THE SECOND INVASION.
"Little Arty's got Sydney, Australia, at last," Cicero Tony snickered,
as the ex-Jockey adjusted the radio with loving care.
"Sydney, me eye," scornfully retorted Arty. "They don't speak Choctaw
in Australia. This must be one of the broadcasting stations of the
underworld. Probably a bedtime story."
"Do they speak Choctaw in hell?" Schultz snapped back.
"They don't have bedtime, anyhow," put in Mike Murphy. "It's always
noon down here."
"There aren't any broadcasting stations in this country," asserted Tom
Jones. "That is, unless Redmond and Selkirk, those two aviators that
preceded us here, have developed them since last fall. I think that
Arty has got some regular outside-world station, probably in Russia,
from the way the language sounds."
Charley Loy, with food, cut off further debate. Also Arty, in
attempting to improve the receptivity, lost the wave-length and was
unable to get it again. Perhaps the station had stopped sending.
After supper they all turned in, the Miami having been moored to the
shore.
At breakfast the four drunken mutineers appeared, George, Scutari,
the Swede, and the Eskimo Friday. They all had bad headaches and were
feeling pretty rocky, so they ate nothing, and merely drank some black
coffee.
Immediately following the meal Little Arty tuned in the radio again,
and instantly got the same station as before.
Several groaned with disgust; but Swede, sick as he was, pricked up his
ears with interest.
"Wassamatter, Swede?" asked the Syrian. "Is that stuff language?"
"Yah!" replied Johnson eagerly.
"Where from, do you think?"
"Sveden, I gass. Or Norvay. Or Danmark."
Scarface now snapped to attention.
"What are they saying?" he asked. "Can you make out?"
"Yah!" replied Johnson, still listening intently. "They say one man fly
scooter--"
"Glider?"
"Yah, glider. He say he fly scooter up nort' and see strange boat two
hun'ert and fifty mile nort'east of plateau city. So t'ey better send
up Vikings in many boats to see if ve mean funny business."
Scarface Jimmy leaped to his feet with his black eyes flashing.
"We've got our bearings," he shouted. "That thing we thought was a
pterodactyl was really one of their scout-planes. We are two hundred
and fifty miles northeast of our destination.
"So, Captain, set her course southwest, and let's go!"
"But which way is southwest?" asked Ferreira.
"You, a ship-captain!" began Scarface.
* * * * *
But the Portuguese interrupted: "Do these inner-world Swede Vikings
consider east to be on the _right_ of north as it ought to be, or do
they consider east to be on the left of _north_, as it really is down
here?"
"Damfino," replied Scarface, stumped for once. "What do you think, Tom?"
"It seems to me," said the Harvard man slowly, "that when the
expedition of Bishop Uppri was blown here in 1121, they couldn't
possibly have known where they were. Even if they had known, they would
have lacked the scientific training to figure out that 'east is west,
and west is east' inside the earth--and their descendants would have
kept the same direction-ideas. Accordingly, when this scout reported
that we were northeast of their city, he meant northwest. Furthermore,
as we went over the polar rim about a hundred and fifty miles west of
the point where Eric and Angus did, this checks with that. So we ought
to steer southeast."
"That's all very well," replied Ferreira. "First the boss says
southwest, and then you say southeast. Which is right?"
"We're both right," asserted Tom Jones. "Steer four points to starboard
of south."
"Let's go," added Scarface.
"Try an' do it," objected Captain Ferreira. "There's nothing but land
in that direction."
"Can't we skirt the land?" asked Tom.
"Don't you remember," replied Ferreira, "how it looked from the top of
that mountain we climbed? The land goes on forever."
"I have it," exclaimed Scarface. "Let's go back north, round the point
of this land, and then strike southeast, or southwest, or whichever it
is. Let's go!"
So that was the course they laid, skirting the shore to the northward,
around the cape, and then straight out to sea "four points to starboard
of south."
