The first of the two boats came alongside, and men began to go clumsily,
even fearfully down the ladders. Throughout the early stages of activity
on shore, the passengers and crew went out in shifts, so to speak.
Percival and others experienced in construction work had learned that
efficiency and accomplishment depend entirely upon the concentration
of force, and so, instead of piling hundreds of futile men on shore to
create confusion, they adopted the plan of sending out daily detachments
of fifty or sixty, to work in regular rotation until all available
man power had been broken in and classified according to fitness and
strength. For example, certain men developed into capable wood-choppers,
while others were useless in that capacity. Each successive draft,
therefore, had its choppers, its strippers, its haulers, its “handy
men,”--and its water-boys. Moreover, this systematic replacement of
toilers made it possible for those who were not accustomed to hard,
manual labour to recover from the unusual tax on strength and endurance.
It should be explained, however, that this system was not applied to
individuals selected for the purpose of exploration and research. Four
parties, well-armed and equipped, were sent out to explore both sections
of the island. These expeditions had numerous objects in view: to
determine, if possible, whether the island had ever been visited
or occupied by man; to determine the character of the fruits and
vegetables; extent and variety of animal life; the natural food
resources, etc. The groups were made up of men familiar with nature
in the rough. Lieutenant Platt headed one group, Professor Flattner
another, a Bolivian ranchman and an English horse buyer the remaining
two.
Abel Landover was to have gone out with the first day's shift to work
on the road through the wood. He refused point-blank to leave the ship.
This state of affairs lasted through the next two days, the banker
stubbornly ignoring the advice and finally the commands of Captain
Trigger. In the meantime he had been joined in his rebellion,--a word
used here for want of a milder one,--by half a dozen gentlemen who did
a great deal of talking about how the Turks were maltreating the
Armenians, but, for fear of being suspected of pro-Germanism, studiously
avoided pre-war dissertations on the conduct of the Russians.
The first shift's turn had come around once more in the natural order
of things, and practically all of the men had been landed. Landover
had refused to go out with either of the other shifts. He had stood
his ground obstinately. Percival's ultimatum, sweeping like wildfire
throughout the ship's company, brought nearly every one on board to the
rails to see whether he would carry out his threat. Would he dare throw
the great capitalist, this mighty Croesus, this autocrat, into the sea?
The first boat carried off Nicklestick, Block, Shine and the other
objectors. Landover was in his stateroom.
“Just a minute,” called out Percival to the oarsmen, as they waited for
him to take his place in the last boat. “We're shy a man, I see.” His
eye ranged the deck. His face was a sickly yellow. It would have been
white save for the tan. “Where is Landover?” he demanded of the crowd.
Some one answered: “He went to his cabin a couple of minutes ago,” and
another volunteered: “It's Number 9 on the promenade deck.”
Half a minute later Percival rapped peremptorily on the door of Number
9.
“We're waiting for you, Mr. Landover,” he called out.
“Wait and be damned,” came strongly from the stateroom. “The door is
unlocked. If you put a foot inside this room, I'll shoot you like a
dog.”
“You will have the satisfaction of killing a mighty good dog,” said
Percival, and threw the door wide open. He did not enter the room,
however. Standing just outside the door, he faced the banker. Landover
stood in the centre of the luxurious cabin, a revolver in his hand.
“I mean exactly what I say, Percival. I will shoot the instant you put a
foot through that door.”
“I don't believe you would,” said Percival, “but, just the same, I'm not
going to chance it. If I ever conclude to commit suicide, I'll go off
somewhere and blow my brains out with my own gun. At present, I have no
thought of committing suicide, so I'll stay right where I am. I didn't
come here to kill you, Mr. Landover. I have no gun with me. I simply
came to tell you that the last boat is leaving, and we are waiting for
you.”
For many seconds the two men looked straight into each other's eyes.
“Are you coming?” demanded the young man levelly.
“Certainly not!”
Percival's shoulders sagged. His face wore an expression of complete
surrender.
“Well,--if you won't, I suppose you won't,” he muttered.
A triumphant sneer greeted this abject back-down on the part of the
would-be dictator.
