IT may appear strange that during the days and nights Michael J. Murphy
lay on his bed of pain Terence Reardon did not once pass the little
open window of the skipper's state-room. Not, however, that the latter
watched for him, for he did not. He believed that Reardon, like himself,
was a prisoner; although, had the chief passed the window and had the
captain observed his passing, the complacence of Herr von Staden and his
patriotic company would have received a jar much earlier in the voyage.
Unfortunately, however, for Murphy's plans, the chief's stateroom was
located in the after part of the house and on the side opposite the
skipper's, and following their brief spat through the speaking-tube,
Terence Reardon had confined himself exclusively to his engine-room
and that portion of the ship along which he must of necessity pass when
going to and from his state-room. He told himself it was the part of
wisdom for one of his ferocious temper to avoid the occasions of sin.
Certainly it would be hard to pass the skipper's state-room without
looking in, particularly since in these warm latitudes the door would
probably be open; for should the skipper be within at the time, they
would peradventure scowl at each other, and he is a fool indeed who
cannot foretell the future when a thousand generations of natural
enemies exchange “the black look.” Terence remembered his boy Johnny, a
youth who, according to Mrs. Reardon, should never be a marine engineer,
but the finest lawyer that ever pouched a fat fee. And there was Mary
Agnes and Catherine Bertram. Next year they would begin taking piano
lessons, and in the fullness of time, no matter how hard the pull, both
should go to the state university and acquire the education made to fit
their father's head, but by force of circumstances denied him. And
at the thought Terence looked at his hard black hands and set himself
resolutely to face a life sentence of rattling ash hoists, roaring
furnaces and the soft sucking sounds of the pistons. Two hundred dollars
a month--and the union scale was a hundred and fifty! Ah, no, he dared
not trifle with that job. He must, at all hazard, avoid friction with
the skipper, for what would Mrs. Reardon say if Cappy Ricks forced
him to roll the bones with Mike Murphy--one flop and high man out? Mr.
Reardon could close his eyes and see Mike Murphy roll out a “stiff,”
while with trembling hand the Reardon rolled five sixes!
The _Narcissus_ had been out of Pernambuco harbor four days before
Mr. Reardon, upon comparing the sun--which all are agreed rises in
the east--with the direction in which the ship was headed, and then
extracting the cube root of the resultant product, and subtracting it
from the longtitude and latitude of the Cape of Good Hope, decided that
there must be something wrong with Mr. Schultz's navigation. So he spoke
to Mr. Schultz about it, and was laughingly informed that they were
traveling on a great circle. Thereupon Mr. Reardon remembered that at
sea a ship traveling on the arc of a great circle, for some mysterious
reason repudiates the old geometrical theorem that a straight line
is the shortest distance between two points. He recalled that vessels
plying between San Francisco and Yokohama describe a great circle which
brings them well up toward the Aleutian Islands, So he was satisfied
with the explanation, this being his first voyage into the South
Atlantic anyhow; but he continued to observe the sun each morning, and
still the vessel's head held far to the south. A suspicion that all was
not as it should be slowly settled in Mr. Reardon's head, and though
he said nothing, he used his ejes and ears. A dozen times a day, as the
ship rolled steadily south, he was tempted to take down the speaking
tube and confide his suspicions to the master, confined in his
state-room by reason of deep--but not serious-knife wounds. Each time
he was on the point of yielding, however, he remembered that Mike Murphy
had called him a renegade--so he refrained.
The installation of the wireless plant and the presence aboard the ship
of Herr von Staden had failed to arouse his suspicions the first day
out. True, the wireless could not have been connected with the electric
light plant below without Mr. Reardon's knowledge and consent, but when
he asked Mr. Schultz about it the latter replied that Cappy Ricks must
have changed his mind about installing wireless on the _Narcissus_, for
he had cabled to the agents of the charterers in Pernambuco to have
a wireless plant and a competent operator waiting for the vessel upon
arrival. It was Mr. Schultz's opinion that the owners had evidently
arrived at the conclusion that it was wise to have a wireless aboard
during war times. Personally, Mr. Schultz approved of the innovation.