Two days--or, rather, two sleeps--later, land appeared ahead. Through
the ship's telescope they could see a high rocky plain. And out of the
middle of the plain rose a small and precipitous plateau, crowned with
stone buildings.
"This is it, at last!" exclaimed Scarface Jimmy. "They know that we
are here, so concealment now would be a waste of time. We must land at
once, and attack before reënforcements arrive from their city to the
south."
"I tank you make wan beeg mistake fight all t'ose Svede," remarked the
Scandinavian member of the party half to himself.
Captain Ferreira announced, "It will be four or five hours at least
before we can reach the shore, though it's the devil of a job to judge
distances on a sea that curves up, instead of down, and has no horizon."
"In that case," commanded Scarface, "everybody except Ferreira and
Jones had better turn in and snatch some sleep, so that we shall all be
fresh for whatever may be ahead of us. This eternal noonday sun has one
advantage: we can pick our days and nights to suit our own convenience."
So every one, except the pilot and the engineer, went to bed.
A considerable time later Tom Jones entered the bunk room and roused
them all from their slumbers.
"The Miami is about to dock," he announced with a grin. "Last call for
dinner in the dining car."
The men "hit the deck" and started to dress. Cicero Tony Schultz,
ordinarily very slovenly, made a wild dash to the galley for a cup of
hot water, and started to shave.
Little Arty looked at him long and suspiciously, then announced with a
snicker, "Hey, gang, laugh this off--our Cicero is sheiking himself up,
to make a hit with all the beautiful corn-fed Swede girls when we land."
"He is, at that!" snorted Nick Fratelli. "Guess he figures there'll
be a welcome for a Dutch boy-friend, with a bunch of blond
what-do-you-call-'em--Nordics--around."
Cicero growled, inarticulate with angry embarrassment.
* * * * *
Theresa did not join them at the early meal, nor was there any sound of
movement in her cabin. Scarface warned the men to make no noise near
the cabin. "If she doesn't wake up, so much the better. I don't want to
take her ashore, and I never did like to argue with a woman."
All through breakfast, Swede Johnson was muttering to himself. Finally
some one demanded to know what was biting him.
"Mose Viking von't be so easy, I tank not," he grumbled. "I tank you
make von great mistake."
Nick looked at him shrewdly, and took occasion to lean over and murmur
a few words to him as Scarface left the table to go on deck.
When they finally assembled outside the mess-room, they looked out on
a crescent-shaped beach, backed by abrupt cliffs which were crested by
forest. There was no break in the cliffs as far as eye could reach, but
while they were steep, they were broken up and looked as if they might
be safe to climb with care.
"Not wishing to get bitten twice in the same spot," announced Scarface
Jimmy, "I shall leave Nick Fratelli behind, still in irons, and in
the custody of Mike Murphy. All the rest of you men will come with
me, except of course the Chink. Thus I shan't be taking any chances
on another drunken orgy. I shall rather need this ship, you know, for
further operations."
Each of the nine members of the shore-party was furnished a rifle, an
automatic, plenty of ammunition, and several days' supply of compressed
rations.
Murphy rowed them ashore in the tender.
Scarface, in his commodore's uniform, lined up his squad of eight
sailors on the beach, and had them present arms to Mike Murphy, as
Charley Loy leaned nonchalantly over the rail above them with a broad
grin on his face. It seemed a bit too much dog. But, at that, the nine
on the beach did present a very military--or rather naval--appearance,
in their smart sailor uniforms, with rifles, ammunition belts, pistols
in holsters, and packs. Scarface Boston Jimmy always had a good eye for
the picturesque.
The ceremony over, the "commodore" led the way up the face of the
cliff, closely followed by Tom, Arty, and Ferreira. It was a difficult
climb, and they did not notice that the other five were lagging behind.
Aboard the Miami, Charley Loy had already disappeared into the galley.
"Murphy," softly called Syrian George, dropping on his knees on the
beach and appearing to examine something in the sand, "you're a good
Irishman. Come here and tell me if this ain't a shamrock."
