THE APOLLYON
Skippy felt better when the boat nosed out into the river. He raised his
worried face to the clear salt breeze and let it blow over his hot
cheeks. Lights blinked here and there on the dark water and a tug
chortled by noisily. Then on the far shore he saw a cable light, and a
ship ran clear of it before she dropped her mooring anchor.
Toby said nothing but sat in a lugubrious silence as he steered the
little craft downstream. Skippy stared hard at the spray foaming against
the bow; his mind was not on drifting logs. He turned to his father,
scanned his face anxiously, then peered downstream again.
“Is Mr. Flint’s yacht much further, Pop?” he asked after a few minutes.
“No, we oughta soon be on top uv her,” came the hoarse reply. “Yer can’t
miss her—she’s got her name sprawled fore an’ aft in great big gold
letters. It’s some fancy name called A—Apollyon. That’s it. Kindo
highfalutin name, hey? Like all them there Flints.”
“How many Flints are there, Pop?”
“Jest two now, like me an’ you. Ol’ Flint an’ his son, Buck. His real
name’s Harry. Anyway folks call him Buck. But he’s got it better’n you,
Sonny. Much better. Besides he’s old enough ter take his father’s place
in the dirty business, though I heerd not so long ago that Buck ain’t uv
a mind with the old man an’ lets Marty Skinner help run the works. They
say Buck’s terrible honest an’ all fer the law but Skinner’s nothin’ but
a rat.”
“Well, maybe Buck’ll take over his father’s business some day and make
it pay without havin’ smugglin’ an’ things like that, huh Pop?”
“Mebbe, but not if that crook Skinner keeps his ball in the game. Still,
I heerd it said that Ol’ Flint’s business has always paid good enough
without him doin’ dirty work fer easy money. But that’s what a miser he
is—he’s gotta have a crooked side line so’s ter pile up his millions in
a coupla years. He ain’t willin’ like the rest uv these shipowners
’round here ter wait an’ let a honest fortune pile up, say, in twenty
years or so. He can’t be honest, Ol’ Flint can’t, not even with a poor
man like me, an’ Skinner’s the same breed uv cats.”
They were approaching a wide bend in the river. Anchored launches and
trim sailboats dotted the shadowy water like immaculate sentinels.
Skippy’s restless eyes roved over the silent scene until he espied the
graceful sweep of a yacht’s bow projecting out of the shadows into the
line of its anchor light. Simultaneously he saw great gold letters
spelling out the name _Apollyon_ and it occurred to him how modest and
neat was the brass lettering of the _Minnie M. Baxter_ in contrast.
The white, dainty craft swayed ever so gently on the slight swell and
Skippy was lost in envy. He bethought himself of the sprawling uncouth
barge and for a moment wondered why things were like this; why a man of
Josiah Flint’s sort could own this dainty, spotless yacht while his
father who wanted so much to be honest had not even the worth of the
hard-earned barge.
For the first time, he understood how bitter and revengeful his father
must feel. He too felt bitter and revengeful as they got closer to the
_Apollyon_. Something began to smolder in his boy’s heart; something
wholly alien to his cheerful, wholesome nature. But he was aware of
nothing of this, save that he felt like sneering aloud at this proud,
complacent craft swaying before his eyes. In a wild fancy he imagined
her to be mocking his father and himself for daring to hope that Josiah
Flint would make restitution.
A dim light shone amidships and save for the anchor lights the rest of
the yacht was in darkness. Skippy stared hard at her and suddenly saw
something skimming away from her port side.
He leaned far over the prow of the little motor boat until he saw that
the object was a kicker like their own with its engine muffled. In
whispered words he drew Toby’s attention to it.
“Wonder where she’s been and where she’s goin’ to, huh Pop?” he queried.
“That ain’t none uv our business, Skippy,” his father answered staring
up at the _Apollyon_. “Folks on the river don’t think uv them things
this time uv night. They know a muffled engine’s one that ain’t carin’
ter be heard, same as I got one fer mine.”
“We could have ours taken off now, huh Pop? It ain’t any more use now,
is it?”
“That all depends, Sonny. It all depends on Ol’ Flint,” Toby said
softly. “Now here we are an’ the less said, the better.”
“Ahoy!” called a voice in deep, soft tones from above. “Who’s below?”
Father and son glanced up to see the head and shoulders of a burly man
leaning over the glistening rail. Skippy saw Toby stiffen determinedly.
“Ol’ Flint aboard?” he asked.
“Yeah,” the man answered suppressing a yawn. “He’s in his cabin
amidships. Lookin’ for him?”
“Yeah.”
“Move the kicker aft an’ come aboard. Old man was talkin’ with Mr.
Skinner when I come on duty two hours ago. His light’s still on so he’s
readin’ likely.”
