[Transcriber’s notes: Extensive research found no evidence that the
U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
FIRE MOUNTAIN
_A Thrilling Sea Story_
BY
NORMAN SPRINGER
AUTHOR OF “THE BLOOD SHIP”
NEW YORK
G. HOWARD WATT
558 MADISON AVENUE
1923
COPYRIGHT, 1923, BY
G. HOWARD WATT
_Printed in the United States of America_
CONTENTS
CHAPTER.
I. THE MISSION
II. THE WEEPING BOATSWAIN
III. THE HAPPY HUNCHBACK
IV. THE BLACK CRUISER
V. WILD BOB CAREW
VI. PRISONER
VII. THE MATE OF THE BRIG “COHASSET”
VIII. AROUND THE CABIN TABLE
IX. THE MOUNTAIN IN THE SMOKY SEA
X. THE WHALEMAN’S LOG
XI. THE CODE
XII. THE PASSAGE
XIII. FIRE MOUNTAIN
XIV. OUT OF THE FOG
XV. IN THE LAZARET
XVI. THREE GENTLEMEN CONVERSE
XVII. TWO MEN AND A MAID
XVIII. THROUGH THE ELEPHANT’S HEAD
XIX. THE EDGE OF THE ABYSS
XX. TREASURE CAVE
XXI. DECOY
XXII. TABLES TURNED
XXIII. CONCLUSION
CHAPTER I
THE MISSION
It is a cruel thing to shut up a young man between the four walls
of an office, when that young man is romantic, heart-hungry, and
twenty-three. It is especially cruel, when the walls are lined
with dull tomes of legal lore and adorned with pictures of even
duller-looking legal lights, as were the walls of Josiah Smatt’s
office. Blackstone is poor fare for heart hunger and adventure lust,
and hot blood needs other than a law code for a safety-valve.
The window was Martin Blake’s safety-valve. For a year, he had been
Josiah Smatt’s retainer, keeper of the outer office, slave of writs
and torts and all the musty forms of law. It was a retainership that
chafed, but he was prostrate before the great god, “Job.” His job was
clerking for the lawyer.
He hated his job—but he had to eat. So, when its savor became very
bitter in his throat, he turned to the window and feasted his eyes with
freedom.
It was the view that gave him succor. The window was on the tenth
floor, and through it Martin had a magnificent view—the broad sweep of
San Francisco bay, the purple hills of Marin, the Rock, and the opening
to the Golden Gate. What more could Romance ask? It was a canvas that
never wore out, and upon it Martin painted bold day dreams.
Many a time, he turned a jaundiced eye to the window and straightway
commenced a most desirable adventure over the blue waters. He went
voyaging; many a time he went in spirit down to the sea with the great
steamers and white winged sailing vessels that passed his window in
endless review.
On this afternoon Martin had his window open, and a breath of Spring
tinged fragrantly the atmosphere of the law. Out there, the water
sparkled, reflected the clear blue of the sky, and rippled white where
the crisp breeze touched it. A tall barque had just passed out to the
Gate, and Martin stood staring through the window at the water she had
just sailed over, afire with errant thoughts the picture had kindled.
He, Martin Blake, was upon that tall barque and he was outward bound
for the Port of Adventure!
“Mr. Smatt is in, perhaps?”
The softly spoken words shattered the Castle in Spain. Martin swung
about, and found himself eying a man who had entered the office and
closed the door behind him so noiselessly as to be unheard. He was
an odd figure, though become a familiar one to Martin these past
few weeks—a Japanese dandy. Silk-hatted, frock-coated, and a brown,
unwrinkled face that spoke of anywhere between thirty and sixty years.
Bright, aslant eyes, and a suave and ever-ready smile that broke
immediately Martin met his gaze.
“You will be so good as to inform the honorable that Dr. Ichi is here?”
he asked in precise and stilted voice.
Ever the same—the noiseless entry, the quietly spoken request for the
lawyer. Martin repressed a flash of irritation; the little Japanese,
with his uncanny soft-footedness and stereotyped address, got upon his
nerves. However, his orders were explicit; Mr. Smatt would see Dr. Ichi
without delay or preliminary, whenever Dr. Ichi favored the office
with a visit. It was already the third visit that day, but orders were
orders.
So, Martin inclined his head toward the door of Smatt’s private office.
The Japanese crossed the room. He bowed to Martin, as stately a bow as
if Martin were also an “honorable,” instead of a poor devil of a law
clerk; then, noiselessly as he had entered the outer office, Dr. Ichi
disappeared within Smatt’s sanctum.
Martin turned to his window again. But his bright day dream was fled,
and he could not conjure it back again. The view was without charm.
His thoughts, despite himself, persisted in centering upon the dapper
little figure now closeted with his employer. The dandified Jap aroused
Martin’s interest.
