THE LONG ARM
Saidee Isaacs lifted her hand from Fay’s arm, swung with the movement of
the ship, then hurried forward toward the direction of the Ladies’
Saloon where the game of Bridge was scheduled.
Fay watched her vanish in the glow of the deck-lights. He saw a door
open and then close. A shaft of mellow fire struck out onto the rail and
the crisscrossed waves. It vanished. The long deck was deserted.
The cracksman crammed his hands into the side pockets of his overcoat,
fished out a cigarette and lighted it by the quick scratch of a match on
his heel. His eyes were useless over the period of a minute. Gradually
sight and clear vision came to him. He removed the cigarette and stared
at its glowing end. He pasted it to his lower lip and started around to
the port side of the ship.
Passengers were seated there to the number of a score or more. They were
crouched in sheltered chairs or between the ventilators and the outswung
boats. A regulation was still in effect regarding these. German mines,
so profusely distributed during the period of the war, might be
encountered at any moment. Many ships had been lost in the same waters.
Fay reached midship and the shelter of a ladder which led upward to the
hurricane deck. He drew out his watch, held it sideways toward a
luminous port-hole and stared at the dial. Saidee Isaacs had ample time
to arrange the setting for the bridge game. It should be well in
progress.
He moved slowly forward as if seeking shelter. He reached the first of
the port-holes which marked the Ladies’ Saloon. These were partly
curtained with many-colored silks.
Glancing inside, Fay saw a group of passengers about an upright piano. A
singer stood at one end of the piano. She held a sheet of music in her
hand. Beyond her, and close up to the sheathing of the cabin, an alcove
showed within which sat Saidee Isaacs, a stout Russian, the cockney
stall and Harry Raymond, whose back was turned from Fay’s view.
Fay glided to the nearest port-hole, leaned back, surveyed the deck,
then tossed his cigarette away and gradually thrust his head toward the
round disc of the port-glass.
The view inside held all the charm of eavesdropping. The warm colors of
the Saloon, the tinkling notes of the piano, the woman’s rather faded
voice—that echoed within the surge and hiss of the sea—wove a spell.
Fay narrowed his eyes and studied the cards which were held in the
sharper’s hand. He glanced at the table and the exposed dummy. He
mentally caught the fortunes of the game by the expression of rage on
the face of the Russian and the soft, slow smile of Saidee Isaacs.
The points were shilling ones and the stakes rather high. Harry Raymond
had evidently doubled the shilling point on every occasion. He played
into his partner’s hand, took the lead and finished the round by
collecting twelve out of thirteen tricks.
The Russian, who had dealt and lost, stared at the sharper with a savage
bristling of his beard. Saidee glanced up and into Fay’s eyes where they
were glued to the glass of the port-hole. She made no sign save to rub
her brow thoughtfully. Fay studied the sharper’s back and the great bows
of the glasses he wore. There was no chance to peer through the lenses.
The game went on with Harry Raymond and his partner winning as if the
backs of the cards were open books to them.
Fay, himself, wondered at this exhibition of uncanny skill. He furrowed
his brows and drew his head away from the port-hole. He went over all
the things he had ever heard concerning card-manipulation. A vision came
to him of a table at “Jimmy’s,” in London, and a conversation between
two deep-sea card players. They had told of dealing seconds, and holding
out, and even of buying up the entire stock of cards on a ship and
supplying a purser with marked decks.
The sharpers had made no false moves. The cards had most certainly been
well examined by Saidee Isaacs and the Russian. They were a popular
back, extremely hard to mark. The trick, if trick there was, lay in the
smoked-glasses worn by Harry Raymond!
Satisfied of this fact, Fay started around the deck in order to divert
suspicion from himself. One or two passengers had passed him while he
was peering through the port-hole.
He reached the great bay of the combined bridge and pilot-house. A fog
was sweeping in from the sea. It lay over the plunging bow of the ship
like a blanket at the foot of a bed. Toward this murky veil the course
was being held.