“I thought so,” exclaimed Landover. “You're yellow. You can bully these
poor, ignorant--”
He never finished the sentence. Percival cleared the eight or nine feet
of intervening space with the lunge of a panther. His solid, compact
body struck Landover with the force of a battering ram. Before the
larger and heavier man could fire a shot, his wrist was caught in a
grip of steel. As he staggered back under the impact, Percival's right
fore-arm was jammed up under his chin. In the fraction of a second,
Landover, unable to withstand this sudden, savage onslaught, toppled
over backwards and, with his assailant clinging to him like a wildcat,
found himself pinned down to the spacious, inset washstand.
The revolver was discharged, the bullet burying itself in the floor. An
instant later the weapon fell from his paralysed fingers. With his free
left hand he struck wildly, frantically at Percival, but with no effect.
The broad back and shoulders of his assailant proved a barrier he could
not drive past. And that rigid, merciless right arm, as hard as a bar of
steel, was pressing relentlessly against his throat, crushing, choking
the life out of him. He was a strong, vigorous man, but he was helpless
in the grasp of this tigerish young fighter from the slopes of the
Andes. He heard Percival's voice, panting in his ear.
“I can keep this up longer than you can. I don't want to break your
neck,--do you understand? I don't want to break your neck, Landover, but
if you don't give in, I'll--I'll--” The pressure slackened perceptibly.
“Say it! Now's your chance. Say you've--got enough!”
Landover managed to gasp out the word. He could still feel his eyes
starting from his head, his tongue seemed to fill his mouth completely.
Percival released him instantly and fell back a yard or so, ready,
however, to spring upon his man again at the first sign of treachery. No
more than sixty seconds elapsed between the beginning and the end of the
encounter. It was all over in the twinkling of an eye, so to speak. In
fact, it was over so quickly that the first man to reach the door after
the report of the revolver rang out, found the two men facing each
other, one coughing and clutching at his throat, the other erect and
menacing. For the first time, Percival took his eyes from the purplish
face of the banker. They fell first upon a head and pair of shoulders
that blocked one of the two port-holes. He recognized the countenance of
Soapy Shay, the thief. To his amazement, Soapy grinned and then winked
at him!
“The boat is ready to leave, Landover,” said the victor briskly. “We
have no more use for this thing at present,” he went on, shoving the
revolver under the berth with the toe of his boot. The banker stared
past him at the agitated group in the corridor. The man was trembling
like a leaf, not so much from fear as from the effects of the tremendous
physical shock.
Percival was a generous foe. He experienced a sudden pity,--a rush of
consideration for the other's feelings. He saw the tears of rage
and mortification well up in the eyes of the banker, he heard the
half-suppressed sob that broke from his lips. Whirling, he ordered the
crowd away from the door. “It's all right,” he said. “Please leave us.”
He addressed Soapy Shay. “Beat it, you!”
Soapy saluted with mock servility. “Aye, aye, sir. I saw the whole show.
It was certainly worth the price of admission.” Having delivered himself
of that graceful acknowledgment, he effaced himself.
“Just a word or two, Mr. Landover,” said Percival as the crowd shuffled
away from the door. “I am sorry this had to happen. Even now I am not
sure that you fully understand the situation. You may still be inclined
to resist. You are not in the habit of submitting to force, reason or
justice. I am only asking you, however, to recognize the last of these.
You will be happier in the end. I don't give a hang how much you hate
me, nor how far you may go to depose me. I don't want your friendship
any more than I want your enmity. I can get along very nicely without
either. But that isn't the point. At present I am in charge of a gang of
workmen. Every man on this ship belongs to that gang, you with the rest.
I ask you to look at the matter fairly, honestly, open-mindedly. You
accuse me of being high-handed. I return the charge. It's you who are
high-handed. You set yourself above your fellow-unfortunates. You refuse
to abide by the will of the majority. I represent the majority. I am
not acting for myself, but for them. God knows, I am not looking for
trouble. This job isn't one that I would have chosen voluntarily. But
now that it has been thrust upon me, I have no other alternative than to
see it through. You ought to be man enough, you ought to be fair enough
to see it in that light. If conditions were reversed, Mr. Landover, and
you were in my place, I would be the last to oppose you, because I
have learned in a very tough school that it pays to live up to the
regulations. Everywhere else in the world it is a question of capital
and labour. Here it is a question of labour alone. There is no such
thing as capital. Socialism is forced upon us, the purest kind of
socialism, for even the socialist can't get rich at the expense of his
neighbour. But I'm beginning to lecture again. Let's get down to cases.
