TORCHY HITS THE HIGH SEAS
Well, I got to take it all back--most of it, anyway. For, between you
and me, this bein' a seagoing private sec. ain't the worst that can
happen. Not so far as I've seen.
What I'm most chesty over, though, is the fact that I've been through
the wop and wiggle test without feedin' the fishes. You see, when the
good yacht _Agnes_ leaves Battery Park behind, slides down past Staten
Island and the Hook, and out into the Ambrose Channel, I'm feelin' sort
of low. I'd been lookin' our course up on the map, and, believe me,
from where New York leaves off to where the tip end of Florida juts out
into the Gulf Stream is some wide and watery jump. No places to get
off at in between, so far as I can dope out. It's just a case of
buttin' right out into the Atlantic and keepin' on and on.
We hadn't got past Scotland Lightship before the _Agnes_ begins that
monotonous heave-and-drop stunt. Course, it ain't any motion worth
mentionin', but somehow it sort of surprises you to find that it keeps
up so constant. It's up and down, up and down, steady as the tick of a
clock; and every time you glance over the rail or through a porthole
you see it's quite a ride you take. I didn't mind goin' up a bit; it's
that blamed feelin' of bein' let down that's annoyin'.
For a while there I was more or less busy helping Old Hickory get his
floating office straightened out and taking down a few code messages
for the wireless man to send back to the general offices while we was
still within easy strikin' distance. It was when I planted myself in a
wicker chair 'way back by the stern, and begun watchin' that slow,
regular lift and dip of the deck, that I felt this lump come in my
throat and begun wonderin' what it was I'd had for lunch that I
shouldn't. My head felt kind of mean, too, sort of dull and throbby,
and I expect I wasn't as ruddy in the face as I might have been.
Then up comes Vee, lookin' as fresh and nifty as if she was just
steppin' out on the Avenue; and before I can duck behind anything she's
spotted me.
"Why, Torchy," says she, "you don't mean to say you're feeling badly
already! Or is it because you're leaving New York?"
Then I saw my alibi. I sighs and gazes mushy hack towards the land.
"I can't help it," says I. "I think a heap of that little old burg.
It--it's been mother and father to me--all that sort of thing. I've
hardly ever been away from it, you know, and I--I--" Here I smiles sad
and makes a stab at swallowin' the lump.
"What a goose!" says Vee, but pats me soothin' on the shoulder. "Come,
let's do a few turns around the deck."
"Thanks," says I, "but I guess I'd better just sit here quiet and--and
try to forget."
"Nonsense!" says Vee. "That's a silly way to act. Besides, you ought
to tramp around and get the feel of the boat. You'll be noticing the
motion if you don't."
"Pooh!" says I. "What this old boat does is beneath my notice. She's
headed away from Broadway, that's all I know about her. But if you
want someone to trail around the deck with, I'm ready. Only I ain't
apt to be very cheerful, not for a while yet."
Say, that dope of Vee's about gettin' the feel of the boat was a good
hunch. Once you get it in your legs the soggy feelin' under your vest
begins to let up. Also your head clears. Why, inside of half an hour
I'm steppin' out brisk with my chin up, breathin' in great chunks of
salt air and meetin' that heave of the deck as natural as if I'd walked
on rubber pavements all my life. After that, whenever I got to havin'
any of them up and down sensations in the plumbin' department, I dashed
for the open air and walked it down.
Lucky I could, too; for about Friday afternoon we ran into some weather
that was the real thing. It had been cloudy most of the mornin', with
the wind makin' up, and around three o'clock there was whitecaps as far
as you could see. Nothin' monotonous or reg'lar about the motion of
the _Agnes_ then. She'd lift up on one of them big waves like she was
stretchin' her neck to see over the top; then, as it rolled under her,
she'd tip to one side until it looked like she was tryin' to spill us,
and she'd slide down into a soapsudsy hollow until she met a solid wall
of green water.
"This is what we generally get off Hatteras," says Vee, who has shown
up in a green oiled silk outfit and has joined me in a sheltered spot
under the bridge. "Isn't it perfectly gorgeous?"
"It's all right for once," says I, "providin' it don't last too long.
Everyone below enjoyin' it, are they?"
"Oh, Auntie's been in her berth for hours," says Vee. "She never takes
any chances. But Mrs. Mumford tried to sit up and crochet. Helma's
trying to take care of her, and she can hardly hold her head up. They
are both quite sure they're going to die at once. You should hear them
taking on."
"How is it this don't get you, too?" says I.
