by George Worts
He remained in the bows, glaring malevolently at the blue schooner for almost two hours, trying to adjust himself to the finality of this disappointment.
He made up his mind to tell Julie just what he thought of her. He went to the door of her suite, intending to tell that high-minded and ungrateful young lady a number of things calculated to benefit her. He found a note on the door saying that she was not to be disturbed. Angered by this, he pounded on the door with his fists. But Julie did not answer.
Muttering to himself, the owner of the Wanderer retired to his own suite, undressed for bed, and attempted to sleep. Sleep was, of course, impossible.
Mr. Barling leaped from bed presently, switched on the lights, and began to pace up and down his luxurious parlor. He didn’t see the moon go down. He didn’t see the Blue Goose slip past in the night. But he did see the sunrise.
The flow of salmon-pink at portholes and windows seemed to give him an inspiration. He lit a cigar — a dollar cigar, made to his specifications in lots of five thousand, kept at the proper degree of moisture by an electrical humidifier — and tasting this morning like burning sheep’s wool — he lit this cigar and went storming into his captain’s quarters.
“We’re getting under way at once,” he informed Captain Milikin, who was too sleepy to grasp the importance of his owner’s pout. “We are starting for New York immediately!”
“Very well, sir,” the captain said, and did as he was bid.
Mr. Barling went to the bridge to take personal charge of the departure. His red rimmed eyes saw the awakening tropical world with hatred and disgust.
Julie would be sorry. Ah, yes, indeed! How she had been looking forward to that visit with the Maharaja of Johor! How she had been anticipating the fun they would have in Singapore! How keenly she had been wanting to see the old temples in Java!
His pleasing reveries were suddenly intruded upon by a woman’s scream. The scream came closer. A moment later, Mrs. Farrington, with her hair in kid curlers, her complexion blotchy and unhealthily inflamed, came screaming onto the bridge. In her pink dressing gown she was awful to look upon.
“Julie!” she screamed. “She isn’t on board!”
“What’s this?” Mr. Barling squealed, after a moment of dreadful silence.
“She isn’t aboard! She’s not in her suite! She’s gone! She packed a suitcase! She left a note saying not to worry but to go on and forget her! Forget her! I’m going to have one of my heart attacks! Why don’t you do something? Why don’t you say something?”
“Hell,” Mr. Barling said.
Chapter 7: Stowaways
UNDER a morning sky of dazzling blue, the Blue Goose was bowling down the Strait of Malacca with sails tight as drumheads, with a wake as straight as an arrow feathering out astern.
Mate Larry McGurk was at the wheel, bare-headed and bare-footed, his rough blond hair spilling about in the spanking breeze, his feet planted wide apart against the roll of the deck. He was getting the feel of the schooner, and deciding that she was a perfect lady.
Singapore and Lucky Jones were below, checking off stores in the lazaret. Professor Robbins was in his cabin, unpacking his boxes of scientific paraphernalia. And Pegleg Pyke was stumping about forward, coiling down ropes, singing an old chantey, happy to be at sea again.
It was Senga, the serang, who found the stowaway. Larry heard his hoarse yell. Then Senga and Pegleg Pyke came aft with the stowaway between them. He was hardly more than a boy — a thin, homely, black-freckled boy of nineteen, with a button nose, bright little black eyes which danced with derision, and an insolent young mouth.
Pegleg said, “Caught him hidin’ in the for’ard hold, mate.”
“Take the wheel,” the mate said. He looked the stowaway over and the boy’s grin slowly faded. Larry McGurk’s sapphire Irish eyes were cold and unwelcoming. But the little black eyes stared without wavering.
Professor Robbins, Sam Shay and Captain Jones came up from below. Lucky’s blue-black brows met in a fierce scowl.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“A stowaway,” Larry McGurk said. And: “What’s your name?”
“Pete Cringle.”
“Where you from?”
“Who, me? Most everywheres, mate. I’m a deep-sea diver by profession. I was in Penang yesterday when this guy here” — his dirty thumb indicated the scowling scientist — “bought that deep-sea divin’ outfit off of Hin Jok. I was figgerin’ you might want the guy who went inside it.”
“Keep on talkin’,” Lucky advised him. “You ain’t said nothin’ yet.”
