water and swam frantically for the shore. Two others he killed as they swam.

He might have wiped them out completely but for the fact his Winchesters now were empty. He reloaded them, giving the swimmers time to get out of sight, and turning to go on deck he discovered Betty Stevens standing beside him, pale and wan and drawn. He had decided to call her Betty Stevens after her mother, though she believed she was Betty Carsen.

She had not the faintest idea who the Stinger was, but as she hated her father she later grew quite willing to accede to the change of name as proposed by one of the first men to be kind to her. Eventually, of course, she became Betty Seave when the Stinger legally adopted her.

“Oh,” she cried now. “Are they fighting again?”

“It’s nothing,” said the Stinger gently, his eyes softening because she looked so much like the girl he had known long ago. “Stay in your room and you’ll be all right. We’re all friends.”

He spent several minutes calming her and persuading her to lie down again, then he went up on deck to discover Gunther jubilant and the men laughing and chuckling and watching the survivors of the attacking party drag themselves from the surf and join Maul’s retreating men.

“Nothing to it,” declared Gunther, slapping the Stinger on the back. “If we could all shoot like you we’d lick any nation under the sun.”

“I was in good trim this morning,” the Stinger admitted gently. “Now what’s this?”

Captain Maul was coming toward the ship waving a white flag again and moving with extreme caution. Seave laid aside the gun he held and went down to the sand to meet him.

“I guess we’ll take the gold and drift,” he said as the Stinger drew near. “You’re a wizard with guns all right.”

“I don’t see why I should pay now,” said the Stinger coolly, “seeing I’ve got you licked.”

Captain Maul ventured to sneer a little.

“I wouldn’t say that, Stinger. We can stop you kedging off your ship and we can dynamite the channel from the outside so you won’t be able to get to sea.”

THE Stinger was silent for a moment, weighing the chances. At any other time he would not have even considered the proposition, but now he had with him a girl he wanted to keep from harm.

“All right,” he said at last. “You get your men on board and keep them there. I’ll sail this afternoon with high tide. But I warn you I’m paying under protest and I’m a very impatient man when I’m threatened.”

Captain Maul grinned. “Oh, you’re tough all right. But you won’t worry us once we’ve got the gold. You whipped us this time because you’re a wizard with guns and because you were under cover. It ain’t so easy to attack in the open. We’ve got enough men t’ stop that.”

The Stinger shrugged.

“All right. Go and tell your men to get aboard. I’ll have the stuff on the beach here for you to take away in an hour.”

Captain Maul nodded and wiped his lips with the back of his uninjured hand.

“Fair enough. I’d have taken it in the first place if it hadn’t been fer Hiroto. He’s nuts on the girl. But you winged him pretty bad in the boats there and he’s flopped out from loss of blood. I expect I’ll be leaving him here.”

He winked and backed off.

The Stinger returned to the schooner.

“Maul’s taking the cash,” said the Stinger quietly. “We’ll be able to get to sea without much trouble, I think. From what I gathered he intends double-crossing the Jap and taking his ship. A fine bunch of robbers.”

That afternoon the schooner was kedged off and stood out for the sea. The money and the draft had been handed over, Maul quite confident about the latter, for he could reach a port before the slower-sailing schooner.

As the Stinger cleared the bay he saw through the glasses what looked like some sort of scuffle going on the bark’s deck and eventually a boatload of men went ashore, landed and ran up into the jungle, followed by a scattering rifle fire. One man, evidently Hiroto, crawled on his hands and knees up the sand, the lead spurting around him. Whether he reached safety or not the Stinger did not then learn.

The Stinger went first to Batavia, chancing trouble with the authorities over the old Sangata affair, and he discovered that Maul had outsailed him there, cashing the draft and departing up the China Sea for his old haunts. In Batavia the Stinger left Gunther and Betty with instructions for Gunther to take her to Ponape to the Catholic mission for education and safety.

“I’m going north,” explained Seave gently. “There’s a little business I have to attend to.”

“I didn’t know you had any business in those waters,” said Gunther, a little puzzled.

The Stinger smiled frostily.

“Well, our friend Captain Maul sailed north with five thousand pounds of mine. As it happens to be about all I have at present, apart from this ship, I expect to need it.”

“I see,” said Gunther, tugging at his black beard and laughing. “I had a hunch you wouldn’t give up five thousand to Maul without figuring on getting it back.”

TWO months later Captain Maul sat in the main cabin of his stolen bark as she lay anchored in an obscure river far up the Chinese coast. He was dressed in new whites and wore a diamond ring. In spite of the fact that he looked blear-eyed and unshaven, he looked also contented. A Chinese girl was perched on the table near him, smoking a cheroot and holding a glass for him to sip from. Another girl leaned against his chair and fanned him. There were two or three other men present, one a Mandarin, the others white companions of Maul whom he had won over while on the venture with Hiroto and whom he had made his officers.

They were all more or less drunk and chatting with women, for the bark had just returned from a successful raid upon a rich village to the south and the loot was enough to make a man’s mouth water. The rest of the crew were carousing ashore and Maul and his friends had settled down for a night-long revel. Along toward midnight there was a light step on the companion that led to the poop and there appeared in the brightly lighted cabin a frail, little figure with icy eyes and one hand gently rubbing his throat as if an insect had bitten him there.

For a while no one noticed Stinger Seave, but presently a woman, giggling, turned her face from Maul and saw him standing there motionless. Then she cried out sharply and pointed.

There was a tense silence. The men in the cabin stared at the Stinger.

Maul tried to get up from his chair, his jaw slack with terror, but he was too drunk and could only weakly paw the air.

“Sit still, gentlemen,” said the Stinger gently as the others endeavored to rise also. His icy eyes dropped them motionless to their seats again while a strange, chill fear crept about their hearts.

“What in hell do you want?” choked Captain Maul thickly, the sweat running down his fat face and his left hand caressing a livid scar that ran across his right, a memento of that red night on Kebato.

“Five thousand pounds,” replied the Stinger, still gently and still rubbing his throat. “I believe that was the amount you took from me.”

“You offered it,” choked Maul, sobering abruptly. “I let you go because you paid it.”

“I’m afraid you don’t understand,” murmured the Stinger, as if apologizing. “I’m a very strange man. I paid under protest because of reasons which do not concern you. You threatened and I paid, but you should understand that I do not allow men to threaten me and get away with it. I need five thousand pounds before I go.”

“You cheap double-crosser!” snarled Maul, getting to his feet at last and brushing aside the frightened women. “I haven’t got that much, anyway.”

“That’s too bad,” sighed the Stinger. “I was hoping you had the money. I’ll have to take your ship, then.”

With a furious oath, Captain Maul forgot himself. He snatched for his gun. There was a sharp explosion, and his gun struck the table. Maul screamed and clutched at his shattered right arm and fell back in his chair.

The Stinger still stood motionless, rubbing his throat, and except that there was a small spiral of smoke lifting before him there was nothing to tell it was he who had fired.

With a guttural exclamation the Mandarin shot a knife from his sleeve and at the same moment one of the white men flung himself sideways from his chair, ripped a gun from under his armpit and fired upward.

They all saw the Stinger draw now, for they were all watching him. His hand snaked from his throat to his jacket and steel glittered in the light. There were three spurts of orange flame.

The Mandarin fell forward with a neat hole between his eyes. His knife stuck upright and quivered in the table.

The white man who had fired cried out abruptly and dropped to the deck with a holed shoulder and a crimson ripping streak where his right ear had been. His own shot splintered the woodwork in the companion behind the coldly smiling Stinger.

The icy eyes ran around the main cabin but there was no further attempt at fight. Everyone shrank back. Maul huddled in his chair and groaned.

“Five thousand,” said the Stinger at last, his voice like a whiplash. “I’ll give you two minutes to get it, Maul!”

THE fat captain groaned out something to one of the women and she turned, after a frightened hesitation, and returned from a side cabin with a black japanned box. Maul groped somewhere in his clothes for the key, unlocked the box, took from it another key and a thick bundle of banknotes. These he pushed on the table toward Seave, who did not move.

Then Maul spoke again to the girl, who took the key the box had yielded and knelt before an old-fashioned heavy iron safe that stood against one bulkhead. Maul groaned out some instructions to her and she turned the knob as he ordered, then inserting the key unlocked and swung back the thick door. From the safe she brought Maul another box, which he opened to disclose more banknotes and some gold. All this he placed on the table.

“Bring it here, to this end,” snapped the Stinger and one of the women obeyed.

Seave stepped close and riffled the notes with the fingers of one hand. His eyes seemed intent on them, but no man dared to make an overt move. Finished with the notes, Seave counted the gold.

“You’re short close to a thousand,” he snapped. “Give me that ring!”

Maul weakly tore off his ring and it joined the notes and gold.

“Still short,” snapped the Stinger.

His icy eyes roamed the cabin. He did not particularly care how or from whom he collected. He made each man there unburden himself of jewelry, made them turn out their pockets. The dead Mandarin was wearing a magnificent pearl in the front of his brocaded jacket and this the Stinger took also. When he was satisfied he swept up the loot in his pockets, smiled his little wintry smile and backed up the companion.

“Don’t bother me again, Captain Maul,” he said gently as he went. “Next time I shall kill you.”

THEN he was gone, and so great had been the shock of his presence and his icy eyes that it was fully five minutes before anyone there dared to move or even speak.

Once the tension was broken, the main cabin was pandemonium. The women ran hither and thither; the men still un-wounded wrenched out their guns and ran up on deck. And on deck they met, not Stinger Seave, but a little band of savage, determined men that had just boarded the bark from a whaleboat which had been launched by a Chinese junk which, in its turn, had been anchored in the river from the south for just one hour.

There was a fusillade of shots that brought the sick and wounded Maul to his feet again. Shoes and bare feet scuffled on the deck above.

“They got him,” said Maul thickly. “They stopped him and got him!”

Then he went rigid and a groan escaped his lips. Coming down the companion, a press of men behind him, was not Stinger Seave, shot and captured, but a deadly, smiling Hiroto, a revolver in each hand.

“So,” he purred. “Was someone before me, Captain Maul?”

“Hiroto,” choked Maul, then glanced stupidly down at his shattered, dripping arm.

“You took my ship and the gold,” purred the Jap, coming forward quietly as a cat. “But I have returned. Who was that I passed in a boat as my boat came alongside? The crew, I hope. I should dislike to kill such men as I can use them to work.”

“No, damn you!” snarled Maul, with a sudden access of rage and courage. “That was Stinger Seave! He came for his gold and he took it.”

The Jap laughed bitterly. “So I lose both the woman, the stones and the gold, eh? Through your attentions. I am very sorry for you, Captain Maul.”

Maul commenced to cry out because of what he saw in the Jap’s eyes, but a spasm of sheer rage crossed the little brown man’s face and he lifted his guns and began firing. When he had finished the main cabin was a shambles and Captain Maul had ceased to worry about the affairs of this world. Every man was dead and the women were screaming and huddled in one corner.

“Clean up this,” said Hiroto to the men who crowded behind him. “We will go south and redeem the treasure— the gold or the stones or the woman. And when I meet this Seave again I shall take payment for the wound he gave me.”

______________________

10: Davey Jones' Loot

Action Stories, December, 1938

“STINGER” SEAVE had many enemies. The greatest of them all was Larsen of Singapore, but there were others who gave him as much trouble.

Buck Morgan of Levuka was a case in point. Time and again his path crossed the Stinger’s and time and again Seave wished he had finished the man with hot lead. But for some reason or other Morgan never mixed with the Stinger when the little man was in a particularly evil mood, and so he lived to be something of a terror in the Islands until the day the Society of Scars trapped the Stinger on Ysabel and he wiped them out.

The first time Morgan and the Stinger met was in Laviata Lagoon. Strictly speaking, ships had no business in Laviata at all, for it was a beautiful little atoll in a Japanese archipelago and the floor was choked with virgin oysters. However, as it was exactly the place for a man to garner a fortune in a day or so, it was inevitable the Stinger should some day anchor there, especially as he was then only a penniless small ship-owner, with all his fortune to make.

To anchor in Laviata and to dive for the untapped oysters invited, if a warship chanced along, almost certain death, if not from rifle fire almost certainly from years in a stinking jail. Such prospects never bothered the Stinger, as all the Islands knew later on. This was proved when he served four months in Siberia for poaching seal, and the story of his escape and vengeance is an epic in the South to this day.

At this present time, however, the Stinger was little known, and Morgan, running into a lagoon at Laviata, had not the slightest idea of the sort of man he was bucking.

He saw, did Buck Morgan, already at anchor and busily diving for the shell, a small, battered old schooner and he sniffed with contempt. He himself had a brig, heavily manned and splendidly outfitted, and he bore a reputation for toughness that many adventurers envied. As soon as he had his ship anchored he dropped a boat, manned it with six armed men and pulled across to the schooner. He came overside grinning to himself and was a little astonished when a voice said, “You can tell your men to remain below.”

HE looked at the speaker, a small, frail man with a sandy, ragged mustache, mild blue eyes and a suit of comfortably baggy whites.

“Oh,” said Morgan, grinning more widely. “Who the hell are you?”

“Seave,” said the little man mildly. “And your name?”

“I’m Buck Morgan of Levuka. You must be green in these waters,” said Morgan with something of a sneer. He placed his hands on his hips and laughed malevolently. “How come you didn’t skip out when you saw my tops’ls?”

He peered aloft to where one of the schooner’s crew was perched in the rigging with a telescope and incessantly scanning the horizon.

Seave blinked. “The Japs use steamers,” he explained mildly. “I saw no reason to run from a sailing vessel.”

“Is that so?” Morgan laughed again. “Well, I suppose you’ve got her about stripped.” “Half stripped,” corrected Seave. “You see, it’s foolish to clean out a lagoon. Leave half there and in a few more years you can come back. The oysters propagate....”

“Aw, don’t give me a lecture. I’ll take what you’ve brought up.”

“I don’t understand,” murmured Seave, rubbing his throat. “I’m afraid I’m not very quick at understanding things, Captain.”

“Half the shell, fool! You’re not opening it here, I take it. Got it in your holds, eh? All right. I’ll send some men aboard t’ relieve you of it.”

“Piracy, eh?” said Seave, blinking again. “Well, you see ...”

“Piracy?” Morgan laughed, his face crinkling up derisively. “What in ’ell d’ you call looting the lagoon? ... Aw, what’s the use o’ talking? Come on up, boys.”

The men in the boats below laughed and two of them stood up ready to shin aboard. Seave coughed and went on rubbing his throat.

“I hate to soil my decks,” he said crisply. “But I shall kill the first man to board me.”

Morgan swung back on him with an astonished oath, his right hand dropping to his gun butt.

The little frail man’s mild blue eyes had changed to the color of sheet ice and something about them caused Morgan to swallow involuntarily. He recovered himself next moment, however, and the hot blood flooded his face as his rage mounted.

“You’re crazy, man!” he roared. “I’ve got enough men aboard my packet t’ eat this ship alive. Get up on the poop and keep still. I’m taking what shell you’ve got and cleaning the lagoon of the rest. Beat it!”

“You heard what I said,” snapped the Stinger, but Morgan only laughed and, slowly drawing his gun, he tapped the Stinger’s chest with the thick blue-steel barrel of it.

“Beat it, son. I’m Buck Morgan of Levuka and I’ve killed better men’n you for saying less. Thank your lucky stars that I ain’t taking your ship as well. Come on up, boys!”

There was the sound of a man climbing up the schooner’s side, and Morgan turned contemptuously away to watch.

The first of his men shoved a head above the scupper, reached up for the rail, then dropped back in a limp heap to crash into the boat below, a neat hole between his eyes. The roar of a shot filled Morgan’s ears and he whipped round with a frightened oath. He saw the Stinger standing exactly as he had stood the second before Morgan turned from him to the rail. The little frail man was slowly rubbing his throat and there was no sign of a weapon about him, nothing, in fact, to betray that he had fired save wisps of blue, acrid smoke curling up before him.

“You swine!” roared Morgan, and lifted the gun he was carrying. He never knew how the other man found a weapon but suddenly in the Stinger’s right hand there was a glint of steel, a spurt of orange flame and Morgan’s revolver crashed to the deck while he stood looking stupidly at a bleeding scar across the back of his own right hand.

“Hell!” he whispered thickly, and that was all.

“I suggest you go,” said the Stinger gently, “before I get angry.”

“I’ll kill you for this,” said Morgan slowly, looking up at the other, his face white but his eyes burning with rage. “No man can shoot me up and get away with it.”

He turned abruptly, slid overside to his boat and gave word to push off. Seave was motionless for as long as it took the boat to get far enough from the side so he could see it. Then he walked to the rail, smiling coldly, his right palm caressing the worn butt of a gun under his left armpit.

“Something tells me I have not seen the last of you,” he murmured. He remained contemplating the receding boat and the anchored brig until he was aroused by the excited voice of his mate, Brockwell, demanding to know what was the matter.

“A little unpleasantness,” sighed the Stinger. “Have you ever heard of Buck Morgan?”

“So that’s his brig, is it? We were just pulling in from the beds when she anchored. Thought I recognized it. Have I heard of him? He’s the biggest cutthroat south of ’Frisco.”

“I’m glad of that,” said the Stinger. “I have just been forced to kill one of his men and to wound him.”

“Wound Buck Morgan?” Brockwell looked scared. “Well, we’d better cut th’ cable and slide. He’ll wipe us out. He carries a big crew.”

“I did intend to sail this evening,” Seave replied gently. “But we will now put in another day’s diving.”

“That’s just asking for trouble,” protested Brockwell, nervously cocking and uncocking a Winchester carbine he carried.

The Stinger smiled his little wintry smile. “Why else did you think I was staying?” he said.

IT was near midnight when Morgan attacked, exactly as the Stinger expected him to do. The attack came in two boats, one planning to round the schooner’s stern and the other to make for the fore chains and effect a boarding that way.

Seave, walking his poop unperturbed, gave a curt order to Brockwell as soon as he caught the phosphorescent flashes of the muffled oars, and the mate lighted and set adrift on thick flat boards two white flares. The oncoming boats rowed full into the bright radiance and stopped irresolute until Buck Morgan’s angry voice could be heard urging them on.

In each boat a man began to shoot at the flares and one was actually extinguished by this means before a rifle began to speak slowly and with precision from the schooner’s poop.

Brockwell declared later it was uncanny. For a man even to make a hit in that uncertain, wavering light was wonderful enough, but the Stinger placed his shots as if he was firing in the glare of full day. He killed two men in the leading boat, crippled one in the other boat and with his fourth shot whisked the cap from Buck Morgan’s head. He seemed to have a whim to let the leader live, for even after the boats had turned back, pulling in frantic haste for the brig, Seave could have shot Morgan but refrained.

“He slept like a kid all the rest of the night,” Brockwell declared later. “He hasn’t a blasted nerve in his body. I can tell you I was hopping all over the ship with nervousness until the moon rose. But Seave had the right idea. Morgan didn’t bother us again that night.”

The Stinger came on deck the next morning, freshly shaven, dressed in spotless white and apparently as much at ease as if he’d been anchored in Apia. He seemed unaware of the fact that in stripping Laviata he had already violated every caution other men used. Other men had not dared to work after dark, whereas the Stinger had, for two nights running previous to the last, worked by flare light. The accepted method was to put to sea at night and to run in again with the dawn so that a steamer could not turn the lagoon into a trap. Seave explained his actions by merely saying to Cassidy afterward that he knew nothing was going to happen because his palm hadn’t itched until Morgan came along.

Morgan, of course, had no fear of being in the lagoon, for without a shell aboard it would be hard to convict him.

Once the sun was well up, Seave sent his boat’s crews out again as if nothing had happened. An hour later Morgan attempted to launch two boats to dive some distance from the Stinger’s, but they were hardly clear of the brig’s side when once again that rifle began to talk slowly and with precision from the schooner’s poop.

Seave seemed to be enjoying himself. He sat in a comfortable cane chair, his rifle resting on the taffrail and a glass of gin on the deck beside him. His first six shots riddled the boats, three holes in each, and Morgan, on his own poop, shook his fists and swore in a high-pitched, hysterical voice. Also he was foolish enough to open fire with four men hidden behind his deck houses and the Stinger got them, one after the other, through the shoulder as they exposed themselves to shoot.

By this time the half-foundered boats belonging to the brig had returned to the mother ship, and Morgan, in furious despair, tried to snipe at Seave’s boats far out on the lagoon.

When Seave had wounded two more of his men the other captain gave up. It dawned upon him that he had no ordinary free-trading sailor to face and that, if nothing else, he faced a man who was a wizard with both rifle and revolver. Wherefore Buck Morgan of Levuka, a terror to many and a man who never admitted defeat, picked up his anchor and fled from Laviata as if the devil himself were at his heels.

The Stinger smiled his little wintry smile, and that was all.

“He told me that if Morgan had been any decent-spoken sort of chap he’d have let him pick up what was left of the shell,” Brockwell declared. “But he can’t stand any funny business. I can give you one tip. You can talk and argue with him so long as his eyes are blue. But when you see ’em turn sort of like ice, then back off and run. The argument’s done.”

NOW there would have been no more to this incident, perhaps, save that Morgan would have remained an enemy, had not the brig, running furiously south for the whole of that day and the next night, been halted the following dawn by a shot across her bows.

A snaky-looking stubby-funneled warship slid alongside and Morgan sighed with relief that he had no shell aboard when he saw her flag. Quite tranquilly he submitted himself to a search.

“I was blown out of m’ course,” he explained moodily to the dapper little Jap lieutenant who boarded him. “I’m not a poacher.”

“Of course not, Captain,” said the Jap, smiling. “You haven’t seen any other vessels around, I suppose?”

Morgan’s eyes glittered malevolently at that and he saw the way to repay for his scarred hand and his dead men.

“Oh, sure. There was a schooner in Laviata Lagoon.”

The Jap stiffened and eyed him suspiciously.

“You’re not sending us on a wild goose chase? We were at Laviata only four days ago. I warn you....”

Morgan jerked a stubby forefinger at his bandaged hand.

“The swine gave me that. I buried men yesterday. Look at the bullet holes in my boats.”

“Ah, so you were there, too,” breathed the Jap.

“I went in for water,” said Morgan sulkily. “You’ve got nothing on me. Go and take a look at Laviata.”

“To be sure,” said the Jap, smiling and bowing. “And we thank you, Captain.”

Morgan laughed outright when he saw the Jap climb up the side of the warship and that vessel’s course set to the north while black smoke began to pour from her funnel.