A man, wrapped in a pea-jacket, came down a ladder swiftly, squinted at
a yellow tissue, then started along the starboard side of the ship. Fay
realized it was the captain, although the braid on his cap was
inconspicuous.
He followed him until he reached a midship boat. He stood in the shelter
of this and saw a steward come forward. The two men, dimly discerned
under the yellow glow of the overhead deck-lights, were pointing toward
a cabin door. Fay started with surprise. It was his own door!
The steward tried the brass-knob, rapped once, bent his head and
listened with his left ear to the panel. He straightened and shook his
head as the captain struck the tissue with impatient knuckles.
An oath in Norwegian rolled along the ship. Fay came out from the shadow
of the boat and sauntered forward. He rounded the bay of the pilot-house
and hurried aft without glancing back. He stood, finally, at the rail
which overlooked the stern of the vessel.
His brain worked swiftly and toward one point. The captain had received
a wireless message. The message concerned himself. For no other reason
would the steward have knocked on the door of the cabin.
The context of this message might prove embarrassing. Scotland Yard had
a long arm. It had dragged him out of a Dartmoor cell. It had pressed
him on in the mission to Holland. Now, perhaps, it was reaching again,
and this time for revenge and deeper incarceration.
Fay smiled with thin bitterness. He was on the eve of a discovery. The
captain might make an arrest at any moment. Visions of chains and
“brigs” and well-guarded cabins came to him. He stared forward where he
had last seen the captain.
The fog had been reached. It wreathed the ship in clammy folds. The
spars, the rails, the outswung boats, the white life-preservers, were
dripping with yellow drops. The siren blared its warning signal. The
knife-like bow of the ship slit through the curtain like a sabre through
cloth.
Hurtling onward, the ship seemed a shadow within a shadow. The hissing
waves under the counter, the thrash of the single screw, the clank of
shovels on the stoke-hold plates— heard through the ventilators—all
drove a resolve within Fay’s breast. He cursed the day he had ever heard
of the cipher or the cipher-key. He wanted freedom and a shielding
distance away from the menacing hand of the Yard. He decided to crawl
into a life-boat, draw the tarpaulin, and remain there until he could
signal to Saidee Isaacs. He reached upward and lifted himself to the
blocks of the after port boat whose davits were swung outboard.
The stiff canvas was laced by stout rope-yarn. It would have to be cut
in order to lift a flap sufficiently large enough to crawl through. He
reached for his knife. He turned his head at a sound which was blown
from forward. He sprang down and leaned over the rail in an attitude of
deep contemplation of the sea and fog.
Saidee Isaacs glided to his side. She pressed her hat against his cap as
she said tersely:
“I only got away from the game for a minute. I can’t make it out. Here’s
a deck of the cards which we were using. Look them over, Chester. They
seem all right. I have got to put the deck back or it will be missed.”
“His glasses?” asked Fay. “What kind are they? I couldn’t see from the
port-hole.”
“They’re very thick and smoky.” Saidee Isaacs glanced apprehensively
forward. “They’re thick, Chester. I can hardly see his eyes through
them. He said that they had been weakened by a mustard-gas attack at
Ypres.”
Fay rapidly scanned the back of the cards, then turned them over and
held them toward the light from a deck-bulb.
“He never was nearer Ypres than London or Calais,” he said, shuffling
the deck by a practiced motion. “He’s an awful liar!”
The girl clutched his sleeve and narrowed her dark eyes. “Hurry!” she
said. “Is there anything wrong with the cards? He’s won three hundred
pounds from that Russian. How does he do it?”
Fay bunched the cards and ran his fingers over their edges. He replaced
them in the box and handed the box back to the girl.
“I don’t know,” he said, glancing squarely at her. “There’s nothing
wrong with the cards—no edge-work, no marking on the back, no
pin-pricks. The light’s good here. I didn’t see a thing wrong. It’s in
the glasses he wears.”
She started away and toward the bow.
“Wait!”
She grasped the rail and turned. “What is it?” she asked. “I must hurry
back. It was my dummy—that’s why I came.”