"I've always been a good sailor," says Vee. "And, anyway, a storm is
too thrilling to waste the time being seasick. I always want to stay
up around, too, and repeat that little verse of Kipling's. You know--
'When the cabin portholes are dark and green,
Because of the seas outside,
When the ship goes wop with a wiggle between,
And the cook falls into the soup tureen,
And the trunks begin to slide--'
Doesn't that just describe it, though--that 'wop with a wiggle
between'?"
"As good as a thousand feet of film," says I. "Kip must have had some
of this fun himself. Here comes a wop for us. There! Great, eh?"
I hope I made it convincin'; but, as a matter of fact, I had to force
the enthusiasm a bit.
Not that I was scared, exactly: but now and then, when the _Agnes_
sidled downhill and buried the whole front end of her in a wave that
looked like a side elevation of the Flatiron Building, I'd have a
panicky thought as to whether some time she wouldn't forget to come up
again.
She never did, though. No matter how hard she was soused under, she'd
shake it off with a shiver and go on climbin' up again patient. There
was several vacant chairs at the dinner-table, and when I finally
crawled into my bunk about 9:30 I had to brace myself to keep from
bein' slopped out on the floor.
I was wonderin' whether I'd be too sick to answer the shipwreck call
when it came, and I tried to figure out how I'd feel bouncin' around on
them skyscraper waves draped in thin pajamas and a life belt, until I
must have dropped off to sleep.
And, take it from me, when I woke up and saw the good old sunshine
streamin' in through the porthole, and discovered that I was still
alive and had an appetite for breakfast, I was as thankful a private
sec. as ever tore open a pay envelope.
By the time I got dressed and found that the Agnes was doin' only the
gentle wallow act, with the wop and wiggle left out, I begun to get
chesty. I decides that I'm some grand little sailor myself, and I
looks around for a willin' ear that I can whisper the news into.
The only person on deck, though, is Captain Rupert Killam, who's pacin'
up and down, lookin' mysterious, as usual.
"Well, Cap," says I. "Looked like it was goin' to be a little rough
for a spell there last night, eh?"
"Rough?" says he. "Oh, we did have a little bobble off Hatteras--just
a bobble."
"Huh!" says I. "I don't expect you'd admit anything's happenin' until
a boat begins to turn flip-flops. Do you know, Rupert, there's times
when you make me sad in the spine. Honest, now, you didn't invent the
ocean, did you?"
But Rupert just stares haughty and walks off.
I've been afraid all along he didn't appreciate me; in fact, ever since
he first showed up at the Corrugated, and I kidded him about his buried
treasure tale, he's looked on me with a cold and suspicious eye.
Course, that's his specialty, workin' up suspicions. He's been at it
right along, ever since the _Agnes_ was tied loose from her pier, and
outside of Auntie and Mr. Ellins, who are backin' this treasure hunt, I
don't think there's a single party aboard that he hasn't given the
sleuthy once-over to.
I understand he was dead set against takin' any outsiders along from
the first, even protestin' against Mrs. Mumford and old Professor
Leonidas Barr. I expect his merry little idea is that they might get
their heads together, steal the map showin' where all that pirate gold
is buried, murder the rest of us, and dig up the loot themselves.
Something like that.
Anyway, Rupert is always snoopin' around, bobbin' out unexpected and
pussy-footin' up behind you when you're talkin' to anyone. I didn't
notice his antics the first day or so, but after that he sort of got on
my nerves--specially after the weather quit actin' up and it come off
warmer. Then folks got thicker on the rear deck. Mrs. Mumford with
her crochet, Auntie with her correspondence pad, the Professor with his
books, and so on, which was why me and Vee took to huntin' for little
nooks where we could have private chats. You know how it is.
There was one place 'way up in the bow, between the big anchors, and
another on the little boat deck, right back of the bridge. But, just
as we'd get nicely settled, we'd hear a creak-creak, and here would
come Rupert nosing around.
"Lookin' for anybody special?" I'd ask him.
"Why--er--no," says Rupert.
"Then you'll find 'em in the main saloon," says I, "two flights down.
Mind your step."
But you couldn't discourage Captain Killam that way. Next time it
would be the same old story.
"Of all the gutta-percha ears!" says I to Vee. "He must think we're
plottin' something deep."
"Let's pretend we are," says Vee.
"Or give him a steer that'll keep him busy, eh?" says I.
So you see it started innocent enough. I worked out the details durin'
the night, and next mornin' my first move is to make the plant. First
I hunts up Old Hickory's particular friend, J. Dudley Simms, him with
the starey eyes and the twisted smile. For some reason or other,
Rupert hadn't bothered him much. Too simple in the face, I expect.