“That’ll give this Seave bird something to think about,” he boasted thickly. His mate, a man named Boris, shook his head and looked troubled. “That’s ag’in all th’ rules, Cap. If they ever found out we told ’em, all th’ Islands’d be ag’in us.”

“If you keep yer blamed mouth shut, who’s goin’ t’ know?” demanded Morgan irately. “Think I’m letting a little swine like him shoot me up?”

Boris subsided but he was very troubled just the same. It was against all the unwritten rules for one free-trader to inform on another.

TWELVE hours later Brockwell, Seave’s mate, shot down the companion to the main cabin and leaned across the table toward the Stinger, who was slowly eating a light meal.

“Warship,” he jerked breathlessly, his face ashen. “The lookout saw her smoke. We ain’t out of Jap waters yet.”

The Stinger masticated the mouthful of food he was already engaged on, drank a glass of water, lighted a cigar, pushed away his plate and said gently, “Is there no sign of wind?”

The schooner had been becalmed scarcely twenty miles from Laviata and lay without motion save for a heavy rolling.

“Jest catspaws,” choked Brockwell. “It ought to freshen any minute. The glass’s right. What shall we do?”

The Stinger stretched his legs under the table, leaned back in his chair and slid his right hand under his left armpit. “What can we do, Brockwell? We must wait. How far off is she?”

“’Way over the horizon yet, sir. But her smoke’s plain against the sky.”

“She wasn’t due for two days yet, according to the secret schedule Cassidy gave me,” said the Stinger aloud. “I wonder how she knew?”

He appeared lost in thought for a moment, then smiled his little wintry smile. “Have all hands stand by, Brockwell. Get the hatches off. Get all sail on her and wet the canvas down. I wish I knew these waters better.”

Brockwell darted back up the companion and after a few minutes of calm enjoyment of his cigar the Stinger followed suit. He stared a while at the working men, all of them casting scared glances at the horizon; then he, too, contemplated the smoke smudge against the sky, and after that he commenced a slow and unhurried pacing up and down, his arms folded and the tips of his fingers caressing the butt of his gun.

Two hours later the spars of the warship were plain, but as if they had been pushing it before them the wind freshened and the schooner was able to stand away from the east at the rate of three or four knots. Seave went below for a look at the glass. Then he came back on deck, wetted his finger, held it to the wind, scanned the sky for a long time and slowly shook his head. The wind would freshen, but not for many hours. With a slight shrug of regret he walked to the for’ard taffrail and called to Brockwell.

“All right. Get it overside.” Brockwell and the men who had been standing near the hatches in frightened impatience, heaved sighs of relief and sprang to work. No onlooker would have thought, to watch the Stinger as he stood by the rail, unmoved, his face expressionless, his eyes mild and blue, that he was watching with each sling-load that dumped into the sea the first fortune he had ever gained being flung away.

THE wind continued to freshen sooner than the Stinger had expected it, and the schooner raced away to the east under a full press of canvas. The warship lay dead astern of her, overhauling her slowly and grimly, until at last, toward evening, there was a spurt of orange flame from her forward gun and a shot splashed into the sea far ahead. Seave signed with his hand and the schooner hove to.

“I was blown out of my course,” said the Stinger mildly to the Jap lieutenant of the boarding party. “What is it you want?”

The little yellow man smiled vindictively.

“Pearls. You have been stripping the bed at Laviata.” “Nothing of the sort,” Seave replied gently. “I was blown out of my course, I say, and becalmed.”

“So I have heard from another man,” said the Jap. “Have you by any chance buried some dead men and got holes in your boats?”

“Ah,” said Seave softly. “So that was why you came back? You met Captain Morgan.”

The Jap did not reply but turned to fire orders at his men. The Stinger looked on without emotion, save that his eyes had turned icy again and he fondled many times the butt of his gun. When the Jap lieutenant returned to him on the poop after an hour or more the Stinger had not moved. “I shall arrest you,” choked the Jap with suppressed fury.

“You have jettisoned them.”

Seave looked cautiously round. There was no witness to hear.

“Yes, I dumped them,” he admitted calmly. “And I washed my hands clean. May I ask what course Captain Morgan had set?”

“You will come with me,” insisted the Jap. “You have admitted you stripped Laviata.”

“Your mistake,” said the Stinger coolly. “What proof have you? Have you been to Laviata? Did I mention the place first?”

“I must arrest you,” said the Jap determinedly. “My commander can decide what must be done.”

The Stinger smiled and the Jap’s face went ashen for some reason he could not determine. He fell back a pace.

“I shall kill at least five men before you take me,” said Seave crisply. “You have held me up on the high seas. I am flying the British flag. You have no proof I am a poacher, no proof I have even been to Laviata. If you capture me by force it will be piracy and I have friends at Apia and Suva.”

“Well,” choked the Jap. No one could blame him for his fury. As a loyal man it naturally roused him to wrath to know that this adventurer, this alien, had looted a part of his country’s treasure, then flung it beyond recovery into the sea. There was not a shell on board. Even the oyster slime was washed from the holds and they reeked of lime disinfectant. If it was possible to capture the little captain and his ship without the use of force, much might be made of a case in Japan. But if the little man insisted on fighting, and it was likely he would, grave international complications might ensue.

Still choking, the Jap turned away.

“One moment,” said Seave gently. “Will you drink with me? I wish to know what course Captain Morgan took?”

The Jap swung back. “I will not drink with you, Captain. Your... er… friend... was heading due south when we overhauled him. I understand he was heading for the Marshalls.”

Seave nodded. The Jap left him with a suppressed oath, called to his men and ushered them into the cutter waiting below.

Seave stood motionless until the warship had started for Laviata, and then said to Brockwell in a voice that made the mate jump, “Head due south. Call me when you sight a sail.”

He turned then and went below. He sat at his table in the main cabin, a bottle of gin beside him and a glass in his hand. Brockwell declares he sat that way and did not move, save to call the steward to bring a fresh bottle, right up until the time Morgan’s brig was sighted.

The chances are that, for all his coldness, Seave was angry and disturbed. He had had a fortune in his grasp, had dared greatly to loot one of the treasured lagoons of the world, and he had lost it because a free-trading captain he had fairly beaten had betrayed him.

IT was three days before Morgan’s brig was sighted, quicker than Seave or Brockwell had expected. But the wind had freshened to almost hurricane force and Seave had given no orders to shorten down.

Brockwell carried on as long as he dared and the afternoon of the second day had given orders himself to shorten down. The schooner labored a great deal less as they got canvas off her, and Brockwell was just about to order all hands below when the steward came up from the main cabin with the cryptic message that Captain Seave would like to speak to Mr. Brockwell. The mate went below with some misgivings.

“Who told you to take off sail, mister?” the Stinger said gently. His eyes were mild enough, but there were great circles under them and his jaw was hard. The mate licked his lips and shifted from one foot to the other.

“Why, no one, sir. I was in charge of the deck at the time and I considered....”

“I do all the considering here, sir. Make all sail again immediately and keep the  course.”

“You’ll drive her under, sir.”

“That will be all.”

Brockwell went away shaking his head.

Six hours later, after the schooner had been twice pooped and once badly battered in the trough, all hands came aft in a body. The Stinger had not with him at this particular time that bunch of hard cases he was later to gather and who feared neither God nor the devil and very little else save the Stinger.

This present crew was good enough, husky, able men with a normal amount of courage. But the terrific driving of the schooner before the wind had terrified them. She was beginning to strain open and they had already had a spell at the pumps. Unless she carried something aloft, every moment threatened to see her sailed clean under.

“Well?” said the Stinger coldly, when they were all gathered before him. They were afraid enough to be desperate and bold. “You’ll have to take sail off her,” said the spokesman, a lean, hatchet-faced American. “You’ll kill us all.”

“Get for’ard,” said Seave quietly. “I know what I’m doing, and know this ship better than you.”

“Unless you take in sail we’ll cut her free,” the man threatened. He dropped a hand casually to his sheath-knife. The rest muttered sullen approval. The Stinger sighed.

“You know me well enough to know I keep my word, men,” he commenced at last. “The first man who cuts I’ll kill. Now get for’ard and stay below if you’re afraid.”

“You’ll have to take in sail,” insisted the spokesman thickly. “We’re not leaving here until you agree.”

HE went so far as half to draw his knife, perhaps only in bluff. The Stinger neither knew nor cared about that. He was in a cold fury still because of the pearls, because of lack of sleep and a steady round of drinking. His hand moved. There was an explosion.

The spokesman looked shocked, swayed a bit and cried out, “You’ve killed me!”

“Just your hand,” said the Stinger contemptuously. “Don’t draw a knife on me again. Get out, all of you! The first man who cuts I’ll kill!”

They nearly ran out of the main cabin after that, the American holding his wounded, dripping hand, and the schooner went madly on as before, two men at her wheel and her masts and cordage creaking with the awful strain.

And so, on the third day, playing right in luck, she lifted the spars of the brig away to starboard.

Morgan was shortened down, as any decent ship should have been in that weather, and he was electrified when his mate, Boris, called him from below with the information that Seave’s schooner was forging up under his counter. Fear took possession of Buck Morgan of Levuka.

In an instant he was transformed from a swaggering, ruthless bully to a frightened, somewhat fat man. In the first place he already secretly feared the Stinger’s shooting. And in the second place he knew that by giving the Japs information on a free trader he had violated all the Island ethics. Morgan clapped on all the sail he dared, clapped on until Boris protested and the men began to mutter.

Seave was on the poop by this time, walking up and down and staggering to the press of the wind. His eyes were set on the brig and his hand constantly wandered to his left armpit. His crew, huddled in the lee of the midship house, watched him with fearful eyes and knew he was mad, temporarily at least. No one, not even Brockwell, had the courage to speak to him.

The hurricane began to abate something of its fury. Had it been a real hurricane, of course, Seave could never have carried on, but it had never developed quite to that, though at times it had verged perilously close. Now the wind began to drop and the sea to run smoother and longer. The schooner was running dead abeam of the brig, and even slowly forging ahead. The abating wind, however, gave the advantage to the brig, which sailed best in medium weather, and she drew on until both vessels were dead level. They ran like this for several hours, the wind dropping all the time, the sea growing smoother.

Night approached. Seave began to frown.

Then Brockwell came on the poop with the low-voiced information that there was a foot of water in the forehold and it was rising. The schooner had strained herself badly and opened her seams. Almost at that moment there came an ominous crackling from the foretop and a port backstay snapped with a vicious twang.

Seave stood stock still, his glance running rapidly from point to point. Then he smiled his wintry little smile, coughed, blinked once or twice and said to the helmsman in a very quiet voice, “Hard a-port and stand by to jump!”

“My gosh!” choked Brockwell. “Are you mad, sir?” Seave did not answer. Brockwell, after one look at his coldly smiling face, dived for the main deck to get all the crew standing by. The schooner swung round, lunged across the water and crashed into the brig.

THERE were five minutes of unutterable confusion, spars crashing down, ropes giving, wood splintering; then, as the night swept in, the schooner fell back half-foundering and a total wreck and the men who had composed her crew were clambering frantically over the brig’s rails. The brig had gone into the trough at the impact and was being swept by light seas that did not do much damage but made a foothold hard to keep.

Boris, the brig’s mate, after one awful oath, gave all his time to straightening the ship out and, by the time he had her on her course again and had sent men aloft to take off some sail until he could see what the damage was, he found the poop filled with grim-looking, somewhat dazed men with the frail figure of Stinger Seave at their head.

“Where is Captain Morgan?” the Stinger was saying crisply.

The astonished Boris looked up and down the frail figure, then at the other wet and dripping figures behind him.

“You’re a crazy man,” he managed to gasp. “You might have sunk us. There’s a hole in the side now you could put a door in.”

“Get your carpenter to work,” said Seave unperturbed. “Where’s Captain Morgan?”

“Below,” gasped Boris. “Good heavens....”

“Hold the poop,” Seave snapped to Brockwell, who was right behind him. “Let only this man come and go. Keep the rest on the main deck until I get back.”

“All right,” said Brockwell wearily. “Nothing can kill me after this.” The Stinger strode to the scuttle of the main cabin, wrenched it savagely back and went down the companion.

He found Buck Morgan of Levuka seated at the table, half drunk, and with a look of utter terror in his eyes.

He screamed when Seave appeared, dripping at every step, blood running down his face where a splinter had struck him, his eyes icy and bitter.

“It wasn’t me, Seave!” shouted Morgan thickly. “It wasn’t me who told the Japs.”

“Liar!” said the Stinger contemptuously. “I ought to kill you, but I’m taking your ship instead. You’ve cost me mine one way and another, and you’ve lost me the pearls. I need a larger vessel, anyway, so I’m taking yours.”

“You can’t do that,” said Morgan miserably. “Seave, I’ve got some rights and it wasn’t me who told the Japs.”

“I’m taking your ship,” said the Stinger slowly, “and if you cause any trouble about it I’ll kill you. Understand?”

Morgan gave one look into the Stinger’s eyes and whimpered.

Seave strode across the cabin toward a desk where he knew he would find a pen and ink. He had made only half the distance when, in a spasm of sudden rage and hoping to catch the little man unaware, Buck Morgan snatched with his unwounded left hand at the gun he had slung now on that side.

The Stinger, as a matter of fact, was not expecting any fight from Morgan after seeing how afraid the man was, and the action took him aback. Had Morgan not been shaking so he might have killed Seave then and there, for his shot was fired before the Stinger could swing sidewise and draw.

As it was, Morgan’s lead ran a red scar across the small of the Stinger’s back. The Stinger’s shot smashed Morgan’s left hand and the erstwhile tough free-trader collapsed in his chair and sobbed, partly with pain and partly because of the liquor that was in him.

“I ought to kill you for that, too,” said Seave, breathing hard and conscious that his back was sticky with blood. “But you’re the first man who ever caught me off my guard, and I’ll let you live to talk about it.... Now get ready to sign what I’m going to write. You’ll hand over your ship, understand?”

“Anything,” sobbed Morgan, thickly. “Anything, you devil, if you’ll leave me alone.”

The Stinger came on deck a few minutes later, folding up a paper and putting it in his somewhat dry inside pocket. Brockwell was still holding the poop, a belaying pin in one hand and all the schooner men behind him. At the foot of the companion where he stood Boris was heading a crowd of men with the obvious intention of regaining the ship. The appearance of the Stinger drew all eyes.

“I’m master here now,” said the Stinger coldly. “Has anyone anything to say?”

His icy eyes could not be seen in the darkness, but there was that in his voice that was sufficient. Presently one of the men on the main deck laughed a bit and said, “Makes no difference t’ me s’ long as I get me pay, sir. Are you taking us on? I’ve seen you shoot and I ain’t exactly charging.”

A few others laughed heartily at that and the heavy tension was broken.

“Your pay goes on,” said the Stinger more gently. “Get for’ard now and I’ll talk to you again in the morning.... Mr. Brockwell! Wear ship as soon as you are able. The course is for Laviata.”

“Laviata?” choked Brockwell, who had had enough excitement to last him for a lifetime. “What are we going to Laviata for, sir?”

“I’m an impatient man,” said Seave wearily. “But you’ve done good work lately, so I’ll explain. We are going to finish cleaning the lagoon. And we are going to leave on Laviata our friend Captain Morgan and such of his men as may not care to join me.”

“But the Japs, sir.”

“The Japs, we hope, will be gone by the time we get back. When they return, Captain Morgan will be able to give them a very satisfactory explanation of all events that have happened.... I am going to sleep, but if I hear anything out of the way taking place, or if the course is not set for Laviata as soon as is practical, I shall come on deck and I shall come shooting. I am a very impatient man and I have patiently stood for a lot the past few days. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” said Brockwell very humbly. “Set the course for Laviata, sir. The ship’s not much damaged and we’ll have her patched up all right in a few hours. For Laviata, sir, I’ll remember.”

_________________

11: The Devil's Sink Hole

Action Stories, December, 1940

THE career of Stinger Seave falls roughly into four divisions. There was the first period of about ten years, when he first came to the Islands and roved the South as a free-lance trader and adventurer.

Then there was the second period of some fifteen years when he became rich and powerful, owner of many ships, plantations, trading posts and lagoons. Then there was the third period which lasted about six years, when ruin fell upon him and he returned from respectability to roving and adventuring again.

Lastly, there were those years when the Administration, waxing powerful itself and despairing of ever making Stinger Seave realize the old wild days were gone, drafted him into the Service so that instead of breaking the Law he enforced it.

The year that Stinger Seave was ruined many other famous men were ruined, too. The Pacific was swept by an unprecedented series of hurricanes and typhoons which wrecked ships and sent fine plantations back to the desolation of the jungle. Dozens of planters, ship-owners and traders went into bankruptcy and had to start again from the bottom, or else shot themselves.

Stinger Seave, Cassidy, Chang, Gunther and others were hard hit but they would have weathered the storm had not the Bank of South Fiji failed as a climax to the year’s disasters. Fortunes were swept away. Cassidy found himself an old man and thousands of pounds in debt. Gunther was cast penniless on the beach at Ponape. Chang had to sell even his beautiful schooner yacht, The Middle Way, to pay his bills and Stinger Seave was reduced to one ship, the schooner Parramatta.

With Chang as his mate, the Stinger tramped up and down the Pacific once more, ruthless, cold, shooting and fighting his way.

The Administration, which thought they had forever done with his breed, woke up and sent their cutters and gunboats abroad again. Not only was Stinger Seave back on the old trail once more but many another famous adventurer who had been retired and grown fat and lazy. Necessity drove them, and the old days came to life again. Governments which had allowed old charges and warrants to lapse began to demand their delivery. Rewards, long since forgotten, were posted again. Stinger Seave went in danger of his life.

Fifteen years before, the situation would have caused him to smile his wintry little smile, to laugh, perhaps, to stick his head deliberately in the lion’s mouth and come back unscathed. But now he was a little tired, and there came a day when he didn’t care.

Even so, despite his apathy, he would have fought and won to freedom, perhaps, had not the governor of New Guinea, a new man, adopted a different attitude from his predecessors toward the old adventurers. The new governor had been a Pacific trader himself before chance and politics had raised him, and he understood the breed with which he had to deal.

When Stinger Seave shot two of the miners on Woodlark Island over some trouble that had to do with an unsettled debt, the new governor did not send a cutter, a resident magistrate and a police force to arrest Stinger. Instead, he had a message delivered to Stinger that he wished to see him. And when Stinger found himself in Port Moresby soon afterward, he responded.

THE Parramata had been anchored scarcely an hour when a white launch came out to her and a youthful, white-clad official climbed to her main deck.

“Captain Seave?” he inquired pleasantly.

Seave’s bo’s’n, who stood by the rail jerked his thumb aft to the poop and the youthful official made for the nearest companion. He went up and stopped. His attitude was one of curiosity mingled with respect and a little awe, for he had heard much of the famous man but had never met him.

Stinger Seave sprawled in a cane chair under the awnings, smoking a cheroot and holding a drink in his hand. His eyes were half closed and he looked very tired. His frail little body sagged wearily; his ragged mustache and his hair, once sandy and sun-bleached, were now white and thin. Surely, thought the young official, this isn’t the notorious man who’s caused the department so much trouble all these years!

“Captain Seave!” he said respectfully. “I am Carruthers, assistant secretary to His Excellency.”

Stinger Seave opened his eyes. They were clear blue, innocent-looking, but shadowed now with the deadly tiredness that oppressed Stinger.

“Well.” said Seave quietly, “what am I wanted for this time?”

“His Excellency sent a request to you,” hinted the secretary. Seave smiled his little wintry smile.

“I received it at Cape Nelson. It was rather unusual, the governor of the territory asking me to call.” The blue eyes twinkled a bit and the thin lips curved in a light laugh. “I have never been to the Administration house... er... socially.”

“Well, His Excellency requests that you call on him now at your earliest convenience.”

“Why didn’t he come with you?” inquired Stinger Seave.

The secretary’s jaw dropped. He had never heard of such a thing! The captain of a small trading schooner wanting to know why His Excellency did not call on him! The secretary drew himself up stiffly and his voice was cold.

“His Excellency happens to have broken his leg and is confined to his room. Shall I tell him what you say?”

“Oh, no,” drawled the Stinger softly. “I wouldn’t want to hurt George’s feelings. I guess he’d have come if he could... Will you wait for me?”

The secretary could only nod, quite astonished. George indeed! Calling the governor George!

Stinger Seave rose from his chair, threw his cheroot away and went below to change his whites and get a clean sun helmet. He reappeared after a while and followed the still amazed secretary down to the waiting launch.

ii

HIS Excellency, Sir George Thomas, G.C.M.G., C.B., etc., etc., governor of British New Guinea, sat in a comfortable chair behind his great desk in the center of a cool dark room while a young, white-clad man stood before him reading a report. The governor’s bandaged leg was stretched on another chair before him, he had discarded his tie and hung it over the inkwell, his thin face was furrowed in a scowl and he chewed savagely at the butt of a dead cigar.

The young man before him was resident magistrate for the worst district on the main island, about to depart on six months’ leave after two years of fever and fighting and worry. The governor was glaring at him as if he were a native caught in the act of theft.

“The last half of the current year was quieter,” the young man was reading from his report. “There was a murder at Awaiama; a man cut his wife’s throat. We ran him down in four days and he was killed while offering resistance. I surveyed and bought land from the natives for the Mission at Cape Scott. Anderson, the trader at Trobriands, reported he was in trouble and I took the cutter there to straighten it out. No one was killed but I arrested a native named Mawa for attempted poisoning. A prospector named Fellowes shot a man at Ferguson Island. I arrested him. German Harry collected a lot of orphans at Dobu whom I mandated to the Mission at Cape Scott. Patten had trouble with natives at the south end of Goodenough Island which I straightened out. A man named Jonson started a coconut plantation on the east side of the island and violated some native taboos. I went and saw the thing arranged. I arrested a witch doctor named Kiraku for killing a man of the Mambare. Captain Brown of the schooner Wirawira was killed by natives while smuggling liquor off Cape Vogel. I left my assistant to run them down....”

He droned on, an endless list of murders, captures, petty native wars, arrests, sieges, famines, fevers, sorceries, troubles between white men smuggling, quarrels over taboos and so on.

“That’s about all, to make a rough survey,” he finished, folding up the long report and laying it on the desk.

His Excellency scowled and hammered on the desk with his fist.

“It’s too much,” he roared. “Your district’s more damned trouble than it’s worth. Six months’ leave? You ought to be at work.”