Fay reached in his pocket and whipped out a cigarette. He lighted it
with cool fingers holding the match. He jerked his head toward the
pilot-house and the fog-wreathed bow.
“The captain has a wireless message of some kind. He tried to find me in
my cabin. The steward knocked. They’re looking over the ship for me now.
Something has gone wrong. They wouldn’t do that unless there was a
rumble.”
“Rumble?”
“Yes! I’m discovered! The Yard has wirelessed the ship. We were trailed
aboard—you and I.”
“It can’t be, Chester.”
“It’s true! There’s no other reason for the skipper’s looking for me.
He’ll probably lock me up if he finds me. I’m going to hide in this
boat. You find out what you can about the smoked-glasses. I’ll stay here
till you come back.”
She twisted the deck of cards in her fingers and narrowed her eyes. Her
lips hardened slightly. Anxiety showed in the corners of her mouth.
“Are you sure?” she asked.
“Certain! Get back to the game. Don’t excite any suspicion. Find out
what you can and keep me posted. We’re pals! I’m not going to stand for
a pinch—if I can help it. You can give out later that I jumped
overboard. I’ll leave some clothes on the deck. MacKeenon is not going
to get me back to London. My one chance is to hide until you get the
information concerning the glasses from Harry Raymond. Then we can
breathe easier.”
“Get into the boat,” she whispered. “Stay there till I come. I did see
the captain and a steward looking around the Ladies’ Saloon.”
“You better not go back then.”
“Yes, I must; perhaps I’ll discover the secret of glasses,” said Saidee
Isaacs.
Fay waited until she had vanished in the mist. He reached upward for a
second time, grasped a block and sprang to the rail. He cut two strands
of rope-yarn, unreaved it, and climbed within the outswung boat. He drew
close the flap of canvas. There were a water-keg and a box of ship’s
biscuits, crammed among a full set of oars and paddles. He moved about
and found a reclining place. He pillowed his head on a cross-seat which
was as hard as the shelf he slept on in Dartmoor.
Time passed—perhaps thirty minutes. He had no mark of the hour. He
puzzled his brain for some way out of the situation. There seemed none.
The captain was most certainly searching for him. The stewards and
deck-stewards had been notified. The wireless operator was undoubtedly
in touch with the shore stations as well as with Great Britain.
The ship would touch at Stavanger for a brief period. It would be
daylight or nearly so, unless the fog thickened. Fay saw scant chance of
getting ashore. He had the silver greyhound, but this insignia might
prove an identification mark instead of a passport.
The monotonous blare of the fog-horn, forward, and the occasional blast
from the deep-throated siren held his nerves at the breaking strain. He
was cramped, cold and bitter. Footsteps along the deck served to
irritate him. He wanted to smoke and feared the consequences.
There came a tap of a thrown object upon the canvas boat-cover. He
waited and heard a mellow voice reciting:
“Thy towers, they say, gleam fair—
Bombay across the deep, blue sea.”
He lifted the canvas flap and peered out. Saidee Isaacs was leaning over
the rail. She glanced upward and bobbed the feathers of her hat.
Fay climbed out of the boat and sprang down to her side.
“Well?” he asked incisively.
“He’s in his cabin, now. The game broke up when the Russian turned over
his last kopeck. He had some pearls, but your friend Harry didn’t want
them. I never saw such a game of Bridge in my life!”
Fay stared at her lips. A fine smile of retrospection was upon them. The
droop to her eyes was inscrutable. She flushed suddenly and turned from
the rail.
“You’ll have to be careful,” she said warningly. “The stewards are
looking for someone. They’ve been everywhere. I saw a man standing in
front of your door. He’s waiting!”
Fay glanced up at the boat. “What about the smoked-glasses?” he asked.
“They’re still smoked! I never saw his eyes. He’s a deep one. I tried to
talk to him after we left the saloon. He said ‘Good-night, old dear,’
and left me.”
“But you found out something?”
