In mid-forenoon of the second day's train ride, Little and Barry were
forced to cool their heels at Solo Junction while the train waited for
the tardy Samarang connection.
The typewriter salesman was a keen man in his line of business, but he
had never used his senses to much ulterior purpose while traveling about
the East; he was much more concerned with a prospective customer's
financial status than with the surroundings in which the customer lived.
Now while fuming over the delay, Little stepped out on the platform and
abruptly awoke to the fact that sheer beauty was riot in Java, if one's
eyes were but opened to it. Hedges of lantana were not new to him, they
were common from end to end of the island; but not until now had he
appreciated the warm magenta coloring of gorgeous poinsettias and
bougainvillea, the glowing-hearted, waxy white flowers of frangipani;
not until now did he realize the prodigality of Nature towards Java in
the matter of weird and awesome fruits and vegetables.
He stood in wonder, gazing at the pendant fruit of a heavily laden
sausage tree, for all the world like queerly colored, succulent
sausages, garnished with brilliant green foliage; his wonder lasted
until a coolie passed to windward of him munching on a great chunk of
prickly durian, which fruit combines the flavor of ambrosia with the
odor of a gasworks. He retreated incontinently, bursting in upon Barry
who had remained in the train, and almost knocking over a lady who was
hastily leaving. Apologizing confusedly, Little bore down on the sailor.
"Phe-e-ew!" he gasped. "You're one wise old fox, Barry. Seen all this
stuff before, hey? Say, there's a coolie outside eating armor-plated
limburger, ten years defunct! Enjoying it, too. And I've just seen a
tree full o' hot-dogs! Honest, Barry--Hullo, old boy, why the blushes?
Why all the figuring?"
Barry sat in the big soft seat of the first-class carriage, a scrap of
paper on one knee, a pencil chewed to splinters between his teeth. His
brow was puckered into deep lines above troubled eyes which stared
absently at a Mesdag picture in blue and white tile set in the
compartment wall. He smiled at his friend's exuberance and dropped
pencil point to paper.
"How in thunder do you figure this confounded Dutch money, Little?" he
asked. "What's the fare in real money? Fifty gulden sounds like conic
sections to me."
"Why, fifty gulden is--But what for, son? Why the financial statement?"
"Want to start right, that's all. You've paid for everything so far,
Little, and I'm busted clean. Keeping tally, that's all."
"Forget it," smiled Little. "I've got a note on Houten's bankers in
Surabaya for the exes. Pitch that pencil out o' the window before it
gives you indigestion. But there's something else," he accused, watching
Barry closely. "Darned if I don't think you've started an affair! Who
was the lady?"
Barry got up quickly, stepped to the window and drew Little after him.
After a swift scrutiny, he pointed out a graceful figure in cool white
and answered Little's query.
"See her? Yes, that woman just going into the crowd. Same one you nearly
bowled over in the doorway. Came to me the minute you went out; greeted
me as an old friend, though I never saw her in my life before. D' you
know her?"
Little stared hard at the retreating figure, trying to glimpse her face.
The woman turned, gazing up the track towards Samarang, and the vivid
sunlight irradiated her face with startling clearness. It was a striking
face, full of mature loveliness, yet holding something in the deep
expressive eyes that hinted at more than a woman's share of hard contact
with the world.
"No," Little said slowly, "never saw her, Barry. But I believe I'd like
to meet her at that. Some queen, hey? What's she want?"
"Wanted a passage in my ship!" exploded Barry. "See here, Little, I
thought this job was on the quiet. I haven't said a word to anybody,"
and he fixed an accusing eye on Little.
"Me too," retorted the ex-salesman, as warmly returning the other's
quiz. "Maybe you're oversensitive, though. How much did she seem to
know?"
"Can't tell," hesitated Barry. "Perhaps she startled me by simply
talking ship. I suppose almost anybody can spot me for a sailor. But she
seemed to be so darned certain that I was in command of a vessel leaving
Surabaya, and she asked me for a passage, and be darned if I savvee why,
since even Hawkeye himself couldn't tell where the ship is bound for,
unless we blabbed it."
"What did you tell her?"
"That my ship was bound for Europe," grinned the sailor. "She came right
back, too; said that's just where she wants to go. She was urging me to
sell her a berth when you came in and saved me."
Little glanced out again then suddenly pulled Barry from the window.
"Come out and watch the crowd," he said. "Some of these people are worth
watching. The Samarang train is due." With the announcement Little
leaped from the train and impatiently awaited his companion.
"Easy to see the people worth watching," laughed Barry, joining him.