“Well, seeing I’ve had only twelve men and the operating expenses....” suggested the R.M., smiling. He knew the governor of old.

“Don’t give me any excuses!” His Excellency roared. “I know the pay’s rotten, the grub’s worse, the stores are inadequate and you ought to have five hundred men. But I expect results, not explanations. Fifteen murders in a year and five police killed! I’ll have to take over the division myself.”

“Yes, sir,” said the R.M.

His Excellency simmered for a moment and then held out his hand. “Well, have a good time. We’ve got to do the best we can with the money we’re allowed. Don’t get too drunk and don’t get married.”

The R.M. saluted, turned on his heel and went out through the door. The assistant secretary came in. His Excellency looked up from the R.M.’s report and scowled.

“Captain Seave, sir,” he said.

“Why didn’t you send him in?” roared the governor. “How long has he been waiting?”

“About fifteen minutes, sir,” said the amazed secretary. His Excellency groaned. “It’s a wonder he didn’t turn round and go back.... Well, hurry him in.”

Stinger Seave appeared in the doorway, his sun-helmet in his hand, blinking a little in the cool dimness. The secretary withdrew, rather stunned. Stinger Seave saw the lean figure in the comfortable chair and came forward.

“Can’t get up,” growled the governor. “Slipped downstairs yesterday and broke my leg. How are you?”

They shook hands. Seave sat down. His Excellency bit the end from a fresh cigar, lighted it and pushed the box across the desk.

“It’s got to stop, Stinger,” he growled at last. “I can’t have half my force busy running after you. The old days are done. You can’t run around shooting and smuggling and looting any more.”

His Excellency let his eyes wander to the R.M.’s report before him and he had the grace to blush. Then he roared, pounding the desk: “I tell you, we’ve got to have law and order! The Islands are settling down. You old fellows have got to face the new situation.... Stinger, I’ve got a stack of warrants and charges against you that’d fill my desk. I can have you arrested right now and give you a sentence that’d put you away for the rest of your days.”

Stinger Seave smiled faintly and tapped the ash from his cigar.

“Well, go ahead,” he suggested.

His Excellency scowled. “I don’t want half a dozen men shot,” he said. “Be sensible, Stinger. The Islands aren’t what they used to be. Here we’ve got a few men, only a little money and few enough boats to rule all New Guinea. It takes all our energies to keep the natives quiet and protect what respectable whites there are. In a few years the politicians’ll wake up and we’ll have enough men to hold things down. But as it is, we have to make up in excellence of material what we lack in quantity. Thank God, the Service attracts the best! The pay’s rotten, Stinger, the grub’s worse, and there’s a first class chance of getting killed. And yet the fine young men still come for the job.”

“What’s all this got to do with me?” murmured the Stinger.

“I’m trying to get you to stop being a nuisance,” snapped the governor. “You and Cassidy and the rest don’t seem to be able to settle down to honest trading or planting and you’re too quick to get into trouble. Now, I seem to have read somewhere that in the old days of the American West it was the custom when a man got too bad to make him change sides. I’m offering you, Stinger, the toughest division in the territory. I’m offering to make you a resident magistrate, an officer of the Law. We need your kind. These young men are sound but they haven’t the knowledge of the Islands your kind has, and mine.”

FOR perhaps the first time in his life Stinger Seave laughed with all his body. He opened his mouth and shook. It was a superb joke as he saw it— Stinger Seave, the biggest thorn in the side of half a dozen Administrations, being asked to enforce the Law.

His Excellency waited until he had finished, then leaned forward, tapping the desk edge with his forefinger.

“I’m serious, Stinger. You know me. I’ve got the toughest job a man ever had and I’m going to see it through. We’ll have law and order in the Islands if it kills me. And I give you fair warning, if you don’t come over to us I’ll carry out the warrants. You’ll get twenty-four hours’ start from Port Moresby and if you show your nose anywhere in these waters hereafter you go to jail. You’ve had a good run. We’ve all been friends to you, fought beside you, even broken the Law with you in the old days. But that’s done. We filed away warrants because we understood you, knew you were doing more to tame the Islands than any of us. But that’s finished. I’m not threatening, Stinger, I know you too well to make idle threats. But I’m in dead earnest and I put the matter straight to you. You can do one of three things— stick to straight trading or planting, take this R.M. job, or skip out!”

Stinger Seave brushed his hand across his eyes. He knew that what the governor said was largely true. The old days were gone. The Law was being enforced more and more every year. There were still islands and coasts where white men were unknown and the Law was still that of rifle and dynamite, but even if a man spent his energies there, there were times when he must come to some civilized port to outfit or sell his cargoes. And if the officials in the ports ceased to regard with a certain tolerance the free-traders, the old semi-pirates and adventurers, then, indeed, what was there left?

“Ten years ago, even five years ago,” said the Stinger quietly, “such a flat ultimatum as you have just delivered would....”

“Would have sent you out on some mad venture just to show us how good you were,” agreed His Excellency. Then his voice dropped, softened and even grew a little pleading. “We’re getting old, Stinger, you and I and Cassidy and Chang and the rest. It was fun dodging the Law when we were young and the Islands were pretty well wide open. But it isn’t the same now. A man wants some peace. A man wants to settle down and be a bit respectable. I know you were on the road before the typhoon year came and the bank crash, and I’m not saying I blame you for going back to the old life to get some other fortune for your age.

“But this is the better way. I’m asking you as a friend to consider the proposal.... It won’t be that you’ll just sit back and twiddle your thumbs, Stinger. I’ll give you the toughest division we’ve got. You’ll need all your old shooting skill and all your courage and brains. And you’ll be working for the Islands and not against them. In the old days free-lance adventure, hard-shooting, hard-sailing, hard-drinking men were a necessity. But now that period has gone and we need those men with us. What do you say, Stinger?”

SEAVE was silent for a long time. His Excellency settled back with a sigh and smoked his cigar. Stinger Seave smoked, too. The secretary came in the room, paused a moment at the spectacle of the two old men immersed in thought, and then as silently departed again. Nearly an hour passed before Stinger Seave roused himself.

“I’m getting old,” he admitted slowly. “And I’m tired, George. What you say is about right. There isn’t the old kick left in running about. And I’m not the trader I was. The last two cruises were failures. I was down at Ysabel this time and fat old Kawara, the chief of the river tribes... you remember him?... came out in his canoe unarmed and ate with me. It’s the first he’s done it. He’s always before tried an attack first, threw a few spears, took a few shots in reply before we settled down to business. We’re all getting old.... I rather think I’ll take you up!”

His Excellency tried to leap from his chair, groaned as his leg twinged, then hammered on the desk with his fist.

“This is the luckiest day the service ever had,” he roared. “By thunder, Stinger, we’ll tame the Island together!... Let’s have a drink.”

He raised his voice. The secretary came in with glasses and a bottle. The two old friends drank, to the good old days, the days of youth and fighting and adventure; and then another drink for the days to be, Stinger Seave, R.M.

And it was in this fashion that Stinger Seave entered on the three last magnificent years of his life and took over the toughest division of New Guinea, with headquarters on Anea.

iii

ANEA had killed three previous magistrates. It was an island huddled in the delta of a great river and tapping the trade of hundreds of miles of unhealthy coast, not to mention that of a dozen other islands near by. It was almost the exact center of the last utterly wild portion of New Guinea and for this reason it gathered to its bosom every bad character that sailed those seas. Men driven from the quickly taming Samoan Islands, from the already settled Fijis, from the Societys and the Paumotus, Borneo and Sumatra, all came to Anea sooner or later, or to that other island, as savage and as lawless, Manoa to the north. But Anea at this time was the worst of the two places.

Stinger Seave anchored off the island in his own schooner late one afternoon. The Administration had had no cutter to offer him yet but they had come to an arrangement by which the Parramata’s expenses were to be paid and she was to be used for government work only. His Excellency had sent with Stinger Seave just six native policemen, all Papuans who had been in the force some years and commanded by a trustworthy sergeant named Kiwi.

As his assistant magistrate the Stinger had obtained Chang, his Chinese friend and once a famous pearl buyer. The Stinger came to Anea unannounced, very quietly and unobtrusively and with the name of Captain Smith. Under that name he was entered in the Administration’s books. The warrants were torn up. Stinger Seave was officially dead.

Anea as an Island city consisted of two large galvanized iron trading stores, three saloons, some half dozen palm-thatched residences, a large native village, a small bungalow for the resident magistrate’s home and a still smaller jail. The bungalow and the jail were almost in ruins, for Anea had been left unpoliced for two years, ever since the last R.M. had died suddenly and his native police had mysteriously disappeared.

Stinger Seave, or Captain Smith, landed his men and supplies that night and took possession of the bungalow. The Parramata lay at anchor in the really excellent harbor, between a large German bark in from the Solomons and a small schooner from the Bismarcks. There were also several luggers, and one or two other schooners in port, for Anea was a busy place and ships did not necessarily stop there to trade or get supplies.

Captains weary with six months or more of the sea dropped in to get drunk, to pick up the latest gossip and to find themselves a temporary sweetheart among the girls in the saloons. Anea was wicked, very wicked. Many men every year were found pitched in the mangroves with knives between their shoulder blades. Many more simply disappeared altogether, Malays, Chinamen, Germans, Frenchmen, Americans, Englishmen, Australians, all gathered there.

Gambling, drinking and other things were always in full swing. Girls: white girls, brown girls, yellow The girls, half-castes and full-blooded natives, came from all over the Islands to help lighten the pockets of loot-choked adventurers. The toughest place in all the territory, as His Excellency had said, and too far from Port Moresby and Samarai for the Law really to reach.

Stinger Seave felt quite cheerful when he surveyed it, for he had only been there once or twice before and never since its riotous days.

“I think we shall enjoy ourselves,” he remarked gently. “I understand several of my old friends or enemies are gathered here.”

“They have killed three magistrates,” said Chang with a sigh. “One went out fishing and did not come back. One was found speared in the bush. The other died in a saloon riot. Will you never grow tired of fighting?”

The Stinger smiled. “I shall die fighting,” he remarked casually. “A wise woman once told me that. I shall die fighting and a friend will kill me.”

“It is written also that I shall die with you,” commented Chang. “We are growing old, my friend. Do you remember long ago when I told you that, that I shall die with you? I looked into the crystal and was eager to know the future. I am wiser now. Life should not be understood, nor the future of life.... Perhaps it is here we shall face the end together.”

Seave did not answer. He only half believed his own prophecy but he knew that Chang wholly believed his. There was a time when Chang always consulted his crystal before going forth on a venture, though of late he had abandoned the practice. But what did it matter how or when they died? The Stinger was ready. He had faced death too many years now to be afraid of it.

THEY were sitting on the veranda of the tumble-down bungalow and smoking after dinner. The next day they would start work.

The native police were camped around a fire a short distance away, for the barracks were in ruins and new ones must be built.

The bungalow was set on a rise and, looking down the slope, once cleared of jungle but now overgrown with weeds and vines and small saplings, they could see the bright lights of the small Island city, the fires in the native village with the dark figures passing back and forth, and the lights of the shipping in the harbor. They could hear, coming up the hot wind, the shouts of laughter, the drunken cries, the noise of the tinny pianos in the saloons.

Once there was a hubbub and the sound of breaking glass, followed by a shot. His Excellency had honored Stinger Seave, Chang thought, in sending him to Anea. Who else was there in all the South who would be expected to tame it with only six policemen? It was a job for a cruiser.

Presently up the slope from the town there came four or five dark figures, the leading one carrying a lantern. From the noisy talking and the occasional shouts of laughter it was evident some of them were drunk. Chang rose to his feet and folded his arms across his chest, his slant eyes glowing. Stinger Seave smoked unperturbed, though his right hand began slowly to stroke his throat.

RIGHT up to the veranda the strangers came and when the leader with the lantern caught sight of the two white-clad figures sitting in the semi-glow, he halted and put down his light on the cracked steps. The police, sitting round the fire, stood up and rested their carbines in the crooks of their arms and Sergeant Kiwi spoke to them in a low voice. Behind the leading stranger three other men had halted.

“We understand there’s a new magistrate,” declared the first man in an unpleasant voice. He was big and burly, darkly unshaven, with an out-thrust jaw and glittering cold blue eyes. He had his thumbs stuck in a sagging cartridge belt round his waist and a pearl-handled revolver glimmered in the lantern light.

Seave tapped the ash from his cigar. “You were correctly informed,” he said gently.

“Stand up and let’s look at you,” said the man harshly. The Stinger obeyed, apparently good-natured. He stood up, came down the steps until the light shone on him.

The other man began to laugh. His companions laughed.

“What d’you think you’re going t’ do?” he said at last. “There ain’t enough of you t’ put in my pocket.”

“I am Captain Smith,” answered the Stinger, still gently. “I have been sent by His Excellency to restore order to Anea. May I inquire who you are?”

“I own the Mermaid,” jerked the other insolently. “Name of Crossly. When I say jump, on Anea, everyone does, see? This’s a sort of friendly visit, though. I’m warning you to walk soft and wide of us. You just stick to filling in reports, see? Don’t bother us and you’ll be left alone. The others they sent here had too many ideas about things and they ... er ... quit.”

“Remarkable,” sighed the Stinger. Then slowly his mild blue eyes changed color. They took on the cold, clear glint of ice and for some reason he could not fathom Crossly felt a chill run down his back and an uneasiness swept him.

“Now let me say something,” snapped the Stinger, his voice crisp as a whip. “I represent the Law here. I propose to enforce it. Tonight you can have full reign. Tomorrow at noon Anea settles down.”

Another man pushed forward, a slender, dark-haired, handsome man with a silky black mustache and bright black eyes. He was immaculately dressed in a fine suit of well-pressed whites, with a broad sash around his waist in which was stuck a neat Mauser.

“Captain Smith,” he drawled, in a not unfriendly voice, “you are a brave man, yes. You must be, else they would not have sent you here. I am Charley the Greek and the Three Ships Hotel is mine. We wish no trouble with the Administration. We wish only to be left alone. You will walk softly, yes. You will make no arrests. Maybe then we shall be friends and you will grow rich.”

Stinger Seave smiled thinly.

“I take no bribes,” he said gently. “And I shall make no arrests.”

“What’re you driving at?” demanded Crossly roughly. Chang thought he resented Charley the Greek butting in.

“I mean,” answered the Stinger, tapping ash from his cigar again, “I mean the jail is in need of repair, so I shall make no arrests. Just that.”

“He means,” whispered Charley the Greek, “that he will shoot to kill.”

THERE was a brief silence. The four men from the town shifted uneasily on their feet. Then another of them, a short squat man with a scarred, evil face, pushed forward. He was very drunk but able to walk straight.

“You start anything like that and you’ll get yours,” he snarled. “Ain’t you got any sense at all? I warn you. I run the Frigate Bird and if you shove your nose inside my joint you’ll get lead between your eyes.”

“That,” whispered the Stinger, “remains to be seen.”

The fourth man lurched into the lantern light and he was very drunk indeed, rocking back and forth on his feet. He was fat and moon-faced and his watery gray eyes blinked owlishly up at Seave.

“Cap’n Smith?” he hiccoughed. “Hell, what a name! Wait till Larsen of Singapore hears there’s a new R.M. around. He’ll send you packing.”

Stinger Seave started at that, as did Chang. Larsen of Singapore was an old foe. The Stinger and he had clashed many times. If Larsen of Singapore were financially interested in Anea, the task to clean it up would be much harder.

The very drunken fat man— his name was Collins, they later learned, and he was partner to Charley the Greek— stepped close and peered into the Stinger’s face.

“Cap’n Smith?” he hiccoughed. “Hell, that ain’t your name. I seen you somewheres afore... somewheres afore, I know.” He shook his head sadly and Crossly pushed him aside with a sharp oath.

“I don’t give a damn who he is,” he croaked. “But get this straight, Smith. You walk soft and easy and mind your own business and maybe we’ll make you rich. Start interfering and you’ll go under. Is that clear?”

“Very clear,” replied the Stinger gently. “And I hope you understand as clearly that after tomorrow noon Anea settles down.”

“You are foolish, yes,” sighed Charley the Greek, as if he regretted the whole affair. Crossly shrugged. He picked up his lantern and moved away, pausing only to throw back over his shoulder, “We’ll stand for no fooling, remember that, Smith.”

iv

THE four men straggled back down the slope. Chang and the Stinger could hear the drunken Collins protesting, “I tell you I’ve seen him somewhere and his name wasn’t Smith. He’s well known in the Islands. You’d better watch out.”

Crossly only laughed. Charley the Greek said smoothly, “He is not like the others, Crossly. Not young and green and foolishly brave. He is a wise man, yes. I do not like his eyes... Who is it the Islands say has such eyes?... We must take care. The governor would not send a fool to Anea.”

“What can he do against the bunch of us?” inquired the short squat man roughly, he who owned the Frigate Bird which was the lowest dive in town. It was said the only man he feared was Crossly, though it was noticeable he took good care to be polite also to Charley the Greek. Charley was perhaps the smoothest and best educated of them all, and, though he deferred to Crossly’s greater strength and larger following, he had a way of speaking sometimes that made even Crossly wonder just how much he controlled the dark, slender man.

“What can he do?” inquired Charley the Greek softly. “Much or little. It depends on what he is. It would be well to walk softly until he shows us, yes, what he is made of.”

“His name ain’t Smith,” hiccoughed Collins, wagging his heavy head. “I see ’im somewheres... Ponape? Brisbane? Moresby? Suva? Damned if I know.”

They entered the little town back of the beach and parted to their respective resorts. Crossly went bellowing as to what he would do if any blankety-blank magistrate tried to sit on him. Collins swayed off mumbling about Captain Smith not being Captain Smith. The scarred, squat man repaired to the Frigate Bird and, calling his half-caste partner Lenaire, began to plan ways and means of eliminating the new R.M.

Charley the Greek reacted quite differently. He had a premonition that things were about to happen on Anea. His Excellency, it stood to reason, would not send any other but an exceptional man after three had already died. It was wisest to see which way the wind would blow before taking things for granted as Crossly did. Charley called his men together, his white bartender, his two native houseboys, his girls.

“There is the Law come again,” he said softly, smoking his cheroot and smiling at them. “Perhaps it will be only a jest as was the Law before. But there will be no fighting, no anger, no quarreling, not too much drinking until we know. I am clear, yes?”

They all grunted or nodded and went about their jobs. Charley ran the best place on Anea and kept his own peace with his Mauser. It was his boast that no man, not even a common sailor, was ever robbed or slugged or beaten in the Three Ships Hotel. He charged the highest prices, employed the newest girls and dealt quite impartially with all comers. Also he disliked Crossly and he looked forward to the day when he could expand his own place, when the Three Ships Hotel would be perhaps the only one on the Island, with Crossly and Barker and the rest forgotten or dead.

Charley the Greek therefore did not wish to run foul of the Law if the Law showed the slightest signs of gaining the upper hand.

EXACTLY at noon the next day Stinger Seave came down the hill. He was immaculately dressed and was coolly smoking a cigar. He seemed unarmed. He seemed at peace with the world. He seemed merely a little elderly man taking a quiet walk before lunch. The native police he had left to build themselves a barracks. Chang he had left to superintend them, in spite of the Chinaman’s heated protests.

“Anea is not a jest,” Chang had insisted. “If you will not take the police on patrol, at least let me walk with you. Some one must watch your back.”

“I have not anticipated so much fun since Larsen trapped me on Ysabel,” returned the Stinger. “Let me be. If I should die you have my permission to burn the place to the ground.”

Chang had shrugged at that because it was hopeless to persuade Stinger Seave, once he had made up his mind. So the frail little sailor walked calmly down the hill and entered the town, picking a delicate way between heaps of garbage and sleeping natives, through a pack of snarling nondescript dogs. The first place he came to was the Three Ships Hotel and he walked up on the broad veranda and stopped to survey the scene.

There were few about so early in the day. A mate from one of the schooners in the harbor dozed in a cane chair. Two dark-eyed native girls leaned outside the wide dark doorway and smiled invitingly. The Stinger’s mild blue eyes passed over them and for some reason or other they withdrew in some confusion.

The Stinger entered the hotel. Inside a few men, white and half-castes, were sitting at the tables drinking and talking. Several girls were gathered on the raised platform at the other end of the room where stood the battered old piano. When night came and the crowd gathered, the girls would dance, the piano would thump out long-outdated tunes and the noises of talk would rise with the thickening tobacco smoke.

Charley the Greek, who had been watching from the balcony upstairs, came smoothly down, as immaculate as the Stinger, smiling, pleasant.

“It is quiet here,” he said deprecatingly. “Too early for the ship men to come, yes. Will you drink?”

The Stinger nodded and sat down. He saw no signs of natives drinking, nothing much at all that he could take exception to. He was no saint himself. He had not the slightest intention of ordering the girls to be discharged or any such thing as that. No R.M. in all the Islands bothered about such minor things. The main point was to keep the peace, to stop the selling of liquor to natives, to stop the fighting and killing, the running of guns, opium, women and so on— but, most of all, to keep the peace.

CHARLEY came with a bottle of his best whisky, serving the new magistrate himself. When the Stinger threw down a piece of gold Charley pushed it back with a smile.

“The drink is for you from me,” he said.

“I buy my own,” responded the Stinger quietly. “But perhaps you will drink with me?”

Charley the Greek bowed, seated himself, poured two drinks. The men finished them in silence. Then Charley asked if he might be permitted to buy the next. This the Stinger agreed to after receiving the change from his gold. Then he rose and started for the door.

“I shall be back,” he said.

Charley bowed again, and was motionless for a long time, his eyes fixed on the doorway through which the little frail man had departed.

“I think,” whispered Charley to himself. “I think my friend Crossly will have a great surprise, yes.”

Stinger Seave’s next stop was at the Frigate Bird and there he found things already in full swing. Outside the place, near the veranda steps, a native snored in drunken slumber, full in the blazing sun. His lips were puffed and there was a bruise under one eye.

Stinger Seave grunted and entered the place. Half a dozen men were singing uproariously round the old piano. Several natives were squatted against the walls swigging cheap trade gin from square-faced dark bottles. A card game was in full blast near the dirty short bar at one end and Barker, squat, ugly and scarred, was surveying the players with a grin for his house man was winning heavily. Barker was still in his pajamas but he had his gun belt buckled round his waist and a cigar stuck out of his thick lipped mouth.