The little boat moved aft with hardly a splash and the next moment Toby
was scrambling up the ladder. Skippy listened intently as his father set
foot on the _Apollyon’s_ deck.
“Want me to tell him he’s got a caller?” the man suddenly asked.
“Nope. Thanks jest the same,” Toby was saying. “I even got half an idee
that mebbe he expects me.”
“Awright, buddy,” said the man heartily. “You’ll find him ’midships like
I told you. There where the little light is.”
Skippy heard the soft tread of his father’s step along the deck. A door
closed and after an interval of silence he looked up to see that the man
was still there, bending over the rail and apparently staring at him.
“Your Dad, hey kid?” he asked, catching Skippy’s upturned eyes.
“My Pop,” Skippy corrected, chuckling. He liked the man’s hearty voice.
“You work aboard this yacht, Mister?”
“Second mate, that’s what. Easy job summers when the old man’s busy. All
we do is to sleep and keep the old girl ship-shape.”
“Old girl?”
“Yeah, this scow.”
“Some scow!” Skippy laughed. “She’s pretty swell, I’ll say. Not much
trouble keepin’ _her_ ship-shape, huh?”
“Naw. There ain’t enough to keep us busy an’ it makes a swab lazy.
Same’s me tonight. Here I am the only one on duty (there ain’t no need
for more’n one, anchored here like we are) and things are so quiet what
do I do but fall sound asleep! I’d sat me down and I hear the old man
bawlin’ Mr. Skinner out fierce. Then I guess I was dozin’ a spell ’fore
I heard the sound of a muffled motor aft. Dreamed it, I guess, and I
dreamed I heard somebody comin’ out from the boss’s quarters ’midships.
Anyways, I finally woke up and when I come to the rail I see you folks.
Guess that’s what I was hearin’ in my dreams all the time, hey?”
“Maybe,” said Skippy. “Our motor’s muffled, I guess you noticed already,
but you might ’a’ heard another kicker like ours too because one was aft
when we came along.”
“Guess maybe that’s what it was then,” said the second mate pleasantly.
“Just somebody bein’ a little cautious, like. Still I got to quit bein’
so lazy nights and do my duty by _Polly_ like the old man pays me for.”
“_Polly?_”
The second mate laughed softly and Skippy fancied that his mischievous
wink penetrated the darkness.
“_Apollyon_—_Polly_ for short, kid! _Apollyon_ is too highfalutin for
able seamen, hey?”
“That’s what I thought, Mister. I never heard it before. Gee whiz,
what’s it mean anyway?”
The second mate paused a moment.
“From what I could make out from the Cap’n it was the name of a Greek
story or somethin’. You know—one of them real old Greeks thousands of
years back. And this _Apollyon_ was a evil spirit or somethin’ like
that, and folks called ’im the Destroyer! Ain’t that a name for you?”
Skippy nodded and looked at the graceful ship with a new interest. Evil
spirit? Destroyer? A queer name indeed for such a dainty craft. Why
should Josiah Flint give that beautiful hull such an evil name? The
sound of a dull thump interrupted his thoughts.
“I couldn’t work on a ship with a name like that,” he said to the second
mate at length.
“Why?” the man laughed. “Superstitious?”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Skippy answered seriously. “At least I never
thought I was sup-super-superstitious more’n most kids. But it don’t
seem exactly fair callin’ a nice ship like that the destroyer or an evil
spirit or whatever _Apollyon_ really means. Gee, I’ve heard my Pop say
that a ship kinda gets lookin’ like its name an’ actin’ like its name
after a while. That’s why he named the barge he bought from Mr. Flint
after my mother; the _Minnie M. Baxter_ she’s called. He said she’d be
the nicest barge on the river if she took after my mother. But so far it
ain’t worked out,” he added wistfully.
“No?” the second mate inquired sympathetically.
Skippy summed up the whole story of his father’s misfortune in a few
words. Particularly did he stress Toby’s grief over Josiah Flint’s
wilful deception in the transaction.
“And so your Pop’s come to make the old man come across, hey? Well, I
don’t blame him.” The man lowered his voice to a mere whisper. “I only
hope he don’t get the boss in a nasty temper ’cause he’s not one to give
in and he sounded like he was good and sore when he was bawlin’ out Mr.
Skinner. Besides, he ain’t the one to admit he cheated your pop either.
Still....”
A low moan startled them both and suddenly a door slammed, followed by
the sound of someone running along the deck. Skippy stood straight up in
the motor boat and listened intently.
He knew those footsteps and he knew what was in the mind that directed
them with such force. His father never hurried, much less ran, unless he
was terribly angered or pained or....
He dared not complete that thought, nor did he have need to, for his
father’s drawn, white face was already looking down at him from above
the rail and Skippy read there all that he needed to know.
Something terrible had happened.