Boats of the Glen Carrig and Other Nautical Adventures

by William Hope Hodgson

  MacAllister, the chief searcher, turned to me.

  “Sorry, Captain Gault, to have to put you through it like this,” he said, speaking a little formally before the three men. “But we know you’ve got those pearls, and I guess we’re going to have them. You’ve only yourself to thank for putting us to all this trouble. I assure you, we ain’t keen on it! But it’s what you’re liable to get each time you come ashore. And it’s what anyone else is liable to get, if we see anything that looks like you’re trying to use anyone else to put the pills past us.”

  “Any further questions, or may I go now?” I asked. “You certainly are the limit on this side of the pond!”

  “As I’ve said, Captain Gault, I’m sorry; but you’ve brought it on yourself,” he replied, as friendly as ever. “We know you’ve diddled the U.S.A. Customs to the tune of thousands, only we’ve not been able to prove it yet. You’ve put it over on us that much we’ll be getting superstitious if we don’t hand you out a take-down before long. Why, man, you’re the swellest Contrabandist this side of Jerusalem!”

  “You’ve no right to make such a statement!” I said. “If you care to come outside and say a thing of that sort before witnesses who aren’t your own men, I’ll have a writ on you for libel before forty-eight hours are out.”

  McAllister laughed.

  “I don’t doubt it, Captain Gault,” he said. “In fact, I’m sure of it. You’re the Wonder Unlimited! The way you put it over us with that cigarful of pearls last trip— Well!”

  “Look here!” I warned him. “That’s a proved libel; so be careful. I won my case against the Treasury on that same statement, and they had to bail up on it—”

  The chief searcher roared.

  “I know it, old man,” he called out, shaking all over, and forgetting any attempt at formality in his exuberance. “All little old New York knows it… You’re the classic!”

  Everybody in the room appeared to be laughing, and I laughed with them. Then, in the midst of our laughter, a voice spoke from the doorway leading out into the office—

  “What’s the meaning of this? Mr. MacAllister, are you making free with that smuggling scoundrel there?”

  I recognised the voice, even as I turned. It was the Treasury official who had been vanquished by my tale of the mere maid who wasn’t a lady.

  I glanced at MacAllister, and saw that he was annoyed at his superior’s manner. The two other officers and the photographer looked as if they had never laughed in their lives. They bent, all of them, over the paper negatives, and it was I who answered His Mightiness.

  “Were you referring to me, Sir?” I asked him.

  “I have no wish to bandy words with you!” he said, speaking like a “comic” Englishman out of an American “best-seller.” He turned to MacAllister again—

  “Have you searched this person?” he asked the chief searcher.

  “Sure,” said MacAllister, tersely. “If it’s Captain Gault you mean.” He looked at me—

  “I guess you can pass out, Sir,” he said, and nodded towards the doorway.

  “Thanks,” I replied. “Good morning.”

  At the doorway, however, the uncivil personage from the Treasury forgot his commendable intention not to speak to me.

  “Look here, you—you smuggling scamp,” he said. “I’ve given orders that you’re to be searched every time you come ashore. We shall have those pearls, never fear! We shall have them. You will never bring them ashore past my men!” He stamped his foot. “We shall catch you before may days are past; and I will see that you suffer bitterly—bitterly. You are an unmitigated, thieving scoundrel. You are a—”

  “Ah!” I said, blandly interrupting him. “Let me see your tongue.” I slipped my forefinger under his scraggy and dyspeptic chin and tilted his face up gently but firmly. “Ah!” I said. “I thought so! Your eyes tell a sad tale, my dear Sir. Liver! Undoubtedly liver! Try a course of Epsoms, my dear Sir. Magnificent thing, Epsoms. A sure tonic, Sir. You will hardly recognise yourself afterwards. Your friends certainly won’t. A great improver of a coarse complexion and coarse manners, Sir. Try it.”

  And with the last word I took my finger from under the little man’s chin and passed out. As I went I thought the dead silence of the inner room was broken by sounds that suggested the kind of agony men feel who stifle a large and natural laughter.