One of the many girls moving about called to him and he looked first at her inquiringly, then swung rapidly to face Stinger Seave. He scowled. The Stinger walked right up to him and a sudden hush fell over the Frigate Bird.

Barker rested a hand on his gun and waited. Stinger Seave put his right hand slowly to his throat and began rubbing it as if an insect had bitten him there.

“It is against the law to sell liquor to natives,” he said gently. “You will please put those men outside and take away their bottles. You will also refrain from serving them in future.”

“Yes?” said Barker. He laughed. One or two other men laughed, evidently his friends. They backed up behind him to see the fun. This must be the new R.M. come to enforce the Law on Anea. Quite a joke, eh?

“Suppose I say you can go to hell?” inquired Barker. “I warn you this once,” answered the Stinger. His blue eyes slowly changed until they glinted like ice. “You put those men out. If I find any others in here drinking you go to jail.”

“Don’t be funny,” snarled the squat man. “And get to hell out of my place!” “Put those natives out!” commanded the Stinger, his voice crisp as a whip.

Barker laughed again but a bit uncertainly because of the other’s eyes. A man said, “Aw, kick him out. Barker, like you did the last one.”

Barker grinned and stepped forward.

“Stay where you are!” snapped the Stinger. “I’ll shoot you dead if you try anything.”

Barker stopped. He was thoughtful for a moment; then he sneered.

“A gunman, eh? I suppose His Excellency thought he’d try something funny.... Well, go for it, you swine!”

He was jerking his own gun clear even as he spoke, but before the last word was out there was a crashing roar and his weapon dropped heavily to the matting from his stinging hand.

Two men behind him whipped out their guns with a startled oath and the crashing explosions made the place echo. One man took three steps back with a broken arm; the other dropped his gun as Barker had done. Barker was looking, stupefied, at a bleeding furrow that creased the back of his right hand. The cold, icy eyes of Stinger Seave swept the stunned onlookers, taking no heed of the girls who were screaming and running for the rear of the house.

“That will be enough for now,” the Stinger said. “Put those natives out!”

“You go to hell!” choked Barker, red with rage and fear. “Who the hell are you, anyway?”

“I shall count three,” whispered the Stinger, his frosty eyes boring into Barker’s. “And then I shall shoot again.”

For a moment there was a tense silence while the powder smoke went up in blue wisps.

“One,” said the Stinger. “Two....”

Barker ripped out an oath and, walking to the nearest native, kicked him to his feet and propelled him toward the door.

Stinger Seave backed against a wall until it was all done; then he smiled his little wintry smile.

“Thank you,” he said gently. “I hope I never have to bother you again.”

In a tense silence still he left the Frigate Bird and, though his back was turned, not a man dared to shoot. He passed out into the sunshine and it was not until a girl giggled hysterically that the tension broke.

And then Barker’s wrath was something to terrify men. He sent a houseboy to Crossly’s place.

v

STINGER SEAVE made for the Mermaid saloon in a silence almost as tense as that in which he had left the Frigate Bird. The sound of shots seemed to have driven all life off the dusty street. He had seen the houseboy run from the rear of the Frigate Bird and he knew that Barker had warned Crossly what had happened.

But the Stinger did not hesitate. He had loaded his gun while he walked and just before reaching the Mermaid he took an abrupt turn to the left and walked straight into the coconut groves that were thick behind the rows of shacks and saloons.

This move was entirely unexpected and the man who was watching the Stinger’s approach from a window in the Mermaid uttered a cry of alarm and turned to tell Crossly what had happened. Meanwhile the Stinger, once in the trees, quickened his walk until he was sure he was out of sight. Then he turned to the right and ran swiftly for perhaps a hundred yards.

This took him well past the rear of the Mermaid and brought him behind a big trading store. The trees ran right up to this, as he had noticed when surveying the lie of the land early that morning through glasses from the magistrate’s bungalow. He walked boldly into the rear door of the store and found himself in a back room.

A tall, lean man was leaning forward over a table and on the table lay a rifle and several boxes of ammunition. A native was fingering the weapon covetously with one hand while the other held a large bundle of bird-of-paradise skins.

“Pardon me,” said the Stinger. “But an order in council forbids the sale of weapons to natives without possession of a special permit.”

The lean man slowly turned, his jaw dropping, a look of utter astonishment on his face. The native backed off, gibbering, clutching his skins to him.

“And who the hell are you?” asked the lean man slowly.

“Captain Smith, resident magistrate on Anea,” answered the Stinger.

The other relaxed then and laughed. “Oh, you’re the new man, eh? Well, don’t be funny. If you know what’s healthy for you, you’ll shut up.”

Seave looked at the native. The man turned and ran. The trader uttered an oath and reached for his hip pocket. The Stinger smiled frostily and watched him and the thin man produced a gun. He tapped with the barrel of it on the table and his eyes glittered.

“Listen, little boy,” he said rather grimly. “You see this? Well, I’m giving you a start just to that door.... And if you bring back a file of police I’ll give Crossly a yell and he’ll settle with you.”

“It’s remarkable,” said the Stinger, apparently irrelevantly.

“What’s remarkable?”

“The way you seem to think you’re all tough here,” said Seave. “Now put that plaything away and talk sense. You’ll walk inside the Law in future or you’ll go to jail. Is that clear?”

The other shrugged and, lifting the gun he held, began to thumb the hammer.

“Beat it!” he snapped.

“Is that Crossly behind you?” asked the Stinger innocently. The thin man looked around. When he looked back again he changed color. He stared straight into a neat black muzzle and it was held with uncanny steadiness.

“You’re not tough,” said the Stinger contemptuously. “A child wouldn’t fall for such an old trick.”

There was the sound of shoes on the back porch. Seave moved swiftly aside. A rough-dressed and unshaven man burst in, very excited. He stopped when he saw the trader standing apparently idle at the table.

“Heard the latest, Andrews?” he commenced. “That damned new R.M. went into Barker’s.....”

His word became a gurgle as he caught sight of Seave. And then like a flash his hand dropped to his side. The trader at the same instant ducked behind the table and shot upward. There were exactly three explosions and two came from Seave’s gun.

The man who had come to tell about Barker gave a howl and clasped his bleeding hand. The trader went sideways with a crash even as his bullet smashed into the wall several feet to one side of the Stinger.

Seave waited a moment and then, breaking his gun, took out the two empty shells and replaced them.

“That man,” he said mildly, waving the gun at the limp trader, “is dead. The next time you draw a gun on me you will die, too.”

HE turned and walked not out of the back door but right into the big store, leaving the wounded man staring stupefied at the neat hole that was between the trader’s eyes.

There were two half-caste clerks in the store but the Stinger ignored them. He made for the front of the place, approached a window, looked out, then paused. He could see a crowd of men issuing from the Mermaid by the rear way and hurrying toward the store, apparently to investigate the shots, possibly hoping to trap the new magistrate.

The Stinger smiled, waited until they were well behind the store; then, stepping out, he walked calmly toward the front door of the Mermaid, keeping alert for any watchers who might take it into their heads to try and shoot at him. He spotted one native gaping at him near the rear end of the Mermaid but the man after a moment’s astonishment turned and fled into the groves behind him with a cry of alarm.

Stinger Seave went up on the Mermaid’s front veranda and stepping close to the house wall edged along until he could peer through the slits in a grass-slat curtain hung over one of the open front windows. He saw no one in immediate view and, apparently satisfied, walked boldly through the gloomy doorway, his gun ready in his hand and his eyes like ice.

The place was deserted except for a group of girls gathered at one window in the rear and staring toward the big store. A drunken man slept at a table. A few natives were sitting with bottles. Crossly and his bullies had evidently all charged over to the nearby store.

Stinger Seave smiled a little and sat down at a table, his back to the wall so he could command both front and rear of the place. He holstered his gun and slowly lighted a cheroot. Then he tapped gently on the table.

One of the girls turned and saw him and uttered a half-stifled cry. The rest turned.

“Whisky,” said the Stinger. “The best you have.”

As if fascinated, the girl who had first seen him went behind the bar, procured a whisky bottle and a tray and a glass and brought them to him. When the Stinger asked for water, that was brought, too, and he sipped reflectively at his mild drink amid tense silence. No one moved. The girls remained in a huddle to stare. The girl who had waited on him, a white girl, fair, blue-eyed, apparently not more than twenty-five or six, though she looked thirty, leaned on the table opposite him.

“You’re the new R.M., aren’t you?” she asked slowly.

Stinger Seave blinked at her and nodded.

“Well, it’s nothing to me what happens to you, but you’d better beat it. Crossly’s hopping mad because of what you did to Barker at the Frigate Bird and he’ll finish you. Take my tip and leave him alone. He’s finished three nice boys already.”

“You are very kind,” murmured the Stinger gently. “But there will be no more of that on Anea.” He coughed a little as if smoke had got into his throat. He eyed the girl keenly, then tapped the ash from his cheroot and leaned nearer to her.

“By the way, if you happen to know of any women being held here... er... against their wishes, I’ll be glad to arrange for their transportation to Australia.”

The girl looked at him with sombre, brooding eyes; then she laughed bitterly. “The others said much about the same thing. But they never had a chance to clean these joints up. You don’t think any white woman wants to stay here, do you?”

“No,” admitted the Stinger frankly. “I don’t. But then, some choose that sort of thing.”

The girl struck the table fiercely with her fist. “Well, I don’t. Crossly brought me here from one of his trips to Brisbane. There’s a few others in the same boat. Where the devil can we go? Most of the girls, especially the natives, don’t mind the life, but I’m not a native. Understand me, mister. I’m no lilywhite saint. I was bad back ... there ... but I never had to stand being pawed by the sort of animals that come to Anea.”

“We’ll fix all that,” murmured the Stinger. He was a hard man, a ruthless, cold man, but he stood for utter fair play. He had not the slightest objection to and not the slightest interest in any girl who wanted to follow the life she led, but he knew, all too well, that many of the Island dives were stocked with women who would have given their right arms to be back in Australia. And he intended seeing that such women went. For the rest, those who chose to remain, what did it matter?

The girl who faced the Stinger seemed about to say more but suddenly she drew erect, muttered a quiet, “Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you, mister,” then backed off to the wall. Crossly had returned.

THE big burly man came swaggering in by the rear door of the saloon, his thumbs stuck in his cartridge belt and his voice raised in bellowing scorn. His bullies followed him, laughing, sneering, agreeing with every word he said.

“Aw, he skipped for the woods,” Crossly was asserting. “He knew he was lucky to get the drop on Barker and he was riding the luck pretty hard when he dropped into the store. But he won’t come here. I’ll take a bet on it. I’m Buck Crossly and I’ve got rid of three magistrates. If they figure on cleaning up Anea they’ll have to send a cruiser, not a damned little shrimp ...”

One of the girls had drawn up to Crossly and said something to him. He grew rigid, jerked his head around and saw the quiet figure seated at one of his tables. He was so astonished at the utter sheer nerve of it that he was silent and still for nearly a minute. Then he recovered himself, hitched his holsters around to the front, and laughed.

“Well, look who’s here,” he jeered. “The little boy’s paid us a visit, after all.”

The fat and moon-faced man, whose name was Collins, stood near Crossly and he plucked at the big man’s jacket sleeve. Collins was still drunk but very nervous.

“You better listen to me, Crossly,” he croaked with many hiccoughs. “He ain’t Captain Smith. No such thing! I’ve seen him somewhere afore...”

Crossly swept him aside and strode down the big room to where the Stinger sat calmly sipping his mild drink.

“You got a blasted nerve,” said Crossly hoarsely. “I guess you figure, ’cause you got away with Barker and the rest, that I’m soft, eh? Well, get to hell out of my place as fast as yer legs’ll carry yer. Savvy?”

“You are breaking the law,” said the Stinger mildly, blinking up at the big man. “You must not sell liquor to natives. Put those men out.”

Crossly rested his hands on his guns. He packed two of them, swung low on his thighs.

“I’ll give you ten seconds,” he replied coldly. Stinger Seave nodded. He finished his drink, set down his glass and began to rub his throat. Crossly thought he was about to rise and leave. Instead, the little frail man’s eyes turned to twin points of ice and he whispered, “Well, start counting.”

Crossly was astonished. No man on Anea dared face him. He was a notorious shot. Not even the other magistrates had stood up to him in this fashion, brave men as they had been. And as Crossly was astonished, so were his bullies, his men, his hangers-on. They stood back to give him gun room and guffawed. It was funny. At least the other magistrates had been upstanding, big men, capable of holding their own, but this little old individual looked as if a good breath would send him outside.

“Chesty, eh?” grinned Crossly. “Well, all right. “I’ll count. One, two, three....” He went steadily on and the Stinger did not move. When he came to ten Crossly began slowly to draw his guns, his face threatening, expecting to see the other wilt and run. Instead, the little man’s hand snaked inside his jacket, appeared again and there was an explosion.

Crossly rocked back, sagged at the knees and dropped. A trickle of blood appeared down his cheek.

The Mermaid was deathly silent.

Stinger Seave rose, swept the place with his icy eyes, and the rest of the men wilted back, awed. Then the Stinger crossed to the natives in sight, kicked them up and ordered them outside. That done, he turned to the wondering crowd.

“He’s only creased,” he said, waving a contemptuous hand at the huddled, limp Crossly. “When he comes round, tell him I’ll be back tomorrow at this time.”

He quietly walked out. It was a long time before anyone ventured to Crossly’s side.

The fair girl who had first spoken to the Stinger stood with wide, shining eyes and she whispered, “He’ll do it! I believe he’ll do it!”

Chang was anxiously waiting on the bungalow veranda when the Stinger returned.

“I heard firing,” said the Chinaman uneasily. “There was a killing, eh?”

“A little,” replied the Stinger. He took off his sun-helmet, laid it on a chair, sank to another, and reached for the gin bottle. Not until he had sipped half of the liquor did he speak again.

“Do you know, Chang, the Islands aren’t anything like what they used to be. Men were tough in my day and yours. Now they’re only a joke. I can’t understand why the governor thought Anea was bad.”

Chang sighed and shook his head. “You must remember, my friend, that those other magistrates were clean boys, brave, strong and willing but inexperienced. They did their best and they failed. But you... you are Stinger Seave.”

“I am Captain Smith,” said the Stinger gently. “Let us forget Stinger Seave, Chang. He was a bad man. Captain Smith from now on.”

“It may be you would forget,” answered Chang gently. “But how can the Islands? Stinger Seave you have lived here and Stinger Seave you will die.”

The Stinger shrugged and they dropped the conversation.

vi

ANEA was in a turmoil. Only Charley the Greek preserved his composure, and he was the only man on whom the heavy hand of the new magistrate had not fallen.

Crossly, his head bandaged, his temper villainous, called a meeting in the back room of the Mermaid that night to discuss ways and means to combat this sudden menace of the Law. They had the situation over, Barker, Charley the Greek, Crossly and one or two others who were interested, and they had reached no particular conclusion when Collins, the fat, moon-faced man, burst in, slightly more sober than usual.

“I’ve got it,” the newcomer exclaimed. “I’ve got it, Charley!”

“Got what?” inquired Barker, with a scowl.

“That chap’s name! I know who Captain Smith is.”

“What is he?” choked Crossly. He ran off a long string of names. “That’s what he is,” he concluded.

“Maybe,” insisted Collins. “But do you know his real name?”

“No, and I don’t give a damn,” snarled Crossly.

“I have guessed it,” murmured Charley the Greek. “There is only one man in the Islands who could shoot that way, except perhaps Larsen of Singapore.”

“Stinger Seave!” shouted Collins, quivering with excitement all over his fat body.

There was a tense silence. Crossly licked his lips and took an involuntary half step back. Barker nursed his wounded hand and muttered in an awed voice. Charley the Greek caressed his silky black mustache and nodded to himself. Collins gazed triumphantly from one to the other, and the rest of the men present went a little white.

“Stinger Seave?” inquired Crossly, with an uneasy look around.

“That explains it all,” said Barker.

There was another silence.

Stinger Seave’s name was known from the Pribiloffs to the Kermadecs. His gun play was almost a legend. If none of them had seen him, there was none who had not heard of him. His cold nerve, his ruthlessness, his exploits were the talk of the South. He was a survivor from the bad old days, companion adventurer to Cassidy of Apia, to Big Bill Gunther, to Black Len Carson and a dozen others who were almost legends themselves.

Cold chills ran down the backbones of the listeners. Stinger Seave! Had they been trying to buck the Stinger? How was it any of them were left alive?

“Aw, that’s a lie,” declared Crossly at last, without much conviction. “What would the Stinger be doing here as resident magistrate? He’s wanted himself.”

“The new governor of New Guinea is an old-timer,” murmured Charley the Greek. “The Stinger and he were old friends. It is natural he should be here. Also he has with him a Chinaman, and his mate is supposed to be Chang, the Chinese pearl-buyer of the old Paumotus days. I did not know who he was at first, but I told you, yes, to be careful. I did not like his eyes. We cannot fight Stinger Seave.”

“The hell we can’t!” choked Crossly. He glared around, his eyes flaming. “There’s half a dozen of us, good men. He got us unawares this afternoon. We didn’t know who he was, and we were careless. But from now on we’ll deal with him.”

“We can jump him in the bush some time,” agreed Barker. “We’ve got to get rid of him or quit Anea. He’ll be stopping the blackbirding trade next.”

The rest looked uneasy, excepting Charley the Greek.

“Count me out,” he said gently. “I wish to live longer. The Stinger he is too good, yes. Men do not make such names in the South without there is cause. I shall walk softly for a long time.”

“Always thought you were yeller, anyway,” sneered Crossly. “Stay out, Charley, and we’ll get you after we’ve squared it with the Stinger. There’s no room on Anea for two sides.”

Charley the Greek bowed a little, but his dark eyes glittered. “That is to be seen,” he murmured. “But I will not fight Stinger Seave.”

HE turned and left the room, Collins following him. He had hardly gone when a new step sounded and the door swung back to admit a tall, lean man with a grim, scarred face and graying kinky hair. He looked coldly round on the assembly and then snapped: “What’s this I hear? A new R.M. scaring you all!”

Crossly heaved a sigh of something very close to relief. The newcomer was the owner of the Mermaid, half owner of the Frigate Bird, half owner of the big store, the clearing house for all the illegal trade of the island, the real ruler of Anea— Larsen of Singapore.

“Where did you blow from, Larsen?” growled Barker. “Well, never mind. We need some help here all right.”

Larsen frowned and looked from man to man. He took in Crossly's bandaged head and then, catching sight of Barker’s bandaged hand, he gave a violent start and with an involuntary motion rubbed a livid scar on the back of his own right hand.

“Word was sent me from Port Moresby that another R.M. had been appointed to Anea,” he said slowly, licking his lips as if something had happened to disturb him. “A Captain Smith. I never heard of him. I left Singapore as soon as the news came and anchored here about two hours back. Felton of the Leonora met me on the beach and told me you’d had a run-in already.”

“He shot us up,” declared Crossly vehemently. “Got sore about us selling liquor to the natives. He got us unawares.”

“Yes.” Larsen smiled faintly. “How long has he been here?”

“Came in yesterday,” growled Barker. “Do you know who he is?”

“No.” The word came as if forced from Larsen’s lips. He had a good idea, and something very much like fear was throbbing through him, but he dared not let these men suspect it.

“Stinger Seave!” jerked Barker moodily.

In spite of the fact that he was prepared for the name. Larsen started violently and put his hand up to his mouth to hide the twitch of his lips.

Stinger Seave! He had fought the man for nearly thirty years, ever since that distant day when the Stinger had brought “Bull” Nelson of Papeete to Singapore to confront Larsen about a broken contract.

THE feud had gone on intermittently through the years. If Larsen was the terror of the islands, Stinger Seave was the terror of Larsen. He bore a charmed life. Bullet, knife and poison failed against him. The very mention of his name was enough to cause Larsen’s face to whiten even while it made him furiously angry and brought the oaths to his lips. Standing before his own creatures this night, Larsen pulled himself together and essayed a smile.

“So it’s the Stinger, eh?” drawled Larsen. “Well, well!”

He slipped a hand inside his jacket and caressed the gun he wore under his armpit, as the Stinger wore his own gun. He looked speculatively around. The others waited for him to speak again.

“The Stinger is an old man,” he said at last. “You are not a child, Crossly, nor you, Barker. Are you afraid?”

“He don’t mean a thing to me,” snarled Crossly. “He got the draw on me and creased me, and I’ll kill him for it.”

“It ain’t that we’re scared of him,” Barker growled. “But we gotta go easylike, now we know who he is.”

Larsen laughed. He was thinking rapidly. Stinger Seave on the high seas, the free-lance trader and adventurer, was one thing. But Stinger Seave ashore, a magistrate, was another. He could not run now after delivering his blows. He had to stick and carry them right through. It was an excellent chance to get rid of him to pay off old scores. But he must be very careful. Larsen of Singapore bore too many scars already from the Stinger’s guns to take any chances.

“We’ll try one or two things first,” Larsen stated. “Have you a man you can trust, a native, Crossly?... Good!... If that fails we’ll make a direct attack. I’ll pay a thousand Straits dollars to the man who brings the Stinger down. But mind, not a word I’m in port. If anyone asks what my bark’s doing here you can say my mate brought her in to pick up cargo. I’ll live with you, Crossly.... There’s no need for you others to feel afraid. The Stinger’s nothing like what he’s cracked up to be. He gets away with murder just because he looks so damned innocent and helpless no one’s ready for him when he jumps. Savvy?”

They all nodded that they did, but somehow they retained still a little uneasy feeling that Larsen was not sincere.

vii

THE next day Seave made his quiet rounds of the saloons, but this time he came with his six policemen under Sergeant Kiwi. He was well aware that he might enter the saloons once and surprise men, but the second time would be taking too many chances. A rifleman could lie hidden and waiting. Something could be slipped into his liquor if he chose to drink. A revolver might blaze from a window as he passed. And so the Stinger took precautions. Chang walked by his side, the police to his rear. They found nothing amiss, no natives drinking, no sign of any plain law violations.

When they had returned to the bungalow up the hill Chang said: “That was Larsen’s bark in the harbor.”

“I saw it,” said the Stinger indifferently. “He’s interested in Anea financially, I understand.”

“If he has come,” went on Chang gently, “it would be well to watch.”

Stinger Seave nodded. No one better than he knew to what lengths Larsen would go to get rid of him, apart from anything to do with Anea.

