THEY THAT TAKE THE SWORD--
A glorious sunrise broke across the ocean, lifting the island peaks
to the north into a sheen of purple-rose and gold. Dennis wakened to
it--he had gone to sleep stretched out upon a blanket on the
quarter-deck--with a thrill of sheer delight in the golden splendour
overhead; then he realized that the steward was calling him, and he
leaped up.
The _Pelican_ with her canvas all housed, had been but little
influenced by the breeze from the north-west. She had made leeway,
drifting a couple of miles from her late anchorage; having no glasses
at hand, Dennis could not tell whether the Jap ship still lay by the
island or not.
"There's a boat tacking down to us, sir!" rang out the steward's
voice from forward.
Dennis glimpsed her at once, and saw that she must be a
fishing-boat--a sturdy, bluff little craft which seemed to carry but
two people, As he looked, he saw her brown canvas flutter down; she
was coming from the north-east, and when her canvas was stowed she
headed directly for the _Pelican_.
"Got a motor, eh?" reflected Dennis.
He swung down the companion way and located the binoculars of the
skipper. With these he returned to the deck. Caring less about the
fishing-boat than about conditions at the island, he picked up the
latter point first; the steward had joined him and stood waiting for
disclosures.
There was no ship in sight, much to the surprise of Dennis. Nor
could he make out any sign of life upon the rocky crags of the island
itself. About a mile distant from the brigantine he located a boat
floating bottom-side up. It was a whaleboat, and as it swung around
with the seas Dennis made out the figure two painted at its bows.
"That's the boat Mr. Leman took last night, blime if it ain't!"
ejaculated the steward, upon learning its number from Dennis.
"Nothin' else in sight sir?"
"No--hold on!" Dennis caught something adrift toward the north end of
the island. "By thunder, there's another boat--she seems to be
standing out this way. There's someone aboard her; they're getting
up a sail. Seems to be only two or three of them----"
"That fishin boat is 'eading this w'y, sir," broke in the steward.
"Shall I pass 'er?"
"By all means," responded Dennis, and turned his glasses toward the
craft.
Amazement thrilled within him--amazement, and startled unbelief. One
figure aboard her was huddled over the engine amidships and could not
be discerned; but in the stern, wonder of wonders, sat Florence!
There could be no mistake about it. She was heavily wrapped in fur
robes, but Dennis saw her face sharply and distinctly--her pale eager
features, her brown eyes fastened upon the whaler, her fur-gloved
hand upon the tiller of the boat. With a wild yell of delight Tom
Dennis leaped up, waving his arms, and he saw Florence wave back
response.
"It's my wife, steward--hurrah!" Dennis ran forward to aid the
Cockney. "She must have come all the way from Unalaska in that boat!
Here, get your line ready by the diver's ladder in the waist; it'll
be an easy climb there. Great glory, what a surprise!"
"Yes, sir," returned the steward, adding: "And werry lucky hit is,
sir, as she didn't get 'ere larst night!"
"You bet," said Dennis devoutly. "Thank Heaven for the fog--it must
have prevented their trying to make the island!"
As the fishing craft drew in toward the whaler, Dennis recognized the
man at her engine--it was the same grizzled fisherman whom he had
hired to pick up Jerry. The fisherman shut off his engine and came
in to the bow to receive the line which the steward flung; the boat
drew in beside the drifting _Pelican_. Florence, rising stiffly, was
aided to the ladder by her bronzed helper, and a moment later Dennis
held her in his arms.
"What on earth!" he exclaimed, as she broke into mingled tears and
laughter. "What brought you here, dearest?"
"You, Tom!" she exclaimed. "Jerry told us that they meant to send
you down in a diving-suit and--and--oh, I'm glad we're not too late!
Captain Nickers has been a darling, Tom----"
Dennis shook hands with the fisherman, who grinned and eyed the ship.
"Looks kind o' fussed up, don't she?" said Nickers. "Where's
everybody?"
Florence glanced around quickly. "Oh! Where are they, Tom? Quick,
you must get away----"
"Take it easy," said Dennis, and pointed to the whaleboat standing
down the wind toward them. "Where they are, _I_ don't know! Lots of
things have happened. So you came all this way to give me warning?"
"You bet," said Nickers. "Say, Dennis, if I had a wife like you
have--by gum, I'd give a million dollars! That run over here ain't
no cinch for a lady, let me tell you; but she stood watch an' watch
with me like an old hand--well, she's a wonder!"
"We had to," Florence laughed, flushing under the ardent words of
grizzled old Nickers. "I was terribly afraid for you, Tom, and there
was no one else we could get--but tell us, what's happened?"