Are you prepared to go out peaceably,--I'll not say willingly,--and do
your share on the job as long as you are physically able?”
“I submit to brute force. There is no other course left open to me,”
said Landover hoarsely.
“Very well, then. Come along,--we're wasting valuable time here.”
“I will follow you in a few minutes.”
“You will come now,” said Percival levelly. “You and I, Mr. Landover,
are jointly concerned in the establishment of a very definite order of
discipline. We represent the two extremes.” He stood aside. “Precede me,
if you please.”
After a moment's hesitation, the other lifted his chin and walked past
the young man. The corridors were clear. Percival followed close behind.
He kept up a glib, one-sided conversation.
“You see, there was no other way to handle you. I was obliged to resort
to punitive measures. That's always the case when you are dealing with
sensible, intelligent, educated men. It is impossible to reason with an
intelligent, educated man. He invariably has opinions, ideas, viewpoints
of his own. He is mentally equipped to resist any kind of an argument.
Take our United States Senators, our Congressmen, even our Presidents.
You can't reason with them. No doubt you've tried it a thousand times,
you and the other capitalists. We've all tried it. You've got to hit 'em
on the head with some sort of a club or big stick if you want to bring
'em to time. You have to club them to death at the polls, so to speak.
Now, you take these wops. They can't argue. They haven't got that sort
of intelligence. They're considerably like the common or garden variety
of dog. No matter how much you beat them and scold them, you can always
get along with them if you feed them and let them see that you're
not afraid of them. If they once get an idea that you are afraid of
them,--well, it's all off. They begin to be sensible right away, and
then they form a labour union. And the more sensible and intelligent
they become, the easier it is for the labour leaders, the walking
delegates, and blood-sucking agitators to make fools of 'em. It's all a
matter of leadership, Mr. Landover, as you will admit, any way you look
at it. Well, here we are.”
Landover paused before starting down the ladder to the boat. He turned
to address Percival in a loud, clear voice.
“You will not long be in a position to browbeat and bully the rest
of us, young man. Your reign will be short. I would like my
fellow-passengers to know that I have never refused to work with them.
I have merely declined to work under an outlaw. Life is as dear to me
as it is to any one else on this ship. I am taking this step against
my will, rather than subject myself to further indignities and the
cruelties you would inflict if I held out against you. I am sorry to
deprive you of the spectacular hit you might have made by throwing me
into the sea, a treat which you doubtless led all of these people to
expect.”
He climbed down the ladder and dropped into the boat. As he took his
seat, he ran his eye along the line of faces above. Finding the persons
he sought, he smiled, shook his head slowly to signify a state of
resignation, and then set his flushed, angry face toward the land.
Percival, following him, did not look up at the row of faces.
Careni-Amori sang that evening in the main saloon. Signer Joseppi, tired
and sore after his hard day's work, wept, and after weeping as
publicly as possible created a profound sensation by kissing the great
prima-donna in full view of the applauding spectators. Then, to cap
the climax, he proclaimed in a voice charged with emotion that Madame
Careni-Amori never had sung better in all her life! This to an artist
who had the rare faculty for knowing when she was off the key,--and who
knew that she was very badly off on this particular occasion.
Percival was standing near the door as Ruth Clinton and her aunt left
the saloon on the way to their rooms. He joined them after a moment's
hesitation. The two ladies bowed coldly to him. He was the essence of
decision. As usual, he went straight to the point.
“I can't take back what I did this morning, and I wouldn't if I could,”
he said, falling in beside Mrs. Spofford. “I know you are displeased
with me. Can't we thresh it out now, Mrs. Spofford?”
The elder woman raised her chin and stared at him coldly. He shot a
glance past her at the girl's face. There was no encouragement to be
found in the calm, unsmiling eyes.
“I fail to see precisely why we should thresh anything out with you, Mr.
Percival,” replied Mrs. Spofford.
“It is barely possible that you are not quite clear as to my motives,
and therefore unable to gauge my actions.”