What manner of client was this Dr. Ichi? Martin had not seen a single
scrap of paper, nor had Smatt dropped a single hint, concerning the
case. It was mysterious! Martin was not an overly curious chap, but he
was human.
It was another of Smatt’s secret cases, thought Martin. Another token
of those hidden activities of the old vulture, which he sensed, but did
not know about. For, though Martin attended to the routine work, though
his duties were responsible—Smatt specialized and was prominent in
maritime law—still Martin knew he did not enjoy his employer’s complete
confidence.
Much of Smatt’s time was taken up with cases Martin knew nothing about,
with clients who appeared to shun the daylight of the courts. The
Nippon Trading Company, for instance! Martin knew Smatt was interested
in a company of that name—a strange company, that apparently conducted
business without using the mails. And there was business between Ichi
and Smatt—money, or Smatt would have nothing to do with it. The mystery
aroused Martin’s dormant curiosity.
But all his speculation was pointless. Martin bethought himself of
the marine affidavit lying uncompleted upon his desk. He turned from
the window with the intention of applying himself to that task—and he
discovered the office to have a second visitor. Another unusual figure
who possessed the penchant for surreptitious entry. He observed the
fellow in the very act of closing the office door.
“Say, you! Didn’t you see the sign on the door, ‘Please Knock’?”
exclaimed Martin. “Can’t you read English?”
“I’m no knocker, I’m a booster. Besides I don’t believe in signs,” was
the surprising response.
The visitor faced about as he spoke, and Martin took stock of him.
He was a hunchback. He was seedily clad in a shiny black suit, but a
modish green velvet hat, several sizes too small, perched precariously
atop his very large head and gave him an oddly rakish appearance. But
his face was pleasing—a wide grin, a snub nose, a pair of twinkling
eyes beneath a broad, intelligent forehead. Martin immediately
commenced to thaw as the other smiled.
The hunchback carried a book under one arm, a formidable appearing
volume. With a dexterous flirt, he bounced it into his hand and thrust
it beneath Martin’s very nose.
“The bargain of the century—cannot afford to miss it—wonderful
opportunity first time offered,” he began in a sing-song.
Martin stiffened with surprise. Not at the words; he was accustomed to
book-agents of strange guise. But the voice! A rich, throaty tenor with
not a squeak in it. The man’s discourse was like a song.
“Cost you nothing. Wonderful Compendium of Universal Knowledge—compiled
after years of labor—faculties of great universities. Cost you nothing;
Absolutely free.”
The golden voice sang on. Martin found his gaze upon the book, and then
upon the hand that held the book. That hand! Surely, no book-agent ever
possessed such a hand—brown-backed, big, and muscular, plainly the hand
of an outdoors man. Where the sleeve fell away from the wrist Martin
glimpsed the blue of a tattooed figure. A sailor’s hand?
He raised his eyes to the hunchback’s face, noting as he did the great
length of arm, and the unnaturally square yet muscular shoulder. And
the face! A book-agent might be expected to have tanned cheeks, his
occupation not being a sedentary one. But surely, such a bronzed and
weather-lined coating as this man’s face wore was never gained by
winning past janitors or tramping city streets.
“Possible to make offer only because of great advertising campaign—you
reap advantage free of charge. Wonderful volume absolutely free.
You merely subscribe to _Coleman’s Weekly_—ten cents a week, fifty
cents a month, price of magazine—wonderful Compendium of Universal
Knowledge—cost you absolutely nothing——”
The hunchback pattered on. Book-agent or no, Martin conceded he had the
technique of the craft at his tongue’s tip. His eyes—suddenly, Martin
was aware of the peculiar behavior of the other’s eyes. The were roving
about the office from point to point, as if the fellow were endeavoring
to fix in his mind every feature of the room. But most often, Martin
noticed, his gaze rested upon the door to Smatt’s private office,
through which came at intervals the hoarse murmur of Smatt’s voice.
Once, atop the murmur, came a few words in Dr. Ichi’s clipped and even
tones——
“Plan—good—have caution—proceed——”
The hunchback ceased talking. Martin attributed his satisfied smile
to assurance of a sale; the chap evidently had confidence in his
musical patter. Martin felt almost sorry as he declined the greatest
offer of the century. His brain was already overburdened, he kindly
explained, and he dare not risk brain fag by delving into the matchless
Compendium. Of course, some other day, when finances...
The purveyor of knowledge took the refusal easily. Martin had expected
him to lose his smile, but it grew wider. So Martin braced himself to
receive the assault of facts and figures he was sure was preparing.
Instead, however, came a raucous command from the other room.
“Blake, come here!”
It was characteristic of Josiah Smatt that his offices had few of
the modern business accoutrements. No conventional stenographer
powdered her nose and received clients in an ante-room, no traditional
office-boy harried the janitor or played in the corner upon a
mouth-organ, no call-buzzers frazzled the nerves.