  July 5.

  I invited MacAllister aboard last night, to have a smoke and a yarn with me. As I pointed out to him, I could not be getting into mischief if he were with me, and I wanted someone to talk to. I told him, also, there was something I wanted to speak to him about, whereat I believe he scented regeneration! Also, I added that he could have some music, if he liked. And here, let me say, that my fiddling and fluting is not quite so bad as Mr. Gamp’s attitude might suggest to a stranger.

  MacAllister agreed, and we had a very pleasant evening. He plays the fiddle a bit, and I accompanied him with the flute. Between whiles, we smoked and yarned; and it was understood that, for that one evening, pearls were strictly taboo.

  However, just when he was leaving, I made the protest that had been in my mind all evening.

  “Look here, dear man,” I said, “I don’t think it’s the thing for the man you’ve got aboard to keep an eye on things, to go round on a private search-stunt of his own, among my personal belongings. If he wants to search my gear, I’m reasonably willing, at any reasonable time, provided I’m present; but it’s bad cricket doing that sort of thing when I’m ashore!”

  MacAllister was simply astonished, genuinely; but he asked me to send Pelter, my steward, for the man at once.

  When he came, MacAllister turned on him, and asked what the deuce he meant by exceeding instructions. But the man swore he had done nothing more than keep a general eye on things. He had never once been into my cabin, except during the time of the search of the vessel. He stuck to this statement, and, at last, MacAllister sent him away.

  “Are you sure?” he asked me. “What makes you sure there’s been anyone among your gear?”

  “Things disarranged; one lock forced and another jammed through someone tackling it too roughly with a key that didn’t fit!” I told him.

  He nodded.

  “Proof enough, old man!” he said. “I’m puzzled. Yet I’m inclined to believe our man, Quill. He’s a straight one, or we shouldn’t have put him on to this job. What about your man, Pelter, the steward? He may be looking out for the pills himself. However, that’s your lookout!

  “I guess, anyway, he know he’s on to a safe thing, if it’s him. You see, if he gets them from you, you daren’t put the police on him; for then we’d drop on you for the duty, and we’d confiscate the pearls as well, even if the police got them back from Pelter. No! I guess you’re in a corner, if he or any one else can put a finger on them.

  “As a friend, I should advise you to keep your eyes skinned. As a Customs official, I say it’ll serve you right if you get done.

  “Now let’s drop the subject. Only remember, it’s bound to get round the place that you’ve over 60,000 dollars’ worth of pearls hidden aboard, as we’re bound to believe; and if that tale goes round, look out for crooks! It’ll be enough to bring all the man-eaters in New York trying to pay you a night visit. Well, so long, old man! The way of transgressors isn’t exactly macadam, is it?”

  You can imagine that what he had told me set me thinking after he had gone. I had never suspected the steward; for I had imagined that no one on the American side, either ashore or aboard, knew about the pearls, except the Customs and myself. Even then, I could not see how he could have heard anything definite; for the Customs officers are not in the habit of blabbing all round the place.

  Suddenly, I slapped my knee. I remembered the first day in port, when I took MacAllister into my cabin, and both of us thought we heard someone at the door. That was Pelter, right enough. It couldn’t very well be anyone else; for both of my Mates were on deck at the time, and only the Steward could have
entered the after cabin without being noticed.

  I determined to lay a trap and began my preparations accordingly, the first of which was to secure a number of eggs from the pantry, some roping-twine from a locker, a bottle of sepia and a camel-hair brush.

  I made a tiny hole in each end of each egg, after which I blew them. When they were empty, I painted, with sepia, the brief legend “PEARLS” on each of the empty eggshells. Then I strung the six of them together on the piece of roping-twine.

  I went, then, into my cabin and shut the door; but instead of locking it I made fast one end of a piece of fine cotton to the hook-eye at the top of the door, and led the free end over a long wire guide, which I arranged above my pillow.