“I’m an American citizen, mister, if that’s what you mean,” the boy said. “I was in Australia, I bummed my way on a copra boat from Sydney to Macassar, and I stowed away on a Chinese trader from Macassar to Penang. That was six months ago. Since then,” with dignity, “I’ve been associated with this salvagin’ bunch that was tryin’ to salvage the gold ingots off the old City o’ Benares. She went down off Cape Tamuntalang somewhere, but we didn’t even find her. That’s how come I was on the beach in Penang and saw this guy here buy my old suit.”
Sam Shay said sharply, “Do you know where we’re headed?”
“Yes, sir. We’re headed for Little Nicobar.”
“Who told you that?”
“A guy in The Mudhole — a souse. Little Nicobar is okay with me, Mr. Shay. I don’t care where we go. I’m the best deep-sea diver on the Indian Ocean and I ain’t afraid o’ no monster in no lagoon. I’m lucky. And you guys can use plenty o’ luck.”
“How’d you get aboard?” Pegleg growled.
“I swum out last night while you was eatin’ and snuck aboard.”
“Put him to work. Larry,” Singapore said, “chippin’ anchor chain. Professor, it looks like this expedition is about as secret as an active volcano. When did you eat last, mutt?”
“I can’t remember that far back,” Pete Cringle said.
“Tell Ah Fong to fix him some breakfast,” Sammy instructed Pegleg.
“You can use me in that divin’ suit, can’tcha, Mr. Shay?” the ratty-looking youth eagerly asked.
“I’ll wrassle with the idea,” Sam said. Lucky Jones, a diver of long experience, questioned the stowaway and reported his talk to Sammy with the recommendation that the “fresh little mug” be enrolled in the crew.
Four bells in the morning watch had just sounded when the presence of another stowaway was announced. Singapore Sammy was taking a turn at the wheel when the shriek of terror rang out, muffled, from the forward end of the ship.
The shriek was long and lusty. It was followed by muffled yelps and howls.
Hidden by the jibs, a woman was hysterically saying, “It was a spider the size of an eagle!”
Accompanied by Pegleg Pyke and the best deep-sea diver on the Indian Ocean, the second stowaway appeared. Pegleg Pyke was in a state of blustering anger. Pete Cringle was grinning evilly. This stowaway was as trim a figure of a girl as ever graced a quarterdeck. She wore a sailor’s suit of white duck which was rumpled and smeared with green and buff paint.
“She was hidin’ in the paint locker, Mr. Shay,” Pegleg Pyke remarked in the voice he might have used to say, “She was openin’ the sea-cocks, Mr. Shay.”
“Take the wheel,” the red-headed man growled. With fists on hips he slowly advanced on the slim girl in ducks.
As if mocking him, she placed her small browned hands on her hips and grinned up at his stern face.
“Good morning, Mr. Shay!”
Professor Robbins, Larry McGurk and Captain Jones came up the stairs, followed by Ah Fong, the cook, ordinarily the most imperturbable of men. The stowaway disbursed her smile among them.
“Who let you aboard?” Sam asked.
“Nobody. I just came aboard.”
Singapore was glowering from wriggling red brows. A girl named Sally Lavender had been the latest to destroy his faith, in women. Professor Robbins was staring at the blonde girl with dazzled gray eyes.
&n
bsp; “You’re the girl in The Mudhole!” he said triumphantly.
The stowaway mimicked his astonishment and said, “Yes, indeed! Mudhole Queenie! Will somebody be big and give Queenie some breakfast? Queenie is starving.”
“Come ‘long,” said Ah Fong. “Can fixum.”
“Wait a minute,” Sam said: “What are you doing here?”
“Escaping,” she answered. And her brightly tanned young face became grave. “Escaping from a life of boredom on a yacht.”
“What yacht?”
“Wanderer.”
“That big white Diesel yacht that was anchored astern of us in Penang?” Singapore asked.
“Yes, Mr. Shay.”
“You ran away from her?”
“I certainly did, Mr. Shay!”
“You mean you ran away from your husband?”
“Dear, merciful heaven, no,” the stowaway said. “I merely ran away from the man who wanted to be my husband. I heard you men discussing this cruise and the monster at Little Nicobar. I was carried away! I was spellbound!”