“Not a thing, Chester. He simply knew every single card in the game. He
saw right through them. He is the most terrible man on the ocean. I
lost—”
“How much?” asked Fay as he waited for her to finish.
“I lost thirty-two or three pounds. The Russian bet on the side. That’s
how he happened to pull out the pearls.”
“What cabin is Raymond in?”
“It’s on this deck—about midships. The awful cockney is next door to
him. What are you going to do?”
Fay gripped her arm. “I’m going to have it out with him,” he said. “I’ll
stick him up and get the glasses. They have some property of revealing
what ordinary eyes cannot see. How else could he read the backs of the
cards? How else can the cipher be read?”
She bobbed her head and fastened upon him the fine scrutiny of a
pal-in-arms. He studied her keenly and then glanced over her shoulder.
The fog blotted out all view of the sea and stars. The ship was plunging
on toward Stavanger. The deck, as far as he could see, was deserted. It
glistened in a long lane of shining moisture.
Suddenly she asked:
“Did he wear smoked-glasses when you knew him in the old days?”
“No—his eyes were as good as mine, Saidee.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Five—six years. I saw him on a Blue Funnel liner out of Southampton. He
didn’t wear glasses then.”
“It’s a new trick,” she said. “It’s uncanny.”
“Are they the same kind of lenses as were in the pair I threw into the
sea? The same bows and color?”
“The glass is the same—almost opaque! I didn’t get a very good look at
the ones you tossed away.”
“They were almost black. I guess they are the same. We’ll have to get
his pair if we want to appease Sir Richard and the Yard. I’ll get into
his cabin and have it out with him. Perhaps he’ll tell me the secret. If
he don’t—”
Fay paused and closed his lips in a straight line. His eyes swung
forward and away from the girl. His hand dropped to his pocket. It came
out with the tiny revolver nestled in his palm.
“If he don’t,” he continued, “I’ll use this gun. I think he’s yellow
when it comes to a scare.”
“The cabin door may be locked.”
“You go and knock. Tell him who it is. I’ll break in as soon as he opens
the door. You can stand guard while I get the glasses. Afterwards
doesn’t matter. It’s now or never, Saidee! My freedom may depend on
getting those glasses. Something is going to happen on this ship.
They’re looking very sharply for me, and you know what that means.”
“Dartmoor?”
“Yes! Sir Richard and his jackals have picked up the trail. They could
hardly miss it. We were careless at Arendal. We booked passage on this
ship, after showing the silver greyhound. Any clerk would remember
this.” Fay fingered the insignia on his left lapel. “There’s not many
like it,” he added.
“Take it off.”
“No, I’ll stick to it. It may serve, yet.”
She glanced forward along the deck. Turning toward him, she said:
“I have a few of the cards with me. The Russian tore up a deck in his
rage at losing. I’ll lead the way to the cabin. When I cough—you come.”
He followed her forward with his hand gripped upon the butt of the
little silver-plated revolver. The cabins occupied by Harry Raymond and
his cockney tool were upon the deck below the boat deck. Saidee Isaacs
turned at a ladder, grasped the hand-rail, and went down backwards—like
a good sailor.
The deck they both reached was misted and deserted. Four bells had
struck, forward. The lights were out in the saloons. The lookouts and
watch on deck were crouched in the shelter of the ventilators and boats.
Saidee glided swiftly over the planks, stared at a number upon a
cabin-door, then stepped to the next. She knocked with light tapping.
She repeated the signal. She bent her head and listened. Fay braced
himself behind a ladder and waited. He saw her straighten suddenly. The
cabin door was slid open. A man, in pajamas and slippers, thrust his
head out and stared at her.
“Get them up!” said Fay, springing toward the door. “All the way up,
Harry, alias Ace-in-the-hole, alias some other things. I want to see
you! Look out, Saidee.”
Fay was the master of the hour. He took no chances. The tiny revolver
was thrust up and under the sharper’s chin. The level eyes of the
cracksman snapped dangerously. Blue light seemed to leap from their
depths.