Dennis glanced at the approaching boat and saw that she would not
reach them for ten minutes. So, dispatching the steward to make
ready some coffee, he gave Florence and Nickers a brief outline of
the situation, making light of his own peril.
"Where the Japs are," he concluded, "I've not the faintest idea. And
I can't figure out what happened last night--where Pontifex and the
others went. I don't believe he blew up the Jap ship, for I can't
see any signs of wreckings except Mr. Leman's boat. Well, here's
this boat coming in. What's that in her stern, Nickers?"
Having dropped his glasses in the excitement of getting Florence
aboard Dennis could make out only that the approaching whaleboat was
manned by three Kanakas of the _Pelican's_ crew, but in her stern was
a queer shapeless mass that looked strangely terrible. Across the
thwarts forward lay two silent brown figures, inanimate and evidently
dead. It was manifest that from this boat there was nothing to fear.
"Why, Tom!" Florence caught Dennis' arm, a wild thrill in her voice.
"In the stern--it's Mrs. Pontifex."
One of the Kanakas stepped forward across the dead bodies of his two
comrades and bawled for a line as the boat's sail whipped down.
Nickers flung another rope, and the whaleboat came in beside the
fishing craft. Then, for the first time, Mrs. Pontifex stirred--and
Dennis saw that her head was swathed in bandages.
The Kanakas, frightened and trembling at the appearance of Dennis
whom they had thought dead, came aboard aiding the Missus. Their
story was a ghastly one. At the first flame of blazing oil, they had
opened fire upon the Jap vessel, obeying orders previously given them
by the Missus. But their firing had ceased with the explosion; it
had stunned them. They had wakened to find two of their number
dead--and the Missus blind.
All that night they had lain rocking to the swells after vainly
trying to find the _Pelican_. The Jap ship had gone. They had heard
men swimming out to her from shore, and had caught the sound of oars;
then her motor had started. It was very plain that the Japs had been
thoroughly frightened, and after picking up their men ashore had
turned and run for it.
Florence, meantime, had aided the groaning Mrs. Pontifex to get below.
To his queries, Dennis could elicit no response from the Kanakas
regarding Mr. Leman or Pontifex. They had landed at dawn, but had
found the island deserted. Seeing the _Pelican_ to leeward; they had
set out to join her, passing on the way the floating whaleboat. They
identified it beyond question as Mr. Leman's boat.
The steward came up with pannikins of coffee during the talk, and now
broke into the discussion.
"Beg pardon, sir," he said to Dennis, "but I think as I know what
'appened, sir."
"You do? Then out with it!"
"Like this, sir. The skipper, e' myde 'is own fusee for that 'ere
bomb, and I seen 'im a-myking of it. 'E rolled it wet, sir, but 'e
myde it in the hafternoon, sir, and before 'e come to use it larst
night, the bloody fussee 'ad dried out, sir. So when 'e lighted it,
why, it wasn't no fusee at all, but a regular train o' powder,
sir----"
Dennis turned away, sickened by the thought of what must have
happened. The explosion must have taken place almost instantly--no
wonder Mr. Leman's boat was floating bottom upward! Pontifex and
Ericksen and Corny and the others--all gone!
"Well," said Nickers phlegmatically, sipping his hot coffee, "all I
got to say, looks like old Pontifex got what he was fixing to give
other folks. Hey?"
Dennis nodded and left the spot. Getting coffee and biscuits from
the steward, he went to the after companion way; but at the top of
the ladder he encountered Florence coming up alone.
"I'll take this to Mrs. Pontifex----"
"No use, Tom," Florence stopped him, her face very pale. "Poor
thing, she can't eat yet; Tom, she broke down in my arms--oh, I can't
talk of it! The poor woman----"
Dennis forced a draught of coffee upon her, and Florence swallowed
the hot liquid. It sent a glow of colour into her pale cheeks.
"So she's broken, eh?" mused Dennis. "Poor thing--one can't help but
feel sorry for her, Florence, and yet in a way she deserved all that
has happened. Look here, what are we going to do? About ourselves,
I mean, and this ship, and the salvage."
He briefly explained what must have happened to Pontifex and Mr.
Leman, glossing over the event as much as possible. But Florence
seemed not to hear. She stood at the rail, gazing out at the purple
peaks to the north for a long while. Suddenly she turned back to
him, a faint smile upon her lips.
"Tom, the first thing will be to straighten everything out at
Unalaska! Before I left, I told the authorities everything. They're
trying to get the revenue cutter, but we shan't need her now, of
course.