So did Terence Reardon, for that matter. He found the new wireless
operator a charming fellow, possessed of talents far superior to those
of the young men who ordinarily pound the brass at sea. Indeed, after
the second day out, Mr. Reardon would have been heartbroken had anything
happened to that wireless. For Herr August Carl von Staden sat at the
key almost continuously, eavesdropping on the war news, and Mr. Reardon
never came to the wireless room that the operator did not have some news
of an overwhelming British defeat!
As the voyage proceeded, however, and Mr. Reardon's mind grew a trifle
uneasy, reluctantly he began to view Herr von Staden and the wireless
with apprehension. He asked the affable operator how much the Marconi
company charged the _Narcissus_ for his services and the rental of the
wireless plant, and von Staden, momentarily stumped, replied that the
tariff was two hundred dollars a month; whereupon Reardon knew he lied,
for the charge is one hundred and forty. The German, realizing instantly
that he was not on the target, added: “That is, for a first-grade
operator and a plant like this. Of course we furnish cheaper operators
and less powerful plants, Mr. Reardon.”
“Oh! So that's the way av it?” the chief replied, and immediately went
to his state-room for the purpose of thinking it over. Eventually he
came to the conclusion that all was not as it should be, but that,
nevertheless, it was no affair of his. He was paid to obey signals given
him from the bridge.
“'Tis no business av mine, afther all,” he soliloquized. “For why should
I be puttin' dogs in windows? He's paid to navigate the ship, an' didn't
Cappy Ricks tell me to mind me own business? And yet, there's something
wrong in this ship. I feel it in me bones.”
He felt it with a force that was almost violent when Mr. Schultz called
down through the speaking-tube late one afternoon and told him to put
her under a dead-slow bell. That meant they were practically heaving to,
and steamers only heave to at sea in fine weather when they have reached
a certain longitude and latitude and plan to keep an appointment. On the
instant there was a strong odor of rat in Terence Reardon's engine
room, but his “Very well, sir,” contained no hint of his surprise and
suspicion. He gave his orders to the firemen to bank the fires, and when
this had been done he informed his engine-room crew that they might
all go on deck for five minutes and get a breath of fresh air. Nothing
loath, they scrambled up the steel stairway--and the instant the last
man was out of earshot Terence Reardon sprang to the speaking-tube to
whistle up the skipper in his room.
Now, undoubtedly the cool and calculating Herr August Carl von Staden
had been carefully trained to take into consideration, when planning his
strategy, every conceivable contingency that might possibly arise. It is
probable that the German secret service never turned out a more finished
graduate than Herr von Staden; but the fact remains, nevertheless, that
there are certain contingencies over which no human being has control.
One of these is Newton's law of gravitation; another, an equally
immutable law to the effect that water will seek its own level; a third,
the vindictiveness of an outraged Irishman; and a fourth, the very
natural tendency of any man, not excepting Mr. Terence Reardon, to be
profoundly surprised and intensely curious when certain phenomena, which
we shall now proceed to explain, take place in the engine room where he
is chief.
Michael J. Murphy, having only the day before again essayed the task
of whistling up the engine room, and having, by reason of the ball of
cotton waste with which the tube had been plugged by the first assistant
engineer, again failed to receive the courtesy of a reply from any one,
had, to put it mildly, been annoyed.
“Very well, my bullies,” he soliloquized as he hung up the tube, “you
wouldn't speak to me when I wanted to speak to you; so now the first
time one of you wants to speak to me I'll hand you a surprise, and
I'll hand it to you right in the mouth.” And forthwith Michael J. had
carefully poured down the speaking tube the contents of the basin in
which he had just made his morning ablutions! He longed to do something
nasty, and he succeeded admirably.
As we have already remarked, water seeks its own level. It ran down the
speaking-tube until it encountered the cotton waste plug; whereupon, due
to the hydrostatic pressure, the plug gave way and was forced down to
the tightly closed mouth of the tube, and the suds backed up behind
it. It was pretty warm in the engine room, and most of the water had
evaporated by the time Terence Reardon took down the looped tube and
opened it for the purpose of putting his lips to the mouthpiece and
blowing heartily through it. However, there was about a gill of water
left in the tube.