  To this end of the cotton I lashed a slightly wetted sponge, which was thus suspended directly above where my face would be when I was lying down. Whoever opened the door would, automatically, lower the wet sponge onto my face and so waken me without a sound.

  Fortunately, we have the luxury of a dynamo, so that I could have the cabin lit up at any moment I wished by means of the bunk-switch, which was just to my hand, as I lay in my bunk. The “pearl” legended string of eggs I hung on the knob of the switch.

  After seeing that all was in working order, I took a revolver from my lock-up drawer and pushed it under my pillow as a handy adjunct in case of any unpleasantness. Then I turned in and went promptly to sleep. The wet sponge was my night watch.

  I woke suddenly, with the chill of an impossible, cold, wet thing upon my face. I reached up swiftly and caught the sponge—and remembered.

  Without moving, I stared at the door and saw by the dim light from the saloon beyond that it was being slowly and gently closed. It shut without a sound, and there was an absolute darkness in my cabin, then the vague, soft sound of a bare foot upon the floor, and I knew that someone was in my cabin with me, and was tiptoeing silently towards my bunk.

  Very quietly I reached up in the darkness to the switch with my left hand. I unhooked the string of empty eggshells off the knob of the switch and transferred them to my right hand. Then I put up my left again to the switch and waited.

  Suddenly I felt something touch me. A hand was feeling gently down my chest, towards my waist. It stopped there and began with infinite gentleness and an equally infinite patience to work at the buckles of my money-belt, which I find it advisable, in my wanderings among the “wits” of humanity, to wear next to my skin.

  I waited awhile, lying silent. There was evidently no thought of putting anything so uncomfortable as a knife between my ribs, so I thought it safe to pander somewhat to my curiosity. Possibly, whoever was in my cabin had the impression that I slept with sixty thousand dollars’ worth of pearls round my waist! The thought tickled me.

  For maybe a quarter of an hour I lay there, extremely awake and very curious to discover how the person in the dark would attempt to get the belt from under me after he had undone all the buckles. There are three of these to the belt, and I counted them as the hidden personage worked them adrift.

  As the last buckle was loosed, I was tickled to death, in more ways than one, to find out how I was to be made roll over off the belt; for the infernal and silent personage in the dark reached down one hand to my feet and proceeded gently to tickle the sole of my left foot. I bit my lip to keep from laughing and found that he certainly knew his business; for I instinctively rolled away from him.

  Doubtless the plan is known by sneak-thieves to work perfectly on a sleeping person; but I was awake and found myself unable to hold back any longer.

  I let out one enormous yell of laughter and in the same instant switched on the light and sat up, holding out the string of blown egg-shells to—Pelter, my Steward!

  Yes, it was Pelter, right enough, and he shrivelled where he stood. He backed, quaking, his eyes staring at me, his face the colour of chalk, and all his body arched half sideways, in a very tension of the agony of complete and dreadful surprise. And there I sat in my bunk and roared, still holding out the string of eggshells to him—those “pearls” that made no secret of the fact!

  “Ah, Pelter,” I said at last, still shaking, “they are yours, with my compliments. I have been expecting you to call.” And I held the gorgeous necklace towards him, while his body arched more and more tensely towards the door, with the blind instinct of retreat.

  Abruptly, his wit came back into him, and he turned and jumped for the door, tore it open, dashed through and slammed it.

  * * * *

  This morning I discovered that I am Pelterless!

  * * * *

  In a way, things are looking a bit serious. I’ve been searched every time I’ve gone ashore, and each time they’ve been pretty near as drastic as the first time. I fancy Monsieur the Treasury Johnny, has his knife especially deep into me. Anyway, if I’d had the pearls on me I should have been caught, as sure as nuts are nuts.

  I’ve done my best, up to the present, to keep my temper, but this kind of thing gets on one’s nerves; and it’s less the cash now that is keeping me fixed to run the pearls through, as the determination to get the better of the little comic Treasury man. I believe he’s begun to dream of me at night. He’s been in at the office several times lately and superintended the search himself, which I can see has annoyed McAllister no end. I suppose the only thing is to keep on smiling!