Little walked up the platform towards the knot of folks with whom the
lady was last seen, and the sailor followed with an indulgent grin.
Together they reached the locomotive of their train, and like a vision
the strange lady emerged from nowhere and approached them, smiling
brilliantly.
"How do you do, Mr. Little," she greeted, and Little's politeness was
scarcely proof against his astonishment. He stared in amazement at her
ready use of his name. And he was certain now that he had never set eyes
on this radiant being before. The lady prattled on, with a note of
reproof: "Captain Barry refuses to accommodate a lady in distress. Won't
you persuade him to sell me a passage in his ship, Mr. Little?"
Little was sharp-witted. But even he was nonplussed to find their errand
so obviously known in part. As for Barry, simple, straight sailor that
he was, he was dumbfounded.
What the outcome might have been was left in doubt. The warning whistle
of the incoming train jarred the warm air, and the crowd surged every
way, creating a diversion that precluded reply. The train from the north
drew in and disgorged its passengers, voluble or stolid, according to
whether they were of the native subjects or the Dutch masters. Out of
the scrambling chaos of chugging trains, first, second, and third-class
passengers were directed or driven to their respective locations amid
hoarse or shrill orders of guttural European or musical Javanese
trainmen.
Until the last few passengers were mounting the train steps, Barry and
Little lingered, watching the human kaleidoscope and awkwardly conscious
that they made poor figures before the lady at their side. Then they
were attracted by an altercation going on farther along the station
platform, and when they turned again the mysterious lady had as
mysteriously vanished.
"She's gone!" breathed Barry, with relief.
"Good egg!" echoed Little, then seized Barry's arm. "Come on, Barry, we
must hustle too. Gosh! See that?"
A mild-mannered, soft-eyed Javanese porter had set down a heavy suitcase
and was apparently trying to persuade its white owner to pay his small
fee for carrying it. The white man, keen-faced, overbearing,
immaculately dressed, cursed the porter in venomous Low Malay and picked
up the suitcase himself. As he turned to board the train, leaving the
fee unpaid, the porter trotted beside him with outstretched palm, asking
civilly enough for his wage. The white man swung around, kicked him
viciously, and sprang on the train, leaving his victim squirming in
agony on the platform.
"Here, I'm going after that duck!" gritted Barry, buttoning his jacket
and starting forward. "That's the sort of white man that makes me glad
I'm sun-tanned brown!"
"Not here--not now," warned Little, seizing the sailor's sleeve. "We've
got to hustle to keep our seats, son. Ain't that sort o' thing regular
with white men in a black man's land? It is with these lordly Dutchmen,
anyway."
"Regular? Huh! Not if I can stop it," snorted Barry. "Would you see a
dog kicked like that? Not much you wouldn't. I don't like that white
man."
"We'll sure agree not to like him, Barry, old scout; but for the love o'
Mother Dooley don't start something that'll tie our hands this early in
the game."
Little led his obstinate friend to his seat, and until their fellow
travelers melted away in the crowd at the Surabaya station he kept a
wary eye on him. Barry snorted like a pugilist stung hard on the nose
when the white corrector of insistent coolies marched from the station
as if he owned the town; and the ex-salesman was forced to use all his
diplomacy to restrain Barry from an outbreak.
"Have a heart, Cap, have a heart," he pleaded, when Barry barely escaped
collision with a speeding barouche while following with his eyes his
unknown enemy. "We're a pair o' tourists, remember. You'll get all the
scrapping you can handle when we get away from here. If you go after
every white fellow you see slugging a coolie, we'll have no time to
attend to our own business."
"You're boss of the job; I'm dumb," grunted Barry. "All the same, I'd
pass up Houten's proposition for the pleasure of pushing that chap's
jib three inches further inboard. Let's get something to drink. I'm on
fire."
Little led the way to a quiet hotel whose veranda commanded a wide view
of the harbor and the Island of Madura across the straits. He had
stopped here many times in his capacity of salesman, had sold the
landlord a typewriter, and was still a welcome guest in spite of it.
Ordering two tall schooners of imported beer, the only kind drinkable
even in that hotel, he took the proprietor aside and made some
inquiries. Presently he sauntered back to Barry.
"Going up town, Jack," he announced. "Too late for the bank. I'll go to
the banker's villa for our _gulden_. Unless the bottom drops out of the
_Barang_, she'll be in before morning, and we can't lose any time.
"When you've lowered that bar'l o' beer into your hold--more nautical
stuff, see?--you get busy too. Mynheer host tells me Leyden's schooner,
the _Padang_, is hauled out for caulking. The job's done. They float her
on this evening's tide. He says Leyden drops in about sundown whenever
he's in town. He'll surely be here to-night, being busy about his ship.
