"Whassa matter? Do we have to come up and get you?"
Johnny's brain worked at a speed that would have burned out is bearings if it had had any bearings. Then he got to his hindlegs, holding the radio mast to stead himself: "O. K. Angie!" yelled the face, and it was gone. Johnny shrugged off the oilskin. Gripping the rifle, he lowered himself over the side of the cabin onto the catwalk, and inched aft, digging his left foreclaws into the canvas lest a sudden roll pitch him into the Caribbean.
At the after end of the cabin, without showing himself, he swung the rifle up so that it pointed at the floor of the quarter-deck. He hooked a claw around the trigger and pulled.
With a thunderous roar the rifle poured its forty shots through the bottom of the fishing boat. In eight seconds the mechanism gave a final click. Johnny tossed the rifle into the black water and hurled himself after it. When he came up, the boat was standing by, fifty yards off. A searchlight swung, and there was a continuous crash of gunfire. A bullet plunked a few feet from his head. He ducked under and paddled away for some seconds. When he judged himself safe, he stuck his head up.
The wind blew scraps of speech: "Didja see it? A big black thing—didn't look human!" "What we gonna do about this hole? It's big enough to put ya foot through." "She's gonna sink in a few minutes. Head for shore, you dope!" "But they'll pinch us—" "Nev' mind 'at. 'S betta 'n being food fa shoks!" "Hey, I can't swim!"
Johnny turned toward Frederiksted and struck out. He certainly hoped that there were no hungry or inquisitive sharks around...
At two o'clock, an automobile swept up to the Biological Station. Out of the front climbed tow large black policemen, out of the rear came square, brick-red Peder Uklall, chief of the Frederiksted police, and Johnny Black. They released the seven bound, gagged, and blindfolded human beings in the Recreation Room. Commissioner Uklall lent Honoria his raincoat to cover her nudity; unfortunately such was her girth that it didn't meet in front. He explained: "Sergeant Oglethwaite here had the desk tonight, and all of a sudden this bear of yours comes running in, soaking wet. The sergeant was a bit surprised, like anybody would be, only he knows the bear is supposed to be tame. Well, this bear sits down at the typewriter and pecks out with his claws about how the Station was held up, and about how he sank the gang's boat outside the harbor, and that they'd be swimming ashore pretty quick. Oglethwaite wonders if he or the bear was crazy, but he figures it wouldn't hurt to go see. So he takes a cop and goes down to the water front, and sure enough, there's one of these hard-looking parties crawling out on the beach like he was all in. They rounded up nine of 'em; they say there was tow or three more, but they must have gotten drowned. One of 'em is Knocks Bettenford, A Chicago gangster in the beer business. You folk's better come down and identify the rest of these guys right now, so we can hold them."
Johnny knew he'd have to think quickly. He began to feel plain, cold, tingling terror. Why had he come chasing after these gangsters? Hadn't he done enough by saving the goats?
"Whassa matter? Do we have to come up and get you?"
Johnny's brain worked at a speed that would have burned out is bearings if it had had any bearings. Then he got to his hindlegs, holding the radio mast to stead himself: "O. K. Angie!" yelled the face, and it was gone. Johnny shrugged off the oilskin. Gripping the rifle, he lowered himself over the side of the cabin onto the catwalk, and inched aft, digging his left foreclaws into the canvas lest a sudden roll pitch him into the Caribbean.
At the after end of the cabin, without showing himself, he swung the rifle up so that it pointed at the floor of the quarter-deck. He hooked a claw around the trigger and pulled.
With a thunderous roar the rifle poured its forty shots through the bottom of the fishing boat. In eight seconds the mechanism gave a final click. Johnny tossed the rifle into the black water and hurled himself after it. When he came up, the boat was standing by, fifty yards off. A searchlight swung, and there was a continuous crash of gunfire. A bullet plunked a few feet from his head. He ducked under and paddled away for some seconds. When he judged himself safe, he stuck his head up.
The wind blew scraps of speech: "Didja see it? A big black thing—didn't look human!" "What we gonna do about this hole? It's big enough to put ya foot through." "She's gonna sink in a few minutes. Head for shore, you dope!" "But they'll pinch us—" "Nev' mind 'at. 'S betta 'n being food fa shoks!" "Hey, I can't swim!"
Johnny turned toward Frederiksted and struck out. He certainly hoped that there were no hungry or inquisitive sharks around...
At two o'clock, an automobile swept up to the Biological Station. Out of the front climbed tow large black policemen, out of the rear came square, brick-red Peder Uklall, chief of the Frederiksted police, and Johnny Black. They released the seven bound, gagged, and blindfolded human beings in the Recreation Room. Commissioner Uklall lent Honoria his raincoat to cover her nudity; unfortunately such was her girth that it didn't meet in front. He explained: "Sergeant Oglethwaite here had the desk tonight, and all of a sudden this bear of yours comes running in, soaking wet. The sergeant was a bit surprised, like anybody would be, only he knows the bear is supposed to be tame. Well, this bear sits down at the typewriter and pecks out with his claws about how the Station was held up, and about how he sank the gang's boat outside the harbor, and that they'd be swimming ashore pretty quick. Oglethwaite wonders if he or the bear was crazy, but he figures it wouldn't hurt to go see. So he takes a cop and goes down to the water front, and sure enough, there's one of these hard-looking parties crawling out on the beach like he was all in. They rounded up nine of 'em; they say there was tow or three more, but they must have gotten drowned. One of 'em is Knocks Bettenford, A Chicago gangster in the beer business. You folk's better come down and identify the rest of these guys right now, so we can hold them."
At three, an occasional starbeam poked hopefully through he thinning clouds. Methuen and Flynn headed for their rooms."Thank God that's over," said the former, yawning."We've got to get up early to organize a goat hunt, to round up those that Johnny chased into the hills. By the way, Johnny, how did you get on the track of Sarratt's invention or whatever you call it?"
The bear delicately scratched the word "song" on the floor.
"Song? Oh I see: 'If I had a cow that gave such milk.' Of course!"
Flynn said, "Now I'd like to ask something. I can't understand how Johnny could drink me down so he could beat me at poker. I was practically weaned on whiskey, you know, and beer's just like soda pop to me."
Methuen grinned."You forget, old man, that Johnny weighs three times as much as you do. It takes three times as much liquor or beer to produce a given concentration of alcohol in his blood as it does in yours. You should have insisted on his taking three drinks to your one."
"Well, well. I never thought of that. I guess you scientists are pretty smart people at that. By the way, you remember that you promised me a degree, even if you won the game."
"Sure, you'll get it. But it seems to me that Johnny ought to have one too—he discovered Sarratt's secret, won the game, saved the goats, and captured the gang. He certainly should get some credit for the revival of science, when and if it takes place."
The president was talking in enthusiastic but vague terms about Johnny Black's services to science while the subject of his discourse stood before him, robed and capped, ignoring the snicker-punctuated buzz that ran through the audience.
"... the degree of Doctor of Science, and all rights, privileges, and prerogatives pertaining thereto." Johnny took the scroll, bowed, and waddled off the platform on his hindlegs. He had at last found an advantage in not being able to talk; nobody expected him to make a speech on this occasion.