But Dudley ain't half so simple as he looks or listens. In his own
particular way he seems to be enjoyin' this yachtin' trip huge, just
loafin' around elegant in his white flannels, smokin' cigarettes
continual, soppin' up brandy-and-soda at reg'lar intervals, and
entertainin' Mr. Ellins with his batty remarks.
The only thing that appears to bother Dudley at all about bein' cut off
this way from the world in general is the lack of a stock ticker
aboard. Seems he'd loaded up with a certain war baby before sailing
and while the deal wouldn't either make or break him, he had a sportin'
interest in which way the market was waverin'.
"Well, how do you guess Consolidated Munitions closed yesterday?" I
asks.
Dudley shakes his head mournful.
"I dreamed last night of seeing a flock of doves," says he. "That's a
bad sign. I'd give a dollar for a glimpse at a morning paper."
"They say Charleston's only a couple hundred miles off there," says I.
"If it wasn't so soggy walkin' I'd run in and get you one."
"No," says he; "you'd be late for breakfast. I wonder if our wireless
man couldn't get in touch with some of the shore stations."
"Sure he could," says I, "but don't let on what stock you're plungin'
on. His name's Meyers. He's a hyphen, you know. And if he got wise
to your havin' war-baby shares he'd likely hold out on you. But you
might jolly him into gettin' a general quotation list. I'd stick
around this forenoon if I was you."
"By Jove!" says J. Dudley. "I will."
And maybe you know how welcome any new way of killin' time can be when
you're out on a boat with nothin' doin' but three or four calls to grub
a day. Dudley goes it strong. He plants himself in a chair just
outside the wireless man's little coop, and begins feedin' Meyers
monogrammed cigarettes and frivolous anecdotes of his past life.
Havin' the scene set like that made it easy. All I has to do is sketch
out the plot to Vee and wait for Rupert to come gum-shoein' around.
"Just follow my lead, that's all," says I, as we fixes some seat
cushions in the shade of one of the lifeboats on the upper deck. "And
when you spot him--"
"He's coming up now," whispers Vee.
"Then here goes for improvisin' a mystery," says I. "Is he near
enough?"
Vee glances over her shoulder.
"Go on," says she. Then, a bit louder: "Tell--tell me the worst,
Torchy."
"I ain't sure yet," says I, "but take it from me there's something
bein' hatched on this yacht besides cold-storage eggs."
"Hatched?" says Vee.
"S-s-s-sh!" says I. "Underhanded work; mutiny, maybe."
"O-o-o-oh!" says Vee, givin' a little squeal. "Who could do anything
like that?"
"I'm not saying," says I; "but there's a certain party who ain't just
what he seems. You'd never guess, either. But just keep your eye on
J. Dudley."
"Wh-a-at!" gasps Vee. "Mr. Simms?"
"Uh-huh," says I. "Listen. He knows about Nunca Secos Key, don't he?
And about the gold and jewels there?"
"That's so," says Vee. "But so do all of us. Only we don't know just
where the island is."
"Suppose Dudley had buffaloed Old Hickory into showin' him the map?"
"Well?" demands Vee.
"Wouldn't it be easy enough," I goes on, "if he had pals ashore, to
pass on the description, have them start out in a fast yacht from New
Orleans or Key West, and beat us to it?"
"But I don't see," says Vee, "how he could get word to them."
"Look!" says I, pointin' to the wireless gridiron over our heads.
"Where do you guess he is now?"
Vee shakes her head.
"Gettin' in his fine work with Meyers," says I. "He's been at it ever
since breakfast."
"Think of that!" says Vee. "And you believe he means to--"
"S-s-s-sh!" says I. "Someone might be rubberin'."
Does it work? Say, when I gets up to scout around, Rupert has
disappeared, and for the first time since we've been aboard be leaves
us alone for the rest of the forenoon. We didn't hate that exactly.
Vee reads some out of a book, draws sketches of me, and we has long
talks about--well, about a lot of things.
Anyway, I'm strong for this yacht-cruisin' stuff when there's no Rupert
interference. It's so sort of chummy. And with a girl like Vee, to
share it with--well, I don't care how long it lasts, that's all.
And the next thing we knows there goes the luncheon gong. As we climbs
down to the main deck where we can get a view forward, Vee gives me a
nudge and snickers. J. Dudley Simms is still roostin' alongside the
wireless cabin; and just beyond, crouched behind a stanchion with one
ear juttin' out, is Captain Killam.