Murphy stepped out of the beached rowboat and strode across the sand
to the little group. Swede Johnson stepped behind him and crashed
his pistol-butt against the base of the Irishman's skull, and Murphy
sagged, to be soundlessly eased to the ground by Scutari. Murphy was
out cold, perhaps dead.
"So much for cops," muttered George. "How about pottin' those guys up
on the cliff?"
"No use," Cicero decided. "We'll just leave 'em here for the Vikings to
play wit'. Come on, gang."
At a run the five--Cicero, Scutari, George, Swede Johnson, and the
Eskimo--made their way to the boat and shoved off. A very few strokes
and they were at the Miami, clambering aboard.
It had all been done so quietly that the first warning to reach the
panting cliff-climbers was the sound of the Miami's engines. They clung
precariously to the steep incline as they craned around, and realized
how they had again been tricked. Scarface showed his qualities of
leadership by his instant decision. "Quick! Make it to the top of the
cliff!"
Back on the Miami, Nick the Rat appeared on deck, still handcuffed.
George the Syrian, who had frisked Mike for his keys, announced as
much, and dug into his pocket for them.
"Why didn't you plug those four birds?" demanded Nick viciously. The
men looked at him like kicked dogs who had expected to be patted. Then
they stared accusingly at Cicero. He hastened to explain:
"We was makin' a clean get-away. Why start a gun battle and run the
risk of gettin' plugged?"
"Fool!" Fratelli sneered. "Hurry up and get them, now, while they're
still on the cliff."
* * * * *
At the command, some of the men unslung their rifles and blazed away at
the cliff-side. Chunks of rock flew as the exposed four scrambled wildly
up toward safety. Captain Ferreira suddenly let go his hold, and seemed
to float backward, then tumbled swiftly head over heels down to the
beach below.
Tom Jones was first to reach the brink of the cliff, and scuttled
behind a bowlder. Then, unslinging his rifle, he poured a hot fire on
the Miami's sharpshooters. It was well for Little Arty and Scarface
that he did so, for the Swede's rifle was knocked out of his hands, and
the others on the boat dodged for shelter. Under cover of Tom's fire,
the two on the cliff-side reached safety.
Scarface's first shot, intended for Fratelli, hit George the Syrian
instead, as that unlucky mutineer reached over to unlock Nick's
handcuffs. George staggered at the impact, tottered wildly, and then
tumbled over the Miami's rail into the sea. But the keys jangled to the
deck, and Fratelli awkwardly scooped them up with both tethered hands.
Then, as more shots whistled perilously near him, he dashed through one
of the doorways of the boat, and was lost to view.
The marooned trio blazed away vengefully, and their bullets repeatedly
splintered the windows of the pilot-house; but, as none of the enemy
happened to be in there, this didn't do much good--or harm, depending
on the point of view.
The Miami backed straight out. Finally it became evident that some one
aboard had at last taken charge of the wheel, for her straight backing
changed to a gentle curve until she lay broadside of them. Then her
engines were reversed, she started ahead, and curved forward out to
sea. No further shots were fired from on board.
"They're saving their powder, Arty," said Scarface, getting to his
feet. "So we'd better save ours, too. Are you all right, Tom?"
"Yes; but where's Ferreira?"
The Miami was nearly out of range now, so they crept to the edge of the
cliff and looked down--to see two still, crumpled figures.
Leaving Scarface and Arty to cover him from possible attack from the
Miami, Tom clambered back down the cliff. He found that Ferreira was
beyond human aid, sprawled horribly at the cliff's foot with a broken
neck.
But Murphy was only stunned. Hatfuls of water thrown in his face
finally revived him, and in time he found that his dizziness was
sufficiently abated so that he could attempt the climb, to join
Scarface and Arty.
"Well, it's one heat for each," said the little jockey, Arty. "They got
Ferreira, and we got George."
"Yeah?" drawled Scarface. "But Nick's ahead--for the time. He got the
boat."
"And Theresa!" cried Tom.