  Evening of July 5.

  When I went ashore today, I took the six blown eggshells with me, as I knew Mac would be interested, after his warning to keep an eye on Pelter.

  “I’ve brought the six pearls,” I said, as soon as I was ushered into the inner room, and I hauled out the string of egg-shells and held them up, so that Mac and the two officers could read the legend on each. Everyone laughed, but they roared when I told them of the way I had treated the Steward. Yet, for all that they were so jolly and friendly, they searched me just as mercilessly as ever.

  As I was going to leave the office, after my usual undress rehearsal, the little Treasury official came in.

  I looked at MacAllister and winked; then turned towards the doorway.

  “Good morning, Sir,” I said to the little man as he stood and glared at me. “You were a prophet. Your men have discovered six pearls of unsurpassable size upon me.”

  “What!” he shouted, and I heard the subordinate officials striving manfully with an inconvenient laughter.

  “Where are the pearls, Mr. MacAllister?” called out the high official. “I knew we should catch the scoundrel if we searched him properly every time he went ashore. Let me see them…. You are under arrest!” (This last to me!) “Have you got all six, Mr. MacAllister? Let me see them at once.”

  “Here they are, Sir,” I said. “Not exactly pearls of great price, but undoubtedly of wonderful size and shape!” And I drew out the six blown eggshells and held them out, so that he might admire the fine black inscription on each.

  “Allow me!” I said and stepped up to him. But as I made to wreathe the “necklace” about his elderly neck, he lost control and made as if he would strike me.

  “The gift is not acceptable?” I asked. “Gratitude is not in you, Sir! Bye-bye!”

  And I left, just as MacAllister and the subordinate officials proved unable to rise to sufficiently heroic heights to die silently upon their feet. They crowed, all of them, like a farmyard, and then roared in hopeless unison. I could still hear them roaring as I boarded a street car to go uptown.

  As I was coming aboard again this evening I met MacAllister.

  “You shouldn’t do it, old man!” he said. “You shouldn’t, and that’s a sure thing! We laughed till we nearly fell down, and then old Andrew Akbotham fell on us. He’s got a tongue that would make sulphur taste like cane sugar.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “Where’s he live? I’ll write and smooth him down a bit.”

  He gave me the address, and this is the letter I wrote—

  “Andrew Akbotham, Esq.,

  “Dear Sir,

  “I feel that I owe
you an apology for my hardly excusable buffoonery towards you. In evidence of my penitence, I beg you to accept as a little proof of my entire freedom from any thought of personal malice towards you the jewel box which accompanies this letter. The contents will interest you the more you examine them. You will find in the box the same six eggshells that I proffered you so uncouthly today. If you look at them closely you will see that they have been cut round the middle very neatly with a sharp razor and afterwards joined again with ‘Mells’ Lime Cement,’ which, being made from ground eggshells, makes a join that is quite invisible, except microscopically.

  “If you choose to break open one of the shells you will find inside, attached to the twine which runs through it, a small lump of cobbler’s wax. In this, if you examine it, you will find an indentation, such as might be made by a marble, a large pill, or even a fine pearl.

  “In each of the eggs you will find a similar pellet of cobbler’s wax and a similar indentation—six in all.

  “Need I say more, to prove to you the sincerity of my apologies and the truth of my explanations, when I saw that nothing was further from my thoughts than practising mere gratuitous buffoonery upon a man of your years?

  “May I beg of you to keep the jewel case and the six eggshells? They have done their work, twice over, as one might say. And I should like to feel that this apology of mine will be remembered long after I, its unworthy author, am forgotten.

  “Believe me, dear Sir,

  Yours faithfully,

  “G. Gault.”

  The Painted Lady

  S.S. Boston.

  April 2nd. Evening.

  I had a splendid offer made me today. A man came aboard, with what looked like a drawing-board wrapped in brown paper.

  He had a letter of introduction from a man who knows me.

  “My name’s Black, as I guess Mr. Abel’s told you in the letter,” he said; “I want to talk business with you, Cap’n Gault.”