Smatt was a prominent legal light in shipping circles, and he was not
parsimonious. But he was eccentric. He carried his secrets and most of
his bookkeeping beneath his hat; Martin, his one employee, was admitted
to only partial confidence. And whenever Mr. Smatt wished his clerk to
attend upon him, he lifted up his voice and bellowed.
It was this bellow that checked the book agent’s flow of words, and
startled Martin into activity. Mr. Smatt did not like to be kept
waiting.
“Sorry,” Martin said to the hunchback, “but I’m called in there. You’ll
have to get out. Couldn’t use your book anyway.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” responded the other airily. “You will observe
I do not depart downcast! It has really, sir, helped me a lot, just to
visit you—helped me a very great deal. You are a pleasant chap!”
Martin entered the inner office, and he had a last glimpse of the
queer, deformed little figure, book under arm, velvet hat cocked over
one ear, in the act of negotiating the outer exit.
Martin, standing docilely before Smatt’s desk, discovered himself to
be the subject of a searching scrutiny from two pairs of eyes. Both
Smatt and Dr. Ichi, the latter seated at the lawyer’s right hand, were
critically inspecting the tall, good-looking young fellow who faced
them.
Martin was accustomed to the lawyer’s boring glances. He returned
Smatt’s stare, and experienced more keenly than usual his sense of
dislike for the man. Smatt’s face was in keeping with his voice, which
was rusty. It was bleak and lantern-jawed, with a gash for a mouth,
and a great beak of a nose that thrust out between two cold gray eyes.
He was quite bald. An impressive appearing old man, not one to inspire
affection but fear. One year of service had endowed Martin with no
sense of loyalty or liking for the man. Now, he returned Smatt’s gaze
with one of indifference, tinged with hostility.
“Blake, I wish you to execute a mission for me tonight,” said Smatt.
Martin inclined his head in understanding. Executing missions at
night-time for Mr. Smatt was a not uncommon experience. He rather liked
these confidential errands, though he sometimes doubted the good faith
of the man who inspired them. They took him into strange corners of
the city, to interview strange characters. They were the one exciting
feature of his drab employment.
The lawyer picked up from his desk a well-stuffed and tightly sealed
legal-sized envelope. He turned to the Japanese, as if for approval or
permission, and Dr. Ichi, without removing his bright, oblique eyes
from Martin’s face, inclined his head in agreement with that unspoken
communication. The lawyer faced Martin again, but the latter had the
feeling that, despite Smatt’s heavy voice and forceful personality, it
was the silent little Dr. Ichi who dominated the situation.
“You are to deliver this envelope to a man named Carew, Captain Robert
Carew,” commenced Smatt. “At ten o’clock tonight, exactly, you will
enter a drinking saloon situated on the corner of Green Street and the
Embarcadero. This resort is known as the Black Cruiser Saloon, and is
conducted by a person named Spulvedo—you will find both names on a sign
over the entrance.”
The lawyer looked inquiringly toward Dr. Ichi, and the latter nodded
confirmation of the instruction and description. Smatt continued.
“You will speak with this man, Spulvedo, taking care not to be
overheard, and you will ask him to conduct you to Captain Carew.”
Martin nodded his understanding as the lawyer paused, and extended his
hand for the envelope. It was simple. This Carew was evidently lying
doggo in this water-front saloon.
“One moment!” said Smatt. “Repeat your instructions.”
Martin obeyed, and, being blessed with a memory, he repeated them
verbatim.
“Very good,” said Smatt. “Now, for the rest.” He shot a quick glance to
Dr. Ichi, and the Japanese bowed. “This person, Spulvedo, will lead you
into Captain Carew’s presence. Under no circumstances will you deliver
this envelope to other than Carew, himself. You may identify him
readily by his appearance. He is a large, blond man, with a deep voice.
He speaks with an English accent, using the words of an educated man. A
star is tattooed in red upon the back of his right hand.”
Smatt paused again. Martin, parrot-like, repeated the other’s words.
Dr. Ichi inclined his head in approval. Smatt continued:
“To make your identification doubly sure, you will use this precaution:
When you approach Carew you will say, ‘I wish to see you on the
Hakotdate business.’ He will respond, ‘It is time that business was
settled. Did the Chief send you?’ Then you will deliver the envelope to
him. Now, repeat in full my instructions.”
Martin complied correctly. Dr. Ichi silently signified his approval.
Smatt handed the sealed envelope across the desk, and Martin
straightway stowed it in his inside coat-pocket.
“Of course, Blake, you are to mention this matter to no one,” was the
lawyer’s parting injunction as Martin withdrew from the room.
It seemed to Martin, as he reëntered the outer office, that the room’s
air had the indefinable tinge of very recent occupancy. When he emerged
from the private office, he seemed to be treading upon some one’s
heels, so to speak. He opened the door and looked out into the hall,
but the hall was empty. Then he dismissed the matter from his mind as a
fancy.