“I understand your motives perfectly,--and I approve of them. Your
actions are not so acceptable. Good-night, Mr. Percival.”
He smiled whimsically at Ruth. “My left hand is rather in need of
attention, Miss Clinton. I suppose I am so deeply in your bad graces
that I may not hope for--er--the same old kindness?”
She stopped short. “Is this a request or a command? Mr. Percival, I will
be quite frank with you. Mr. Landover is our friend. I am not, however,
defending him in the position he has taken. There is no reason why he
should not do his share with the rest of the men. But was it necessary
to humiliate him, was it necessary to insult him as you did this
morning? He is a distinguished man. He--”
“Are you coming, Ruth?” demanded Mrs. Spofford, sharply.
“In just a moment, Aunt Julia.”
“You will oblige me by coming with me at once. We have nothing more to
say to this young man.”
“I have asked him a question. I shall wait for his answer.”
“I will answer it, Miss Clinton, by saying it was necessary,” said
he steadily. “There are other distinguished men here who are further
distinguishing themselves by toeing the mark without complaint or cavil.
Mr. Landover was appealed to on three distinct occasions by Captain
Trigger and the committee. He ignored all private appeals--and commands.
The time had come for a show-down. It was either Landover and his little
band of sycophants, or me and the entire company of men on this ship.
It may interest you to know that you and Mrs. Spofford are the only two
people on board, outside of Mr. Landover's retrievers, who blame me for
what I did this morning.”
“You can hardly expect me to be interested in what other people think of
my position, Mr. Percival,” she said, raising her eyebrows slightly.
“No more, I dare say, than Landover cares what they think of his,” was
his retort.
She lifted her chin. “I am beginning to appreciate Mr. Landover's
attitude toward you, Mr. Percival,” she said icily.
“And to justify it, I suppose,” he said dejectedly. “I want your
friendship, Miss Clinton,--yes, I want a great deal more than your
friendship. You may as well know it. I'm not asking for it,--I'm
just telling you. Please don't go away. I promise not to make myself
ridiculous. You have been good to me, you have been wonderful. I--I
can't bear the thought of losing your friendship or your respect. I just
had to bring Landover to time. You may think there was some other way,
but I do not. At any rate, it isn't a matter that we can discuss. Some
day you may admit that I was right, but I don't believe I will ever see
the day when I will admit that I was wrong. Won't--can't we be friends?”
“I do not believe I can ever feel the same toward you after witnessing
what I did this morning,” said she, shaking her head. “You deliberately,
intentionally degraded Mr. Landover in the presence of others. Was that
the act of a gentleman? No! It was the act of an overbearing, arrogant
bully who had nothing to fear. You took advantage of your authority
and of the fact that he is so rich and powerful that he is practically
without a friend or champion. You knew only too well that ninety-nine
per cent of the people on board this ship were behind you in your attack
on him because he represents capital! You had nothing to fear. No, Mr.
Percival, I don't believe we can be friends. I am sorry.”
“You heard what Mr. Landover said to me this morning, Miss Clinton,”
said he, paling. “You heard what he called me. Do you believe these
things of me?”
She was silent for a moment. “No, I do not,” she replied slowly. “I
believe that you are all you have represented yourself to be.”
“Thank you,” he said, with gentle dignity. “I am sorry if I have
distressed you this evening. Please don't think too harshly of me when
I say that I just had to find out how we stand, you and I. Now that I
know, I can only promise not to bother you again, and you may rely on my
promises. I never break them. Good-night, Miss Clinton.”
He bowed to Mrs. Spofford, who ignored him, and then to Ruth, a wistful
smile struggling to his lips and eyes as he did so. As he turned away,
she spoke to him.
“You mentioned your hand being bad again. If you would like me to dress
it for you,--under the circumstances,--I will do so.”
“Ruth!” cried Mrs. Spofford in a shocked voice.
He put his left hand behind his back. It was the one with which he
had gripped Landover's wrist that morning. The strain had reopened the
partially healed wounds.
“I injured it this morning in an encounter with your friend, Miss
Clinton. I can hardly ask you to dress it. Thank you, just the same.”