After dinner that evening a nearly naked, fuzzy-haired savage trotted panting up to the veranda of the bungalow and delivered a note. Stinger opened it, as it was addressed to the resident magistrate. It said briefly in a shaking, scrawling hand:

Was taken sick this morning and fear poisoning. Witch doctor talking raiding in village. Fear attack before morning. Can you see me through? Bronson.

Now Bronson, according to the somewhat sketchy map of Anea that His Excellency had given the Stinger, was the resident manager for the fairly decent and straight-run Steinbloch’s trading post the opposite side of the island from Larsen’s holdings, a distance of about ten miles as the crow flies, but nearly treble that distance by water which was the only practical means of travel as the hinterland was all hills and jungle without any defined road across to the opposite coast.

“Be careful,” warned Chang. “Larsen is here.”

“He’s keeping under cover then,” commented the Stinger grimly. “But this may be genuine. Bronson works for Steinblochs and for all I know this is his handwriting. He’s entitled to ask for protection.”

“He has soon found out you are here,” commented Chang, suspicious and always watchful for his friend’s welfare.

The Stinger shrugged. “Drums, Chang. The drums have been pounding ever since we came.”

It was true. The jungle telegraph had been at work ever since the Parramata had anchored. It was impossible that Bronson should not have heard that a new resident magistrate had come to Anea. But it was also queer that Bronson should send for aid so soon. Traders, especially independent traders on rough islands like Anea, usually were able to meet any situation themselves and seldom bothered the Administration, which, in turn, seldom bothered them. If Bronson had actually sent for help he needed it very badly. The Stinger called for the native to come closer and inspected him by the lamplight.

THE man was still panting as if he had run far. But there was not much dust on him. In reply to questions he declared he had come around the coast by canoe and run up from the beach. Yes, Bronson had sent him and Bronson was very sick. Also there was raiding talk in the nearest village. He was Bronson’s head houseboy. Chang called their own houseboys and questioned them. They agreed there was raiding talk. The drums had been saying that all afternoon, though it was strange, for there had been no such talk the previous day and raids are long in maturing, with many days of drum talk to precede them. But the houseboys were quite emphatic that trouble was afoot.

“Of course Larsen or Crossly could bribe the natives to use the drums,” ventured Chang.

The Stinger gestured impatiently. “I begin to believe you’re afraid of Larsen. You’ve got him on the brain, Chang.”

“Your life and mine are not worth a dollar when he is around, my friend.”

“True enough.” The Stinger tugged at his mustache, then straightened in his chair. “I think you’d better go, Chang. Bronson may be in trouble, all right. Take three men and Sergeant Kiwi in the whale-boat. This native can tie his canoe behind the boat and show you the way. Better dish out ammunition and stores for three days. If there’s no fight started, get what evidence you can and bring that witch doctor back here. Arrest him on a charge of disturbing the tribes or something. If there’s a fight, kill him.”

“You will watch yourself,” insisted Chang. “I have a feeling this is a trap, whether for the man who goes or the man who stays I do not know. Perhaps for both.”

“Run along,” said the Stinger smiling.

If he had not known that Chang loved him there were times when the yellow man’s solicitations for his welfare would have annoyed him. But he owed his life to Chang, not once but many times, and he could forgive him much.

The Chinaman left in about an hour with Sergeant Kiwi and three men, the native who had brought the message leading the way. Stinger Seave called his three other policemen and ordered them to patrol around the bungalow, one man at a time in two hour watches.

Then, finishing a last cigar, he went to his room to get some sleep, a little uneasy though he would not admit it to himself, because on board his ship when there was danger about he could lock his door and screw down his port, but in this open bungalow no such security could be obtained.

The Stinger told himself he was getting nervous and old, and with a brief smile at his own foolishness he examined his gun to make sure it was loaded and in condition, thrust it back into his arm holster and laid down on his bed in his pajamas. He slept tranquilly as a child while the native policeman outside paced steadily around the house.

IT was some four or five hours later. The moon had gone, leaving the world to the starlight. The jungle was hushed. The noise of the surf on distant reefs was a mere whisper. Even the town on the beach had settled down, the piano tunes stopping, the lights going out. The last drunken sailors had departed to their ships or were asleep in the saloons. Deep quiet brooded over everything.

The native policeman paused in his pacing, grounded his carbine and rested his hands on the muzzle while he leaned a little forward and sank into a reverie that had to do with a tall, deep-bosomed woman of the Mambare who would come to his quarters as soon as he had won his corporal’s stripes and retired from the police to be constable of his village.

He did not see the shadow that drifted from the thickets covering the hill. If he heard the faintest of faint rustlings among the vines, bushman as he was, he was too sunken in his reveries to let it rouse him. His two companions slumbered by their fire near the half-finished barracks and he heaved a great sigh. He choked the sigh off half-way, for some sense of a warning seeped through him. He straightened and turned, lifting his gun; then an ax crashed into his brain and he fell with a little grunt, a huge black arm lowering him softly to the ground.

THERE was silence again then while savage eyes watched the sleepers by the fire. One of them stirred and rolled over restlessly, as if the sense of danger reached him even through his sleep. But he settled back, breathed deeply and after certain minutes there was a shadow treading softly up the worn and creaking veranda steps. They did not creak much this time, only making little noises as if the coolness of the night was straightening the warped boards. The shadow drifted to the mosquito netting that covered the doorway, drew it aside. A vagrant shaft of starlight glinted on a stained ax head.

And then a gentle voice said, “Stay where you are.”

There came a sharp hiss of an indrawn breath, a low cry. The shadow lunged forward and there was an orange spurt of flame in the blackness, followed by a choking cry and a heavy fall. After that, silence again within the bungalow, though startled cries came from the wakened police by the fire and the vicious crack of a carbine was followed by a scream in the brush.

Stinger Seave, who some men said never slept, stood up and lighted a lamp. Even as he did so there was a sharp whine and immediately afterward the dull smack! of a bullet in the top of the table, not an inch from his right side.

“Careless, careless!” murmured the Stinger, dropping like a flash. He must be getting old to make a target of himself by the light of the lamp.

He crawled along the floor and inspected the dead savage who had tried to kill him, picked up the bloody ax and examined it. It was a cheap trade article, no clue at all.

The Stinger crawled out to the veranda and found his two remaining policemen bending sorrowfully over their dead comrade.

“It would be well,” said the Stinger calmly, “if you both watched until dawn. In the shadows, say, one behind the house and one before.”

One of the men clucked angrily with his tongue. “If I find the man who has done this, he will die horribly,” he said.

“He is dead,” said the Stinger shortly.

“And so is my brother,” added the policeman sadly. Then he gripped his carbine, gritted his teeth and glided round the back of the house. The other man squatted on the veranda steps, his carbine across his knees and his ears twitching as he picked up minute sounds from the night.

“They have gone,” he announced suddenly.

The Stinger nodded. No bushman would be mistaken about that. Seave stood up, stretched his limbs, brushed the dirt from his pajamas, then calmly walked back to his bedroom. He threw the dead native out on the back porch, rolled back into bed and went to sleep as if nothing had happened.

Chang was back two hours after dawn. The native they had taken to guide them had dived overside when they were well down the coast and had escaped ashore.

viii

“HE never sleeps,” said Larsen moodily to Crossly and Barker as they sat at breakfast next morning in a back room of the Mermaid. “But I don’t understand how you missed a clear shot with him outlined against the lamp.”

“I wasn’t expecting him t’ do such a fool stunt,” swore Crossly, “and I got excited. A couple of inches to one side and he’d have been shark meat.”

“Well, what next?” inquired Barker, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and reaching for the gin bottle to start his day’s drinking.

“Can we get to his food?” asked Larsen thoughtfully.

“He has one of the police boys cooking,” Barker growled. “No chance there. We might get one of the houseboys to put a snake in his bed.”

“That’s too old a trick to catch the Stinger,” commented Larsen. “Still, he was fool enough to stand against a light last night. We might try it. ... But the best way will be to get him in the jungle and ambush him.”

“Say,” put in Crossly suddenly, “the girls’ve been talking about the Stinger getting chummy with Mamie— you know, that blonde I brought up from Brisbane. She’s been squawking ever since and she got to telling the Stinger her yarn when he sat in my place drinking, with me over at the store.... Damn him! She told the girls afterward he promised that anyone who wanted to could go back to Aussy. He’d listen to her.”

“Wouldn’t she give him the tip?” said Larsen, his brow furrowed. “She would if she knew what was going to happen, perhaps,” admitted Crossly. “But we’ve got to think up something so she don’t know. Make her think she’s giving this Stinger Seave a straight tip, see?”

“Listen,” said Larsen. “I’ve got it. How far’s Bogege’s village from the coast?” “Three miles.”

“The path there runs through some pretty thick country, doesn’t it?” “Thick enough. And there’s a sort of small clearing this side of the gorge where that rattan bridge crosses.” Crossly grew enthusiastic. “We could hide up in the groves and shoot ’em all down as they crossed the clearing.”

“Well, listen,” said Larsen and leaned forward to speak into Crossly’s ear. Barker chuckled when he caught the drift of the plot.

SOON after dark that night one of the policemen brought a native girl to Stinger Seave.

“She came to the house and wished to see you,” the man said. “I have searched her and she has no knife.”

“What is it, little one?” said the Stinger, pinching the girl’s cheek, for she could not have been much more than ten or eleven though well-developed, as are all native women at that age. The girl giggled and handed Seave a note.

“Two nights running is pretty thick,” Chang protested. “Larsen must take us for fools.”

But the note said:

Can you meet me by the big mango behind the store at twelve tonight? Mamie.

“Who gave you this?” demanded the Stinger.

“She of the gold hair,” answered the little girl.

Seave produced a silver coin and balanced it on the tip of his finger. The native’s eyes glistened but she stuck to her story. She of the gold hair had given her the note. She had also given her warning not to be seen. Seave dismissed her, delighted with the silver, and handed the note to Chang.

“Another trap,” said the Chinaman wearily.

“I don’t think so,” protested Seave. “This girl’s the same, I take it, as the one who warned me when I first went into the Mermaid. I think she’s on the level. Probably wants to put me wise to something.”

“You mean you’re going, then?” said Chang, incredulous.

Seave smiled his little frosty smile and nodded.

“I shall go, Chang. If it is a trap it is a challenge for me to walk into it and I never refused a challenge yet. But I think the girl’s all right.”

AT ten o’clock Stinger Seave changed his whites for a suit of thin dark serge and dark shoes. He wore, instead of his customary sun helmet, a seaman’s dark cap, and this outfit made him practically invisible in the jungle. Then, followed by Chang and two men, leaving Sergeant Kiwi in charge of the bungalow, the little sailor started up the hill behind the house.

Instead of walking straight up to the big mango behind the store, he took a wide circle right around the spot, gliding, silent as a ghost, through the jungle until he was positive there was no one hidden and waiting for him.

Then at last he moved up to the mango. A glance betrayed the dark figure of a woman waiting near the tree but he searched the branches closely before he stepped into view. A man hidden in a branch can do a good deal of damage before he is located. No one seemed to be around now at all though, so Stinger Seave moved quietly over to the girl’s side.

She gave a frightened gasp when he loomed beside her; then she clutched his arm.

“I mustn’t stay long,” she whispered. “Crossly’d kill me if he knew I was here and he’ll miss me soon. But I had to see you. You must help us. Do you know what he’s going to do? He’s going to sell us to Bogege.”

“I don’t understand,” murmured the Stinger gently.

“Bogege’s a big chief about three miles up country,” said the girl desperately. “He comes down sometimes for gin and trade goods. He’s a filthy old cannibal. It’s the rule here the natives mustn’t touch white girls. Even Barker won’t stand for that. But Bogege’s taken a fancy to having white women in his harem and he’s offered to fill a bucket full of gold if Crossly’ll let him have us. There’s three whites in the Mermaid.... Bogege’s got some sort of a mine in the hills and he’ll get the gold, all right. Crossly’s taking the three of us up to the village the day after tomorrow. I heard him telling Barker about it.... Don’t you see? You’ve got to do something.”

Seave tugged at his mustache and thought. “Well,” he said at last, “what time are you supposed to be taken to Bogege?”

“Day after tomorrow,” the girl whispered. “We start at noon. The path strikes the beach between the Three Ships Hotel and the Frigate Bird and it leads straight to the village. What shall I do?”

“Just stop worrying,” soothed the Stinger. “Go with Crossly and I’ll meet him and you and the rest before you reach the village. Don’t fret. Everything’ll be all right and when this is over I’ll send you back to Australia on my ship.”

They had a little further conversation, the girl crying but apparently relieved, Stinger Seave coldly angry to think that any white man could contemplate such a sale. Then they parted, the girl to the Mermaid, Seave to where he had left the anxious Chang and the policemen.

As the girl re-entered the Mermaid Larsen leaned across to Barker, who was standing with him near the bar.

“Here she comes,” he whispered. “She swallowed it hook, line and sinker, and it’s dollars to cents she’s been to see Seave. The day after tomorrow we’ll get him.... Now go and lock her up, or tell Crossly to, so she won’t suspect anything.... She’s not bad looking. I might take her to Singapore myself, once this is over.”

Barker chuckled and moved away.

IT must be confessed that Stinger Seave owed his life this time to a woman, to the fair-haired Mamie who had unconsciously sent him out to his death.

The Stinger started with Chang and all his police boys while the stars were still glowing bright before the false dawn, on the day on which Crossly was supposed to leave for Bogege’s village. Mamie had said Crossly would leave at noon and Seave figured that some eight hours’ start was plenty for him to get settled in ambush, even if he traveled over unfamiliar ground and was forced to go slow for fear of wild natives. He had a police boy in the lead as a scout, came next himself with the other boys, leaving Chang to bring up the rear.

As they progressed through apparently deserted thick jungle, drums began to boom either side and Seave cursed with an abrupt realization that Larsen and the rest back there in town would know exactly what he was doing. He called a halt and conferred with Chang.

“I forgot about the drums,” confessed the Stinger. “Shall we go on? Crossly’ll never make a start when he knows we’re waiting for him. I’ll bet the natives have been watching us since we first entered the jungle.”

As a matter of fact, Crossly, Larsen, Barker and several other white men, lying already in ambush near the clearing, were growing profane over the drums themselves because they would warn the Stinger that his presence was known and make him at least cautious, more so than he would have been ordinarily.

Crossly had sent runners out to his native friends, ordering them not to drum out the news of his own progress for fear the Stinger’s houseboys would inform him. But he had forgotten to make the order a blanket one as regarded the movements of the magistrate.

“He’ll never walk into a trap now,” said Crossly savagely.

“Wait a while, wait a while,” soothed Larsen.

“You don’t know the Stinger. If he doesn’t turn back, which I admit he might, he’ll go on to Bogege’s place and threaten the old cannibal with all sorts of curses if he tries to buy white women. We’ll wait until sundown and if he doesn’t come we’ll go back. It’s a fifty-fifty shot.”

IT was just exactly that and the game swung into Larsen’s hands when Seave halted in his striding up and down and said, “Well, we’ll go on and see this Bogege. I’ll put the fear of God into him and he’ll get rid of any queer ideas he still has about white women. It’s a good time, anyway, for us to examine the island’s interior and get acquainted with the men we’re supposed to keep under control.”

Chang agreed with that and the march forward recommenced. It was halted half an hour later when one of the police boys flung up his head, listened, stopped, listened again and then jerked.

“Someone he come, running.”

The party halted. A word from Seave and they faded into the jungle.

Seave watched from behind a big koa tree his hand caressing his gun butt, and then he uttered an involuntary exclamation of astonishment. For there came into view down the narrow jungle-hemmed path not a man but a woman. Mamie of the fair hair.

“Larsen... Crossly... and the rest,” she gasped, “left last night... for... Bogege’s ... I only heard this morning and I broke ... through the thatched roof... the others helped me... and dropped down and ran to your place... but there was no one, so I came... along here ... to stop you. I think... this was all... framed!”

Chang uttered a crisp oath. Stinger Seave helped the girl to her feet and said gravely, “I think you have saved my life, my child. I should have known that Larsen of Singapore would think of such a thing. I would have walked to my death ... Sergeant Kiwi!”

The sergeant stepped forward and saluted. “Escort this lady back to the coast. You will carry her if she cannot walk. You will take her to the magistrate’s bungalow and you will guard her with your life. Do you understand?”

Sergeant Kiwi saluted, swung about and waited for Mamie. She was sobbing in deep-drawn breaths and Stinger Seave patted her shoulder encouragingly.

“Go back with the sergeant,” he said.

“But what about you?” the girl protested. “Crossly and Larsen will kill you!”

“That,” said the Stinger gently, “is humorous.... Now you run along.”

He snapped out a command to his police boys, swung in the lead and disappeared round a bend in the twisting path. Alone in the jungle with a stalwart sergeant in the brown kilt and bandolier and cocked hat of the police, Mamie started a slow way back to the coast, a strong brown arm under hers to help her over rough places.

“There’s only one reasonable place to ambush anyone,” Stinger Seave was saying back along the path. “And that’s the spot we’d picked on, the stony clearing that comes before the gorge and the supposed bridge. If our information is correct and the clearing and bridge exist, that’s where Larsen’ll be. And seeing we don’t know where we’re going to come upon it, we’d better take to the jungle.”

ix

THEY fought their way through unbelievably thick growths after that. Seave was making a steady way toward the presumed gorge on a line some two hundred yards to one side of the path. Abruptly the little party came to the lip of the gorge, breaking out of thinning jungle to a narrow ridge of barren rock that rose up, then suddenly dropped sheer down for a thousand feet.

Seave surveyed the scene carefully but could find no trace of life. It might be that many eyes were watching him from across the gorge but he had to chance that. He judged he was about a quarter of a mile from the bridge and he sent his two best scouts to follow the gorge lip and survey the ground. Chang and Seave and the three remaining police followed slowly, well hidden in the jungle.

The scouts returned. There was a narrow, swaying rattan bridge, all right. There was a broad, rocky clearing on this side and around the clearing white men were posted. They hid in two parties, one each side of the bridge end, deep in the scrub so they could send a cross-fire across the clearing. They seemed to be at ease and were carefully watching the opening in the jungle from which the path came.

Seave grunted with satisfaction. Silent as ghosts, the little party moved on, Chang and Seave in the center, the police spread out each side of them. After half an hour one of the natives hissed between his teeth and Seave, dropping to earth, wriggled forward and parted thick, leathery leaves that loomed before his face.

Then he froze.

Not a dozen paces before him stood a man in whites, leaning against a tree trunk and holding a rifle carelessly in one hand while he gazed through the jungle toward some point Seave could not see. The man shifted after a while and Seave saw his face, without recognizing him. Careful shifting gave the Stinger another view, of a man crouched behind a thick bush, and this man he recognized as Barker.

The Stinger looked back at Chang, who pointed and nodded, meaning he had located someone, too. A glance at the police showed them alert and ready, with knitted brows, savage eyes, guns ready, their attention fastened on someone.

The Stinger sighed, slid his hand inside his jacket, aimed at Barker’s back and shot him neatly in the base of the neck, just as he would have shot a mad dog.

THE crash of the explosion woke the jungle echoes and the next moment there was a blaze of firing.

From across the clearing came Crossly’s voice, “Let ’em have it! The swine’s got Barker in the rear!”

A shower of lead cut the trees over the attacking party’s head and Seave motioned for them all to drop down and wriggle forward. While this was being accomplished the firing stopped for a moment and Crossly’s bellow came from the brush as he crashed through.

“Come on,” he was roaring to Larsen and his men and he burst into the stony clearing, his eyes snapping with rage and a gun in each hand. Four men followed him.

Larsen was slipping from tree to tree, more careful than the others and trying to work around on Seave’s flank. The police stood up abruptly with wild yells of excitement and exchanged shots almost breast to breast. Stinger Seave stood up and stepped to sight, his smoking gun firmly in his hand.

“I call you, Larsen! Stand up and fight!”

Larsen laughed mockingly from the shelter of a tree. He had courage, great courage, but he was not fool enough to commit suicide.

“There’s always another time, Stinger,” he jeered. “And take that!”

He fired twice and the Stinger staggered as lead thudded into his left shoulder. Then his gun talked and the edge of Larsen’s face peering around the tree trunk was cut with splinters as the bullets ploughed through the wood. He turned to jump into the jungle and a shot seared his side. Then he was gone, crashing clear, oaths dripping from his hate twisted lips.

BACK in the clearing Crossly was shooting from both guns. Everything had happened in a few seconds, the Stinger’s call, Larsen’s reply, the fusillade of lead. And now Crossly was in action once more. Had his gaze not been blurred he would have killed the Stinger, who was paying no attention to him but staring with all his icy eyes to catch another glimpse of the fleeing Larsen.

Crossly’s first bullets went wide because he had lost a lot of blood and his hands were shaking. He steadied himself to aim for the Stinger’s body and at that moment the icy eyes turned to face him and he pitched forward with a neat hole between his brows.

The police and Chang disposed of the other men, and they all stood breathing hard and listening to the last faint rustling of Larsen’s headlong flight. Seave almost ordered the police after him but checked the words as they rose to his lips. To send the police after Larsen would be to send them to their death, for, after Seave, Larsen was the best living shot in the South and cunning as a Chinaman.

The boys hastily contrived a litter and put Seave on it, though he protested he was strong enough to walk. He actually was strong enough but Chang insisted that he rest and he complied with a sort of tired resignation.

The little party had not gone more than a hundred yards before the Stinger uttered a cry and sat up in the litter. His command brought the police boys to a halt. He climbed out and stood upright, a little dizzy but firm enough. Chang’s protests he brushed aside.

“I’ve just thought,” he said thickly. “Chang, that girl! Larsen’ll either kill her or take her with him. He’ll find out she warned us.”

“We can’t hurry with you in the litter,” Chang protested.

“Throw it away,” snapped the Stinger.

The police boys looked from him to Chang and the Chinaman shrugged helplessly. There was no use arguing with Seave when he spoke like that.

The litter was tossed into the jungle and the Stinger set off at a shambling jig-trot for the coast. The exhausted party burst out on the beach after what seemed aeons about the middle of the afternoon. The Stinger kept straight on, staggering up the hill toward his bungalow.

A glance at the harbor had told him that Larsen’s bark had not left yet, though there were men on her yards and she was evidently getting ready to sail. As Seave neared his house he caught the whip-like crack of a police carbine followed by a fusillade of shots from what sounded like Winchesters.

Seave staggered up to the ruined jail, not yet rebuilt, rounded a corner of it and saw three or four men headed by Larsen rushing toward the house veranda on which stood Sergeant Kiwi shooting at them.