“Pegleg,” Sam said, “take a look around this ship and see how many more deadheads we’ve got aboard.”
“Women,” Pegleg muttered, “bring bad luck to a ship. And women stowaways is the unluckiest of all.”
“But I’m terribly lucky!” the girl cried.
“Stowaways always sing that song,” Singapore said. “What are we going to do with her, Lucky?”
“Put her ashore in Singapore,” Captain Jones promptly answered.
“Oh, no!” the girl wailed. “You wouldn’t be so brutal! You wouldn’t let me fall into that little beasts’s clutches again.”
“Who is the other dame?” Lucky interrupted.
“My mother! She engineered it all! Dying to have me marry that pompous little squirt! Having heart attacks if things didn’t go just her way!”
“Who is this Barling?” Larry McGurk said.
“You’ve never heard of Hector Barling — the patent medicine king? The Emperor of Dyspepsia? Barling’s Elixir? Barling’s Tummy Tabs? Barling’s Liver Livener? Why! People cry for it!”
“Never heard of him,” Sammy said.
“We will,” Lucky growled, “if we run off with his girl. A guy like that would hire a navy. And maybe she’s lyin’. Maybe she is his wife. Lady, if you think you’re goin’ to Little Nicobar with us, you’re nuts.”
“I can pay my passage — or I’ll work,” she said. “I’ll be delighted to do the most menial work! I can cook!”
“I’ll bet,” Lucky said scornfully, “you never did a lick of any kind of work in your life.”
“Watch me,” she said, “if you think this isn’t work, try it.”
She snapped her fingers and, raising her elbows, swung into a lively tap dance. Her small slippers twinkled and clattered in the steps of a fast and smooth routine.
Mate McGurk cried, “Hot dog!” The girl flashed a grin at him. She ended her dance, and with feet apart and hands on hips said: “Well?”
Professor Robbins yelped: “I know you! You’re Julie Farrington, of the Follies!”
“If there’s one thing we need in a bad way on this hooker,” the sardonic skipper said, “it’s a tap dancer.”
The girl laughed: “I’m good for raising the morale!”
“How,” Singapore asked, “did you wiggle aboard?”
“About an hour before we sailed, Mr. Shay, I rowed alongside in a dinghy from the Wanderer. You were all aft or below, so I went forward, climbed aboard with my suitcase, kicked the dinghy off, and hid in the paint locker. I’d have been there all day if it hadn’t been for that spider. Oh, how I loathe spiders.”
Laughing Larry McGurk said gravely, “Did you bring your lunch?”
“Only some water.”
“Ah Fong,” Singapore said, “will get you something to eat.”
Ah Fong brought her suitcase from the paint locker and installed it in an empty stateroom. Miss Farrington breakfasted and reappeared on deck, more alluring than ever in silk lounging pajamas of navy blue.
Lucky Jones was at the wheel. She told him she simply adored sailing vessels, and she tried to make him talk. But she made little progress with the black-browed, scowling skipper. Lucifer Jones answered her with grunts, shrugs, and other revelations of an unyielding nature.
He said bluntly, “You’re wastin’ your time on me, baby.”
She looked tired. But she went forward with fresh determination to where Singapore Sammy was sitting on a hatch cover, smoking his calabash, watching the gyrations of a flock of sea gulls off to starboard, and letting the breeze blow through his red hair.
“Mr. Shay,” she said, seating herself beside him, “you must have led a terribly interesting life.”
“Kid,” said the owner of the Blue Goose, “I quit falling for that line before you quit wearing square-rigged underwear.”
She tried persuasion. Singapore Sammy puffed at his calabash, watched the sea gulls and grunted his answers or made none at all. Her voice became husky with effort.
She retired to her stateroom to weep. But when she reappeared for tiffin she was her gay, charming, debonair self. She was radiant and she was witty.
Her audience was with her every inch of the way, but when tiffin was over, Lucky Jones said, “We hit Singapore early tomorrow morning. Be sure you’re packed, lady.”
Singapore Sam went to his cabin. Larry McGurk followed him in, and closed the door. He seated himself on Sam’s bunk and said, “What are you going to do about the sweetheart of the South Seas?”
“What is there to do?”