“What to hell?” stuttered the cardsharper. “What does this mean?” he
added, forgetting his English drawl.
“It means, come clean!”
“Clean of what?”
“Those glasses you are wearing!” Fay pressed his left hand against the
pink expanse of the sharper’s shoulder and shoved him back into the
cabin.
“Stand watch!” he said to Saidee Isaacs. “Let me know if anybody shows
up on the deck.”
He sprang inside the cabin and towered over the swindler, who had fallen
back to the bunk in a shivering protest. Fay darted a glance about the
cabin. It was simple enough. A wash-stand was built in the corner. There
was a long, flat trunk under the bunk. Clothes and a cap hung on the
back of a half-stool, half-chair.
“Where’s the smoked-glasses?” asked Fay. “Where did you plant them? I
want them in three seconds, Harry. One!”
The sharper moistened his lips and glanced out through the cabin door.
The girl stood there in an attitude of listening. Her face was turned
forward and over the port quarter. Her eyes glowed with suppressed fire.
A shout had sounded from the pilot-house. The wheel had been swung as
much as three degrees. The ship had reeled and then darted on through
the folds of the sea fog.
Fay warily turned and stared at the girl. He stepped toward the door. A
shot, muffled and far to the southward, boomed through the night. It was
repeated with sullen tones. The ship was signaled to stop!
A door opened next to the cabin occupied by Harry Raymond. The cockney
thrust out a long nose and a curious pair of eyes. He stared first out
and over the ship’s rail. He turned his head and blinked at Saidee
Isaacs. He saw Fay’s alert form in the doorway. Recognizing him, he
ducked back into his own cabin and drew shut the door.
“A fine pal,” said the cracksman, brandishing the revolver. “You picked
a nice one, Harry. Come clean with the glasses or I’ll count two and
then three.”
“I haven’t got them,” stuttered the sharper. “Honest to God, Fay,
they’re in the other cabin. Old Vic has them. I let him keep them after
a game. Y’ never can tell how people will squeak.”
Fay shot a keen glance at the man’s face. It was the color of dough—and
blue-veined. Fear and weakness had loosened his lips. His teeth showed
under a tawny mustache. His hands clutched the edge of the bunk. His
knees knocked together.
“You’re lying!” snapped Fay.
“I’m not, pal. I wouldn’t lie to you. Cocky has the glasses.”
“What’s the trick? How do you read the cards with them?”
The sharper hesitated. He was on the point of speaking when a third shot
echoed through the fog. A solid projectile screeched over the white
boats on the hurricane-deck of the ship. A shudder passed from stem to
stern. The great vessel had reversed its propeller. Saidee leaned aft
and Fay was thrown against the side of the cabin. Shouting and the
hoarse orders of the mates resounded. The fog was ripped in one place to
port. Through the gap the fine prow and the belching funnels of a
British destroyer of the superclass leaped. She bore down and rounded
the ship’s bow like a skater on ice. Four flags were flung to her bridge
signal-halliards. A callow lieutenant-commander in oil-skins and a
sou’wester held a battered speaking-trumpet to his beardless lips.
Beside him stood a man in a plaid overcoat and cap.
The ship came to a stop with a popping of safety-valves and steam
pluming from the pipe aft her funnel. The captain leaned from the ledge
of the wheel-house, grasped a stay, and shouted to the lieutenant who
had skillfully maneuvered the destroyer to a point on the port waist
after rounding the ship’s stern.
“What do you want?” rolled over the waves.
The lieutenant lowered his speaking-trumpet and turned to the man in the
plaid overcoat. They both were bathed in the yellow light which streamed
from the actinic fog-projector mounted on top of the pilot-house of the
ship.
The commander of the destroyer turned, wiped the dripping end of his
trumpet with a bare palm, and shouted:
“We want two of your passengers. You got our wireless? We had
hell—finding you. You know the two?”
“The woman is here!” hoarsely boomed the captain. “We can’t find the
man, yet.”