Seave choked out a cry which went unheard above the noise; then, groping for his gun, he weaved forward. Chang snapped an order to the police boys that followed him and they stopped, dropped on one knee and began to pick off the attackers.

Two fell before Larsen realized it was not Sergeant Kiwi’s shooting that had done it. Then the rush stopped. Larsen swung around, and his jaw dropped. Seave was nearly upon him. Chang was not far behind.

“Damn you, Larsen!” grated the Stinger. “This is the last time you’ll...”

He shot twice and at the same instant caught his foot in a vine and fell headlong. Larsen swung half around with a new wound in his side, lifted his gun to kill the helpless Stinger, then found Chang on top of him. He shifted his aim to save his own life and brought the Chinaman down with a crash across the prostrate Seave.

Larsen hesitated then. He had two of his greatest foes at his feet and just two shells left in his gun. He could kill Seave and Chang or he could use his shells to fight his way through the police, who were closing in on him. He hesitated so long, torn between two temptations, that a carbine bullet nicked his throat. Then, with a furious cry, he charged down the slope, his remaining man behind him and weaving from side to side. Larsen won through, killing a police boy and seriously wounding another. And then he was gone, pounding for the beach where his whaleboat waited.

Sergeant Kiwi took a long drooping shot from the veranda and brought Larsen to his knees, but, apparently not hit in a vital spot, the man crawled along until his men from the boat came running for him and carried him out of range. The whaleboat set out for the ship.

In fifteen minutes the bark was shaking out her sails and heading for the open sea. Chang was moaning and recovering from a bullet that had stunned him. Seave was cursing thickly and trying to throw the Chinaman’s weight off his own body.

As Chang began to crawl clear, the Stinger fainted.

He came to just long enough to discover his head was in Mamie’s lap, to give a string of weak orders to Sergeant Kiwi, to hear with a groan that Larsen had escaped; then he dropped into unconsciousness again.

But he knew, even as the world went black about him, that Anea was tamed.

_____________________

12: Cannibal Isle

Action Stories, June, 1941

IF “Stinger” Seave was a terror to his enemies he was sometimes no less a terror to his friends because of the unreasonable lengths he would at times go to serve them. It was just one human trait in the otherwise iron little man. He loved Big Bill Gunther as he might have loved a son or brother. Between the two there were twenty years and more of such a friendship as is seldom seen. The first meeting of the two men was utterly dramatic.

Gunther was entering Montague Bay on the coast of New Britain one hot afternoon, bent on a recruiting cruise for the Queensland plantations. In those days New Britain was sudden death for the unwise, and Montague Bay averaged two ships cut off a year.

Gunther therefore was busily directing the rigging of barbed wire round his rails while his mate overhauled the whaleboats and stored dynamite capped and fused in the lockers, when all hands were astonished to see a ship’s boat shoot out from behind a mangrove-covered headland and head for the sea. It altered its course apparently on seeing the schooner, and Gunther, snatching up his glasses, saw a frail figure in stained ducks balanced in the stern sheets and holding the tiller with one hand. He called to his mate to stand by with a line as the whaleboat sheered alongside with a slatting of canvas and there clambered rather slowly to the ship’s deck a slender, sandy-haired man with a ragged little mustache, very clear and light blue eyes, and a great red stain all down one side of his ducks.

He halted before Gunther, peered blinking up at the big, black-bearded sailor, and said, quite gently, “Can you oblige me, sir, with some .45 shells?”

Gunther almost dropped from astonishment. It is, you understand, rather amazing to have a perfect stranger board your ship off a coast where you don’t expect to see a white man at all and then ask you point blank for ammunition.

Gunther choked, “What?— Shells?”

The stranger stood, swaying a little, but perfectly cool and composed, though he was quite obviously badly wounded. “Forty-fives,” he repeated, nodding. “I will have to pay you later.”

“Come aft!” snapped Gunther, turning and striding away. “You’re crazy.”

The two men went up on the poop and down to the main cabin, followed by the eyes of all the astonished crew. In the main cabin Gunther pulled open a drawer, took out a box of shells and tossed them on the table.

“What next?” he asked grimly.

“If I may suggest,” the little man murmured, “perhaps some whiskey.” Without comment Gunther got a bottle and some glasses and poured drinks. The stranger finished his, poured another and finished that. He seemed to feel better, and producing a gun from under his left armpit proceeded to load it with a dexterity that bespoke long practice. When he had finished he blinked up at the bearded sailor and said, “Thank you very much. I’ll have to pay you later, I’m afraid.”

Picking up the open box of shells he started quite coolly for the companion. It was too much for Gunther’s patience and his teeming curiosity.

HE bellowed, “Hi! ... Sit down and do some explaining. Who the hell are you?” The stranger turned, very polite and apparently anxious to please. “I’m in rather a hurry,” he murmured. “You must excuse me. My name is Seave.” “

Seave?” echoed Gunther in an altered voice, and he seemed to shrink a little. “Not ‘Stinger’ Seave?”

“I have been called that,” murmured his visitor.

“Oh.” Gunther seemed at somewhat of a loss. A vast politeness had come over him, though he was a hot-tempered, imperious man and famous in the south as a seaman and adventurer.

“If you’re in trouble, captain, I’d like to help.”

“I always arrange my own affairs, sir,” responded Seave, obviously restraining his impatience merely because the other had obliged him. “From your beard and size I take it you are Captain Gunther, though I’ve never seen you before. I’m sure you will understand my position. I have a ship in Montague Bay with a crew I took aboard at Apia. I stripped a pearl bed at Pondo, and there was some disaffection over the shares to be apportioned. There was a mutiny about two hours ago, and I ran out of shells. I was forced to take to the whaleboat and leave my ship temporarily.”

“And you’re going back to fight?” burst out Gunther. “Don’t be a fool! You’re wounded, man! Let me patch you up and give you a feed, and I’ll come with you. We’re both sailors...”

“I always attend to my own affairs,” Seave broke in gently. “I think that’s all.”

“But you can’t fight a crowd!” choked Gunther, who was genuinely good-hearted, and a man to his finger-tips. “By Heaven, I’ll send a boat-load with you. How many men were you carrying?”

“Ten,” said Seave, unperturbed and still humoring the other. “But there are now only seven.”

“You got three!” Gunther’s face lit up. He loved a fighter.

“Just three,” murmured Seave. “It should be six. I never miss, usually, but I might mention my coffee was drugged this morning and I could hardly see.”

The gentle voice was troubled, for of all things Seave prided himself on, if he could be said to have pride, his astonishing accuracy with a gun was the chief.

Gunther strode across the main cabin, and without a word took down from a peg a heavy cartridge belt with a full holster. He began to buckle it on. When he had finished he poured out two more drinks.

Seave took his because he needed it, Gunther because he was shaken to the core. It is not everyone, sick with drugs, who can hit three times out of six. It was very clear that all the mad and wonderful tales of the man they called “Stinger” Seave throughout the Islands were in no whit exaggerated.

“I should feel honored,” said Gunther grimly, “if you would allow me to come with you.”

“I’m a very impatient man,” the Stinger murmured. “I seldom argue so much. But you will please mind your own business.”

He was gone up the companion before Gunther could recover from that. When the big sailor reached the main deck Seave was clambering painfully down to his whaleboat again and was off. Gunther’s mate stood with dropping jaw, but eventually blurted, “Where the hell’s he going now?”

Gunther roared, “Mind your own damned business! He’s going to die, but remember you’ve seen a man this day!”

And then, as the mate still stood petrified, he added, “Get the Winchesters on deck and prepare to anchor. Then stand by for trouble!”

THE Gottenheim tacked to windward, and made for the entrance to the bay, where the whaleboat was already speeding. An hour later she slid round a headland.

Gunther saw lying at anchor in the bay a rakish-looking schooner with her sails furled, and two whaleboats beside her fast by their painters. Climbing up a rope-and-wood ladder was the slender form of Stinger Seave. On the schooner’s deck two men were standing near the midship house, drinking out of a black bottle. That was all the sign of life there was, and Gunther kept his glasses glued to his eyes.

The two men on the schooner’s deck suddenly saw the Gottenheim, and stopped drinking to shout. They started toward the rail. At that moment Seave’s head rose to view, and they stopped, stupefied. Gunther, intent on the scene, choked back an excited oath. He heard two shots, followed by a third, and saw the two men stagger and drop while Seave drew himself upright on the schooner’s deck and waited, swaying from weakness.

Gunther guessed his weakness was such he did not dare try to leave the support of the rail behind him and seek out the other mutineers. The Stinger’s reappearance with fresh ammunition must have been somewhat of a shock to men satisfied he had escaped to a quick death without provisions or shells, for Gunther saw three or four variously dressed figures rush on the poop from below, then halt to stare at their former captain.

Gunther’s mate, a burly, black-mustached man with a thorough knowledge of the Islands and the sea, was standing behind him and getting restless. He had his own pair of glasses, and had watched everything that had transpired. Now he turned to Gunther with some hesitancy, for experience had taught him the temper of the big sailor. But he said, firmly enough, “Don’t you think we ought to chip in, sir? One man against six or seven, and mutineers at that...”

Gunther swore. “Don’t you know me well enough to know I’d be there if I could? That man’s Stinger Seave! He’d kill me if I interfered.”

“Stinger Seave?” stammered the mate, staring with all his eyes at the schooner. “Is that him.... But he’s wounded, and we ought to...”

“It’s none of your damned business!” roared Gunther, irritated and furious because he had the gun-itch himself. “Get ready to anchor!”

The mate shrugged and went for’ard. Gunther muttered to himself and kept the glasses screwed to his eyes.

The Gottenheim was now scarcely a quarter of a mile from the schooner, and Gunther flung a curt order to the helmsman that altered her course to bring her abeam. Meanwhile the mutineers on the schooner’s poop were advancing slowly along the main deck, and Gunther caught the glint of sun on steel.

There was a sudden volley of shots. Seave turned half around, as if something had plucked at his sleeve. One of the mutineers fell. Another reeled and caught at a backstay to steady himself. Gunther roared to his mate, and the Gottenheim dropped anchor scarce a cable’s length off the schooner’s beam.

Descending to his main deck, her captain rested his arms on the rail and settled impatiently to watch the rest of the tragedy. Even now he would have braved Seave’s anger and gone to his aid, but he remembered the icy killer’s glint in the little man’s eyes when he had warned him to stay away, and he remembered also the many, many tales of Seave’s eccentricities.

He decided to wait. Perhaps the Stinger, magnificent shot that he was, would yet win.

The surviving mutineers, startled by the roaring of the Gottenheim’s anchor cable, had halted again, and were alternately staring at the fuming Gunther and the drooping form of the swaying, defiant Seave. Eventually, after some consultation, they decided apparently that Gunther did not intend to interfere, and being desperate they charged.

SEAVE shot three times. It was a sign of his condition that he missed two shots completely and only wounded a man with the third. A knife caught him in one thigh and sent him to his knees, while a belaying pin numbed his left arm so it hung down useless.

Gunther tore at his beard, but still held back. Then he saw a legitimate excuse to take a hand. A man had climbed the main rigging on the side of the schooner away from Seave and was coming cautiously down over the Stinger’s head, obviously intending to drop and knife him before he could turn.

Seave was too far gone to notice this move, for though Gunther waited until the last minute, the little man did not shoot. He was intently watching the mutineers grouped near the break of the poop and talking together. Gunther snatched a Winchester out of the hands of one of his crew and shot twice, hastily but accurately, so that from the main rigging there came a scream and a dark body suddenly curved down and plunged into the sea.

“He can shoot it out if he wants to,” snapped Gunther, his patience at an end. “But I’m not standing for getting him from behind.”

The mutineers fled. If the strange ship was going to take a hand after all, they were beaten.

Seave clawed up until his bloody, drawn face was on a level with the schooner’s rail. He called thickly, “You keep out of this, damn you!” and then collapsed in a heap on the deck.

Gunther laughed. For some reason it struck him as very funny indeed. He roared to his mate, “There’s a man after my own heart!... Get a boat clear. I’m shipping in on this, if he plugs me afterward!”

When Gunther finally landed on the schooner’s deck with half a dozen men he found Seave lying on one side and quite unconscious. The deck under him was stained red. He was wounded in three places, beside the original wound in his side. He still held his gun in the hand that rested across his breast. His left arm was badly bruised and quite useless.

He revived for a moment as Gunther bent over him, and he muttered, “I didn’t ask you to interfere. Get to hell out of here! I’ll handle my own affairs.”

Gunther took his gun away from him as easily as if he had been a child. He snarled protests and then lapsed into unconsciousness again. Gunther stood up and thumbed the hammer of his own gun.

“Carry him aft, two of you,” he snapped. “I’m going hunting.”

He strode toward the poop, followed by four men, and the mutineers, expecting to be hung if they were ever taken back to Apia, opened fire from the cover of the main cabin scuttle.

Gunther charged them, utterly reckless, furious with himself for remaining neutral for so long, and roaring like a bull. He killed one man, wounded another, and the survivor gave in.

Then he spent an hour or more doctoring Stinger Seave.

Such was the beginning of the friendship. Seave was a man who was scrupulously exact in all his dealings. He never obligated himself to anyone unless he repaid in treble measure. He hated help from others. He was a lone wolf of the Islands, a shark, something of a pariah, and he handled his own affairs or went under. But as Gunther had come unbidden to his aid, undoubtedly saved his life, the Stinger was forced to recognize the bond. He did it unwillingly at first, but during the long days he was convalescing in Montague Bay under Gunther’s care he discovered a genuine liking for the big, bearded adventurer, a liking which Gunther quite patently returned.

When at last the ships were ready for sea again and the men shook hands, Seave said, “Thanks for the men you’ve lent me. If you ever need me let me know. I’ll come.”

“Sure,” answered Gunther, smiling and looking down good-humoredly at the notorious little man. “And maybe we can be partners some time. With your shooting and my beef we’d sure tear hell out of the Islands. S’long.”

“S’long,” said Seave, smiling his wintry little smile and with something of what might have been a twinkle in his eyes. He put to sea an hour after the Gottenheim, and for the first time felt a real regret at parting from a man.

Gunther told his mate that night, “He’s a queer card. I like him a lot. He’s a killer, but he shoots square. D’you know he really feels quite ashamed because he passed out before he could clean up that crew of his? Why the hell he should I don’t know! If I could stand up, filled with drugs and wounded, and shoot it out with seven men, I’m damned sure I’d feel pretty chesty!”

IT was a year before Seave paid his debt to Gunther. He had not seen the big man since the Montague Bay affair. He had only heard of him at rare intervals, from traders, other schooner captains, planters and bêche-de-mer fishers. But he had not forgotten. Seave never forgot anything.

He fully recovered from his wounds, and spent some months fretting about his shooting skill because he had missed so many shots during that mutiny. It was not until he creased the gun hands of three men who were making for him in a saloon on Woodlark some months later that he set his mind at rest.

And then, like a bolt from the blue, he heard by devious channels that Big Bill Gunther had been cut off at Ysabel Island, and was presumably dead.

Seave was in Port Moresby when he heard the news. He was about to close an agreement to take some stores for the Administration to the police post at Cape Nelson. He called the deal off abruptly, hurriedly fitted out his ship, and set sail.

The Assistant Resident Magistrate he had been dealing with was quite astonished, and demanded some sort of explanation.

“Personal business,” Seave said gently. “A friend of mine died quite unexpectedly, and I think there should be mourners at his funeral.”

Which was quite mystifying to the A.R.M. He confided to his wife that evening that Seave was a little out of his head.

Be that as it may, the Stinger arrived off the coast of Ysabel some two months after the reported death of Gunther. He had with him this time a crew of men he had carefully picked from many ports. He had picked chiefly such as were on the bad books of the Administration, men who were hard fighters, hard workers, old in the Islands and not given to talking too much.

It was often wondered why Seave kept this crew so long, why they did not pay off and go in other ships. The reason was that Seave paid them double wages and a share of any very profitable venture, for he needed desperate, faithful men in his acts of semi-piracy, seal and pearl poaching, and to aid him in the little private wars he frequently became involved in. Seave needed them now to further the unreasonable plan he had in mind.

He anchored, his schooner in the mouth of the river where Gunther had died. The charred and ruined hulk of Gunther’s Gottenheim lay on the mud of one shore, in plain view, and so at least verified the cutting-off.

Thereafter, and for three days, Seave did nothing but doze in his big canvas chair on his poop under an awning, while two of the crew kept armed watch and the rest slept. No man could hope to find a native village in the tangle of jungle unless he had an army at his back, and the natives always took their own good time on that coast in showing themselves.

After three days, curiosity overcoming fear of any reprisal for the looting of the Gottenheim, several canoes appeared, paddling round the schooner at a great distance and cautiously drawing closer. This strange ship might not be off its guard as had been the other.

Presently a half-caste Fly River boy stood up on the schooner’s rail and shouted friendly words, and the canoes drew closer still. Gifts were flung to them. They were given to understand that the captain wished to see their chief.

Two more days of this followed, and at last a chief appeared. He was a monstrously fat man. He had necklaces of sharks’ teeth and babies’ finger bones. He had a belt studded with brass, obviously from some murdered sailor, and he wore a long stick thrust through the cartilage of his nose, so that his heavy breathing made a whistling noise.

He was coaxed aboard with half a dozen cans of salmon and a bottle of trade gin, though he insisted on bringing a dozen men with him. This was against all common sense and Island lore in a place where a ship had only recently been cut-off, and where the natives were notoriously treacherous.

The crew was a little worried, but Seave had placed them carefully, two men aloft with two Winchesters each and belts of cartridges, two on the top of the fo’c’s’le house, two on top of the midship house, two on the poop, and two smoking lighted cigars by the open boxes of capped and fused dynamite on the main hatch.

Seave himself received the chief sprawled in his canvas chair and with the half-caste interpreter behind him, for the Stinger had not yet mastered the various dialects.

The chief waddled up to Seave, smiling expansively, and squatted down on the deck with his attendants behind him, all armed and all very nervous. He was using his eyes to good advantage, picking out the weak spots in the barbed wire that covered the rails, estimating the value in women and heads of various treasures he saw.

SEAVE opened gin. He poured drinks for the chief alone, though the other natives seemed anxious to get some. He brought up more presents and he set the interpreter to work.

At first the chief was cautious. No, he had seen no other ship since the charred wreck had drifted in from the sea one day all afire. No, she had no crew. Yes, he would provide men for laboring on the plantations. So the talk went.

The chief grew drunker and drunker, and he began to boast. His escort grew more and more nervous when this stage was reached, for the chief began to talk of “long pig” and of the crew the burned ship had had.

Seave opened gin for the natives, and they began to join their chief in his loud talking. It was then, as the story became clearer, the astonishing information was dropped, first as hints, then as boastings, that several of the looted ship’s crew had been taken alive; that most of them had already been used at sacrifices at various ceremonials, but that the chief, Big Bill Gunther, the tall man with a beard, was being kept for the period of the full moon and a great “long pig” feast.

As the excited interpreter explained this to Seave the little sailor merely blinked and tiny hard lumps of muscle appeared each side of his jaw. He slid a hand gently inside his coat and caressed the butt of his gun. That was all the emotion he betrayed. But inwardly he was possessed of a calm feeling of satisfaction.

It had been his original intention to discover which of the natives had actually taken part in the killing of Gunther, capture them, and hang them, after the grim, iron custom and code of the Island men who lived outside the law most of the time and never bothered the Administration either for help or revenge. But this news that Gunther was still living made it possible for the Stinger fully to pay his debt, and he was grateful.

His cold, clear mind snapped on the only possible plan immediately.

“Is Captain Gunther at this man’s village?” he asked the interpreter, and the half-caste plied the natives with questions.

Drunkenly and incautiously they replied. “They traded him to the natives of the hills for twenty heads and ten young women, but they will go to the feast,” said the interpreter at last.

Seave nodded. The fat chief was beginning to look dazed and his eyes closed sleepily. His followers were still in the boasting and hilarious stage when he finally flopped on one side and began to snore stertorously.

Seave regarded the gross hulk for a long time, his clear blue eyes turning to ice and his thin lips shutting to a straight line.

“Go for’ard,” said the Stinger finally to his interpreter. “Have the mate and two men patrol the rail and shoot anyone who tries to board us. Bring the rest of the men aft in a body and surround these swine. When I nod take away their weapons. Stun any who resist. Then bring some small line and lash them fast.”

“There will be war,” announced the half-caste nervously. “The villages will come and attack. Besides, the government will say...”

The half-caste had not been with Seave very long. The little sailor blinked.

“I flogged you once for answering me back, Toto,” he said metallically.

The half-caste took one look into the awful, icy eyes and fled.

Fifteen minutes later every savage on board the Sulu Pearl was bound and unconscious, while the canoes that had been paddling idly about, waiting for their chief, began to circle ominously, while their occupants stood up and brandished weapons. They had seen the hubbub on the poop and thought their chief dead.

SEAVE called to his interpreter. “Tell them I have taken their chief and his men captive. Tell them they must bring back here Captain Gunther and any other white man they have on Ysabel. Each day that passes until this is done I will shoot a man.”

The half-caste grinned. He could appreciate that. It appealed to his own savage sense of humor. Not that he thought any white man would kill a native in cold blood. He had seen enough of white men to know they were possessed of queer and unreasonable ideas of the preciousness of life. But still, it was a good bluff. So he stood on the rail and shouted, and some canoes came closer to listen.

A long conversation ensued.

“They say,” said the half-caste, “that they no longer have Captain Gunther or any white man. The captain they have traded away with another man, and the rest are dead. They offer gifts for their chief.”

“Tell them they must get Gunther back,” replied Seave, unperturbed.

“They say they will have to go to war. A trade in flesh cannot be unmade.”

“That’s their affair,” said Seave and smiled his little wintry smile.

He called to a seaman. Buckets of water were flung over the unconscious chief until he stirred. Two seamen then lifted him upright with some effort, and punched and pummeled him awake. He roared and struggled, but he was securely lashed. When this dawned upon him he went gray under his coat of dirt and brown, and was suddenly sobered.

“Explain to him!” snapped Seave, and the interpreter compiled. The chief broke out jabbering. It was impossible. A flesh trade could not be undone. And if he or any of his men were killed there would be war, and the ship looted as the other had been.

Seave merely smiled.

“Throw him in the forehold with the rest. Two of you guard them and see they’re fed.... Repeat my message to the canoes, Toto. The first man dies at sunrise.”

