Part 8 (1/2)

”Sure!” I replied. ”Come--some of the boys may be badly hurt.”

We pulled through that uproar surprisingly good. Of course, every man-jack of us had lumps and welts and cuts, and there were some bones broken. Saxton was slapped down with such force that the flat of his hand was one big blister where it hit the deck, and the whole line of his forearm was a bruise--but that saved his face. One pa.s.senger drew a bad ankle, jammed in the wreckage. The worst hurt was Jimmy Hixley, a sailor; a block hit him in the ribs--probably when the mainmast went--and caved him for six inches.

The actual twister had only hit one third of us, from where the mainmast stood, aft. That stick was pulled out by the roots--clean. Standing rigging and all. Good new stuff at that. Some of the stays came out at the eyes and some of 'em snapped. One sailor picked a nasty hurt out of it. The stays were steel cable, and when one parted it curled back quick, the sharp ends of the broken wires clawing his leg.

n.o.body knows the force of the wind in that part of the boat. Had there been a man there, no rope could hold him from being blown overboard; but, luckily, we were all forward.

The rails were cut clean as an ax stroke. Nothing was left but the wheel, and the deck was lifted in places as if there'd been an explosion below.

However, we weren't in the humor to kick over trifles. We shook hands all around and took a man's-sized swig of whisky apiece, then started to put things s.h.i.+pshape.

Jesse had an extra spar and a bit of sail that we rigged as a jigger, and though the _Matilda_ didn't foot it as pretty as before, we had a fair wind nearly all the rest of the trip, making Panama in two weeks, without another accident.

VIII

ARCHIE OUT OF ASPINWALL

The thing I recall clearest, when we dropped anchor at Aspinwall, was a small boat putting off to us, and a curly yellow head suddenly popping up over the rail, followed by the rest of a six-foot whole man. That was Jimmy Holton, my future boss.

Him and Jesse swore how glad they was to see each other, and pump-handled and pounded each other on the back, whilst I sized the newcomer up. He was my first specimen of real West-Missouri-country man; I liked the breed from that minute. He was a cuss, that Jimmy. When he looked at you with the twinkle in them blue eyes of his, you couldn't help but laugh. And if there wasn't a twinkle in those eyes, and you laughed, you made a mistake. Thunder! but he was a sight to take your eye--the reckless, handsome, long-legged scamp! With his yellow silk handkerchief around his neck, and his curls of yellow hair--pretty as a woman's--and his sombrero canted back--he looked as if he was made of mountain-top fresh air.

”Well, Jesse!” says he; ”well, Jess, you durned old porpoise! You look as hearty as usual, and still wearing your legs cut short, I see; but what the devil have you been doing to your boat?”

[Ill.u.s.tration: ”'Still wearing your legs cut short, I see'”]

So then Jesse told him about the tornado.

Jimmy's eyes were taking the whole place in, although he listened with care.

”Well, what brings you aboard, Jim!” says Jesse.

”I'm looking for a man,” says Jimmy. ”I want a white man; a good, kind, orderly sort of white man that'll do what he's told without a word, and'll bust my head for me if I dast curse him the way I do the pups working for me now.”

”H'm!” says Jesse, sliding me a kind of underneath-the-table glance.

”What's the line of work?”

”Why, the main job is to be around and look and act white. I got too durned much to see to--there's the ranch and the mine and the store--that drunken ex-college professor I hired did me to the tune of fifteen hundred cold yellow disks and skipped. You see, I want somebody to tell, 'Here, you look after this,' and he won't tell me that ain't in the lesson. Ain't you got a young feller that'll grow to my ways? I'll pay him according to his size.”

”H'm!” says Jesse again, jerking a thumb toward me. ”There's a boy you might do business with.”

Jim's head come around with the quickness that marked him. Looking into that blue eye of his was like looking into a mirror--you guessed all there was to you appeared in it. He had me estimated in three fifths of a second.

”Howdy, boy!” says he, coming toward me with his hand out. ”My name's Jim Holton. You heard the talk--what do you think?”

I looked at him for a minute, embarra.s.sed. ”I don't seem to be able to think,” says I. ”Lay it out again, will you? I reckon the answer is yes.”

”It sure is,” says he. ”It's got to be. What's your name?” He showed he liked me--he wasn't afraid to show anybody that he liked 'em--or didn't.

”Bill,” says I--”Bill Saunders.”