"Now, old salt, that schooner can sail rings around any shovel-nosed old
boat with those funny little crosspieces on her masts. Houten admitted
that. We must hinder that schooner, long enough to beat her to the
Sandang River. That's your job, sailor. But don't pull stuff raw enough
to get us clapped into the calaboose. Report back here. I'll be back
like a shot. Then we'll camp on Leyden's trail and size him up."
Barry set down his empty beer mug and stood up, glad of the chance of
action. He hesitated, though, and said doubtfully:
"If she's hauled out still, it's easy to fix her. But I'd feel easier
about it if I knew that Leyden is actually the dog you say he is. If it
turned out that he's only a keen fellow who's got to windward of Houten
by straight methods, I'd feel as if I'd knifed him in the dark by
playing tricks on his schooner to get a start of him."
"Oh, splash!" ejaculated Little. He was hot and looked it. "I thought
you were satisfied about that. Look here; go ahead, pull whatever stunt
is up your sleeve. I give you my word that if you see Leyden and feel as
you do about him then, we'll hold back our own vessel until he's under
weigh, no matter what we lose by it. Does that soothe your blessed
Quixotic scruples?"
"Good enough," agreed Barry heartily, throwing off the half-felt doubts
that had obsessed him. "I shouldn't have said anything like that at all,
after taking you up. That coolie business got me heated. I'll probably
feel better with something to do."
They parted on the hotel steps, and Barry, after inquiring of the
proprietor the whereabouts of the slipway where Leyden's schooner was,
swung off in the given direction. Past wharves and warehouses he strode,
throwing back his wide shoulders and inhaling great drafts of spicy
ozone as he found himself once again among shipping, in the atmosphere
that was meat and drink to him.
At the northern extremity of the water front the craft in port dwindled
from steamers and deep-water square-riggers to "country" ships,
schooners, junks, and other small fry; and among the forest of masts his
experienced eye picked out two spars, straighter and more shipshape than
the rest, which guided him unerringly to the _Padang_.
Blocked up on a tidewater slipway, every detail of the vessel was
visible, even to the last fathom of oakum now being hammered into her
port garboard seam. White painted and trim, she spelled speed and
weatherliness in every line, and a note of admiration escaped Barry as
he regarded her clean underbody from a safe distance. A trickle of water
was already creeping up towards her stern; the rudder would be wet again
within an hour.
From the vantage point of a huge pair of sheer-legs Barry reconnoitered.
He saw the last muddy toiler crawl from beneath the keel and scramble
ashore. It was getting rapidly dusk as the sun dipped, and a lone figure
high up on deck went around placing lanterns in readiness for working
the schooner off when the tide served. Besides the solitary watchman,
not a soul was visible. Barry stepped out cautiously and hastened down
to the floor of the slip.
One of Jack Barry's most cherished possessions was a weird Yankee
contraption that cost him heavily in the shape of worn pockets. Its
maker named it a knife; as a matter of fact, the knife part was
worthless; but snugly and cunningly fitted into the stout buckhorn
handle was a serviceable file, a hacksaw, and a marlinespike.
In the brief time before the slipway employees and the schooner's crew
returned from their supper, Barry worked swiftly and silently. He ripped
out fathom after fathom of fresh caulking in the garboards, making
assurance doubly sure, by thrusting his knife-blade clear through the
seam in a dozen places. The anchor, hanging at the cathead ready to let
go when the schooner floated in the harbor, he loosely connected with
one of the chain-plates by a length of small wire rope, so that, when
let go, it would hang a few feet under water and the schooner must
drift, possibly ashore, before another anchor could be cleared and put
over.
In little over half an hour he climbed out of the slip again, dripping
sweat, minus the skin of all his knuckles, and blistered as to palms and
knees, but with a cheerful grin that spoke of a satisfied soul. He
confidently depended upon the darkness, now absolute, and native
unthoroughness, for his work to remain undetected until the sea came up
and concealed it.
After a bath at the hotel he sought Little and reported his
achievement.
"Good work!" chuckled his friend. Then Little whispered: "And who d 'ye
suppose Leyden is, after all?"
"Search me," said Barry, his eyes on a group of men along the veranda.
"Who?"
"Your coolie kicker of Solo!"
A flash of joy lighted Barry's bronzed face, to be shaded in a moment.
"That's the best news in months, Little. But Gosh! If I'd known, I could
just as easily have ripped out another ten fathom of caulking!"