“I know all that happened in Mr. Landover's cabin, but even so, I am
ready and willing to do anything in my power to ease the pain you are
suffering.” She spoke calmly, dispassionately, almost perfunctorily.
He shook his head. “I shouldn't have spoken of it,” he said. “It isn't
so bad that I can't fix it up myself. Good-night.”
She joined her aunt and they made their way in silence to the latter's
stateroom. It was not until after the door was safely locked that Mrs.
Spofford delivered herself of the thought that had been in her mind the
whole length of the slanting corridor.
“I hope he will not take advantage of his position to--to bully us--to
bully you, dearest,--he might, you know. He has shown himself to be
perfectly capable of it. And we are so defenceless. No one but Abel
Landover to look to for help if he,--for, of course, no one else would
dare oppose this lawless young,--oh, you need not smile! He has the
power and it is quite plain now that he intends to exercise it. He will
brook no interference--”
“I am not afraid of Mr. Percival, Aunt Julia,” said the girl, sitting
down wearily on the edge of the berth. “He is a gentleman.”
“A--a gentleman?” gasped Mrs. Spofford. “Good gracious!”
“He will not annoy me,” said Ruth, absently study-ing the tips of her
slim, shapely shoes. “Possess your soul in peace. I think I know him.”
“Are you defending the braggart?”
“Not at all! I detest him,” cried the girl, springing to her feet, her
face crimsoning. “He is perfectly abominable.”
“I--I wouldn't speak quite so loudly, my dear,” cautioned her aunt,
glancing at the door uneasily--“It would be like him to listen outside
the door,--or at any rate, one of his men may have been set to spy
upon--”
“Don't be silly, Aunt Julia. And don't be afraid. Mr. Percival isn't
going to make us walk the plank for mutiny, or put us in chains,--or
outrage us,--if that is what you are thinking. Now, go to bed, you old
dear, and--”
“I insist on your staying in my room, Ruth. He is in love with you.”
“He can be in love with me and still be a gentleman, can't he, Aunt
Julia? Don't worry! I shall sleep in my own room. I may even go so far
as to leave my door unlocked.”
“What! And if he should come to--”
“Ah, I shan't send him word that it's unlocked, dear,” scoffed Ruth,
finding a malicious enjoyment in her aunt's dismay. “Good-night. Sleep
tight! We must sleep while we have the opportunity, you know. Our lazy
days will soon be over. He says we've all got to work like,--I think he
said dogs.”
“Oh, dear me. I,--I wonder what is to become of us?” moaned the wretched
lady. “After what he tried to do to Abel Landover, there is no telling
to what lengths he may go in--By the way, has Mr. Landover reported to
Captain Trigger that the fellow attempted to shoot him this morning?”
“Of course not, Aunt Julia.”
“Well, I think it is his duty to do so. Captain Trigger should take
drastic means to curb this--”
“You forget that Mr. Landover maintains that Captain Trigger and all
the other officers are like putty in the hands of Mr. Percival. I am
beginning to believe it myself. He--he has got them all hypnotized.”
“He hasn't got me hypnotized!” exclaimed Mrs. Spofford.
“In any case, he is in the saddle,” sighed Ruth.
“He deliberately tried to kill Mr. Landover,” said the other. “Is
nothing to be done about it? We heard the shot,--every one heard it. And
no one has the courage to say a word about it! What a lot of cowards we
are! I don't see why he refuses to let me take the matter up with the
Captain. Captain Trigger ought to know the truth.”
Ruth was silent for a moment or two. “It's hard for me to believe, Aunt
Julia, that he would attack a defenceless man with a revolver. It--it
doesn't seem like him.”
“But you have Abel Landover's word for it, Ruth. The bullet grazed his
head. The coward would have killed him most certainly if he had not
succeeded in knocking the pistol out of his hand and overpowering him.”
“If I did not believe Mr. Landover to be an absolutely truthful,
honourable man, I--” began Ruth, a little furrow between her eyebrows,
“well, I might still believe a little in Mr. Percival.”
“And what chance had poor Landover with that highwayman, or whatever he
is, pointing a revolver at him through the porthole and threatening to
blow his brains out if he did not throw up his hands and let Percival
alone?”
Olga Obosky bandaged Percival's hand. She intercepted him on his way to
Dr. Cullen's cabin.