Now, as everybody knows, water running down a slope of seventy-five or
eighty degrees comes rather fast. Consequently Mr. Reardon had no time
to dodge.
Why be squeamish? He got a mouthful and was very nauseated for half a
minute. Also he cursed, we regret to record, and was very, very angry.
Carefully he drained the devilish tube, wiped it clean with some fresh
waste, and racked his brain for the right thing to say to Michael J.
Murphy. Finally he hit upon something he concluded would about fill the
bill, so he put his lips to the mouthpiece once more and whistled up
the skipper. To his surprise, however, his breath didn't seem to get
anywhere: in fact, it was directed back in his face rather forcefully;
so he investigated and discovered the mouthpiece was only half open.
Upon endeavoring to open it fully he sensed an obstruction in the back
of it, so he unscrewed the mouthpiece and drew forth a ball of dirty,
sour-smelling cotton waste.
He gazed a moment in speechless wonder. Then: “I'll whistle that dirrty
Tomfool, until he answers me in self-defense,” he announced'to the main
motor, and forthwith blew a mighty blast. Almost instantly Michael J.
Murphy yelled: “Hullo!”
“Murphy,” Terence Reardon announced calmly and very distinctly, “you're
a contimptible dhrunken ape!”
“Holy Moses! Reardon, is that you?” the astounded Murphy demanded.
“It is-as you'll discover whin you're able to come on deck an' give me
the satisfaction I'll demand for the dirrty dab av wather an' cotton
waste you put in the tube, knowin' that the firrst time I took it down
to spheak to you, ye blackguard, in the line av djooty--which is the
only reason I would spheak to you--I'd get it full in the mouth. Ye
dirrty, lyin', schamin', dhrunken murrderer!”
He paused to let that stream of adjectival opprobrium sink in. Silence.
Then:
“I poured the contents of my washbasin in the tube, I'll admit, but
I did not plug it with cotton waste. One of your assistants did that,
chief, and as for the water, as God is my judge, I didn't intend it for
you--”
“Who else would ye be afther insultin' if it wasn't me? Are ye not
friendly wit' me assistants?”
“Forgive me, Reardon, and listen to what I'm going to tell you.”
And then the tale was told. When it was done Terence Reardon grunted.
“I knew it!” he said. “I knew it! I felt in me bones there was something
wrong aboard this ship. An' so ye were not dhrunk an' disordherly at
Pernambuco?”
“The liars! Did they tell you that? Reardon, it's only the mercy of
heaven they didn't murder me. I'm lying here, helpless and crippled in
my state-room, with the key turned in the lock. They've stolen my ship
from me, and I can tell by the roll of her she's practically hove to
under a dead-slow bell this minute. We've reached the rendezvous--we're
waiting for the German fleet to deliver the coal; and oh, man, man,
if we're caught by a British cruiser we'll lose the ship! They'll
confiscate her, chief. Wirra! Wirra!” he cried, breaking into the
forgotten wail of his childhood. “How can I ever face Matt Peasley and
Cappy Ricks after this? Reardon, man, they'll think we stood in with
the Germans and let them do it. We're both Irish--they know we're both
pro-German--”
“What's that you said?” Terence demanded sharply. “Me pro-German. Me? I
_was_ pro-German--yis--wanst!”
Fell a silence.
Now, for the benefit of the uninitiated, be it known that there is
a certain curse employed by the Irish and by no other race on earth.
Whenever you hear an Irishman employ it, you know instantly--provided,
of course, you are Irish yourself--just what kind of Irish that Irishman
is. You cannot mistake it. There is no possible chance. It is only
brought forth with the dust of the centuries on it, so to speak, to
grace a fitting occasion. Terence Reardon felt that such an occasion
was now at hand. As naturally, as inevitably, therefore, as the suds ran
down the speaking-tube, that curse climbed up it--softly, distinctly,
and with a wealth of feeling in the back of it:
“God put the curse av Crummle on thim!”