CANOES circled the ship’s all night, and torches burned in the mangroves. There was a vast amount of shouting and beating of drums. All that section of the coast seemed to be in an uproar. Seave was satisfied he had as a prisoner some quite important chief, and, from what the interpreter gathered while taking food and water to the captives, also some of the sons of the more important men of the villages.

Sunrise came and there was no trace of Gunther.

Seave had his nervous captives brought up on the main deck and lined against the rail, facing the canoes, each man lashed to his neighbor, and the lot lashed to a dead-eye to prevent them flinging themselves overside.

The crew stood by, heavily armed and smiling a little. To a man, hard cases as they were, they believed Seave was bluffing.

The little sailor, with the interpreter beside him, walked the poop smoking a cigar, apparently quite oblivious to all the excitement. When the sun was well up he hailed the canoes and gave the interpreter his instructions.

“They say,” the half-caste reported, “that they have sent runners, and the hill villages will not undo a flesh trade. They would have to go to war to get Captain Gunther.”

Seave shrugged. “That’s their business.”

He walked to the poop taffrail and stood for a moment looking down on the line of bound savages. They were brutal, depraved-looking men, wearing the emblems of many “long pig” feasts and of looted ships.

So abruptly no one saw the move Seave drew and fired.

The native at the end of the line nearest him reeled and then sagged, a neat hole just above his right ear.

“Cut him loose,” said Seave gently, “and throw him overside. Tell them tomorrow another one dies.”

From the watching white men of the crew went up a long sigh, almost of horror. They had never for a moment believed Seave would do as he threatened. They had not been with the Stinger long enough to know his utter ruthlessness. For a moment they were appalled; then, as they cut the dead man loose and tossed him to the sharks, they remembered Captain Gunther a captive in the hills and destined for the “Long Pig” ovens. It would take an army to win him and achieve a rescue. Perhaps Seave knew what he was doing, after all.

The horror of the crew was nothing compared to that which swept the remainder of the captives, especially the chief. He bellowed and called savagely, threateningly, pleadingly to the canoes. Their occupants were silent, almost awed. The abrupt execution had bitten even under their calloused hides.

With a scream of rage the natives dug their paddles into the water, and the canoes charged. Two men climbed hastily aloft and opened fire with their Winchesters. The others lined the rail and shot hard and fast. The mate and the interpreter lighted cigars, and as soon as the canoes came in range began tossing sticks of dynamite into them. Seave lounged on the rail of the poop, firing slowly and deliberately with his stubby revolver, and every shot went to the mark. The air whined with spears and showers of stones and arrows. Two of the crew were wounded before the attack was beaten off.

The sharks made the water boil as they fought over the bodies from the canoes, some of which were sinking. The captive chief and his men continued to bellow.

Seave went below to his breakfast and ate well and with relish, though the steward eyed him askance and seemed almost afraid to set a dish before him. Why he was called Stinger Seave his crew now understood.

ALL day the drums hammered. All night they kept up the noise, and torches flamed in the mangroves. Toward dawn another attack, in force, was tried against the schooner, and this time the savages actually got a foothold on the fo’c’s’le-head.

The slaughter was terrible. Seave lost two men, and had two others so badly wounded they had to be considered as non-combatants thereafter. The survivors came aft in a body at dawn.

“We can’t stay here, sir,” said the spokesman. “A couple more attacks like that and we’ll be finished. We ought to run north and see the officials about it. They could send a gunboat down and get Captain Gunther....”

“I see,” said Seave pleasantly, looking quite fresh and alert despite the fact that he had not slept for over three days, what with one thing and the other. “Now listen to me. We are staying here until Captain Gunther joins us. If you want to live you’d better raise the barbed wire along the rails and learn to shoot straighter and faster.

“If the natives get too much of a foothold on this ship, appear about to capture it, I’ve got enough dynamite stored below to blow the Sulu Pearl to smithereens, which is what will happen, because I shall save a shell for that purpose. I think that’s all. Get for’ard and do as you’re told.”

There was no more talk from that crew, and no more suggestions, either on that venture or any other. They looked, each man, into the Stinger’s icy eyes, and went for’ard without delay.

At the same time that morning as on the previous one, with an audience of perhaps twenty canoes, Seave deliberately shot another of his captives. Almost at once a canoe came forward to parley. This was something the ravages could understand. The little white man meant what he said. Neither could he be destroyed, for twice they had tried it and risked his killing off all his captives out of hand.

“They say,” said the interpreter when he had talked a while, “that they cannot make a great war for Captain Gunther unless they have their chief to follow. They offer to send his two sons as hostages if you will let him go.”

“If they are his sons I don’t mind,” said Seave. “But how shall I know?”

The interpreter grinned. “They are like him, it is said.”

Seave frowned. That was not much evidence.

The canoe surged fearfully alongside, its occupants scowling but very nervous. Two somewhat fleshy but lithe youths came timidly through the gap opened in the barbed wire, and stood looking round with wide eyes and quivering bodies ready for a leap overside at the first sign of danger.

“Tell them they must be bound,” Seave directed.

There was some argument about this, but the chief bellowed, and at last the youths submitted to having their arms tied and linked to the line of the other captives.

Then the chief, still bound, was freed from the line and held by two men while Seave walked slowly along the main deck, and, stopping behind one of the hostages, whipped out his gun and rammed it against the black back. The chief whimpered and cried out, and Seave smiled.

“It’s his son, right enough,” he said and put his gun away. “Tell him I give him three days. For three days no one dies, but on the fourth his first son shall die, on the fifth his second, and on the sixth the other man I hold.”

The chief imbibed all this quietly enough, and was seemingly resigned. When he was freed he waddled with some dignity to the side, dropped to the waiting canoe and with a gesture directed the paddlers to push off. All the other canoes fell in line behind him and disappeared up the river.

Two returned later, apparently to watch the schooner.

“He may be figuring on another attack,” Seave told his mate. “As soon as it’s dark you will light a flare every twenty minutes and set it adrift on a board, so we won’t be surprised. We’ll also rig some tar barrels to light as torches if a fight begins. It’s shooting in the dark that causes us to be so hard pressed.”

There was no attack that night. The new dawn came and the day passed uneventfully, except that the two watching canoes kept up a ceaseless circling of the ship. The second day passed, and the drums that had throbbed continuously in the jungle suddenly stopped.

THE third day was half through when a seaman called from for’ard that a fleet of canoes was coming down the river.

Seave seized his glasses, and, carefully scanning the bigger and leading craft, saw Gunther. The chief sat behind him, and was apparently guarding him from all harm with as much care as he might have guarded a very hard-won head.

Gunther was dirty, unshaven and almost naked. His beard needed trimming very badly, and there were great pits under his eyes that told of fever. He was so weak he could hardly climb up to the Sulu Pearl’s main deck, but he managed a smile as he saw Seave.

“How the devil you worked it I don’t know!” he said. “I was due for a ‘long pig’ affair next week. The chief told me you were wiping out his young men, and my body alive and well was all that could save them. They had quite a fight getting me. Surrounded the village I was in one night and ripped it open.”

“Cut those natives loose,” said Seave to his mate, and holding Gunther steady with a hand on his arm led him aft. “I had to take some drastic steps,” he admitted gently, as Gunther sank gratefully to a chair in the main cabin. “I take it none of your men survived at all. Too bad.”

“You might have been wiped out yourself,” said Gunther wearily, settling back and slowly pouring himself a drink. “I understand they’ve made two attacks.... I’m a sick man for a bit, Seave. And I’m hungry.”

“You’re my friend,” said Seave, quite simply. “When I heard you had been cut off, I came to make your passing memorable along this coast. And then I discovered you were still alive. I don’t allow my friends to be turned into long pig.... Dinner will be in half an hour.”

“I can never thank you for this—” Gunther started to say.

“I should be much obliged,” said Seave a little coldly, “if you would not mention that. There was a little debt outstanding from Montague Bay, when a man climbed in the rigging above me.... Will you have another drink?”

________________

13: Gambler's Luck

The Saturday Evening Post Aug 3 1940

Sun (Sydney) 28 Sep 1941

THE plump, sleek-haired stranger who called himself Wynn spread the cards with quick, expert fingers and smiled.

"I guess that's it," he purred, and we watched him reach for the final pot. His luck had been phenomenal— almost too phenomenal, seeing how long it had lasted— but there was nothing out of the way that we could light on, and there were some clever players in the card-room of the Continental Hotel at Broome, that sticky summer day.

The two stockmen from Roebuck Downs mopped sweat from their faces and departed in dour silence, while I pulled on my jacket and watched Porpoise Bailey. Ten seasons I'd been shell opener for Porpoise, and what concerned him concerned me too. He'd been hardest hit in the card game, losing his big lugger Boobook and all the ready cash he had; though, for a fact, there was very little that bothered him. He was a big, fat, red-faced man, always bulging out of his shapeless whites and looking too amiable to be taken seriously, which was sometimes a mistake, seeing he was the best pearler from the Torres Strait to Shark Bay.

"Ay, I guess that's it," he agreed, as the. sleek-haired man riffled the cards once or twice and set them aside. "You've the Boobook on your hands, mister. And I take it you'll sail her when the season opens."

The other considered for a while, watching Porpoise with amused, dark eyes, a placating smile twisting his thick lips.

"I'm a new chum on the coast," he said smoothly, almost apologetic. "And I wouldn't want to get in wrong. But I've heard there's money pearling, if you have the luck."

Porpoise grinned a little and rubbed his thatch of grey hair. "You've struck the point, mister," he observed. "It's nearly all luck. And mostly it's just hard work and no luck at all."

Wynn spread his hands and shrugged, sort of oozing all over the table.

"Well, I'm a gambler and I'll try anything once. What would you say to handling the Boobook for me?"

Porpoise bit the end off a cigar, stuck it in his fat face and thought the matter over. ' "Handle the Bcobook? I might," he agreed. "I'd run her for half share of the lift."

Wynn's eyes flickered a little, hardening, and then he was smiling again.

"But, captain, isn't that rather high?" he purred. "I believe I can hire skippers at thirty pounds a month."

Porpoise chewed on his cigar and nodded.

"You can," he said amiably. "There's just three men on the coast who can ask half share, and I'm one of them. I bring in shell where the rest dock empty. I know the grounds. Bill"— he jerked a thumb at me— "comes with the deal, but I pay him myself. A good shell opener saves money."

"And pearls, I understand." Wynn said it softly as he stowed his winnings away, carefully folding the bill of sale for the Boobook which Porpoise had tossed in the last pot. "I don't wish to be unpleasant," he added as he stood up, "but I keep my ears open. This game's strange to me and I have things to learn."

He beamed at both of us. "So I think I'll sail with you."

Porpoise showed as much surprise as he ever allowed himself, and then shook his head. "You're a new chum, mister," he pointed out. "I'll warn you it's just plain hell on the grounds, unless you're used to it. We got no supply ship, so it'll mean staying out while the water turns musty and the grub crawls, and you get tossed sick every time a willy-willy blows."

"Ah, of course," smiled Wynn agreeably. "I understand there will be discomforts, but I think I'll live through them. I've been told, too, it's as well for an owner to see the shell opened personally. You never really know what's found otherwise."

"With luck we can start next week," said Porpoise carefully. "We'll need about three hundred quid for stores and such. And the Jap divers'll probably want a wage advance to leave with their wives."

"Expensive work," said Wynn, but agreeably enough. "It'll about clean me. but I suppose the gamble's worth it. I hear one man last season brought in six thousand pounds worth of pearls alone."

"You've been listening to bar talk," observed Porpoise dryly.  "The best pearling is always done over the whiskies. But don't take it to heart. The fact is we make wages and expenses on shell. Pearl's velvet, and there ain't much velvet."

"THAT game was crooked," I said, when Wynn had gone, and Porpoise nodded absently.

"Probably, Bill. But how can you prove it? No man gets luck running like this all day, without being smart. Too smart for us, anyway. I figured we might trip him sooner or later, which is why I played the Boobook on the chance. Well, we didn't trip him, so we'd best shut up. I'm a gambler myself. Maybe something'll work out on the cruise. I don't feel so bad about him coming along, when I think of it. Well keep him around until he cracks."

He heaved his bulk from his chair and chewed thoughtfully on his cigar. "He  ought to be so sick of the business when we get back, he'll sell me the Bookook cheap."

I followed him, grumbling, out into the bar, where we ran into young Corporal Sloane, of the West Australian Mounted. He looked round for a moment and then drew us aside.

"That smooth fellow, Wynn," he said, "blew in on the mail boat last week. The boys tell me he's taken you, Porpoise."

"So-so," Porpoise admitted. The corporal pushed back his sombrero and scratched his head.

"Maybe it's my fault," he said, embarrassed. "I got a wire yesterday from Perth to keep an eye on him. They're trying to rake up enough evidence to issue a warrant. He's a sharper. I meant to tell you boys."

"That," I complained, "is a lot of help now."

But Porpoise only rubbed his chins and looked thoughtful. You never could tell much about Porpoise, but I figured what was mainly on his mind was reclaiming the Boobook. He was really fond of that lugger, and there wasn't much he wouldn't do to get her back.

AS IT HAPPENED, that business fixed itself; for, three weeks out, we ran into a miracle. We found the Gambler's Luck.

It was late afternoon when it happened, the lugger drifting to a bottle-green swell and the sun brassy above us, so that the deck seams were bubbling and the heat fair crawled all over you, along with the ship's lice.

The Jap divers were on the sea floor and behind the Boobook, trailing at their lines and now and then sending up one of the big wire baskets filled with shell. Porpoise was standing by the rail, watching the Kanakas at the air-pumps, and I was seated on an upturned bucket at work, while Wynn sprawled on the main hatch behind me and stared blankly at nothing at all. It was getting him, we knew— the eternal tossing of the lugger, the creak of gear, the heat and the monotony— and he must have long since regretted the idea that had made him sail with us. He was a wilted man and very subdued, and he had been drinking heavily ever since he had got over his first seasickness. He had a bottle in his hand now, and I heard it gurgle as he sat up and drank.

"Porpoise," he said after a while, his voice husky, "I've had enough of this. To the devil with the whole business. We'll head back for port to-night."

Porpoise and I both twisted and looked at him, and he was not very pretty. A ragged black beard covered his sun-peeled face, which was drained and haggard. He'd lost weight; his eyes were red-rimmed and a little dazed; his hands shook badly, and he had lost, most of that oily, smiling poise he'd had when we'd left Broome. You've got to sail with the luggers to know how the new chums crack.

"You needn't stare at me," he snapped in a surge of temper. "I know what I'm talking about. Three weeks out and not a damned stone to show. A lot of guys lied to me about pearl. All bar talk, as you said, Porpoise. So we quit, see? I'm owner of this packet and we're turning for port. You can have the lugger and my whack of the shell when we get in. Cheap, Porpoise. All I need is a stake to get out!"

Porpoise stuck a fresh cigar in his fat face and shrugged, saying nothing. It was all he had wanted— to get the lugger back. Now all we'd been telling Wynn about the business was correct. You make wages and expenses on shell, and any pearls are velvet, and there's mighty little velvet. You can open a hundred oysters and never find a thing: and you can work on a thousand, netting no more'n a little baroque and some seed stuff, with maybe a good blister or two that look as if they'd a stone inside worth cutting out and skinning. Once in three seasons, maybe, you land a real pearl that'll skin perfect, and then the buyers rub their hands and reach for tneir cheque-books. And once in a generation the miracle occurs, and you lift another Star of the West.

Porpoise grunted and leaned his face down to watch me as I got my fingers in the greasy oyster meat. And then my heart turned over and I knew I'd made pearling history.

It was one of those visions we all have on the luggers, and it popped into my hand slick as a whistle I felt Porpoise's fingers shake a little as he rested them on my arm and he swore in a slow, awed way. The next thing I knew, Wynn was kneeling behind me, his set, transfigured face thrust over my shoulder and his voice in my ear.

"That's it," he whispered. "I knew it. I had the right hunch, after all. My gamblers luck, eh?" He swallowed hard. "And all of you trying to tell me there's never any velvet. But there it is, the big stake I'm wanting."

He started to laugh very softly.

"DON'T be so sure!" I said savagely, and I had to lick my lips before I could speak. "Don't be so sure! It mightn't strip at all!"

But it did look likely. Not only from the size but the general sort of feel. It was big as a sparrow's egg, and almost a perfect sphere, save for small ripples on the surface, which might or might not strip off. It was discolored and dull-looking, as fresh pearls often are, but the stripping might cure that, too. You never could tell. That was the colossal gamble in the luggers.

Even after you'd made a magnificent lift, against all the odds, you still didn't know whether you had a fortune or just a ball of mud; not until old Enner; the Broome skinner, got through with the stone. And I've seen men sweat blood watching him peel off layer after layer to make or break them; for a pearl's built like an onion and, to reach an ultimate clear stone or a centre of rubbish, it's sometimes necessary to go deep. But Wynn didn't know that yet.

"Gambler's luck," he whispered again. "And it's mine."

He reached a hand for it, but I ducked him, washed the stone in the sea-water tin and gave it to Porpoise. There are not many men who can pick up pearls— they're greasy things and slip from the fingers— so Porpoise held it in his palm and brushed faint sweat from his forehead with his free hand. He looked at the narrow-eyed, tense Wynn, then he looked at me, and I knew what he was thinking.

Of all the years and all the seasons he had spent on the grounds, of all the hopes he had had of a lift like that, it had to happen when he was bound half shares.

And we went below all right inside and tingling, with Wynn strangely quiet. Porpoise got out his magnifying glass and his scales, and spread a square of black velvet on the cabin table. He was a long time after that examining the pearl, and he finally shook his bead.

"Like all the rest, he said wearily; "it looks good, but only Enner can tell for sure."

"You mean that poverty-stricken little nigger who runs the pawnshop next the hotel? I've got to pay him before I can be sure what I've got?"

Porpoise bit the end off a fresh cigar and eyed him curiously.

"Enner wouldn't like that," he observed. "He's a Cingalese. He runs a pawnshop, that's true, on the side, but he also happens to be the best skinner from  Torres Strait to Shark Bay, and one syndicate alone pays him a thousand a year to handle its stones. You get the idea, mister?"

"I was around when they took up the Star of the West," said Porpoise. "The finest drop pearl ever found. It ran close to forty grains and sold for fourteen thousand pounds. This"— he touched the Gambler's Luck with the butt of his cigar— "runs nearer to fifty grains, but what's got to come off it and what'll happen then"— he shrugged— "Heaven knows. That's Enner's job."

"You might get an offer of five hundred lor it, untouched," I put in. "As a gamble. The boys'll make a bid for anything that looks good, and take a chance on the skinning."

"So that's the way it is," Wynn purred, and he looked, smiling, from one to the other of us. "Would you take a bid of five hundred for it. Porpoise?"

"No," said Porpoise amiably. "Not even for my half share."

"Ah, yes." Wynn seemed to remember. "You've a half share, haven't you? So you figure the thing's a good gamble?"

"Good enough."

"Which, seeing you know something of pearls and the chances, makes it better than enough for me," said Wynn, leaning forward. His smile broadened. "My hunch is still running and I'm a gambler. You played the Boobook in that card game for a thousand-quid value, m play you the lugger back against your half of the pearl."

Porpoise shook his head. "I wouldn't touch a card with you again, Wynn," he said shortly. "You're too lucky."

Wynn started to pick up the pearl, but Porpoise's fat hand slapped down on Wynn's hand and held it, and the two men locked eyes for a long moment.

"No," said Porpoise very quietly, and I knew he was mad. "I'm a gambler, too, mister, and I'll take my chance on the half share."

"On this, too?" whispered Wynn.

His smile had broadened again, but there was no amusement in it now, so it seemed half a snarl, and there was suddenly an automatic in his free hand.

We had both known he carried one, but we thought it was just a new chum's idea, being scared of the Kanakas and the Jap divers. That notion was wiped out now. He was ugly— tough and ugly clear through, underneath that softness— and you couldn't mistake it, any more than you could mistake he really meant to use that gun. The pearl fever was upon him and he was half insane. Porpoise and I had both seen the pearl fever take men before— take them by the throat, as it were, by the heart, by the brain, and swamp them.

Porpoise let out a careful breath and drew back his hand. Wynn looked half over his shoulder and called,

"Tagoya!" and the bead Jap diver appeared at the head of the cabin companion. "Tagoya," said Wynn pleasantly, "I'm making a deal with the captain, you understand. For the big pearl. The lugger for the big pearl. You be witness."

The Jap had shed his metal helmet and his lead-soled boots, but was still in his canvas suit, smoking a cigarette with sharp, nervous jerks.

"For the deal," he said woodenly, "I be witness. The lugger for the pearl."

"That'll be right, Porpoise?" Wynn inquired, and Porpoise said very quietly, "That'll be right."

Wynn fished the Boobook's bill of sale out of a wallet and tossed it across the table. Porpoise picked it up and put it away, and Wynn beamed at him. I figured Porpoise was seething inside, and I followed him on deck, mad myself.

"You're not going to let that deal stand, cnce we get ashore away from that gun?" I said. "The stone's likely to skin to big money, and you know it."

"I know nothing of the sort," he stated. "But I know the odds and, anyway. I've got the Boobook back, ain't I?"

He chuckled and rolled his cigar across his fat mouth. "Wynn's no gambler. Bill. He just talks big about it, and plays what hs thinks are sure things. I figured he'd come across with a deal like we just made, if I kidded him right. He don't know pearls from turnips."

"Listen, Porpoise," I said. "I maybe don't know as much as you,  but that stone—"

"That stone's got a flaw in it wide as a ditch," he retorted. "It might be a fair gamble to offer five hundred before skinning, but not a penny more. I was honest about that. It ain't worth the Boobook as a chance, and that's a fact, and that's why I took up Wynn's offer, gun or no gun, though I admit the gun was a good cincher. If that stone doesn't split and crumble to nacre dust, then I'm not Porpoise Bailey."

I WAS quite sure he had lost his mind now. No real pearler refuses the big chance, whatever his private and doubtful judgment might be.

"Remember McAndrews, of the Annie Girl?" he went on dreamily, "fire seasons ago. He had another beauty like ours, but he unloaded on Ginger Barnes for four hundred quid, and what happened?"

"I know," I said impatiently. "All Barnes got was a pinhead worth maybe twenty quid. But this—"

"Then there was Watson, of the Kookaburra," added Porpoise reprovingly, "two seasons back. Brought in a blister that even cut well to start, so the Paris buyer ran up a bid of seven hundred before he quit. And what happened to that stone? By the time Enner got done, all he had left was a dead fish's eye, which Watson tossed to the Kanaka kids to play with. No, I'm telling you, Bill. The odds are fifty to one this stone'll crumble to nothing. The skin's imperfect and the orient's bad, and I wouldn't be surprised if it wasn't warty, too."