As he spoke, Barry leaned forward suddenly. The group of men along the
veranda had drawn his attention by their noisy laughter and greetings,
and now he saw his man of Solo appear in their midst. Leyden was flushed
and in high good humor; that he was hail fellow well met was obvious. He
flung himself into a long cane chair and plunged into a recital that
induced a gale of merriment in his listeners. Barry's eyes glittered
like points of flame and bored into Leyden's back as if to force notice.
"Go easy, Jack," warned Little, sensing trouble. "Don't start a fuss."
"Shut up!" growled Barry, holding his gaze. "I won't start anything.
I'll make him start something though; then I'll sail into him like a rat
up a pump!"
Leyden had finished his story, and the class of it was patent from the
guffawed comments it excited. Another of the group capped it with
another, grosser yet, and the party burst into an uproarious hilarity.
Then a flabby-jowled, paunchy fellow urged in throaty gutturals:
"Come, Leyden, tell us about the new flame. It's too good to keep to
yourself. She's a good girl, isn't she--as yet?"
No attempt was made to keep the conversation private. The whole party
oozed a blatant superiority over any possible audience, easily traceable
to the copious flow of schnapps at their table. Leyden alone, Barry
noticed, drank nothing. A roar greeted the last speaker's shrewd hint at
Leyden's reputation as a ladies' man, which he replied to by taking a
fat wallet from his breast pocket. This he opened ostentatiously, and
after a suitable pause, produced a cabinet photograph which he pressed
to his lips with a theatrical flourish.
Barry crouched in his chair, feet drawn under him, hands gripping the
chair arms and supporting most of his weight. Little watched the group
curiously, for the moment forgetting his inflammable friend. The picture
went around, to the accompaniment of coarse jests, the burden of which
indicated that the Celebes Mission field was due to either gain a
convert in Leyden or lose a valued worker in the person of the picture's
original.
Leyden replied with a remark that would have procured him a beating in a
sailor's dive, and Barry lurched to his feet with a lurid, rumbling
oath. Little started up, too, but half-heartedly, then sat down to
follow the action of his friend. He too had caught that last remark, and
his fingers itched to feel Leyden's windpipe throb under them.
Barry staggered across the veranda, cleverly simulating drunkenness.
Furious as he was, he was cool enough to play a definite and reasonably
safe game. He lost his balance ten feet from Leyden's chair, recovered
himself with a damp hiccough and maudlin apology, then darted forward
and sprawled among the hilarious group with hands outstretched for the
table to support himself.
Mumbling incoherently, he slowly raised himself and glared owlishly
around, caught sight of the picture in Leyden's hand, and grabbed for
it.
"Pretty, pretty," he gabbled, leering at Leyden and prodding that fuming
gentleman in the ribs with a hard finger. "'Zat your sister?"
An awkward laugh burst from the party. Recalling the remarks they had
been bandying about, they considered how little sport they would have
caused Leyden had the original of that picture been in truth his sister.
Leyden flushed to his hair roots, then paled with fury. He seized Barry
by the shoulder, picked up a glass of schnapps, and flung the stinging
liquor into the sailor's face.
Barry's pose dropped in a flash. He made an expertly short job of the
coolie kicker now the opening had come. Ramming a right fist like a
jib-sheet-block hard into Leyden's solar plexus, he brought the same
hand up streaking to the jaw; his left shot out as his man staggered to
fall, and crunched home with a smash into the now distorted features.
Uproar ensued. The landlord ran in, feigning distress. Little joined,
and the supposedly drunken sailor was hauled away from his fallen
adversary. A rapid exchange of crisp sentences passed between the host
and Little, and the former nodded. He busied himself with Leyden and his
vociferous friends, had the damaged man taken to a private room, and
made the way clear for Little to hustle Barry out of the hotel and into
a barouche.
"I can't blame you, Jack," grinned the salesman as the carriage rolled
away. "It was what we wanted, after all; but it may cause trouble yet.
Some hothead, old scout! I'll look out I keep off your corns myself. Now
we'll get to the front and watch for the _Barang_. She's about due, and
the town's too hot for us after this."
An hour later an anchor was let go somewhere out in the night. Little
had secured a boatman, and the two friends put off to the brigantine
full of self-congratulatory chuckles; for, whether Leyden had pulled
strings to arrest his assailant or not, the mannikin at the end of the
string had as yet shown no signs of jumping.
As they neared the dark shape of the vessel, two market boats left her
shadow, and voices came across the water, signifying the correct tally
of sundry stores. Then the _Barang's_ anchor came up again immediately
her new skipper set his foot on deck, the topsail yard, lowered to the
cap on anchoring, was jerked aloft, and the brigantine stood silently
out of the roadstead.