Part 40 (1/2)

Guido Bombini, gesticulating peaceable intentions and evidently thrust out by Bert Rhine, was the first to appear. When it was observed that Mr. Pike did not fire, the rest began to dribble into view. This continued till all were there save the cook, the two sail-makers, and the second mate. The last to come out were Tom Spink, the boy Buckwheat, and Herman Lunkenheimer, the good-natured but simple-minded German; and these three came out only after repeated threats from Bert Rhine, who, with Nosey Murphy and Kid Twist, was patently in charge. Also, like a faithful dog, Guido Bombini fawned close to him.

”That will do--stop where you are,” Mr. Pike commanded, when the crew was scattered abreast, to starboard and to port, of Number Three hatch.

It was a striking scene. _Mutiny on the high seas_! That phrase, learned in boyhood from my Marryatt and Cooper, recrudesced in my brain.

This was it--mutiny on the high seas in the year nineteen thirteen--and I was part of it, a peris.h.i.+ng blond whose lot was cast with the peris.h.i.+ng but lordly blonds, and I had already killed a man.

Mr. Pike, in the high place, aged and indomitable; leaned his arm on the rail at the break of the p.o.o.p and gazed down at the mutineers, the like of which I'll wager had never been a.s.sembled in mutiny before. There were the three gangsters and ex-jailbirds, anything but seamen, yet in control of this affair that was peculiarly an affair of the sea. With them was the Italian hound, Bombini, and beside them were such strangely a.s.sorted men as Anton Sorensen, Lars Jacobsen, Frank Fitzgibbon, and Richard Giller--also Arthur Deacon the white slaver, John Hackey the San Francisco hoodlum, the Maltese c.o.c.kney, and Tony the suicidal Greek.

I noticed the three strange ones, shouldering together and standing apart from the others as they swayed to the lazy roll and dreamed with their pale, topaz eyes. And there was the Faun, stone deaf but observant, straining to understand what was taking place. Yes, and Mulligan Jacobs and Andy Fay were bitterly and eagerly side by side, and Ditman Olansen, crank-eyed, as if drawn by some affinity of bitterness, stood behind them, his head appearing between their heads. Farthest advanced of all was Charles Davis, the man who by all rights should long since be dead, his face with its wax-like pallor startlingly in contrast to the weathered faces of the rest.

I glanced back at Margaret, who was coolly steering, and she smiled to me, and love was in her eyes--she, too, of the peris.h.i.+ng and lordly race of blonds, her place the high place, her heritage government and command and mastery over the stupid lowly of her kind and over the ruck and sp.a.w.n of the dark-pigmented breeds.

”Where's Sidney Waltham?” the mate snarled. ”I want him. Bring him out.

After that, the rest of you filth get back to work, or G.o.d have mercy on you.”

The men moved about restlessly, shuffling their feet on the deck.

”Sidney Waltham, I want you--come out!” Mr. Pike called, addressing himself beyond them to the murderer of the captain under whom once he had sailed.

The prodigious old hero! It never entered his head that he was not the master of the rabble there below him. He had but one idea, an idea of pa.s.sion, and that was his desire for vengeance on the murderer of his old skipper.

”You old stiff!” Mulligan Jacobs snarled back.

”Shut up, Mulligan!” was Bert Rhine's command, in receipt of which he received a venomous stare from the cripple.

”Oh, ho, my hearty,” Mr. Pike sneered at the gangster. ”I'll take care of your case, never fear. In the meantime, and right now, fetch out that dog.”

Whereupon he ignored the leader of the mutineers and began calling, ”Waltham, you dog, come out! Come out, you sneaking cur! Come out!”

_Another lunatic_, was the thought that flashed through my mind; another lunatic, the slave of a single idea. He forgets the mutiny, his fidelity to the s.h.i.+p, in his personal thirst for vengeance.

But did he? Even as he forgot and called his heart's desire, which was the life of the second mate, even then, without intention, mechanically, his sailor's considerative eye lifted to note the draw of the sails and roved from sail to sail. Thereupon, so reminded, he returned to his fidelity.

”Well?” he snarled at Bert Rhine. ”Go on and get for'ard before I spit on you, you sc.u.m and slum. I'll give you and the rest of the rats two minutes to return to duty.”

And the leader, with his two fellow-gangsters, laughed their weird, silent laughter.

”I guess you'll listen to our talk, first, old horse,” Bert Rhine retorted. ”--Davis, get up now and show what kind of a spieler you are.

Don't get cold feet. Spit it out to Foxy Grandpa an' tell 'm what's doin'.”

”You d.a.m.ned sea-lawyer!” Mr. Pike snarled as Davis opened his mouth to speak.

Bert Rhine shrugged his shoulders, and half turned on his heel as if to depart, as he said quietly:

”Oh, well, if you don't want to talk . . . ”

Mr. Pike conceded a point.

”Go on!” he snarled. ”Spit the dirt out of your system, Davis; but remember one thing: you'll pay for this, and you'll pay through the nose.

Go on!”