"Listen!" I yelled, exasperated. "What are you trying to tell me?"

But Porpoise sadly shook his head again and went for'ard before I could say any more, and I was suddenly aware that Wynn had been standing in the cabin scuttle, listening to it all. He looked impassive enough, but his smile was a little forced, and his teeth were showing through his rag of beard. His eyes also held that curious hard glint I had noticed once before, and he brushed by me without a word and went to where Tagoya was standing by the rail, climbing out of his diving suit.

"Tagoya," I heard him say, "do you know anything about a man named McAndrews, and a man named Watson, of the Kookaburra?"

WE ANCHORED off the mangroves at Broome early one morning, and, climbing into the dinghy, we took Wynn ashore. He was on edge underneath his smoothness, all right, his nerves fretted away, and I didn't blame him. A couple of hours later we found Enner, the little brown Cingalese, In the untidy six-by-six workroom at the back of his pawnbroker's shop, his grey hair and moustache abristie; his shirt sleeves rolled up as usual, and his glass stuck in his eye as he inspected a sick-looking blister which little Joe Form us. our prize local beachcomber, was arguing about when we arrived.

"But just try It, Enner," Joe insisted. when we came in. "It looked good to me, and I gave ten quid for it to a Thursday Island boy just round from Darwin."

"Well, you should know better, no?" Enner told him severely. "And since when did you have ten quid to gamble?"

That was what I was wondering, too. "There is nothing here. But if you insist—" Enner shrugged and drew towards him his old file, with a champagne cork for a handle, and his razor-edged scraping knife, and went to work. Wynn leaned forward, his smile wiped away by his eagerness, and his dark eyes fascinated as be watched the pearl surgeon at work. After a few minutes Enner threw the pearl blister down with disgust.

"There is nothing there," he snapped. "As I knew. Take it away and forget it, Joe Formus."

The little beachcomber swore forlornly, and, ignoring the rejected blister, crammed on his battered sun helmet and went.

"When you're finished," said Wynn impatiently, "we might get down to my own business."

He took the great pearl out of his pocket and set it carefully before Enner.

"What's it worth?" he inquired. And then, with a laugh to take the sting from the words. "I'd really like straight talk for once. I've heard a lot of curious stories, but no one's been fooling me about that stone."

Enner's brown eyes contracted a little.

"There is no talk but straight here." he said shortly. "I am Enner of Broome, and my name is known. You are very new on the coast, I see."

He picked up the Gambler's Luck in his rough square fingers— and there were few men on the coast who could hold a stone that way— and he examined it. Nothing much can surprise a man after thirty years of handling most of the coast lift, and after skinning the fabulous Star of the West, but Enner did allow himself a faint whistle. He looked up at last and spread his hands.

"It will take time to tell," he stated, "but I think it might be a clean pearl. You wish me to work on it?"

"Why else would I be here?" asked Wynn smoothly. "But I want to know one thing first. Would you offer a thousand pounds for It as it stands, on a chance?"

Enner smiled a little and shook his head. "I am a pearl doctor, a surgeon, if you will, but I do not gamble with them. You might find men who would make such an offer, though most of the pearlers are on the grounds now and the big buyers won't be here for a week or two yet. You are the first lugger in. But we work, yes?"

He picked up the Gambler's Luck again and, rotating it between the fingertips of one hand, went to work with the file. Porpoise bit the end from a cigar and chewed thoughtfully, watching Wynn. Wynn shot a glance at the pair of us, and then took out his handkerchief and wiped his hands and forehead. He was sweating a little.

"I'll stick a thousand for it, mister," said Porpoise finally, "before Enner lifts the first skin."

Wynn started and turned round. "So your opinion's changed," he purred. "You consider it a round gamble now."  He smiled thinly and wiped his hands again. "I'm not interested in any offer. My hunch is still running. And your fancy talk didn't scare it."

Porpoise grunted and shook his head. "Well, I was just trying to help," he said solicitously. "Young Sloane was asking about you down on the wharf, and the coast boat leaves for Darwin at four this afternoon."

A muscle jumped along Wynn's jaw, but he gave no other sign that he had heard, and Porpoise winked at me.

"Let's get a drink," he said, so we went out for a while and draped ourselves on the Continental bar.

When we got back, Enner was taking time off for a smoke, and Wynn was pacing jerkily up and down, his tie loosened, his shirt collar unfastened, and his face a tight mask.

We looked at the pearl and saw that Enner had off half the first skin, and the one underneath looked terrible, like a dead cod's eye. This is often the case with the second skin, but Wynn didn't know that, and Enner had evidently been trying to explain it, but with dubious results.

"It's always a bad thing to sit in another man's game," Wynn was saying with obvious effort. "Maybe I've made tnat mistake. But how do I know if you're telling the truth or just stringing the job out for a bigger fee? Six or seven skins yet, you say, and possibly more." He banged a fist in his palm and swore. "Well, get on, get on!"

The little Cingalese shrugged and tranquilly smoked away. Whatever happened, now he'd take his time, the way Wynn had talked to him, implying he was up to some trickery.

Porpoise shook his head as he inspected the stone.

"It looks pretty bad," he said sadly. "And my offer's changed. Five hundred as she stands, Wynn, before Enner touches it again."

Wynn stood stock-still and stared at him, and the hard lights flickered in his eyes.

"It's still my gamble," he managed. But he was uncertain now, and his self-assurance was slipping away. Perhaps he was thinking of little Joe Formus and the ten quid he had lost on his sour blister. Porpoise chewed on his cigar, and, sticking his thumbs in his belt, teetered back and forth.

"I was only thinking the coast boat for Darwin leaves at four," he protested mildly. "And it looks like Sloane's got something on his mind. Maybe a warrant from Perth."

Wynn's face twisted savagely for a moment, and then, following Porpoise s eyes, he stared out of the window where, across the street. Corporal Sloane was lounging in the shadow against the wall and idly fanning himself with a folded paper.

THERE was a sudden exclamation from Enner, and we all bent a little. The Cingalese took the glass from his eye and leaned back, smiling wryly.

"It will be a longer job than I thought, no?" he said. "There's a bad crust yet."

We could see what he meant. The skin he'd been working on had crumbled away under the knife, instead of flaking— probably it was half mud or sand, sort of freakish— and there seemed to be another fish-eye skin or series of skins beneath it. It was obviously one of those pearls that are likely to remain an enigma to the very last, and offhand I figured it was a finished gamble right there. I remembered Porpoise's remarks about it right after Wynn had forced him to make the trade, and it seemed, of a sudden, that, whether kidding or not at the time, Porpoise had been right after all. The Gambler's Luck was a dud.

"Well?" muttered Wynn. He was shocked clean through, reading our faces. "Well?" He shook Enner's shoulder and swore. "Well, what is it? Is it finished?"

Enner said simply, "I cannot tell. I can only work."

Wynn drew in a hard breath and suddenly grew deadly calm. He stared out of the window to where Sloane was lounging, and even as he looked the corporal examined his wrist watch and, with a shrug, started slowly towards the pawnshop. Wynn bit his lip until the blood came, and the cold fury and panic inside him set up a fast pulsing at his temples. And then, with an effort, he controlled himself.

"All right," he said hurriedly. "Five hundred you offered, Porpoise. The damned thing's yours."

Porpoise took out his cigar, inspected the tip and said mildly, "My offer was five hundred before Enner touched the second skin. You never were a gambler, Wynn, for all the loud talk. You always played sure things, and you thought the stone was one of them. So did I, to tell you the truth. But now the Chance isn't worth a hundred."

Wynn swallowed hard and the smooth, ingratiating smile came back. He spread his hands and his eyes grew wide and reproachful. "If you say so, Porpoise. If you say so. I'm only a new chum on the coast. Will you give me a hundred, then?"

"That's chucking the money away," I said to Porpoise, but he paid no attention.

Sloane was in the outside shop now, and coming towards the workroom, and Wynn was edging towards the back door, the big pearl in his hands. If he left with it, there was always a skinner to be found in Darwin or one of the other coast ports who and it might be— it might be— would continue work on it. Porpoise swore and took a roll of notes from his pocket — money, I suppose, he'd borrowed on the Boobook.

"All right," he said shortly. "I'll play." And he took the pearl from Wynn as Wynn snatched the notes, and, all pretence gone, vanished through the back door.

Corporal Sloane looked in and grinned. "Well here I am, Porpoise. Did you win?"

"I doubt it," Porpoise said sourly, and tossed the stone on the work bench before Enner. "So far, as I figure, I'm out a hundred quid. Some day I'll quit this damned gambling.... Well, play with the thing, Enner, and when it crumbles, throw the dust away and send me a bill."

The little Cingalese shrugged.

"It may not be as bad as that, Porpoise. A little stone we'll find, perhaps, that will pay you; something clear in the heart of it."

He took the Gambler's Luck in his finger-tips again and began picking at the ruined crust with his knife.

I said to Sloane, "Say, corp, did you have a warrant for Wynn? He just skipped out for the Darwin boat."

The corporal looked puzzled and shook his head.

"Why, no, Bill. I was just helping Porpoise out. He told me if I'd stand outside the shop at three o'clock, and wait around for fifteen minutes and wave a paper, he'd win a bet. No warrant's come through for Wynn yet."

"Sure," said Porpoise cheerfully. "It was all a funny trick, Bill. We had a funny card game once, too, if you remember. So let's drink."

We went over to the Continental bar, leaving Enner to his hopeful puttering.

WE HARDLY noticed Enner until he carefully set his floppy straw hat on the bar.

"I had a phone call from Timmins, the New York buyer," he observed. "You remember him, no? He was calling from Fremantle, and wanted to know if anything had shown up yet worth his looking at. I told him to catch the first boat."

"Good idea," Porpoise said. "Fine fellow Timmins," and he started to turn round to his argument again.

But Enner held him in an iron grip with one hand, and placed the other on the bar.

"So Timmins will be here to see you very soon," he said. And he opened the hand on the bar and let roll out a perfect sphere, translucent, limpid, and lovely as a dream.

"She skinned out clean not an hour ago. And so she is there. Not so big as the Star of the West, perhaps. But if you ask less than £10,000 for her, you're crazy!"

___________________

14: Master

Collier’s 1 Jun 1940

Australian Women's Weekly 14 Aug 1943

THE sea was troubled and undecided. The wind shifted every few minutes. The weather quite obviously was about to change, but had not yet made up its mind, which caused the Alvira to lunge viciously, then drop with an un-pleasant squattering noise.

In the chartroom Mr. March, the third mate, was complaining to the second. Mr. March was a very young man. He knew a great deal. Young officers do.

"I don't see why the old man had to make such a fuss about it," he said, aggrieved. "Anyone's liable to forget to set the clocks back. You'd think it was a matter of life or death."

"Well, perhaps he thought it was. He likes to beef," observed the second, sourly. He had been reprimanded himself the day before, and it still rankled.

"Every time he looks at me," complained Mr. March, "he has to spout that pet saying: 'It's the little things that count, mister. If a man can't handle the little things he's not liable to handle anything big.' Rats! He ought to have been a parson!" He steadied himself, then hurriedly swallowed back further speech as Captain Lefevre entered the chartroom.

"I thought I told you specifically to see the hatches were all battened tight!" he snapped at Mr. March.

"I did, sir," the third mate stated indignantly.

"Well, you'd better look again. We just shipped a sea for'ard that knocked every wedge out of No. 1 and ripped the tarpaulin all to shreds!"

"Yes, sir," agreed Mr. March.

"And another thing." said Captain Lefevre, "did you take the compass error last watch?"

"Naturally, sir." The third mate was surprised. "Is anything wrong?"

"It's the custom," said Captain Lefevre acidly, "to enter the matter in the log book. Or have you forgotten there is a log book?"

"No, sir," said Mr. March. "I mean, yes, sir; I suppose I must have forgotten."

"Bah!" said the captain. "Get out!"

Mr. March left hurriedly to attend to the matter of No. 1 hatch, while Captain Lefevre settled at the chart table, scowling. He feared they were in for dirty weather— and he was right.

By night the wind was a half gale, with the seas swinging in great foam-capped hills. The Alvira ran blind before the storm, tossing hugely, the sprays hammering over each rail.

"The old man ought to heave-to," said Mr. March. "We can't out-run this, and well be pooped any minute."

"He's trying to make Tonga Harbor," the second mate explained disconsolately. "But if you ask me we won't do it. The current's probably shoved us farther east than we reckon."

The chartroom door opened and Captain Lefevre came in. "Is this all you've got to do?" he demanded.

"It's the mate's watch, sir," protested Mr. March.

"Never mind that. Get out with the mate. We should be sighting the Tonga light pretty soon, if the drift hasn't carried us too far." He glared at them.

"Taking it out on us," yelled Mr. March, as they clawed out into the roaring dark. "If I ever get to be a skipper I'll try and act human."

In the chartroom Captain Lefevre took off his dripping sou'-wester and oilskins, then leaned on the chart table with his head in his hands. Both wind and sea were still rising. Captain Lefevre swore. The only logical thing to do, considering the weather and the condition of his ship, was to heave-to and try to ride the thing out. But he was running barely on time as it was, and if he hove-to it meant at least a day wasted.

Of course, if he was going to heave-to at all, now was the time to do so with comparative safety. The ship was empty, and had very little ballast. If he left it too late she might hang in the trough, when anything could happen.

He swore again, hesitated a while longer, and then, with a tired shrug, made his decision. He'd hold the course just two hours more, and if they didn't raise Tonga by then he'd heave-to. He had forty men's lives in his hands.

He joined March and the second mate on the bridge, and stared straining ahead into the smother. About an hour later the Alvira sat suddenly down behind a sea, and it came to Captain Lefevre that he had probably left it too late.

"We'll have to turn," he managed to roar into the second mate's ear. "Hard aport!"

The second mate ran to the helmsman as the captain jammed down the telegraph to put one engine astern. A flicker of lightning disclosed Mr. March handing on the rail, and watching him anxious-eyed, and in a last burst of exasperation the nerve racked captain screamed: "What the devil are you doing here? Get aft and see what damage there is!"

Mr. March clawed down the companion to the main deck, filled with indignant thoughts. The old man didn't have to bellow about everything, did he? It was a tough job sending a man aft to inspect the mess.

The Alvira was coming round slowly in the screaming wind and lightning-riven dark. But she was riding too light for her screws to take full hold, save when she dipped. The wind caught her on the beam and heeled her, and as she wallowed in the trough she was swept. More particularly, by some freak, a crest smashed across the navigation bridge, ripping out both wings, carrying everything movable away, and taking overside with it Captain Lefevere and his first and second mates. They hadn't a chance.

Back aft, Mr. March made a frantic dive for the safety of the steering-house. He emerged in a panic to find the ship still on her beam ends, but swinging yet in the lull, and when a flash of lightning showed him the bridge had been stripped, he slid and clawed frantically back amidships, and managed to get on the upper bridge.

The Alvira was heading to the sea now, and coming to an even keel, but beginning to swing completely around in the trough once more under the thrust of her screws. Mr. March jumped instinctively for the telegraph and put the reversed engine ahead again.

He eased the engine speed so that the Alvira wouldn't plunge into the incoming seas, and then crossed the ruined bridge to peer down on the main deck, thrown into quick relief by the lightning. It was a ruin, of course. And then it came to him with a shock that he was in command.

HE had half realised this, of course. With no sign of the old man or the other mates around, it was likely enough they had gone overside. But it didn't really sink home to him until the drawn-faced, shaken bosun climbed to the bridge.

"All three of them, sir," he chattered. "What'd we better do now?"

The third mate felt his stomach turn to water. "Hardly any use trying to lower a boat in this weather," he began.

"I doubt if we've got any boats," said the bosun grimly. A lightning flash revealed his face, still horrorstricken at what he had seen. But it was also attentive, and Mr. March understood he should say something further.

"I... I suppose we'd better get number two hatch covered again first," he managed. "And have Chips sound the wells. Then look her over and see how badly she's hurt."

"Aye, sir," said the bosun and started to move away when Mr. March checked him. "You'd also better send the apprentices up to me, if we've any apprentices left."

He'd never expected anything like this to happen. He had only a second mate's ticket, yet here he suddenly had a ship on his hands, together with forty-odd men. And there was nothing to do but command.

The three apprentices came clawing, ashen-faced, on to the bridge. Mr. March looked at Thomas, the eldest, and said grimly, "You'll be acting first mate. You'll have to act as second, Jones, and you, Wallan, can act as third. I don't think there's a man in the fo'c'sle with a ticket this run. So it's up to us."

They said, "Yes, sir," nervously, and he sent them away to help the bosun and to inspect the ship's damage.

He was never quite sure how he managed to endure the rest of that night, for worry ate into him. Men came up and asked him things, and he answered, and he could not recall just what he had said, except it seemed to be the right thing and satisfactory. They got the broken hatches covered, got the ship pumped reasonably dry, and managed with some judicious use of the engines to keep her from yawing too wildly. The wind was dropping when dawn broke, and the sea began to abate. When full day came, he left Thomas in charge of the bridge and flung himself on the chartroom settee to rest a while.

He was exhausted, emotionally and physically, but he found he could not close his eyes. Every lunge and shudder the ship gave brought him half starting up, and he remembered that in very bad weather Captain Lefevre had sometimes been that way. He'd called it the old man's nerves then. He wasn't so sure now.

The steward came up with a pot of coffee he'd made on a small spirit stove, and he was full of trouble.

"The galley got swept last night, sir," he reported, "and the cook was scalded by steam from the range."

The chief engineer was next. It seemed the fore part of the stern bushing of one of the oil shafts had sprung, and it would be advisable to stop it while the trouble was fixed.

Was there nothing else but worry in handling a ship? It seemed not. He gave the best orders he could to remedy these troubles, then, without appetite, he ate a sandwich and finished the rest of the coffee. Then, knowing any rest was impossible, he went wearily back on the bridge.

"You didn't rest very long," said Thomas deferentially.

The new commander smiled faintly. "No, I didn't." And he added, "She's quite a mess, isn't she?" and went down on the main deck to see for himself.

If he had had any sensation left, he would have been appalled. He had heard old seamen talk of ships being left in such a condition after a vicious storm, but he had always taken such talk with a grain of salt. Now he had to face the plain, unmitigated facts; the Alvira, topside, was just about a wreck.

He went amidships and discovered that some time in the night the engine-room skylights had been smashed through. The second engineer cornered him and inquired ii it wouldn't be possible to get a few deck men to repair them in case she started taking water over again.

"She won't be taking any more water," Mr. March said bleakly. "I think we've had the worst. But you'd better use your own men to patch up the damage. I'm afraid the deck crowd has enough to handle."

"Half of our crowd are hurt," said the second engineer bitterly. "Do you think it's any fun down below, with the ship rolling and pitching her bilges out?"

Mr. March looked at him, a dull red flooding his face. "Are you talking to me?" he demanded.

The second engineer looked for a moment and then brushed tired hands over his own strained face. "I'm sorry, sir," he apologised quietly. "But you know how it is."

"I know how it is," agreed Mr. March grimly. "So you use your own men, what you've got."

He went on aft to look at the poop and deck he had been sent to inspect by Captain Lefevre. It was all in a terrible mess. There the bosun found him.

"There's one of the seamen for'ard, sir, with a busted arm," he reported anxiously. "Broke, I think. I thought you'd take a look at it."

"Do I have to be a doctor, too?" raved Mr. March, and then got hold of himself again. "Yes, bosun, I'll take a look. But I don't know much about broken arms, I'm afraid."

He got the Ship Captain's Medical Guide and descended to the fo'c'sle after a while. The injured seaman was in his bunk groaning, and there was little doubt that his arm was broken. Mr. March gritted his teeth, refreshed his memory from the Guide, and went to work.

"She's making water a bit in the forepeak, sir," said Jones, the acting second, when he went on deck.

"Then see if the bulkhead's holding!" shouted Mr. March. "And pump her. Do I have to run the whole ship myself? No officers!..." He caught himself. "All right," he added more quietly. "Try and find out what it is. We probably strained some plates last night."

He went back on the bridge then to take his noon sight, the sun being clear and smiling, and he discovered they were seventy miles east of Tonga Harbor and about ten miles out in their latitude.

"Well bring her round on the course again," he ordered. "I think the engines'll hold that long, but well ask the chief. Four hours' steaming and we can make it Can you make the course good?" He spoke to Thomas and then stared ahead, gripping the rail again. He had never been so tired in his life.

"Make the course good? I think so, sir," said Thomas.

"You think so," muttered Mr. March bitterly. "You think so!" He moved after a while, with the numb thought that he'd better check things himself. The little things, as Captain Lefevre would have said.

Mr. March went into the chart-room to discover Thomas trying to hide a cigarette.

"You know smoking isn't allowed on the bridge," he rasped, his nerves exasperated. "But never mind. Where's the chart for Tonga Harbor?"

"I don't know, sir," said Thomas hurriedly. "But I think it's on the table."

"Well, find it!" shouted Mr. March.

He checked himself once again, swallowed hard, and found control. "Well, find it, Thomas," he said gently.

And then he went on the lower bridge and to Captain Lefevre's room. He had to have the ship's papers.

He stepped inside the calm of the cabin, removing his cap from habit; and he swallowed hard again.

THE best uniform of Captain Lefevre was hanging from a hook on the bulkhead, the gold bands of rank gleaming on the cuff. And there was, too, a uniform cap, with the golden oak leaves of rank on the peak, lying beneath it. And above the master's desk was a full-faced portrait of him... Mr. March felt very young when he saw it.

He felt something tighten inside him.

"I didn't understand," he said gently. And he touched the gold-braided cap with his hand. "Perhaps I can wear this some day.... But I've done my best." And he added, with a genuine respect he had never felt before, "Sir!"

End

Table of Contents

- 1: Value
- 2: Pearl Hunger: A Novelette
- 3: You Can't Explain These Things
- 4: Captain Typhoon (aka "Red Typhoon")
- 5: Trial by Typhoon: A Novelette
- 6: Trapped
- 7: Inconsistent Man
- 8: The Fortunes of War
- 9: Terror Island
- 10: Davey Jones' Loot
- 11: The Devil's Sink Hole
- 12: Cannibal Isle
- 13: Gambler's Luck
- 14: Master