His throat grew tight. "Neil—" The murmur of voices receded; the room tossed about like a skiff in a storm. He swayed.
On a blinding instant, the square yellow light in the doorway flashed into a thousand fragments; the floor rushed up and caught him.
PART FOUR. THE DOOMED SHIP REPORTED LOST
American stmr Araby
2 952 tons
European-Pacific S. S. Co.
A r*Fi6 * for San Francisco
La Gazzetta d'Italia
CHAPTER I
HIGH ADVENTURE
IN THE recess of his forecastle bunk, gray with shadows, Tod Moran lay with his flushed face turned toward the quivering plates of the hull, his eyes staring sightlessly through the porthole at a starlit sea which flooded past. It was only his fever-racked body, however, that lay there; his mind had cleared for ports afar.
He was back in the sailors' flophouse at Genoa where the twilight was like thick smoke. Someone had drawn a keen knife across his ribs, and it hurt. It hurt so intensely that, although he tried to stifle the sound on his lips, he cried out in agony. Neil was there and Tom Jarvis; yet neither stepped forward to give him a hand. It wasn't quite fair, was it? when they knew he had asked for aid? Well, he wouldn't beg.—What was that? . . . Richman — poorman — beggarman. ... It was a lilting, slightly wistful song that someone trilled above the wheezy notes of an accordion. Beggarman! . . . Yes, almost he had come to that.
Now he was on a train thumping around a shore toward Marseilles. It made a noise like drumming in his ears. A peasant in a smock pointed to a road out the window, and said: "That, monsieur, leads to the Villa Paradis."
In a street of crowded villas, a garden was hidden by gate and wall. The gate was securely locked, so he climbed over the wall. Neil awaited him there near a skiff on a sandy beach, and at once they put to sea. Then the fog closed in. It pressed about them, moist and chill; no matter how they rowed they failed to pierce that encircling gloom. They heard the beat of drums from the shore. It was to warn ships off the rocks. The fog, thickening, wrapped itself about them as though it meant to choke out all lifts with its wintry blanket. It numbed him, so that he lay quiet, not caring to move. From the mist emerged the face of Red Mitchell, cruel, sardonic, beneath its film of coal dust.
"It's Neil, Tod—Neil."
"Naw—get away. It's Red. I know you. You slugged me in the side."
But it wasn't Red, either; it was a San Bias Indian boy and he was telling Tod how to escape. Escape? . . . Escape from what? By golly, kids were foolish; they ought not try to get away. Look at Neil, now. He made no effort; he stood locked in the ship's brig, peering out between iron bars. Then someone opened the door—he couldn't see just who it was—and Neil, the fool, at once jumped overside. The boatswain threw over two life belts, but Neil had vanished in the darkness of the wake.
It was dangerous to put out in a boat, because you could hear the muffled beat of drums from the coast, and that meant shoals. But the captain let him man the little skiff Annie Jamison, and he went after Neil. Straight toward that drumming he steered. Every moment the rhythmic tattoo grew more intense, more menacing. He stood in the sternsheets, singing, for that drowned the unceasing roll of the drums.
In a trough of the sea was a life ring, and clinging to it, a man.
When they had lifted him, dripping, inboard, they found that a shark had gashed his side. The wound lay open, raw and bleeding. They brought him back to the seamen's forecastle and stretched him in a bunk. He must be very ill, because everyone came and went softly; everyone spoke in whispers. Then, in some strange, unaccountable way, he himself merged into the sick man; it was he, Tod Moran, who now lay stretched in the bunk, and it was Neil who came at times and looked at him.
Neil was always telling him to lie down and be quiet so the men could sleep. They were tired; they had worked; they didn't like anyone to cry out at night. But because Neil now looked surprisingly like a nigger, he wouldn't obey his brother. He wanted to watch the doorway for someone who never came. Who was it? He listened intently as the footfalls descended the three iron steps; each one kept time to that distant drumming—one, two, three! His heart leaped when he heard a familiar step, but the tobacco smoke marred his vision.
"The kid—he sleeps yoost now."
"I'm not seasick, Swede."
"Now yoost lay down, matey." A hand wiped his brow and smoothed his crumpled hair. "Yah, you got fever. You'll be up in couple o' days."
"Couple of days? Say, I'll be serving breakfast in the cabin to-morrow morning."
"Yoost lay down."
"You tell the blooming cook I'm not sick. And tell him I think the sea is wonderful! By golly, this is the best little freighter that ever hit the Pacific."
He heard above him the deep-toned sound of the bell on the forecastle head. He heard the watch below turn out with surly grunts. Tin cups rattled; the aroma of coffee penetrated his nostrils; innumerable feet climbed the companion steps to relieve the men on deck. All through the middle watch, he heard the bell strike off the half hours. Presently, as eight bells crept round again, he dozed.
Voices brought him back to consciousness. The men must have been washing down the decks, for he heard them take off their heavy sea boots and fling them under bunks. Low murmurs drifted up to him; someone told a yarn of windjammer days at sea.
"Yeah, we lay becalmed for weeks waiting for the Trades, and the grub gettin' more rotten and the lazarette more empty every day. Then I goes to the cap'n and says: 'Cap'n, let me have yer gig and I'll get a mess o' fish, I will.' He nodded, so I took my bunkmate and put out in the gig that night with two lanterns and a net. We stretched the net between the oars lashed to stem and stern. Then, with lanterns lighted, we waited. Our fishing soon began. The silly flyin' fish would leap at the light, and we'd hear them plop against the net. We'd grab 'em then and knock their heads in. It wasn't more than an hour before we had a mess for the whole ship's company. Made me bo'sun for that, the cap'n did. Yes, sirree. 'Johnson,' he says, 'yuh got brains.' And bo'sun I've been ever since."
Loud guffaws greeted the end of the yarn. A derisive voice cried: "Brains! It's a lyin' tongue yuh got, if yuh asks me."
The boatswain answered in a tone of hurt reproach; the conversation waxed stronger, higher. "Key down," said a voice. "You'll wake the kid."
The weather-beaten face of Nelson the Dane leaned over Tod. "Feelin' better this morning, ain't you? Want anything?"
"Yes, please—a drink of water."
The tin dipper clinked in a bucket and the man returned. As Tod gulped down the cooling liquid, he heard shoes scuff on the steps. Neil stood beside the bunk.
There was a quiver at his lips when he spoke. "Thank heavens, Tod, you've been better this last week. You're almost yourself again!"
Tod Moran forced his weary eyes over his brother's tall figure. Neil wore an old blue shirt and dungarees, both black with coal and grime. A powder of sombre hue covered his face; little beads of perspiration made trickles of white down his jaws. All that remained of that appealing presence was a steady gaze from gray eyes that yet had the power to charm.
They charmed Tod now in a manner that lifted his mouth in a smile. "In the stokehole?" he queried faintly.