The lieutenant turned to the figure at his side. They both dipped and
rose with the movement of the destroyer. The crew were on deck. Faces
appeared at the head of the engine-room companion. Two forms crouched at
the seven-inch bow gun.
“I’m coming aboard!” shouted the commander. “Hold your headway—no more!
Give her quarter speed! We’ll see about that fellow!”
Saidee Isaacs grasped Fay’s sleeve. “Get into the boat,” she said,
pointing toward the ladder which led to the upper deck. “Hurry,
Chester!”
Fay pocketed the revolver, shot a final glance at the mute figure of the
sharper in the cabin, then he leaped for the ladder. Up this he went
until he had reached the upper-deck. He started aft, keeping in the
shelter of the boats and ventilators. He stopped and drew himself into a
narrow alley-way.
Three seamen were casting off a bo’swain’s ladder. They turned and
stared forward as the mate and the captain loomed through the gloom.
A spot-light from the destroyer swung over the ship’s upper rails and
brought out every detail.
“Here he is,” said the first officer. “Yes, this is the man we want.”
Fay bowed as he stepped from the alley-way. “What do you want with me?”
he asked.
The captain pointed toward the destroyer with a steady finger.
“They want you,” he said heavily. “England wants you for some reason.
The war is over, but England rules this sea. I’ve got to give you
up—young fellow.”
“It’s an outrage!” said Fay. “This is a Norwegian ship. I claim the
protection of your flag.”
The captain motioned for the crew to lower the bo’swain’s ladder. “The
lieutenant-commander will be aboard presently,” he said. “You can talk
to him. You’re a King’s messenger, aren’t you?”
Fay showed the silver greyhound by turning back the flap of his
overcoat.
“Who is the lady?” asked the captain, fishing in the side-pocket of his
pea-jacket and bringing forth a yellow wireless tissue. “This says a
woman and a man who wears the insignia of the King’s couriers. She’s the
one in the hat with purple feathers—isn’t she?”
“You’ll have to ask her,” said Fay, loyally. “I claim your full
protection!”
The captain replaced the tissue and leaned upon the rail. A small-boat,
which had been nested with others on the gray flush-deck of the
destroyer, was dancing over the waves. In the stern of this boat the
lieutenant and the man in the plaid overcoat sat. Two seamen bent to the
oars. The boat reached the ladder. It lifted and fell. It steadied as
the commander leaped the distance and grasped the lower end of the
ladder. The silent man followed him nimbly enough. They came over the
rail.
Fay moved forward and stared into the man’s face. He recognized
MacKeenon.
“Weil,” said the inspector, “this is a deep pleasure. Ye should o’
expected me about this time. Why, mon, the trail ye left was a verra
broad one! A hae no doot ye thought ye were clever.”
Fay gulped and glanced at the lieutenant-commander. “By what right,” he
asked, “does this man take me from this ship? I’m an American!”
“Five years in Dartmoor,” said MacKeenon dryly. “A’ hae no doot it’ll be
that many more. Did ye get what ye went after?”
The question was shot through thin lips. The pouches on the sides of the
inspector’s jaw distended and contracted. He bared his gums like a wise
old hound. His eyes narrowed to slits.
“Did ye get it?” he repeated as his arm shot out and clutched the
cracksman’s shoulder.
Fay jerked away and turned. Some of the passengers had come forward and
were curiously staring at him. Others peered out from the open doors of
staterooms. A bo’swain stood near by, with a long belaying-pin. He toyed
with this weapon suggestively.
“I got it!” said Fay, turning back to MacKeenon. “Oh, yes, I got it! I
got what you sent me for. You know I got it!”
“So does the police of that city—south and east of here. Why mon, ye
made a terrible job of it. A could have done better myself. A was
surprised, after what I expected of you. Fortunately A had that stick o’
mine handy, or else they’d of caught ye red-handed.”
Fay smiled with engaging warmth. “Thanks for that,” he said. “It was a
good turn, but it deserved a better. What reason have I to leave this
ship? Suppose I open my mouth and tell what I know.”