“I’m asking you.”
“Yeah, I figured you might. As far as I go, she walks the plank in Singapore.”
“Sure about that?”
“Are you falling for this skirt, Larry?”
“She kills at fifty rods.”
“That makes a way to get killed you haven’t tried.”
“You’re going to have a shipload of corpses!”
“You won’t find mine among ‘em, Larry. She isn’t my type.”
Laughing Larry grinned. “I’ve heard all about your type. Her name is Sally Lavender. They call her Shanghai Sal, and she’s given you the run-around so many times you feel like a pinwheel. She’s the one who gave Lucky such a raw deal.”
“If she wasn’t a crook,” Singapore Sammy said, “I’d marry her tomorrow. The last time I almost proposed to her, she put knockout drops in my beer and stole the Malobar pearl.”
“But you got it back.”
“She’s the only woman I ever knew I wanted to kill and kiss at the same time. But never mind Shanghai Sal. This little blonde is falling for you. If you want her to stay, I’ll let her. What do you say?”
“Put her ashore, Sam. I want to keep on laughing.”
Chapter 8: Both Barrels
THE wind was falling. By early afternoon the Blue Goose was ghosting along in light airs. By mid afternoon a dead calm had set in.
Because Sammy wished to conserve their gasoline supply, he did not order the engine started.
After studying the blazing blue furnace of the sky, Pegleg Pyke said to Larry McGurk, “What did I tell you, mate? A woman brings doldrums and trouble every time.” And he stuck a dirk into the mainmast and whistled an eerie bar, but no wind came.
Julie came up from her cabin, dressed for hot weather. She wore a soft shirt and white shorts and was demurely unaware of herself.
Lounging under the after deck awning, Sammy drawled, “Well, the last doubts are cleared up.”
“Why can’t I stay, Sam?”
“We’d be spending all our time protecting you.”
“Would you?” She doubled up her fist, crooked her arm and said, “Feel this!”
The red-headed man grinned and felt it. His grin vanished. The girl’s returned.
“Does this girl walk home from a boat ride?”
“The girl snapped at the wrong hook. I was talking about our friend in the lagoon
.”
“I’d rather be eaten by it than marry the Gaekwar of Gastritis. Sam, it’s the first time I’ve been out from under my mother’s thumb. You don’t know what courage it took.”
“You’re wasting time. It isn’t my say-so. It’s up to Bryce Robbins and the skipper — and Larry.”
“If I can persuade them, can I count on you?”
“I make no promises to women after 1 p.m.”
“All right, by golly; I’ll sell all of them!”
Professor Robbins came on deck. He and Julie talked in low murmurs, but Sammy caught a word now and then, and grinned. Julie was giving him high pressure, with a few hey-heys thrown in.
The dancing lady and the millionaire scientist presently went forward.
Pegleg Pyke came stumping aft from the fo’c’s’le.
“Mr. Shay,” he said ominously, “that woman’s gonna turn this ship keel fer trucks to make you let her stay. Better the rats to leave than a woman to come.”
“She goes overboard tomorrow, old timer.”
They were startled by the sound of a sharp, small report forward, bouncing off the limp sails. A blue wraith came swiftly aft. She passed the binnacle. Her hair was different. Her eyes were wrathful.
She passed without speaking, went to the stairs, disappeared.
Professor Robbins came aft more leisurely. Just then Sammy heard a stateroom door slam. Soft, smothered sobbing came up the ventilator.
Sam glanced at the professor. He saw a trickle of blood from the scientist’s nose.
The beautiful stowaway remained in her cabin until Ah Fong rang the dinner gong. She appeared in a slim, frilly white frock, so dazzingly lovely that the men welcomed her with a stunned silence.
Dinner began in an uneasy silence, but this ended when Julie went into her performance. There was a light in her soft brown eyes, and Larry McGurk suspected that this was the stowaway’s last stand. She was giving them both barrels, the works. She was wittier, gayer, more entertaining than she had been at noon.
Larry McGurk was sitting in his Bombay chair on the afterdeck smoking a cigarette when Julie came up. She saw him sitting there and walked to the taffrail. She sighed, stretched her arms to the stars and said, “Larry, will you swing your vote if I can line up just one other?”