"We can charter this ship from Mrs. Pontifex--it'll give the poor
woman some money to go on--for a share in the proceeds of the
salvage. Then we can come back and clear up everything in father's
old ship----"
"Agreed." Dennis turned. "Oh, Cap'n Nickers! Think we can take
this craft into Unalaska with what hands we have?"
"Reckon we can," floated back the voice of the grizzled fisherman.
"I got a Master's ticket, and if I can't lay a course there's
something wrong with the Gov'ment!"
Dennis looked eagerly to Florence. "We'll make him skipper--eh? And
we'll give him a share in the profits, too----"
Her arms crept about his shoulders. "Oh, Tom--we'll do _everything_,
won't we? But you'll never leave me behind again."
"Not much!" Dennis pressed his lips to hers, and laughed softly.
THE CONCLUSION
OUTWARD BOUND
Four months after Tom Dennis had vanished from Marshville, the dingy
and shut-up office of _The Clarion_ was reopened. Dennis had
returned--and he had not returned alone. The mortgage held by banker
Dribble was cancelled. A new linotype machine was installed in _The
Clarion's_ dingy back room. The first issue of the paper announced
that it was back again to stay. And it stayed!
Also, some very good farms along the river were purchased by a
gentleman named Nickers. Mr. Nickers announced that he was a retired
sea-captain and was now about to take up the profession of farming
Mother Earth--the dream of every sea-faring man alive.
Each afternoon at five minutes of two, Mr. Nickers would stride down
the street and enter the office of _The Clarion_. The wide front
office was now divided into two rooms. Mr. Nickers invariably passed
to the second room and entered, closing the door behind him.
One afternoon, however, he came slightly earlier than usual. Tom
Dennis, who was in the second room, shook hands heartily. In the
corner by the window that overlooked Main Street sat a man of huge
physique and massive features; this man was able to move only with
difficulty and by aid of a stick. Miles Hathaway would never be the
man he had been, but at least he could get about. Modern surgeons
can do much that appears miraculous to the layman.
Hathaway held up his big fist and exchanged a hearty grip with
Nickers; then he lifted a rugged booming voice in a shout that
rattled the plate-glass window.
"Jerry! Where's that-- Oh, here you are!"
"Yes, sir," meekly responded a moon-faced lad, popping in at the
door. He was clad in printer's apron and had a very dirty face, as
is the rightful heritage of every printer's devil who is yet passing
through the "type lice" jest of hoary memory. But he was manifestly
a very happy boy.
"Strike four bells!" roared Miles Hathaway. "And fetch my pipe and
tobacco."
Dennis beckoned to Jerry and whispered something. The boy struck a
brass ship's bell of the regulation eight-inch size which hung near
the door--struck it one-two, one-two, as a ship's bell should be
struck, then vanished hastily. He had barely gone when Florence came
into the room, with a smile and a kiss for everybody concerned--which
seemed to mightily embarrass Captain Nickers but not to displease him
particularly!
Florence started to speak, then halted as Jerry re-entered the room
bearing a tray with glasses and a long green bottle.
"Why, Tom!" she exclaimed quickly. "You're not drinking?"
"We're all drinking to-day--and you'll have to take a sip at least!"
said Dennis, laughing. He produced a corkscrew and opened the
bottle. "News for you, Florence! Now, Jerry, fill 'em all
around--and a specially big one for Cap'n Nickers!"
Wondering, Florence watched Jerry obey the order. Then Tom Dennis,
lifting his glass, met her puzzled eyes with a gay laugh.
"Good news, Florence! Two things have happened this morning. First,
the other paper has offered to sell out to us--and I'm going to
accept their offer, running it as a weekly from now on. That means
no opposition here. And second, I've signed a whopping advertising
contract with one of the biggest agencies--it came in the mail this
morning. Ladies and gentlemen, that means that from this time
forward _The Clarion_ is not only established firmly here in town,
but she begins to haul in the coin!
"I've made mistakes," pursued Dennis more soberly. "I made 'em when
I was here before, and I've profited by them. Beginning with next
Monday's issue _The Clarion_ dies for ever! Beginning with next
Monday its place will be taken by _The Marshville Pelican_--and
here's to the new ship!"
"Hurray!" said Cap'n Nickers. But Florence turned to her husband.
"And Tom," she said softly, "you'll have to find a new society
editor. I--I'm going to stay at home after this and--and make a real
home for you!"
Of all those who heard her words Tom Dennis alone understood--and
perhaps Miles Hathaway understood also.
THE END
PRINTED BY
FISHER, KNIGHT & CO.; LTD.
LONDON AND HARPENDEN