“Ye’ll never do that!” snapped MacKeenon cautiously. “Ye’ll never
squeal—A know that to be a fact. Come on now, Chester, with me. Get your
luggage and come on. You’re under arrest!”
The inspector threw back his coat and showed the gold insignia of
Scotland Yard. He dropped his coat lapel and pointed a steady finger
toward the destroyer whose deck was directly beneath the great ship’s
rail.
“Come on, mon!” he ordered.
“He’ll not go!”
MacKeenon turned and stared forward. Saidee Isaacs had thrust herself
through the curious passengers. She glided to Fay’s side and repeated
her declaration:
“He’ll not go!”
“What—twa o’ them,” MacKeenon said softly. “Twa suspects on one boat.
Captain, A hae the honor of arresting them both. The lieutenant will
show his authority from the Admiralty. It was signed only yesterday. A
weary stretch of ocean we have come over. It was only by chance we held
your course in the fog. A was on the point of requesting the officer to
proceed to Stavanger.”
The captain saw no way out of the difficulty. He turned to Fay and said
with salty vigor:
“Get your luggage and do as they request. I’ll report the matter to my
government. England is mistress of these seas by the terms of the peace
treaties. I can’t hold my boat any longer.”
“You’re a coward!” said Saidee Isaacs, stamping her foot on the deck.
“This man has done nothing.”
“Weil! Weil!” MacKeenon chuckled. “Miss Isaacs has changed a wee bit
since last A saw her. She was willing to help trap a cracksman and now
she’s rounded on the Yard. A’y’l attend to her!”
The girl turned swiftly to Fay. “We have no luggage,” she said. “We’ll
go! But never a word will we say. Remember, Chester, I will say nothing
without you being present. Remember that!”
“A verra clever remark,” intonated MacKeenon. “Twa thieves are far worse
than one.”
Fay followed the girl to the rail where the bo’swain’s ladder was
lashed. He assisted her to climb down until he was forced to let go her
hands. Her upturned face was close to his as he leaned over the rail.
Her eyes were loyal and smouldering with rage toward MacKeenon. Her
cheeks flushed through the olive-hue of her skin. Her lips were set and
almost hard. She flashed a sudden smile, and, turning her head, glanced
downward to where the seamen of the destroyer had maneuvered the
small-boat. They grappled the ladder with a boat-hook. She waited and
sprang outward. She landed in the stern and grasped the gunwale. She
stared upward with concern as Fay descended the swaying ladder.
He reached her side and waited. MacKeenon and the lieutenant-commander
came down the ladder and leaped for the bow of the boat. It was shoved
away from the rusty sheer of the giant ship. A bell clanged as the
captain hurried forward along the upper rail. The screw thrashed the
waves. The ship surged on. Its stern showed with gold letters marking
the name:
“Drammen of Stavanger.”
It was gone in a swelter of foam and funnel smoke. The fog closed about
the last of the deck lights. The sea tossed the small-boat like a cork
in a whirlpool.
“Steady her!” said the lieutenant-commander, smartly. “Hold steady! Out
boat-hook! Catch that chain!”
The destroyer glided through the fog like a lean serpent. A white bone
was at its prow. A bell jingled. An order rolled over the sea. The three
screws reversed as the seaman reached upward and caught a dangling
anchor chain. The boat was drawn close to the flush-deck. It was worked
aft until a low ladder was reached.
“After you!” said MacKeenon through cupped hands as he raised himself in
the bow and turned toward Saidee Isaacs and Fay. “Climb aboard! Ye’ll be
verra welcome!”
The girl was assisted up the ladder by the strong arm of an ensign who
wore a gold-braided cap and greasy dungarees. Fay followed her. They
stood clutching the hand-rail which rose from well-scoured duck-boards
on the starboard waist.
“Remember, Chester,” said Saidee Isaacs as MacKeenon scrambled out of
the small-boat. “Remember, we’ll say nothing until we see Sir Richard.
He’s more of a man than MacKeenon.”
“They’re all the same,” said Fay, bitterly.