Mr. Reardon, of course, referred to the late Oliver Cromwell. Any one
who has ever read the sorry history of Erin knows what the amiable
Oliver did to the Irish. Consequently such an one will have no
difficulty in estimating the precise proportions of bad luck Terence
Reardon prayed might be the immediate heritage of the crew of the S.S.
_Narcissus_.
Michael J. Murphy blinked rapidly, for all the world as if Mr. Schultz
had entered at that moment and struck him a terrific blow on top of
the head. A more dazed Irishman than he never threw an ancient egg or
a defunct cat at an alleged Celtic comedian with green whiskers. He
was absolutely staggered--but not for long. The Irish come back very
quickly.
“Shame on you, Terence Reardon!” he declared. “And you with a Masonic
ring on your finger.”
“Glory be!” cried the delighted Terence. “Sure are you wan av us?”
“One of you!” Mike Murphy fairly shrieked. “The minute I'm out of this
room you'll apologize or fight for thinking I'm a renegade.”
“_Naboclish!_” laughed Terence Reardon, slipping into the Gaelic and out
again. “The divil a Mason am I! Sure that ring ye saw on me finger that
day in the office av the owners belonged to me second assistant in the
_Arab_. He'd lost it in the engine room, an' a mont' afther he'd left
I found it. Not knowin' what ship he was in, 'twas me intintion to take
the ring over to the Marine Engineers' Association an' lave it for him
wit' the secreth'ry; and to make sure I wouldn't forget it I put it on
me finger--”
“Well, you knew, Terence, that with the likes of me round you'd not be
liable to forget it,” Mike Murphy laughed.
“As for you, ye divil,” Terence continued, “faith, what wit' yer English
tweeds an' the fancy cut av thim, an' yer lack av the brogue an' the
broad _a_ av ye, I thought, begorra, ye were a dirrty Far Down! God love
ye, Michael, but 'tis the likes av you I'm proud to be ship-mates wit'.”
“But you said you were from Belfast, Terence.”
“So I am. I was borrn there, but me parents--the Lord 'a' merrcy on
their sowls--moved back to Kerry.”
“Terence!”
“What is it, Michael, me poor lad?”
“Do you ever drink on duty? I don't mean with your superiors--”
The chief chuckled. He knew what Murphy was alluding to.
“I do,” he replied, “wit' me equals.”
“'Tis a pity, Terence, that man Schultz has the key to my state-room
in his pocket. Now if you could manage to tap that Dutchman on the head
with something hard and heavy, take the key out of his pocket and throw
him overheard, you could let me out of this purgatory I'm in. Then I
wouldn't be surprised if the sight of me and the absence of Mr. Schultz
would put a bit of heart in that little cockney steward--and maybe he'd
bring a drink to hearten you for what's ahead of you this night.”
“An' what might that be, avic?” Terence demanded.
“I want you to steal the ship back from them, Terence.”
“Very well, Michael. 'Tis not a small thing ye ask me to do, but the
divil a more willin' man could ye find to ask. Have ye figured out the
plan av campaign? Sure what wit' the suddenness av it all I'm all in a
shweat wit' excitement.”
“You may be cold enough before morning, Terry, my boy.”
“Bad luck to you, Michael! Dyin' is wan thing I cannot afford to do,
although be the same token they tell me ould Ricks has a kind shpot in
the heart av him for the widow an' the orphan--particularly av thim that
dies in his service! As I say, I cannot afford to get kilt, but in
back av that ag'in I cannot afford to lose the best job I ever had.
An' afther all, 'tis a poor man that won't fight for a fine, kind
gentleman--”
“Damn the fine, kind gentleman! It serves him right for letting us
get into this fix. He can afford the loss of the ship, but you and I,
Terence Reardon, cannot afford the loss of our honor and self-respect.
For the sake of the blood that's in us we can't afford to let a lot of
Dutchmen steal our ship and cargo.”
“Whist!” Reardon warned. “Hurry up. Me crew is comin' below ag'in.”
“Make it a point to pass by my state-room window after dark. You'll find
a scrap of paper on the sill. Help yourself to it.”
“Faith, I will,” Mr. Reardon promised fervently, and the tube closed
with a click.