"Fine!" says I. "Rupert's got a steady job, eh?"
About then the other folks commence mobilizin' for a drive on the
dinin'-room, and someone calls Dudley to come along.
"Just a moment," says he, scribblin' on a pad. "There!" and he hands a
message over to Meyers.
"Ha, ha!" says a hoarse voice behind him.
Then things happened quick. Rupert makes a sudden pounce. He grabs
Dudley, pinnin' his arms to his sides, and starts weavin' a rope around
him.
"Oh, I say!" says Dudley. "What the deuce?"
"Traitor!" hisses Rupert dramatic. "You will, will you?"
J. Dudley may look like a Percy boy, too, but he ain't one to stand
bein' wrapped up like a parcels-post package, or for the hissin'
act--not when he's in the dark as to what it's all about. He just
naturally cuts loose with the rough stuff himself. A skillful squirm
or two, and he gets his elbows loose. Then, when he gets a close-up of
who's tryin' to snare him, he pushes a snappy left in on Rupert's nose.
"Go away, fellow!" remarks Dudley.
"Snake in the grass!" says Rupert.
Then they clinched and begun rollin' over on the deck, clawin' each
other. Course, Mrs. Mumford lets out a few frantic squeals and slumps
in a faint. Professor Leonidas Barr starts wringin' his hands and
groaning "Oh, dear! Oh, dear, dear!" Auntie, she just stands there
gaspin' and tryin' to unlimber her lorgnette.
As for Old Hickory, he watches the proceedings breathless for a second
or so before he can make out what's happenin'. Then he roars:
"Hey, stop 'em, somebody! Stop 'em, I say!"
That listened to me like my cue, and while I've never been strong for
mixin' in a muss, I jumped into this one lively. And between me and
the deck steward haulin' one way, and Meyers and Mr. Ellins pullin' the
other, we finally pries 'em apart, breathin' hard and glarin' menacin'.
"Now, in the name of Mars," demands Old Hickory, "what the sulphuretted
syntax is this all about? Come, Captain Killam, you started this; tell
us why."
"He--he's a traitor, that's why!" pants Rupert, pointin' at Dudley.
"Bah!" says Old Hickory. "Whaddye mean, traitor?"
"He's plotting to send confederates to Nunca Secos Key before we get
there," says Rupert. "Plotting to steal our buried treasure. See! He
was just sending a message to some of his gang."
"Eh!" snorts Mr. Ellins. "A message?"
Meyers fishes it out of his pocket and hands it over.
"Huh!" says Old Hickory, puzzlin' it out. "'Advise how infant is
doing. Send care yacht _Agnes_, off Charleston.' Dudley, what infant
is this?"
Dudley grins sheepish. "Consolidated Munitions," says he.
"Oh!" says Old Hickory. "A war infant, eh? I see." Then he whirls on
Rupert. "And by what idiotic inference, Killam, did you conjure up
this rubbish about a plot?"
Rupert, he turns and stares indignant at me. Old Hickory follows the
accusin' look, and next thing I know I'm in the spot light for fair.
"Hah!" observes Mr. Ellins. "You, eh?"
Now, there's only one rule I got for dealin' with the big boss. I
stick to facts and make 'em snappy.
"Uh-huh," says I. "Me."
"You thought it humorous, I presume," he goes on, "to tell this silly
yarn to Captain Killam?"
"But he didn't," speaks up Vee. "He was telling it to me; that is, we
were telling it to each other--making it up as we went along. So
there!"
"Oh!" says Mr. Ellins. "And the Captain happened to overhear, did he?"
"Happened!" says I. "Like you happen to climb a fire-escape. That's
Rupert's long suit--overhearin' things. He's been favorin' us a lot
lately."
"What about that, Killam?" asks Mr. Ellins.
"Why--er--ah--" stutters Rupert, "perhaps I have. But when you see two
persons getting off by themselves and talking so much together, you
naturally--"
"Bah!" explodes Old Hickory. "Can't you remember back to nineteen,
Killam?" Then he turns to me. "So you concocted this plot story for
Captain Killam's benefit, did you?"
I nods.
"I thought it would keep him off our heels for a while," says I. "I
fed him an earful, I guess."
"Young man," says Mr. Ellins, shakin' a forefinger at me, but lettin'
his left eyelid drop knowin', "the next time I find that imagination of
yours running loose I--I'll authorize Captain Killam to catch it and
put it in irons. Now let's have luncheon."